We Didn't Mean to Go to Sea

  “Perhaps he isn’t coming back at all,” said Roger.

  “Rubbish!” said Susan.

  “Don’t be a little idiot,” said John.

  Jim had been away so long that the pleasure of having the ship to themselves had come to an end. Roger changed the subject.

  “Here’s the ferryboat again. Gosh, won’t it be fun when we all go to meet Daddy?”

  The little ferryboat, crowded with passengers, had come into sight out of the mist that hung over the water between Harwich and Shotley. They watched it hurrying across. They saw it disappear between the Felixstowe pierheads, where Jim and the Imp had disappeared so long before.

  “It’ll be coming back in a minute,” said Roger. “Which’ll come out first, the ferryboat or the Imp?”

  Brass polishing slackened. There were long pauses even in Susan’s rubbing of the compass porthole. John came aft and sat on the cabin top. All four were watching those pierheads. What would come out first, the noisy little ferryboat, or the skipper of the Goblin rowing for all he was worth to tell them how it was he had been kept so long?

  Four times every minute, the long “Beu … eueueueu …” from the Cork lightship, out at sea, wailed through the mist.

  The ferryboat came out, passed to the north of them, dark against a pale background of mist, and vanished beyond an anchored steamer.

  And then, suddenly, the fog that had been coming in with the tide closed over them.

  “Harwich has gone,” said Roger.

  “The steamers are fading away,” said Titty.

  “Felixstowe’s going,” said Roger. “I can’t see the mills. I can’t see even the crane.”

  “Oh John!” gasped Susan.

  “If he isn’t jolly quick, he’ll have to wait till it clears,” said John.

  “I can’t see the pierheads any more,” said Roger.

  The pierheads, dim and shadowy, were swallowed up in the fog. Titty and Roger, pointing at them, found they were pointing at different places, in a grey wall of fog. For a few minutes they could still see the North Shelf buoy. Then that too disappeared. They could see nothing at all. Whichever way they looked was grey fog.

  “Doesn’t it taste funny?” said Roger.

  “It’s half-past eleven,” said Susan, after looking at the clock and at the cabin table, where Jim’s breakfast still waited and his second pair of eggs had gone cold. “What can have happened to him?”

  Suddenly the fog was alive with noises. The “Beu … eueueueueueu” of the Cork lightship out at sea, hooting four times a minute, had been going on all the time. They were accustomed to that and to the noise of the crane in Felixstowe Dock. These were new noises. Somewhere up the Stour there was a sharp howl from the siren of a tug. Then, now here, now there, ship’s bells were being hurriedly banged. Again came that distant howl, and again a chorus of ship’s bells, of all notes and sizes.

  “They don’t want to be run into,” said John.

  “Ought we to hoot, too?” said Roger. “He’s got a whacking big foghorn.”

  “We’re at anchor,” said John. “We ought to be sounding a bell … Is there a bell, Susan? I haven’t seen one.”

  “I don’t know,” said Susan.

  “What about banging a saucepan?” said Titty.

  “We can’t,” said Susan. “We’d only crack the enamel. But the frying-pan would be all right. It’s an iron one. You can bang on it with a ladle.”

  “How would it be if I played my penny whistle?” said Roger.

  “Oh, anything you like,” said Susan, bringing up the big frying-pan and banging it hard and fast. “Yes, you’d better play the whistle. That way he’ll know it’s us if he’s rowing about looking for the Goblin.”

  Roger dived into the cabin and came up again, and a moment later, at uncertain speed, the notes of “Home, Sweet Home” were dropping into the fog.

  Everybody felt happier. When you are lying anchored in a fog, even “Home, Sweet Home” on a penny whistle and the clatter of a spoon on a frying-pan make you feel that other boats will have less excuse for running into you.

  John went down into the cabin and took Knight’s Sailing from the bookshelf. He looked up the page about signals in fog.

  “Hi, Susan!” he called, when he had found it. “Don’t keep banging it all the time. It says, ‘a ship, in fog, mist or falling snow, when not under way, shall, at intervals of not more than two minutes, ring the bell.’”

  “It doesn’t say anything about whistles?” asked Roger.

  *

  No big steamers seemed to be moving, and they knew they were anchored in the shallow water well outside the channel for big ships. An hour had passed, and they had almost come to think that there was no need to make a noise at all, when they heard a long hoot of a foghorn somewhere ahead of them. Presently it came again.

  “That’s somebody moving,” said John.

  “It can’t be Jim, looking for us, can it?” said Susan.

  “He hasn’t got a foghorn in the dinghy,” said John. “No. It’s someone coming in from the sea. Look here. Shall I have a go at the frying-pan?”

  “I’ll do it just as loud,” said Titty, whose turn it was, and Roger, blowing for all he was worth into his penny whistle, lifted several notes by an octave.

  They heard the foghorn again, close to them, and then the very slow drumming of a small engine.

  “They’re jolly near,” said John, trying his hardest to see through the thick grey curtain of fog that hid everything more than a yard or two away.

  They never saw the other boat, though it came so near that the drumming of its engine sounded almost as if it had been their own … Voices aboard that other boat sounded as if they were in the Goblin’s cockpit.

  “Keep her just ticking over …”

  “Can’t see a blessed thing …”

  “No bottom at three fathoms …”

  And then: “Hullo! What’s that row over there? And somebody’s whistling. Ahoy there! Who are you?”

  John hesitated only for a moment, and then remembered he was in charge.

  “Goblin!” he shouted back.

  “That’s young Brading’s boat … Ahoy! Are you under way?”

  “Anchored!”

  “Where are we?”

  “Just across the channel from Felixstowe Dock.” John gave the position with some pride. “Close to the North Shelf buoy.”

  “Thank you. Pretty thick, isn’t it? … All right, Tom. Open the throttle a bit. Know where we are now. Deep enough right across with the tide so far up.”

  “Who are they?” whispered Titty.

  “Ahoy!” shouted John. “Who are you?”

  “Emily!” a shout came back out of the fog. “Been fishing outside. Had a bit of a job getting in again.” The drumming of the engine quickened slightly. The next long hoot of the foghorn was further away. Presently they could hear it no longer. They were alone once more with the regular bleat from the Cork lightship and the occasional clanging of bells on the vessels anchored in the harbour.

  *

  Another hour had gone by. Not even Roger hoped any longer that Jim was rowing about in the fog, and that “Home, Sweet Home” would help him to find his way to the Goblin. He had stopped playing the penny whistle. The banging of the frying-pan no longer seemed as interesting as it had. Nobody now disputed as to whose turn it was to bang it. They had made up their minds that Jim would have to stay ashore till the fog cleared. John was alone in the cockpit, looking at Knight on Sailing and banging the frying-pan every now and then. The other three were down in the cabin considering what was to be done about dinner.

  They had opened the cupboards behind the bunks in the main cabin and were looking at the stores.

  “Four kinds of soup,” said Roger.

  “And five kinds of tinned fruit,” said Titty.

  “Yes, I know,” said Susan, “but it’s all for his cruise with his uncle.”

  “He said his uncle would be bringing lots more,”
said Roger.

  “Mother said the fo’c’sle feeds itself,” said Susan. “And we’ve got half those sausage rolls …”

  “Sausage rolls still unhogged,” said Roger, “but we’d better leave some for him. He liked them last night. And I bet he’d want us to have some of his soup.”

  “And there’s the pork pie,” said Susan. “That’s ours.”

  “Let’s keep that for supper when he’ll be here too,” said Titty. “It’s all right having a sausage roll or two left over, but if we eat the pork pie, it’ll mean only leaving him a slice. He ought to be here for the carving.”

  “What’s medicinal purposes?” asked Roger.

  “Put that bottle away,” said Susan. “That’s rum for Jim’s uncle. Jim says his aunt always writes ‘Medicinal purposes only’ on the label. It’s in case one of them tumbles overboard or gets a chill or something, not for general swilling.”

  “We won’t drink it,” said Roger. “But, I say, Susan, I’m sure he’d want us to have hot soup in a fog.”

  Susan was looking at the labels on the tins. She had a tin of mushroom soup in one hand and a tin of tomato soup in the other. She looked up out of the companion-way at the thick fog and made up her mind that Roger was right.

  “We’ll have soup,” she said. “The fog is a bit cold.”

  “Mushroom,” said Roger.

  “And there are those two eggs,” said Susan, looking at Jim’s uneaten breakfast. “You get the shells off them, Titty. He won’t want them cold anyway, and they’ll go quite well with the soup. And then sausage rolls, and after that bananas.”

  *

  Dinner was a solider meal than breakfast, but less formal. Somebody had to be on deck banging the frying-pan every two minutes. And if they couldn’t all sit down at once, there did not seem to be much point in laying the table. Besides, Susan did not want to be reminded of that place laid for Jim at breakfast, that had waited for him in vain, and had only now been cleared away. So people came down into the cabin for their soup, and the sausage rolls and bananas were taken up into the cockpit and eaten in the fog.

  “The ferry never came back,” said John. “We’d have heard it. And if it’s too foggy for them, it’s too foggy for anybody paddling about without a compass.”

  All the same there were two false alarms, when first Susan and then Roger heard the sound of oars. You could have told by the way everybody listened that all of them were really wondering about Jim, even when they were cheerfully talking of soups and other things.

  But Jim never came.

  “He’s been gone nearly six hours,” said Susan to John during the washing up. Titty and Roger were in the cockpit, keeping anchor watch, banging the frying-pan every two minutes, and practising on the penny whistle, just in case. Susan was washing, and John, quite glad to have come down into the cabin out of the fog, was drying the plates and spoons as Susan passed them on to him.

  “We’ve only got to wait,” said John. He looked at the barometer. “Hullo!” he said. “Did Jim set the barometer this morning? It’s gone down three-tenths if he did.”

  “Rain coming?” said Susan.

  “Wind more likely,” said John. “Specially after that calm.”

  Susan went suddenly up the companion-steps to look out into the fog. “There isn’t a sign of him,” she said as she came back.

  “There couldn’t be,” said John. “Not till the fog blows away. He’ll come the moment it does. He’s got the Imp. We can’t go swimming ashore to look for him. He’ll be counting on our sitting still.”

  Just then there was a pause in penny whistling and beating the frying-pan, and John and Susan in the cabin heard talking in the cockpit.

  “Not being able to see things makes it almost better.” That was Titty, of course. “If we were in a fog in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean we wouldn’t be able to see any less. I say, Roger, let’s be there. When did we leave our last port?”

  “This morning.”

  “Don’t be a donk. We couldn’t have or we wouldn’t be in the middle of the Atlantic.”

  “Oh well, months ago,” said Roger.

  “A week anyhow. And we’re rushing along, keeping a look out for icebergs.”

  “You can see how we’re sluicing through the water.”

  And then, while John and Susan listened in the cabin, there was more banging of the frying-pan on deck and the first part of the chorus of “The Old Folks at Home,” played doubtfully, note by note, and then repeated a little faster, on the penny whistle.

  “They’re all right so far,” said Susan. “But I can’t help thinking something must have happened to Jim. It’s two o’clock already.”

  “High tide,” said John. “The fog’s almost sure to go out with the ebb. Jim’s probably sitting on a bollard on the pierhead, smoking his pipe and watching for the fog to go.”

  “He didn’t take his pipe with him,” said Susan. “He left it, half full of tobacco, and I’ve propped it up at the side of the sink.”

  Somehow, Jim’s having left his pipe behind made things seem worse. He really had meant to be only a few minutes away. And that was six whole hours ago.

  “The wind’ll blow the fog away,” said John.

  “What’s that tapping?” said Susan.

  “Halyard against the mast,” said John.

  “I do wish he’d never gone ashore,” said Susan.

  “Look here, Susan,” said John. “We’re perfectly all right. We’re anchored in a safe place. And he knows we are. Nothing can possibly go wrong. He said so himself.”

  And then Susan saw John’s eyes suddenly widen. She too had heard the noise that had startled him, the sudden metallic scrawk of the anchor chain against the chain of the bobstay.

  “Oh, it’s all right,” said John. He had half got up, but now sat down again. Whatever happened he must not show Susan that he was getting worried too. “It’s the turn of the tide, and she’s swung round to ride to the ebb. She made the same noise when the tide turned last night.”

  But a few moments later the noise came again, and with it another noise, and a sudden jerk of the whole ship. Susan looked at John, but did not say a word. He sat still, listening. The look-outs, in the cockpit, had heard something too, and were looking down the companion-way to make sure John and Susan thought it was all right. Susan signalled to them to be quiet. The next moment the jerk came again, followed by a scraping that they seemed to feel rather than hear, and then another jerk.

  “She’s dragging her anchor!” cried John. “Look out of the way.” With one jump he was half-way up the companion-steps.

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE BEACH END BUOY

  “WHAT’S HAPPENED”

  “What’s the matter?”

  Titty and Roger dodged out of the way as John came tumbling up out of the cabin. John did not really know himself, not for certain. But that jerk and then the queer feel of something scraping and then the jerk again had reminded him of a day out fishing long ago when the anchor had dragged because the rope had not been long enough. Then it had not mattered. But now, if the Goblin was dragging her anchor in a fog, with a tide under her … It didn’t really matter Jim Brading being ashore while the Goblin was safely anchored where he had left her. But if she dragged …? John hurried along the side deck, holding on to a rail on the cabin top that was dripping wet in the fog. That was the worst of it. You couldn’t see the shore. You couldn’t see anything. Perhaps nothing had happened and she was still in the same place.

  “Beu … eueueueueueueu …”

  That was the lightship, somewhere away over the starboard quarter, and it had been somewhere on the port bow. He remembered that the tide had turned, so that now the Goblin’s bow would be heading up the harbour. The ebb was racing past her out to sea.

  Just as John got to the foredeck, that strange shiver ran through the boat again. He steadied himself with a hand on the winch, half covered with rusty chain. He grabbed the forestay and looked down over the stemh
ead. The chain was hanging straight up and down. Last time he had seen it it had been leading well away from the stem as the Goblin was pulling at her anchor. Something had happened. He knelt as near the stemhead as he could get and leaning over pulled at the chain. It was as if something under water was gently tapping at it. Yes, the anchor was dragging. But surely the anchor had gone down all right, not tangled in the chain or anything like that. Why, Jim Brading had anchored the Goblin himself … and then Jim Brading’s last words flashed into John’s mind … “Tide’s just turning … dead low water …” But that was six hours ago. Six hours the tide had been pouring in. The chain that had been long enough to hold the Goblin at dead low water was far too short to hold her at high water, at the top of the tide, when the water was more than twice as deep. The anchor must be hardly touching the bottom.

  John scrambled to his feet, almost more ashamed than he could bear. Call himself a mate, indeed. He ought to have thought of that ages ago and let out more chain as soon as the fog had come, or even sooner. Jim had said himself he was anchoring only for ten minutes and he had left John in charge. He ought to have been thinking about that chain and the rising tide as soon as those ten minutes were up and Jim had not come back. Jim must have counted on him.

  He scrambled to his feet and looked at the chain, which ran from a fairlead at the stemhead to a small windlass. A lot of the chain was coiled this way and that round first one and then the other drum of the windlass, like rope belayed on a cleat. The rest of the chain was in the chain-locker below. John could see where it came up through a chain-pipe in the deck. Well, the first thing to do was to cast off those turns and let out more chain … quick. Though there was nothing to be seen but fog, John knew the Goblin must be moving. He tugged at the rusty links.