Swallowdale. Arthur Ransome
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not see at all what John was doing.
He was under a long time, but came up at last close to the Pike Rock. He rested there, holding to the rock with one hand. With the other he held up Susan’s black kettle.
“Hurrah,” cried Nancy.
“Susan,” called Titty, “he’s got the kettle.”
John pushed off from the rock and swimming with one hand and carrying the kettle in the other, keeping it under water so that it was not heavy, he swam ashore.
“Did you see the eggs?” asked Susan. She and Peggy had come running from the fire when they heard Nancy’s shout.
“Or the frying-pan?” asked Titty. “I had a frying-pan as well as the basket of eggs.”
“The frying-pan’s there all right,” said John, “but I didn’t see the eggs. They must have floated out in the basket and then been swamped. Half a minute and I’ll go down again. It’s not as deep as I thought it would be.”
He swam out again and went under, coming up with the frying-pan, which he threw ashore.
The next time he dived he brought up the knapsack with the day’s food in it. He brought it to the top of the water and then kicked himself ashore, swimming with his legs only.
Susan opened the knapsack anxiously. “The pemmican’s all right,” she said, as she pulled out the tin, “and the spoons and the knife and the marmalade, and the butter . . . but the bread and the seed-cake are all soppy . . . and the sugar’s soaking through everything.”
“We’ve got some bread,” said Nancy, “but we counted on you for the tea.”
“What about the milk?” said Susan.
“The bottle’s all right,” said John, “but the milk’s just a cloud in the water.”
“We can get milk at Swainson’s farm,” said Peggy. “We often do. It’s not far.”
“Is Swallow very much hurt?” said Titty. She had been wanting to ask each time John came up.
“I simply can’t see,” said John. “There’s such a tangle round the bows with the broken mast and the sail settling down there. I know she’s stove in, but we can’t tell how badly she’s hurt until we get her out.”
“Can we get her out?” Nancy, Peggy, Titty, Susan and Roger all asked that question at once. Indeed, looking at the rippled water, with nothing showing above it but the wicked point of the Pike Rock, it was difficult to believe that the Swallow had not disappeared for ever.
“I don’t know,” said John.
“They often do get up sunk boats,” said Peggy.
“It’ll be all right,” said Nancy. “Captain Flint’s coming to-day, and he’ll howk her up in two jiffs.”
That settled it. It was bad enough to have lost the ship, but for Captain Flint to come for the first time this year to join the explorers and to find the Swallow at the bottom of the lake would be altogether unbearable. John climbed up out of the water and sat on a rock to rest and consider what he would do next.
“We mustn’t let the fire go down,” said Susan. “Come on, you two. I want all the wood you can get. And you must keep moving and not hang about while the clothes are drying. Let’s see if we can do anything with the seed-cake.”
“It might get all right if we dried it by the fire and then fried it in slices,” said Peggy.
The two mates, the able-seaman and the boy went back to the fire.
When they had gone, Captain Nancy looked at Captain John. “Have you got a plan?” she said.
“It may not work,” said John.
At the very moment of Swallow’s sinking, with the shore so near and yet out of reach, the plan had come into his head. Somewhere, in some book, someone had done something like it. It was this plan, so shadowy that it could hardly be called a plan, that had made him at the last moment use all the strength he had in throwing Swallow’s anchor towards the shore. He had often wished she had a heavier anchor. To-day he had been glad that it was light. But, after all, what had he done? Not much. But he had been down to Swallow under water. The water was not as deep as he had feared. There was no doubt in his mind that Captain Flint and a few other strong natives could get her up. But he wanted more than that. He wanted to get her up without them, and thanks to that anchor, lying somewhere between the wreck and the point, he thought he could. For the anchor rope was fastened to a ring-bolt in Swallow’s bows, and it was just there that he could not safely go without the risk of being mixed up in sail and ropes. If he had had that rope to fasten there, he might have had to give up his whole plan. But, it was fastened already, and if he could get hold of the anchor and bring the rope ashore. . . He was almost glad the others had gone back to the fire. He almost wished Nancy had gone too. But someone would be wanted if the plan worked at all.
He swam off again and, carefully judging his distance from the Pike Rock and from the shore, dived down once more to the wreck. Dim and misty she lay down there. It was only when he had his eyes close to a bit of her that it looked solid and he could be certain what it was. It had been easy enough getting kettle and saucepan and knapsack. He knew where they were in her, stowed in the broadest part of her, by the middle thwart. He could hold on to that and find what he wanted as much by feel as by sight. It was different now. He dared not go too near that tangle of mast and ropes and sail about her bows, and yet he wanted the rope that led there, the rope with the anchor at its other end. Down he went, down to the stern of the wreck. Then swimming with his legs and using his hands to keep him close to the stones on the bottom he tried to swim in a half-circle round the wreck and between the wreck and the shore. Somewhere in that half circle he must find the anchor rope. This was harder than picking saucers off the bottom of the swimming-bath at school. He counted to himself. . . Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. . . at twenty he would have to come up. . . eighteen, nineteen, twenty. . . twenty-one. . . There! There was the rope, but he was already shooting upwards, and a moment later was spluttering and blowing on the surface.
He got his breath again and dived once more. There was the wreck. No need now to begin his semicircle from the stern. The rope was more than half-way round it. It would be close to him now. Now. . . there it was. . . a long, grey, thin snake squirming away into the brown shadows. He grabbed it, lifted it off the bottom and swam along it, letting it run between his thumb and first finger. . . He saw the anchor just before he came to it. He let go the rope, took the anchor by a fluke, and, using his feet on the bottom now, shifted the anchor a yard, two yards, three yards, until the rope drew taut and he could hold his breath no more.
“I’ve found it,” he spluttered as he came to the top. “And I’ve moved it a good bit farther in.”
But there was no Nancy. For a moment John thought he had stayed under so long that she had run off to tell the others he had got stuck. But before he had let out a cheering shout to show that he was all right, he saw Nancy hurrying over the rocks to the end of the point. In her hand she had Amazon’s anchor rope.
“Have you found the anchor?” she called.
“Yes,” said John.
“Why not make this rope fast to it, so that we can haul it in from the shore? It’ll be a dreadful job shifting it under water.”
He knew it was. Nancy really was a sailor. That was something he ought to have thought of himself. He came ashore, rested a moment, and then swam off with one end of Nancy’s rope, which she paid out from the point.
“Let’s have a lot loose,” he called, and then, taking the end in his mouth, for he did not think he could swim down with one hand, he dived again, found the anchor, this time without difficulty, made Nancy’s rope fast to it, shot up and swam ashore.
Nancy was already hauling in on her rope. In it came, and then straightened, tautened. There was a jerk.
“It’s coming.”
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