“Beu … eueueueueueu …” Nearer and nearer sounded that melancholy bleat from the lightship ahead of them.
Suddenly Roger slid down from his seat and pulled out the long handle of the foghorn. What with the hoisting of the sails, and the Goblin really moving, and his eagerness to see the next buoy in time to give John a chance of not hitting it, he had forgotten the foghorn altogether.
“How many hoots do I give?” he asked, looking at John.
John did not hear him. That lightship was getting dreadfully near, and he was thinking about what he ought to do next. He would have to make up his mind pretty quick.
Titty answered. Her head was throbbing and she was afraid she was going to be sick, but she did know something about fog signals. “Three hoots,” she said. “Sailing vessel with the wind aft. Remember Peter Duck.”
Roger drove in the handle and startled Susan with the long blast of the horn. “It’s a real bull roarer,” he said. He hauled out the handle and drove it in again. Then once more. Then he stopped and listened.
“Somebody may be answering,” he said.
But no answer came out of the fog … no answer but the long-drawn-out wail from the invisible lightship.
The wind was much stronger than it had been. Ripples had turned to waves, and every now and then the top of a wave turned to a splash of white foam as it came into sight out of the fog, lifted the stern of the Goblin and passed on.
“Look here, Susan,” said John. “We can’t go on like this. We must be close to the lightship and there’s another lot of shoals beyond it. You take the tiller while I go down and have another look at that chart. But whatever you do, don’t have a jibe. The wind’s pretty well dead aft, and it’s jolly hard not to. Come this side so that you can see the compass.”
Susan took the tiller. John pointed through the porthole at the compass card. “Practically north-east … Keep it as near that as you can … But do look out for a jibe …”
Susan watched the card. If only it would keep still with the point marked N.E. against the thin black lubberline in the compass bowl. Too far one way … Now too far the other.
The mainsheet suddenly slackened. The sail flapped. The boom began to swing inboard. John put a quick hand on the tiller. The boom swung out once more and the sheet tautened with a jerk.
“Only just in time,” said John. “You have to be awfully careful.”
“You keep the tiller,” said Susan with a gulp. “I’ll go down and get the chart.”
She climbed down the steep steps into the cabin. She had hardly got both feet on the cabin floor and a hand on the table to steady herself, when she found herself swallowing hard though she had had nothing to drink. There seemed to be no air down here … none at all. It could not be that she was going to be sea-sick … yet … she found her mouth open … Air … That was what she wanted … She looked up at the fog through the companion-way … She saw John’s head and shoulders, leaning forward, swinging this way and that against the dim grey background … If only the cabin floor was not jerking about under her feet … She slipped and sat down on a bunk … Worse than ever … She clawed herself upright with the help of the table that was fixed to the floor but seemed to be trying to escape. Quick. Quick. Another minute down here and anything might happen. Where was that chart? It had slipped off the table and under it. She grovelled for it, grabbed it, flung herself at the steps and climbed out …
“I say, you haven’t hurt yourself?” said Titty.
“I’m all right,” said Susan, swallowing fast and taking deep breaths of fog. Already she felt better. Perhaps it had been another false alarm. But even to look down those steps into the deep little cabin made her feel funny again. She must not look down there. She must look ahead, out into the fog … Buoys … lightship … Who would look after the others if anything were to go wrong with her?
She heard John talking. It was as if he were talking from far away. Perhaps he had already been talking for some time. What was he saying? No … No … He couldn’t mean it …
“Shoals the other side of the lightship … Lots of them … And shoals inshore … And that big lot where Jim said all those yachts had been wrecked must be somewhere over there.” He was pointing into the fog. “But there’s a clear way out between them. It’s wide enough for anything, so long as we don’t get too far north first …”
“But we can’t … We can’t.” Susan was again very near to tears.
“We’ve got to get outside the shoals,” said John. “It isn’t safe not to. Just look at the chart for yourself …”
Susan stared at the chart. It flapped in the wind as she held it. She stared at it, but it was as if she were looking at a blank sheet of paper. Her eyes simply would not work. What was it John wanted to do? Where did he say they were? John was talking still, almost as if he were arguing with himself, not with her. And then that foghorn blared again, close beside her.
“Oh, shut up, Roger!” she cried.
“I must do it twice more,” said Roger, “or they’ll think we’re close-hauled.”
“Who’ll think?”
“Anybody who hears it,” shouted Roger, as he pressed down the handle and the foghorn blared again.
“Only once more,” he said apologetically, hauling out the handle. “This is the last of the three.”
Susan pushed the chart at John and put her hands to her ears.
John was still talking when she was able to listen to him again. “We can’t stop,” he was saying. “Even if we had no sails, the tide would be taking us somewhere. You saw how it rushed us past those buoys. If it took us on a shoal, we’d be wrecked before we could do anything at all. And if we go on past the lightship we’ll be charging into shoals on the other side of it. Remember what Jim said about that man who lost his boat. When in doubt keep clear of shoals. Get out to sea and stay there. If he were on board he’d be doing it now. He’d get outside as soon as he could and wait till he could see before trying to come back. And if we steer a bit south of east … Do look at the chart and you’ll see …”
“But you don’t know where we are now …”
“Yes I do. We must be getting near the lightship. Listen to it.”
“Beu … eueueueueueu …”
“But we can’t …”
“It’s the only thing we can do,” said John.
“But we promised not to go to sea at all …” Susan moaned and turned her head away. Titty and Roger were both looking at her, and she could not bear to see their questioning faces.
“We didn’t do it on purpose,” said John. “We’re at sea now, and we can’t get back in the fog. If we tried we’d be bound to wreck the Goblin on something. Like trying to get through a narrow door in pitch dark. The door’s wide open if we go the other way. You can see it yourself. If we go a bit east of south-east we’ll get through. There’s nothing for us to hit for miles. It’s no good thinking of doing anything else. We’ve got to do it. South-east and a little bit east … and we’ll be all right. But we’ve got to do it now or it’ll be too late. That lightship’s awfully near …”
“Beu … eueueueueueu …”
The Cork lightship, sending its bleat out into the fog once every fifteen seconds, was like the ticking of an enormous clock telling them they could not put things off for ever.
“We can’t keep a promise when it’s already broken,” said Titty.
“Is that another buoy?” said John. “Over there. Do keep a look out. I’ve got to watch the compass and the sail …”
“Can I sound the foghorn again?” said Roger.
“No … Wait half a minute. We’ve got to make up our minds.”
“Let’s do what John says,” said Titty. “Daddy’d say the same … You know … When it’s Life and Death all rules go by the board. Of course, it isn’t Life and Death yet, but it easily might be if we bumped the Goblin on a shoal.”
“How shall we ever get back?” said Susan.
“If we keep her going about so
uth-east till the fog clears, we’ll be able to get her back by turning round and coming north-west … And anyway, when it clears we’ll be able to see things …”
“Beu … eueueueueueueu.”
The lightship bleated again and John’s decision was made. There was not a moment to lose.
“I’m going to take her right out,” he said. “Come on, Susan. We’ll have to jibe. It’ll be easier steering too. Come on. Will you take the tiller or shall I? You’d better. Bring her round when I say. Got to get the mainsheet in first. And there’ll be the backstay to set up and the other one to cast off before the boom comes over. Titty … You be ready to let it go … Come on, Susan …”
“What about the jib?” said Roger. “Shall I? …”
“Never mind about the jib till afterwards … So long as we get the boom over all right … Ready, Susan?”
Susan found herself at the tiller … found herself watching the burgee away up there in the fog as she had often watched the flag at the masthead of the tiny Swallow away on the lake in the north. John was hauling in the mainsheet, hand over hand, as fast as he could.
“Not yet, Susan … Not yet … Don’t let her come yet … Help her, Roger … Just while I make fast.” He took a turn with the sheet and made ready to set up the backstay. The cockpit seemed full of ropes.
“Now then. Let go, Titty. Go on, Susan. Bring her round. Put your weight on the tiller, Roger. Good. She’s coming … Now …”
The boom swung suddenly over their heads, but John had hauled it so far in that it had not far to go. It brought up with a jerk not half as bad as he had expected. The Goblin heeled over to port. John had his backstay fast and was letting out the mainsheet a good deal quicker than he had been able to haul it in.
“Steady her,” he shouted. “Don’t let her come right round.”
Susan and Roger wrestled with the tiller.
“Oh look out … Don’t let her jibe back again.”
“You take her,” begged Susan.
John, out of breath, took the tiller once more.
“We can let the jib come across now. Yes. Let go the sheet.”
The jib blew across the moment it was free. It hardly had time to flap before Susan had hauled in the port jibsheet and tamed it to quiet.
John, with two hands on the tiller, peered through the porthole at the swinging compass card. South, south-east … south-east … southeast by east … He must keep her heading like that. Easier now, with the wind on her quarter. No need to be afraid of a jibe, with all its dangers of breaking boom or backstay or even bringing down the mast in ruin. And even if the sails were not set as well as Jim would have set them, the Goblin was going beautifully. The chart, in the turmoil of jibing and changing course, had slipped to the floor of the cockpit. He picked it up from under his feet and looked at it, and then at the compass again. Gosh! Already pointing too far south. He pressed on the tiller and the compass card swung back to its old position and a little beyond it. Back again. He leaned on the tiller and tried to see both chart and compass at once. Yes, it must be all right. Clear water all the way till you came to the Sunk lightship right on the edge of the chart. Out there they would be all right. Jim had waited out there himself. This was what Jim would do. This was what Daddy would do. John, in spite of being able to see nothing but fog, in spite of the broken promise, in spite of the awful mess they were in, was surprised to find that a lot of his worry had left him. The decision had been made. He was dead sure it was the right decision. Sooner or later the fog would clear and he would have to think about getting back. Now the only thing to do was to steer a straight course, not to hit anything, to go on and on till he was clear of those awful shoals that were waiting to catch his blindfold little ship. John, in spite of his troubles, was for the moment almost happy.
He nodded to Roger, who was waiting with the foghorn handle pulled out.
“All right. Three blasts. Wind’s still aft. But keep a look out at the same time. Keep a look out for all you’re worth. We mustn’t run into a buoy … You, too, Titty … I say, what’s the matter?”
Titty was holding her forehead with both hands.
“I’m awfully sorry,” she whispered. “I … I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Nobody’s going to be sick,” said John, and tried to say it as if he thought it, though he found that difficult when he saw the greenness of Titty’s face. There certainly was much more wind and the Goblin was bucketing along. He looked from Titty to Susan. Susan was hunched up in a corner of the cockpit, with her head in her arms, leaning against the cabin top. Her shoulders heaved.
“Susan,” said John. “Susan. I know it’s all right.”
There was no answer. Susan had helped in bringing the Goblin on her new course. She had been the mate, as of old in the little Swallow, taking the Captain’s orders and doing what she was told. But now that all that hurried business was over and she had time to think again, all her doubts had come back. It was all very well for Titty and Roger. They could not help themselves. They were in her charge and John’s. “Not to go outside the harbour.” … And where were they? Outside the harbour, and sailing, and going faster every minute with the rising wind. With every minute they were further out at sea, further from Pin Mill where Mother and Bridget were waiting to see them come sailing up the river, further from Felixstowe Dock where Jim Brading must be straining his eyes to get a glimpse of his ship in the fog. The wind was getting up. The night would be coming down on them. And there they were in this thick blanket of fog, sailing, sailing. And on the top of all that, there was this horrible feeling in her inside, and she had to keep swallowing, and no matter how deep she breathed she did not seem able to get enough air.
“Susan,” said John again.
She turned, and he saw that tears were streaming down her face.
“It’s all wrong,” she cried. “We must go back. We oughtn’t to do it. I didn’t want to, and I can’t bear it.”
“We can’t go back,” said John. “It isn’t safe to try.”
“We must,” said Susan.
Roger, who had just been going to give another three hoots on the foghorn, stared at her. This was a Susan he had never seen.
And then Titty suddenly clutched the coaming of the cockpit and leant over it.
“She’s being sick,” said Roger.
John stretched out a hand to hold her shoulder.
“Leave me alone,” said Titty. “I’m not. I can’t be. It’s only one of my heads. I’ll be all right if I lie down just for a bit.”
She scrambled to the companion-way, got down one step, slipped on the next, and fell in a heap on the cabin floor.
“Titty, are you all right?” cried John. “Look here, Roger. You go and help her. I can’t let go of the tiller.”
This was too much.
“I’m going,” said Susan furiously. She took a long breath and struggled down into the cabin, leaving John and Roger looking at each other with horrified eyes. Neither of them said a word. John attended to his steering. Roger waited a moment and then went on staring into the fog.
Down in the fore-cabin Titty scrambled into her bunk. Something was hammering in her head as if to burst it. Susan, once more the mate, with a job to do, wedged her in with rugs. It was all she could do to keep her footing. One moment she was leaning over Titty, and the next moment had to grab at the side of her bunk so as not to fall. Somehow or other she managed to spread a blanket over her.
“Try to go to sleep,” she said.
“It’s all right now I’m lying down,” said Titty.
And then the thing Susan had dreaded happened. Could she get out of the cabin in time? Spots danced before her eyes. She swallowed, though there was nothing in her mouth. She flung herself at the companion-steps. She scrambled up them, fell into the cockpit, grabbed the coaming, just as Titty had done. “Oh … Oh … Oh …” she groaned, and was sick over the side. She was sick again and again. When it was over she remembered that she was in
the way so that John could not see the compass. She dragged herself across the cockpit and sat in the opposite corner, holding the coaming, ready to be sick once more.
“Susan,” said John at last. “Poor old chap.”
There was no answer.
“Susan,” said John again. “We’ve simply got to sound the foghorn.”
Susan leaned her head against the cabin and sobbed.
John’s lip trembled. He bit it. There was a hotness behind his eyes. For one moment he thought of giving in and going back. He looked astern into the grey fog. No. He must go on. The only hope of safety was outside. He wedged himself firmly with a foot against the opposite seat. He had the tiller with both hands. He peered at the compass card with eyes that were somehow not as good as usual. South-east … East-south-east … East by south … South-east by east… He nodded to Roger.
Roger drove in the handle of the foghorn, once, twice and again. If John said it was all right, it must be. He patted Susan’s cold hand.
The bleat of the Cork lightship sounded already far astern.
Before them was the grey curtain of the fog. And beyond it was the open sea.
POINTS OF THE COMPASS
CHAPTER XI
WHOSE FAULT NOW?
“BUT WHAT IS it?”
For a long time they had been hearing a new noise in the fog … a long hoot that seemed as if it were never going to stop, then a moment’s pause, and then another hoot as long as the first, then silence for nearly a minute, and then those two long hoots again.