Midshipman Quinn

— 3 —

Septimus did not at first realise the significance of the frightened shout which the wind carried to his ears. Then he remembered the lookout, and peered anxiously to see what had happened to him.

The fore-topmast had broken off at its base, just where the barrel-like crow's-nest was secured. It had snapped off cleanly, falling backwards and downward until the network of rigging had arrested it, and its tip had caught in the fore rigging of the mainmast almost directly beneath the place where Septimus was perched. The crow's nest had been knocked into matchwood by the snapping mast and there was no sign of the man who had been in it.

As Septimus craned his neck to look downwards he felt the frigate righting herself after the squall, and heard the distant voices, like seagull-cries, of men on the deck very far below him. And then he saw the lookout.

The man was clinging to the broken butt of the topmast, swinging in mid-air nearly a hundred feet above the deck. It was Tod Beamish, right enough — and he appeared to be hurt. He was astride the hanging mast, with arms and legs clasped round it, and was slowly and painfully hitching himself along it towards the end that rested in the mainmast rigging. But he was moving very slowly, and Septimus could see the blood running from a big cut on his head. With every lurch of the ship the dangling butt of the mast swung back and forth. The fallen mast was not quite horizontal, he noted — the butt was lower than the tip, so that Beamish was edging upward. Thirty feet below him the midshipman could see the end of the mast resting on the shrouds.

It was only just reaching them. An extra violent roll would dislodge it, and Beamish would be hurled to the deck and killed outright.

So far as he could see, those on deck had not seen the lookout's plight. Men were running towards the base of the foremast, some carrying axes, and it was plain that they would climb to the foretop and try to clear the tangle. From the foretop they could do nothing to help Beamish. He raised his voice in a desperate shout.

"Deck, there! Deck!"

But the gale carried his words away. Probably no one knew of his presence at the masthead except Lieutenant Pyke, and Pyke would have forgotten him in the urgency of the need for clearing the dangling topmast. Septimus felt very much alone. He thought of descending to the deck — but he was no topman and the descent would take him several minutes. He peered again at Beamish.

The man had heard his shout. He had wormed his way along the spar until he was almost at its end where it was lodged in the rigging, but there he had stopped. His big face, white with pain and fear, was looking up at Septimus appealingly. The Althea rolled slightly, and the sway of the spar nearly dislodged him. Plainly he was near to losing consciousness and dared not try to move further.

Septimus Quinn woke suddenly to the realisation that if Tod Beamish's life was to be saved he would have to act, and act quickly.

"Beamish!" he shouted with the full force of his lungs. "Hold on, man — I'm coming to you!"

As he shouted he was untying the knot that secured him to the main topmast, thanking his stars that he had tied a reef and not a "granny", which would have jammed. The furious blast of the gale, the dizzy swooping of the mast, were forgotten now that there was something vitally urgent to be done. He gripped the loosened line between his teeth and took one glance at the way he had to go.

The thrumming shrouds seemed to fall away into grey space from his feet. Resting on them, thirty feet down, was the tip of the mast. He could see it shifting very slightly as the frigate lurched, and every movement was edging it further from its resting-place. A two-inch shift, and it would come adrift and fall until it hung straight down. He had not a second to spare.

Down the shrouds he went, as fast as he dared with that wind tearing at him. He reached the place where the mast had come to rest. It had broken two of the ratlines in its fall, he saw. Beamish was only seven or eight feet away, lying along the mast with arms and legs locked round it. His eyes were closed and his face was white as paper. Septimus did his best to speak cheerfully, though he could see that he had taken on an extremely difficult and perilous task.

"All right, Beamish — you're all right. I'm here to give you a hand. But you must make an effort. Come along, now!"

Beamish opened his eyes, but closed them again at once. His only answer was a groan. Septimus tried again.

"It's only about a fathom you've to go, man. Summon all your strength. Look — here's my hand stretched out ready for you. When you can grasp it you're safe."

"I — I can't," gasped the man. "I'm done, Mr. Quinn, sir. If I move I'll fall — I know I'll fall."

Septimus glanced down at the round spar whose end lay on the frail rung of rope between his feet. It had moved another fraction of an inch, outward, away from the shrouds. The frigate was maintaining a fairly steady heel, but even if she made no specially violent lurch the continual rocking of her masts must very soon dislodge the spar. His glance, passing the spar, went through empty air to the deck directly beneath him. The tiny figures of seamen were clustered down there, pointing upward and gesticulating. The drama being enacted in mid-air had been seen. Help would come now, but it would take time, and there were only seconds to spare. Septimus made his plan and acted on it at once.

His only apparatus was the six feet of line which had secured him to the mast. He turned round on the ladder-like shrouds so that he was standing face outwards with his heels lodged precariously on the horizontal ropes and the end of the spar between his knees. He had to use both hands to make his next move, and it was not easy. Passing one end of the line round the spar, he secured it loosely with a bowline loop so that the loop would slide along the spar. Then, with the other end held between his teeth, he crouched and carefully bent forward until both hands were gripping the round wood. A second later he was lying along the spar with his head towards Beamish.

The spar sloped slightly downwards. He wondered, as he made the move, whether his extra weight would slide it from its place. He was surprised to find that he was not afraid — the question of whether he and Beamish would be hurtling down to death in the next half-second seemed no more important than a problem in navigation. He began to edge himself along towards Beamish.

Only a few feet separated them, but he had to get close up to Beamish's body before he could carry out his plan. As he wriggled along with arms locked round the topmast, he slid the loop of line before him. Now he was within an inch or two of Beamish's head. The seaman was motionless with his cheek pressed tightly against the spar and his eyes closed.

"Keep holding on," he said reassuringly, speaking with difficulty because of the line in his teeth. "Five seconds, and you'll be perfectly safe."

Beamish made no sign. The midshipman moved forward until his raised head was beyond that of the helpless man, and then, gripping with his knees and one hand, took the end of the line in the other. Like all seamen, Beamish wore a stout leather belt. To get the end of the line under that belt while barely keeping himself from being blown or flung off the swaying spar was the worst task Septimus had ever had to perform. It seemed an age before he succeeded in getting the line threaded and the end pulled back. Then he had to knot it — with one hand. And the knot must be absolutely secure. It was Mr. Preece who had taught him to tie a bowline one-handed, and now that bit of practical knowledge was worth a man's life.

At last it was done. The length of line had one end secured to the spar and the other to Beamish's belt. The man was safe for the moment — so long as the spar kept in its place.

"Listen, Beamish." Septimus spoke with his mouth close to the man's ear. "You're lashed to this spar. If you slip, you won't fall. So you can safely finish the trip. Do you understand?

"I unnerstand," Beamish said faintly. "But I've got no strength left. I can't move — I can't, sir!"

"You can," said the midshipman firmly. "And you're going to. I'm going to tow you — and you'll have to help me or I'll fall off myself. Come on — heave!"

As he spoke the word, he got his free hand into the seaman's collar and began to edge back again towards the shrouds.

Wriggling backwards and slightly uphill, he could really exert very little force on Beamish, who was twice his size. But the slight full, and his cheerful "Heave ho! Heave!" brought to the half-conscious seaman enough encouragement to make him use his failing strength in one last effort. Inch by inch the two hitched themselves towards safety. Septimus felt the shrouds behind him and reached for a grip on them. Beamish was almost within reach of them. He looked at the end of the spar. It was very near falling — and Beamish was tied to it.

"Steady does it," said Septimus between his teeth. And, as Beamish reached both hands and grasped the shrouds, he plucked the man's sheath-knife from his waist and slashed through the linking line.

He had barely done so, and got his hand once more to Beamish's collar to haul him the last foot, when the spar slipped from the cordage and swung down into space.

"Hang on!" yelled the midshipman.

But Beamish was safely planted, with both feet in the shrouds and his big hands locked on the rope.

Septimus, keeping one hand pressed against the seaman's broad back, prayed that he would not lose consciousness now. He himself was feeling very shaky after that effort and could do little more than keep himself from falling. But voices, breathless and anxious, hailed him from close below.

"Hold on, sir!... We're coming!"

Half-a-dozen topmen were racing up the mainmast shrouds to their assistance. In less than a minute brawny arms were grasping them. With an agile seaman on each side of them, the rescuer and the rescued were brought down to the deck and safety.