We Didn't Mean to Go to Sea

  “Is it all right?”

  He looked over his shoulder, and saw that there were three faces, dim and white in the fog, looking at him from the cockpit.

  “It will be in a minute,” he said. “I’ve been an awful idiot. I ought to have let out more chain ages ago.”

  “Are you sure you know how?”

  “As soon as I’ve got it loose,” said John.

  He spoke cheerfully, while his hands pulled this way and that at the coils of chain that seemed to grip each other and the windlass as if they had been made in one solid piece.

  “Can’t I help?”

  “No,” he panted. “It’s coming now.”

  He had freed one coil. The next came unwound quite easily. He slipped another from under the drum on the opposite side. Now it ought to go. There were just two turns round the drum. Surely that drum ought to go round so that he could pay out as much chain as he wanted. How on earth did the thing work?

  “Is it all right now?”

  “It won’t go out.”

  “What won’t?”

  “The chain.”

  He hauled some chain up out of the chain-pipe and tried working it round the drum. A foot or so of chain pulled round and went out with a jerk. But he wanted yards and yards out before the anchor could hold again, and they were moving … moving …

  He pulled up more chain out of the chain-pipe, hand over hand as fast as he could get it on deck. Horribly heavy it was. And what was the good of getting it up if it would not pay out? He must get it clear of that winch in order to be able to pay it out at all. He got one turn off the drum and as nearly as possible got his finger nipped in getting off the other. And just at the very worst moment there came a jerk. John slipped and grabbed with one hand at the forestay. He never knew exactly what happened to the other hand. He had been holding the chain with both of them. There was a rattle and roar as the loose chain he had hauled up on deck went flying out over the fairlead close by the bowsprit. More chain came pouring up out of the chain-pipe in the deck and went flying overboard to join the rest. There was nothing to stop it. It raced out through the fairlead rattling and roaring, fathom after fathom of heavy iron chain.

  Stop it. He must stop it. Questions darted through his mind. How was the end of the chain fastened in the chain-locker down below? Was it fastened at all? How long was the chain? But there was no time to get answers. Somehow or other, now, at once, he must stop the chain roaring out over the bows. He jammed his right foot hard down on the leaping chain. On the instant his foot was torn from under him and he was flung heavily on his back.

  There was a shriek from the cockpit. Desperately he scrambled up again. The chain was still pouring up and overboard. He had no time to do another thing before he saw the end of the chain come up out of the chain-pipe and fly out over the bows with a bit of frayed rope flying after it. The rattle and roar ended in a sudden silence.

  “Beu … eueueueueueu …” The Cork lightship far away outside the harbour was still sending its long, melancholy bleats into the fog. But aboard the Goblin Titty was not banging the frying-pan, and Roger was not playing the penny whistle. They knew that something awful had happened, though they did not know exactly what. Susan was hurrying forward along the side deck, holding on to a rail on the cabin top. She had seen John go flying backwards.

  “Have you hurt yourself?” she asked.

  But John in his horror at what had happened had hardly felt the ringbolt in the deck on which he had come down.

  “It’s all gone,” he panted. “All his chain and his anchor. I’ve let it all go overboard …”

  “But are you all right?”

  “Chain and anchor and everything,” said John. “Miles of it … It’s all gone …”

  “John,” cried Susan. “We’re adrift.” And then, at the top of her voice, she shouted, “Jim! Ahoy! Jim! Ahoy!”

  “Shut up,” said John furiously. “He can’t hear you, but someone else might. And if they found us adrift they’d grab his boat. Quick. We’ve got to get the other anchor over …” He looked at the spare anchor, the kedge, which was stowed flat on the foredeck and held in its place with rope tyers. “There must be a rope for it somewhere. See if there isn’t one in the cockpit, while I get the anchor ready. But whatever you do don’t start yelling to make people think something’s wrong. We don’t want to lose his boat for him as well as his anchor and chain …”

  If only he knew how fast they were moving and which way? The noise of the cranes unloading coal from a steamer in Felixstowe Dock sounded much further away than they had been. He flung himself on the kedge anchor and fumbled at one of its tyers with fingers that were in too much of a hurry to be much good.

  “Rope … Rope …” he heard Susan, now back in the cockpit. “Not that one … That’s the mainsheet … Quick … Quick … We’re drifting away.”

  That knot in the tyer must have been made a long time ago. It had got jammed. There was a rule in the family against cutting knots, even on parcels. But this was no moment for rules. John had his knife out in a flash and cut the knot. He did not even try to untie the second tyer, but cut that also. He had the kedge anchor free. It was smaller than the other, but quite heavy enough for John.

  “Will this do?” That was Titty’s voice. They were still hunting for a rope to use as an anchor warp.

  GOODBYE TO ANCHOR AND CHAIN!

  “What about this?” That was Roger.

  “Haul all the lot out.” That was Susan again. “No. No. We must get one that isn’t made fast somewhere.”

  They were being as quick as they could. It was no good going to help them till he had the anchor itself ready for use. Now anchors are made in two parts. There is the crown with the two flukes and the long shank. All that is in one piece. Then there is the stock. This is a bar which goes through a hole in the shank, and has a short bend at one end of it, so that when it is not in use it can lie flat along the shank. When the anchor is to be used, the stock is pushed through the hole in the shank, so that half of it sticks out on one side and half on the other, at right angles to the flukes. This stock turns the anchor on its side when it is on the bottom, so that one or other of the flukes gets a chance of digging in. If it were not for the stock, the anchor would just drag along the bottom and get no grip at all. A little iron fid drops into a slot in the stock to keep it in place.

  STOCKED

  STOWED

  John had to lift the anchor on end, push the stock into place, put in the fid, make fast an anchor rope, and then get the heavy anchor overboard so that he could lower it between the bowsprit shrouds and the bowsprit.

  He had a hard time getting the stock into place. The fid was hanging on a bit of chain. He slid it along and dropped it into the slot. That looked all right, but was it? With the anchor of Swallow, the little boat on the lake, one just batted the fid in with a stone or one of the rowlocks. There was nothing to bat this with. Moments were flying. He gave it a desperate whack with his pocket knife.

  “Here’s some rope,” panted Susan at his elbow. “It’s not awfully long, but it’s the thickest bit we could find.”

  “Let’s have an end,” said John. He pushed it twice through the ring at the end of the anchor’s shank, then through both turns and finished off with a clove hitch round the rope itself. He was not quite sure if that was the proper anchor knot, but anyway it was safe, and he was not going to lose two anchors if he could help it.

  “Do be quick,” said Susan.

  “Take a turn with the rope round the drum of the windlass,” said John, “and hang on. I’ve got to get the rope through the fairlead and lower. I daren’t just shove it over.”

  “Don’t go over yourself,” said Susan. “Look out! John!”

  “All right,” he panted. “We can lower away now. Go on. A bit more. Ow! It’s scraping the paint most dreadfully. It can’t be helped. Look here, Susan, get hold of the very end and make it fast to that bollard. We don’t want to lose it too.”


  “I’ve done it.”

  “Come on then. Lower away …”

  They lowered away. The weight of the anchor was almost as much as they could manage even with the rope going round the drum of the winch. Suddenly the rope was slack and they felt no weight at all. John looked down over the stem.

  “Hang on, just for a minute. Where’s the boathook. The wretched stock’s gone and caught on the bobstay.”

  He grabbed the boathook from the cabin roof and poked with it at the stock of the anchor. It slipped free at last and if Susan had not had the sense to take an extra turn with the rope round the drum it might have jerked it from her hands. All went well now, and together they paid out rope as fast as they could. They felt the anchor reach the bottom, but went on paying out rope till they had no more.

  John looked over the stem again.

  “It’s holding all right,” he said. “Lucky it is. The rope’s awfully short. He must have a proper one somewhere.”

  “It’s the only one we could find,” said Susan. “How far do you think we’ve moved?”

  “Don’t know,” said John. “Not awfully far. At least I shouldn’t think so. You simply can’t tell in the fog.”

  “I say, John,” said Susan. “I’m sorry I yelled for Jim. I never thought of someone else hearing instead.”

  “It’s all right,” said John. “Nobody did. I’m sorry I was a bit ratty. I wasn’t really ratty with you. It was me I was ratty with really, because of losing his chain and anchor.”

  “We’ve moved a good long way,” said Susan. “The steamers are a lot further off than they were, and the noise of those cranes. I do wish the fog would go. Jim’ll never be able to find us if he does try to come out in the Imp.”

  “He won’t try,” said John. “He doesn’t know I’ve gone and lost his anchor. He thinks we’re all right, exactly where he left us.”

  “You’re sure we’re all right this time?”

  “Yes,” said John. “That other anchor’s got a beautiful hold.” He looked over the side. “You can see the tide pouring past.”

  They went aft to the cockpit, Susan along one side deck and John along the other.

  “Why have you stopped banging the frying-pan?” said Susan.

  “Sorry. I forgot,” said Titty, and for a few moments rattled away with the spoon.

  “Do anchors cost an awful lot?” asked Roger.

  “Pounds,” said John. “Pounds and pounds. And chain costs a lot too.”

  “Will he be able to get it by diving?” asked Titty. “Like when Swallow was wrecked, last summer.”

  “If only it hasn’t sunk in the mud,” said John. “They’ll have to drag for it with a grapple. He’ll know just where it is. But he’ll have to borrow a grapple from somewhere. And someone else may get it first …”

  “Oh I do wish he’d never gone ashore,” said Susan. “And then none of this would have happened.”

  “Let’s get everything straight,” said John. “The cockpit’s like a cat’s cradle with ropes. Let’s get it straight before he comes back. He’ll come off the moment the fog clears. Let’s have everything as he left it, even if I have gone and lost the anchor and chain.”

  “The mess,” said Roger, “is because we were trying to get a rope in a hurry.”

  “Come on,” said John, “and let’s get them all coiled away again. And bang the frying-pan, Able-seaman, to let anybody know we’re a ship at anchor.”

  One by one they coiled the ropes again, jib sheets and staysail sheets and backstay falls and the big coil of the mainsheet that Roger had pulled off the tiller. Presently the cockpit was tidy once more, and they settled down again, to wait for the fog to blow away, to listen to the distant tinkling of the bells of anchored steamers, and the bleating of the lightship out at sea. Roger did a little penny-whistling. Susan was thankful that they were again at anchor. Titty was remembering the wreck of the Swallow, and John was miserably thinking how he could explain to his skipper about the loss of the anchor and chain. If only he had thought of letting some chain out earlier before they had begun to drift. If only he hadn’t slipped. Once the chain had started roaring out like that he didn’t see what he could have done to stop it. Anyhow, he had done the best that could be done now, by getting the kedge over, even if it wasn’t much of a rope. Nothing more to be done except sit tight and wait for the fog to clear and Jim to come back and hear the bad news.

  “Clang!”

  The noise of a deep-toned bell startled them by coming out of the fog astern of them. All the bells that kept jangling aboard the anchored steamships were ahead of them, further up the harbour.

  “What’s that?”

  “Another boat probably,” said Susan. “Bang that frying-pan, Titty, or let me have it.”

  “She must be at anchor if they’re ringing a bell,” said John.

  “Clang! … Clang!”

  John stood up and peered into the fog.

  “Listen! Listen! We may hear them talking.”

  “Clang!”

  “Clang! … Clang!”

  “It’s like the bell we heard this morning,” said Roger, “on that buoy. You know, when Jim said there wasn’t enough of a ripple to set it properly ringing.”

  “It can’t be anchored,” said Titty. “It’s ever so much nearer.”

  “Clang! … Clang!”

  Roger was leaning out of the cockpit, listening and looking down at the grey water close to the side of the Goblin, the only thing there was to see in the fog.

  “The tide’s not moving as fast as it was,” he said. “It was swirling past a minute ago.”

  “Do be quiet a moment.”

  “Clang!”

  “The tide’s not moving at all,” said Roger.

  “What?” shouted John. At first he had hardly heard what Roger was saying. Then, for a moment, he had not realised what it meant. He too looked down at the water. He climbed out of the cockpit and hurried to the foredeck. What on earth was happening now? He watched the anchor rope leading away from the stem. It tautened till it looked like wire. The tide was pouring past, rippling against the Goblin’s bows. Suddenly the rope slackened, then tautened, then slackened again. The rippling stopped. It was as if the Goblin were anchored in still water.

  “Clang!”

  “It must be a boat,” said Titty. She beat a hard tattoo on the frying-pan.

  “Shall I play my whistle?” said Roger. “We don’t want them running into us.”

  John hardly heard them. What had gone wrong with that anchor? The rippling against the Goblin’s bows had stopped altogether. Yet the tide must be still pouring out of the harbour. That meant that the Goblin must be moving with it. Yes. The anchor rope was now hanging straight up and down as the chain had hung before. Desperately he began hauling it in.

  “Hi! Susan! Come and lend a hand. Quick!”

  “What’s happened?” Susan was at his elbow.

  “Get a hold of the rope and haul when I do? Now then. Now … Now … Up she comes.”

  “But why?” panted Susan. “You’re not getting up the anchor?”

  “Got to,” said John. “It’s not got hold of anything. Something’s wrong with it.”

  “Clang!”

  The noise of the bell was nearer than ever. There was a frenzy of banging on the frying-pan in the cockpit and the first verse of “God Save the King!” on the whistle. The kedge anchor, not so heavy as the big one that had been lost, came up against the bobstay with a sudden jar.

  “Hang on, Susan, while I have a look,” said John. “It’s gone and come unstocked. It’s my fault again. The fid’s come out. I didn’t know how to make it fast. At least I thought I had …”

  “Clang!”

  “Pull now. We’ve got to get it on deck.”

  With an awful struggle they hauled the anchor aboard. Anybody could see why it had not been holding. The fid had come out, the stock had slipped and was swinging loose beside the shank.

  “Clang!”


  The noise was so near that John and Susan on the foredeck turned to look into the fog even while Susan was holding the anchor and John was working the stock back into place.

  “Clang!”

  There was a yell from the cockpit. “God Save the King” came to an end in the middle of a bar.

  “John! John! It’s here …”

  Something large loomed out of the fog astern. It was a big red-painted cage, like an enormous parrot cage with a pointed top, built on a round raft. On the top of the cage was a lantern, and, as they watched, they saw a thin line of white light leap up in the lantern, vanish and leap again. It was a buoy. In the cage was something big and black … the bell.

  THE BEACH END BUOY

  “Clang!”

  “It’s coming jolly fast,” shouted Roger. “Look at the wash round its bows.”

  “It’s going to bunt into us,” cried Titty.

  “It isn’t the buoy that’s moving,” said John. “It’s us.”

  They swept past it, missing it by only a yard. The heavy hammer in the cage swung against the bell when they were near enough almost to touch the buoy. The melancholy “Clang!” boomed in their ears. They read the big white letters painted on the side of the cage … “BEACH END.” A moment later the buoy had faded away into the fog, and the next “Clang!” sounded out of nothingness.

  “Oh, John!” gasped Susan. “That was the Beach End buoy. We’re out at sea.”

  CHAPTER IX

  DRIFTING BLIND

  “OUT AT SEA … The Beach End buoy …”

  Titty and Roger stared at each other in the cockpit. They had heard Susan say it. They had seen the great buoy with its iron cage and its clanging bell. They had read the words “BEACH END” themselves. But, now that the buoy had vanished in the fog, there was no more to be seen and no less than when they had been anchored in the harbour close to the North Shelf buoy, listening to the noises of Felixstowe Dock and the bells of the steamers.