Swallowdale. Arthur Ransome

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.”

      The rope fell slack and tautened again. She hauled in, and John suddenly splashed under water from the point. Swallow’s anchor was in sight. He seized hold of it and clambered out.

      “Well done, Nancy,” he said. “It would have taken ages if you hadn’t thought of that.”

      “You’ve got a jolly good crew,” said Nancy. “If they hadn’t coiled your anchor-rope as it should be coiled it would have jammed, as sure as eggs is eggs, and you might never have been able to throw it clear.”

      Even to be ashore and to hold Swallow’s anchor and to pull the rope taut and feel Swallow at the other end of it was enough to make things seem more hopeful.

      “We could shift her now,” said Nancy.

      “It’s an awfully rough bottom,” said John. “All stones. I’m going to try to get the ballast out of her first.”

      “How much is there?”

      “Six pigs of lead, five little ones and a big one.”

      DIVING FOR THE ANCHOR

      “I wish I could take a turn at the diving,” said Nancy, “but it’s no good. I simply can’t keep under.”

      “It’s all right,” said John. “I’m not tired a bit. I’ll take your rope and make it fast to a pig of ballast. You start hauling when I give two jerks.”

      He fixed Swallow’s anchor among the rocks on the point, unfastened Nancy’s rope and swam out, towing the rope behind him. Down he went, grabbed the thwart of the Swallow with one hand, got a grip on it with his legs, and quickly, as quickly as ever he could, counting to himself as he did it, pushed the end of the rope through the loop on the top of a pig of ballast, tied two half-hitches, lifted the pig over the side, jerked twice on the rope and shot up in a hurry.

      “How many did you say there were?” asked Nancy.

      “Five more,” he panted. “But the rest’ll be easier. I know how to do it now.”

      “Tie two of them together,” said Nancy. “They don’t weigh much under water.”

      But it was just the tying that was the trouble. The little bit of extra work, in threading the rope through two of the stiff rope loops on the pigs of lead instead of through one, was just too much, and he had to come to the top to breathe without making the rope fast at all. So he gave that up and they were content with one pig of lead at a time. Five more times he went down. Five times Nancy felt two eager jerks on the rope and was hauling a pig of lead ashore as John’s dripping head shot up out of the water.

      “Now then,” he said, as he swam ashore after making fast the last pig. “It’s no good trying to free the mast and sail. If the sail gets torn we’ll have to mend it. Let’s try if she’ll come now. Her bows aren’t pointing this way though. Let’s try, gently.”

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