The Secret of the Reef Part 39

"Do you know of a suitable place?" Clay asked Aynsley.

"Yes; but it's a little off our course, and would take a day to reach."

Clay turned with a frown to the engineer.

"He'll sail her in, but if you're not through in forty-eight hours, I'll fire you and sc.r.a.p this machine!" Then he touched Aynsley's arm. "Leave him to it, and give your orders to Hartley."

They went up on deck, and Aynsley saw his father light a cigar and then savagely throw it away; and when he came back after speaking to the skipper Clay was standing in the deckhouse with a small bottle and a winegla.s.s in his hand. He looked at his son angrily, and Aynsley, recognizing the bottle, hastily went out.

A few minutes later the yacht swung off her course to the east, and they set the foresail and two jibs. At midnight, when it was blowing hard, the engines stopped, and they hoisted the reefed mainsail. Aynsley was surprised to see Clay on deck, but he did not speak to him, for Clay's manner indicated that he was in a dangerous mood.

When day broke the schooner was sailing fast, close-hauled, with her lee channels in the water and the white seas breaking over her weather bow.

Aynsley found his father sitting at the foot of the mainmast, which was the only dry spot. It looked as if he had been on deck since midnight.

"She's getting along fast, but Hartley thinks she's carrying more sail than is prudent," Aynsley remarked. "There's a big strain on the weather rigging, and I imagine it would be safer to heave her to and shorten sail."

"Let her go," said Clay. "The fellow who designed her specified the best Oregon sticks for masts, and I remember paying high for them. Now they've got to stand up to it."

"Very well," Aynsley acquiesced; but when the breeze still freshened he stayed on deck, watching the growing list of the vessel as, hard pressed by the canvas and half buried in foam, she plunged furiously through the breaking seas.

During the morning the wind veered to the east, breaking the schooner off her course, so that they were forced to make long tacks, and it was late when a great range of forest-shrouded hills rose up ahead. Rocky points and small islands broke the line of beach, and as they closed with it Aynsley climbed the fore rigging with his gla.s.ses. There was a gap in the belt of surf three or four miles off, which he knew was the spot he sought, and coming down, he had a consultation with the skipper before he explained the situation to Clay.

"So far as we can calculate from the tables, the tide had been ebbing for about two hours," he said. "That means the stream will be setting strongly out of the inlet, and we'll have the wind against us going in.

I know the place pretty well, because I once sheltered there, but Hartley wasn't with me then, and after looking at the chart he's a bit nervous about trying it on the ebb."

"How long would you have to wait for water on the flood?"

"About nine hours. You see there's a rocky patch in the entrance, and not much room to tack. Then Saltom wants to put her on the beach, and we'd have to wait until near high-water unless we go in at once. Still, it's a very awkward place."

"Take her in and chance it!"

As she drew nearer, Aynsley stood in the rigging, studying the sh.o.r.e through his gla.s.ses. He could see by the wet belt above the fringe of surf that the water had fallen; and the inlet had a forbidding look. On the starboard side of its mouth the tops of ma.s.sive boulders showed through the leaping foam; to port there was a rocky shoal; and beyond these dangers a deep, narrow channel ran inland between the hills. The wind blew straight down it, las.h.i.+ng the water white.

"We'll want speed; you'd better give her the whole mainsail," he advised the skipper when he came down.

For a few minutes the crew were busy shaking out the reef, and then as the yacht buried her lee bulwarks Aynsley took the wheel. The sea was smoother close in along the land, but she was hard pressed by her large spread of sail, and the water that leaped in across her bows flowed ankle-deep across the steeply slanted deck. The tall masts bent to leeward, the weather shrouds hummed, and her crew stood with bent legs at their stations on the inclined wet planking, ready to seize the sheets. Forward, a dripping seaman swung the lead in the midst of the spray cloud that whirled about her rigging, and his voice came faintly aft through the roar of parted water.

"Seven fathom!" He missed a cast, and his next cry was sharper.

"Shoaling, sir! And a quarter six!"

There was silence for a few moments while he gathered up his line, and the yacht raced in toward the beach.

"By the deep, four!" he called.

"Ready about!" shouted Aynsley, pulling at his wheel. "Helm's a-lee!"

There was a furious thras.h.i.+ng of canvas as she rose to an even keel, while rocks and pines closed in on one another as her bows swung round.

Then she started on the opposite tack, heading for the entrance, with the boulders not far to leeward and the tide on her weather bow. It carried her back, the trailing screw hampered her, and when a wild gust hove her down until the sea boiled level with her rail Clay, holding on by a shroud, glanced sharply at his son.

Aynsley was gazing fixedly ahead, his face set but cool, though the foam that surged among the boulders seemed rus.h.i.+ng toward them. Clay was not much of a seaman but he could see that they were gaining little; but he had confidence in his son. The leadsman had found bottom at three fathoms and still Aynsley did not bring her round. There was a slack along that sh.o.r.e, and he meant to make the most of it, though it looked as if she must strike in the next few moments.

She swayed upright suddenly, swung, and drove away on the other tack toward a confused white seething, where stream and sh.o.r.e-running sea met upon the shoal. They were close upon it when she came round again; and five minutes later she was racing back, with the ominous white patch on her lee bow, but not far enough for her to clear it. On the opposite side a tongue of beach ran out, narrowing the entrance. It looked impossible for them to get in, and during the few moments while she sped toward the rocks Clay was conscious of a new respect for his son.

Aynsley had shown himself no fool in business, he was a social favorite, and now he was altogether admirable as he stood, composed but strung up, at the yacht's helm. His finely proportioned figure was tense, his wet face was resolute, and there was a keen sparkle in his eyes. The boy was showing fine nerve and judgment. Clay was proud of him. This strengthened his determination to safeguard his son's career. Aynsley must bear an honored name; it was unthinkable that reproach should follow him on account of his father's misdoings.

Aynsley shouted to the skipper, who was anxiously watching the sh.o.r.e.

"There's not much room! I'll let her shoot well ahead before I fill on her. See the boys are handy with the fore-sheets!"

As he pulled the helm down, Hartley gave an order, and the schooner, coming round, drove forward, head to wind, with canvas banging. It was a bold but delicate maneuver, for Aynsley had to trust that her momentum would carry her through the dangerous pa.s.sage against the tide. If it failed to do so, and she lost her speed before he could cant her on to a new tack, there was no way of saving her from the rocks. The skipper stood with set lips amids.h.i.+p just clear of the jerking foresail-boom; the crew forward, the slack of the fore-sheets in their hands; and Clay, leaning on the rail aft, watched his son. Aynsley's pose was alert but easy; he looked keen but confident with his hands clenched upon the wheel.

"Lee sheets!" he cried, pulling the wheel over sharply.

Her head swung slowly round, and the shaking canvas filled; she gathered way, and when her deck slanted the boulders were sliding past abeam.

Coming round again, she left them astern, and drove forward swiftly into clear and sheltered water. Ten minutes afterward they ran the headsails down, and Aynsley ran her gently on to the beach. There she would have to stop until Engineer Saltom finished his repairs.

CHAPTER XXVII-ON THE BEACH

Late on a gloomy evening Jimmy and his friends sat down for a few minutes' rest on the beach of a lonely island on the northern coast.

With the help of Jaques they had fitted out the sloop, and had sailed much earlier in the year than was prudent, fearing that Clay might arrive ahead of them. The voyage proved trying, for they spent days hove to while the sloop was blown to leeward by bitter gales, and they were now and then forced to run off their course for shelter. Still, they stubbornly fought their way north. The strong breeze that Clay's schooner-yacht had met badly buffeted the smaller boat. In driving her to windward through a steep head-sea the heavy strain upon the shrouds started a leak under her channel plates, and after a long spell of steady pumping the men reluctantly decided to seek a sheltered harbor, where the damage could be repaired.

This had not proved a difficult task, for some caulking was all that was required, but in order to reach the leak they had to lay her on the beach, and Jimmy thought it a desirable opportunity for filling up the water-breakers. Taking them ash.o.r.e in the dory, they carried the small craft up; and after getting the water they set out for a walk across the island, because the sloop would not float until nearly high tide. The island was barren except for a few clumps of stunted trees, but they enjoyed the ramble, and were now feeling tired by the unusual exercise, as well as hungry, because they had not troubled about taking any lunch.

Picking a sheltered spot, Bethune lighted his pipe and languidly looked about. Dingy clouds were driving across the island, and the leaden water broke with an angry splash among the stones. There had been a light breeze from seaward when they went ash.o.r.e, but it had changed, and now blew moderately fresh off the land. It was very cold, with a rawness that penetrated. Bethune s.h.i.+vered.

"We ought to be getting on board," he said; "but I wish we had a paid crew to carry down the breakers and row us off. And I'd enjoy my supper better if I didn't have to cook it myself. It's curious how luxurious tastes stick to you."

"If you'd been a lobster fisher, you wouldn't have had any," Moran remarked.

"I expect that's true," Bethune laughed. "No doubt it depends on the way one is brought up; but you don't often surprise us with these reflections. Anyway, I can't help thinking of our opponent sitting at the saloon table on board his yacht with a smart steward waiting to bring him what he wants, while we squat over our tin plates in the cubby-hole with our knees against the centerboard trunk and our heads among the beams. It's a painful contrast."

"The sooner you finish moralizing and make a move, the sooner we'll get supper," Jimmy reminded him.

"I wish it was Hank's turn, only that one doesn't have much pleasure in eating the stuff he cooks. Still, it will be a comfort to work with the stove upright, and not to have to hold the things on. That's why I was waiting until the tide lifted her."

"She's afloat now," said Moran.

Bethune, looking up, saw that this was correct, for the sloop's mast began to move across the rocks in the background. Then there was a rattle of chain, and she drifted faster.

"Taking up the slack of her cable," said Jimmy. "We'd better get on board. I didn't give her much scope because I wanted to keep her off the stones."

"Wait until I've smoked my pipe out," Bethune said lazily; and they sat still for a few minutes.

The sloop brought up, sheering to and fro in the eddying gusts. When Moran turned to look at her he jumped up with an exclamation.