Arthur Ransome - Swallows and Amazons (Complete Series)

Everything was going like clockwork. Madeira was in sight. They had passed the little island of Porto Santo and were looking forward to anchoring in Funchal and going ashore to do some shopping in this foreign port, besides filling up the tanks with fresh water, when, late one afternoon, Roger, playing with the telescope, caught sight of another schooner a long way astern of them.

Earlier in the day they had sailed through a small fleet of Portuguese fishermen, and now Roger was amusing himself by resting the big ship’s telescope on the stern rail and trying to have a look at them. The whole little fleet of them had hoisted their sails and were coming after the Wild Cat, no doubt bringing their catch to Madeira. Just for a moment they bobbed into sight for Roger as the Wild Cat’s stern dropped low, bringing the telescope down with it. Then the Wild Cat’s bows would go down, her stern would go up, and Roger looking through the telescope could see nothing at all but sky. Still, taking his chance when the Wild Cat gave it him, Roger saw enough of the little fleet of fishermen to notice that away beyond them was another sailing vessel of a different rig.

“There’s another ship coming after the fishermen,” he said.

Nobody took any notice. Everybody knew Roger and the sort of thing he was always seeing when he had the big telescope to himself. Bill and John were at the wheel. All the others, except the skipper and Peter Duck, were up in the bows, looking eagerly at Madeira, which was fast becoming clearer right ahead. Captain Flint was in the deckhouse, busy with the charts, and wondering if he could manage to bring the Wild Cat into Funchal without taking a pilot aboard. Peter Duck was taking his afternoon sleep.

“It’s got two masts,” said Roger, “and big sails on both of them.”

Bill heard that all right.

“Let’s have a look.” He left the wheel to John, squatted down, and steadied the big telescope.

The next moment he dived head first into the deckhouse, startled Captain Flint, and shook Peter Duck by the foot, as he lay there snoring in his happy, contented manner.

“Wake up, Mr. Duck! Cap’n Flint, sir. It’s him! He’s after us again.”

“Less lip,” said Mr. Duck, sitting up. “What’s all the noise about?”

But even he looked grave when, after they had both had a look through the telescope, they agreed that if this was not the Viper it was a vessel very like her.

“Coming on fast, too,” said Captain Flint.

The others had hurried aft when they saw Captain Flint and Peter Duck outside the deckhouse.

“What is it?” said Nancy.

“Black Jake again,” said John.

“Not really,” said Susan.

“Of course, really,” said Roger. “I saw him first.”

“What I would like to know,” said Captain Flint, “is, Has that fellow seen us? And, if so, what we’d better do about it.”

“Well, we’d better have tea anyhow,” said Susan, a little later.

They had tea, but by the time it was ready, it was clear to all of them that this schooner, coming south like themselves, was the Viper. They would have seen her before if it had not been for the Portuguese fishing boats.

“How did he guess what we were going to do?” said Captain Flint rather crossly, when they were all down in the saloon, except Nancy, who was steering.

“No guessing about it,” said Peter Duck. “He’s going the shortest way to Crab Island. That’s one thing. He’d know you’d be doing the same. And he’d know you’d be putting in to Funchal or the Canaries to fill up with fresh water, same’s he will himself.”

Captain Flint got suddenly up out of his chair. There was a new look in his eye.

“Susan,” he said, “let’s have another look at all that water arithmetic of yours.”

Ten minutes later they were back again.

“Thanks to Susan,” said Captain Flint, patting the mate on the back, lifting his mug of tea to her and swallowing all that was left in it. “Thanks to Susan, we’ll do him yet. We’ll carry right on. We’ve more than enough water to last. Funchal’s on the south side of the island. It’ll be getting dark before we turn the corner of the island and then, instead of stopping in Funchal Roads, or going into the harbour, we’ll carry right on for the Caribbees and Mr. Duck’s island.”

Peter Duck looked deep into the bottom of his mug. He was thinking.

“Well, Mr. Duck?”

“I’ll not say but it’s a good plan, if you’re right about the water, sir. He’ll be bound to take in water here himself. It’s not one schooner in a thousand carries all them tons of fresh water ballast. He’ll be taking in water at Funchal, and he’ll be looking for you to be doing the same. Now there’s more places than one where you might likely do it. He’ll be a couple of days before he guesses you ain’t stopped. And then he’s all but bound to think you’re aiming farther south to call for water at Teneriffe or Grand Canary. He’ll never think of a little vessel like yours heading right across and stopping nowheres.”

Not one of the crew could have a word to say against a plan so good, even if it did mean no run ashore to drink iced sherbet in Funchal. They would give Black Jake the slip once more, and if Peter Duck was right, and Black Jake went on to the Canaries, it might very well give them time to get to Crab Island, see what it was that was buried there under Mr. Duck’s tree, and be sailing home again before ever the Viper arrived.

So, as the early dark of the tropical evening rose over the sea, the crew of the Wild Cat looked astern at the black schooner racing after them, but still far away. They hoped, now, that Black Jake and his friends had seen them heading for the island. Close past the eastern end of Madeira they steered in the dusk. By the time the Viper had turned the corner, it had long been pitch dark. It would have been a miracle if anybody aboard the Viper had thought for a moment that the Wild Cat was not putting into Funchal. But the Wild Cat sailed on. She did not head in for Funchal lights that glittered down on the sea front and high on the hill-side. She kept steadily on in the darkness, and at midnight was heading west-south-west into the wide Atlantic.

As the lights of Funchal faded astern, Captain Flint let fall one sentence of regret.

“Blow it,” he said, “and I’d been counting on getting a decent spade in Madeira.”

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

At dawn next day a low bank of cloud on the horizon was all that could be seen of Madeira. There was no sign of the Viper, and the Wild Cat settled down once more to regular routine. The steady trade wind from the north-east hurried her on her way from dawn till sunset, slackening a little in the evenings, so that during this part of the voyage Captain Flint and Peter Duck agreed that there could be nothing against carrying the topsails all night. Every morning, before the sun grew hot, the whole crew came on deck in bathing things, dipped canvas buckets full of salt water, and sluiced the decks and each other by way of beginning the day. Day after day was like the one before it. Watches were kept, bells were struck, meals were cooked and eaten, pots and pans were cleaned and plates and mugs were washed. Most of the time Peter Duck had a line out with a big hook and a bundle of strips of bacon rind, hoping to catch a shark, but never catching one, though now and then on smaller hooks he did catch something that was good to eat besides the flying-fish that sometimes flew aboard by mistake and were always warmly welcomed in the galley. For real good fishing, he used to say, you couldn’t beat the Norfolk Broads.