The Big Six

by Arthur Ransome

  “I say,” said Dorothea, “this is much better than being tied up to a bank.”

  Bill brought up cheese and bread out of the Death and Glory’s cabin. Joe got a packet of butter from under the after deck. Tom handed over Mrs. Dudgeon’s sandwiches and three thermos flasks of hot coffee. Pete disappeared into the cabin and was presently passing out bottles of ginger beer from the storeplace under Joe’s bunk.

  “I say,” said Tom. “You oughtn’t to go and waste your money.”

  “We got plenty,” said Pete.

  “And fetch up two of them tins of pears,” said Joe. “The tin-opener’s on the nail behind the chimbley. And let’s have old Ratty out on deck.”

  *

  After a good mixed meal, during which Dick took a photograph of Joe’s white rat holding a nut in its paws, they set out to look for old nests among the reeds. Many of the nests, of course, had sagged down into the water or fallen to pieces, but they found a very good coot’s nest for Dick to photograph and showed him what had once been a grebe’s nest but now was hardly worth photographing. Dick took two photographs of the coot’s nest, carefully noting the different stops and shutter speeds in his note-book.

  “I say,” he said. “That’s the lot. I can’t take any more. Seven already.”

  “What have you got?”

  He showed Tom his pocket-book with the list:

  (1) Reed men and boat

  (2) D. & G. sailing

  (3) Dot sailing Titmouse

  (4) Tom ditto

  (5) White rat

  (6) Coot’s nest F.6.3 l = 50 sec.

  (7) Ditto F.8.1/25 sec.

  “Gosh,” said Tom. “I thought you were going to take nothing but nests.”

  “It doesn’t really matter,” said Dick.

  “What about the last one?” asked Tom. “Aren’t there eight to a film?”

  “Got to keep that one for tonight,” said Dick. “For photographing the Admiral.”

  “There won’t be much light then,” said Tom.

  “I’m going to do it after dark,” said Dick. “That’s why I want to keep the last one of a roll for her, so that I can develop it before we go to bed.”

  “Flashlight,” said Dorothea. “He’s got a thing that strikes a spark and flares up a lot of powder.”

  “People use it for photographing wild animals,” said Dick. “They fix up their cameras at a salt lick or a ford where the animals come, and wait in the dark, and then let off the flash when they know the animals are there.”

  “He’s only going to practise with it on the Admiral,” said Dorothea.

  With no more films to spare, they took to sailing again until, though there was still sunshine, they were startled by the first drops of rain.

  “Don’t fare to be more’n a drizzle,” shouted Bill from the Death and Glory.

  “It’ll blow over,” called Tom. “But it’s going to pelt in a minute. Look here, let’s keep dry in your cabin till it’s over.”

  The two boats made for the staithe which, with the wind bringing up the rain from the south-west, gave them good shelter. There Bill and Joe, in their oilskins, tied up both boats, while the whole crew of the Titmouse crowded headlong into the cabin of the Death and Glory just as the rain came down in earnest, beating on the cabin roof and splashing the smooth water into bubbles. The wind dropped. There was light below the clouds. Pete lit the stove, and after the violence of that first shower was over, the six Coots stewed themselves in the cabin watching through the open door a thin mizzle of rain and listening to the trickles of water running off the cabin roof.

  It stopped at last, and they climbed out through the wet cockpit that shimmered in the sun which had once more come out from behind the clouds. They stood on the staithe looking down at their rain-washed boats.

  “She’ll do here for the night,” said Joe. “But we’ll have a look round first. We don’t want nothing else going adrift and patched on us.”

  They walked along the staithe and looked at two or three boats moored in the dyke at the eastern end of it. They were all small boats, in good shelter and well made fast.

  “Nothing to go wrong there,” said Tom. “Let’s have a look at the other side.”

  On the western side of the staithe there is green grass to the water’s edge, and here the Ranworth people pull their fishing boats up and out of the way. There were perhaps half a dozen of these boats, some of them pulled right out of the water, some with just their bows lifted out, and all of them with anchors laid out ahead and firmly sunk into the turf.

  “None of those’ll get off by accident,” said Tom. “You’ll be all right here.”

  “Reckon we’ll have to stay here till the end of the holidays,” said Bill.

  “There are lots of birds to look at,” said Dick.

  “But staying in one place,” said Dorothea.

  “Better’n being stopped off the water,” said Joe.

  More clouds were working up and Tom decided to make a push for home. He borrowed a towel from the Death and Glory to dry sitting places for the Titmouse’s crew.

  “No good getting wet without you have to,” agreed Bill. “You’re coming in the morning, aren’t you?” said Pete.

  “We’ll be here soon after breakfast,” said Tom. “And I bet things’ll have cleared up about Sir Garnet.”

  “We ain’t going back without they have,” said Bill.

  Up went the sail of the Titmouse, dripping water as it lifted. It was Dick’s turn to steer. The wind off the staithe was a fair one for the mouth of the dyke at the other side of the Broad, and the Death and Glories, watching critically, observed that his wake was straight enough, except for two slight waggles due to the sighting of grebes.

  *

  “Hullo!”

  The Death and Glories, back in their cabin, looked out to see that they had a visitor.

  “Hullo, young Rob. You’re just too late. Tom Dudgeon’s gone.”

  “Come aboard,” said Pete.

  “And wipe your boots,” said Joe.

  Young Rob was a small outpost of the Coot Club, and was very pleased to come aboard. He had never seen the Death and Glory since the building of her cabin. There was a lot to show him, particularly the stove on which Bill had put a kettle to boil ready for supper. They fed him with chocolate but told him nothing of the troubles they had escaped. Things were bad enough at Horning without starting people talking at Ranworth as well. He did not stay long. The rain came on again and as the first drops fell they heard a woman’s voice calling for him.

  “You skip along, young Rob,” said Bill. “That’s your Mum.”

  Young Rob skipped.

  “You come along in the morning and we’ll take you sailing,” said Joe.

  “Tell you what,” said Bill. “You ask your Mum to keep some milk for us.”

  “Right O,” said young Rob and fled across the staithe under the shower.

  By the time they had had their supper, cocoa, pressed beef, boiled potatoes and two apples apiece, the rain had blown over. Before settling down for the night they went ashore and made a round of the staithe. All was well. Last thing before going to bed, they looked out once more. There were lights in the windows of the inn. Someone was singing and they could hear the cheerful plunk, plunk of darts finding their target.

  “It’s all right here,” said Joe as they turned in. “Nothing can’t go wrong.”

  Later still, waked by the noise of wind in the trees, he crawled out once more. The last of the clouds were blowing across the sky and it was a clear cold night.

  “What’s up?” asked Bill, as Joe got back into his bunk.

  “Nothing,” said Joe. “Bit more wind. Gosh, how that Pete do snore.”

  CHAPTER XII

  WORSE AND WORSE

  PETE woke slowly. Light was coming in through the windows of the cabin, but there was very little in the fo’c’sle where he had his bunk. Pete’s was one of those muddled wakings, when yesterday and today seem to have r
un together. He woke, still half dreaming, into all the noise of yesterday’s row on Horning staithe, with Jim Wooddall and Mr. Tedder and George Owdon, and everybody else all shouting together. It was a minute or two before he knew that no one was shouting at all, and that the only noise he could hear was the steady breathing of Joe and Bill and the faint creak of the Death and Glory’s wraps. Why, of course, they were not at Horning staithe but at Ranworth, where there were no wherries to get adrift and bring all kinds of trouble on the heads of honest Coots.

  He reached out for an apple that he had put handy before going to sleep, took a good bite out of it, and lay there chewing and wondering what news Tom would bring. Perhaps by now someone had found out who had cast Sir Garnet adrift and everything would be all right and there would be no more shouting at the crew of the Death and Glory about things they had never even thought of doing … and wouldn’t have wanted to do if they had thought of them. He bit almost fiercely at his apple and thought of the trouble there must have been in Horning even after the Death and Glory had got away. Somebody, certainly, would have told their Dads. Nothing would make his own Dad believe he had had a hand in casting off a wherry or any other boat, but he might not be so sure about Joe and Bill. And their Dads, of course, might think Joe and Bill could be trusted but might have their doubts about Pete. And if the three of them quarrelled over that, their Mums would have something to say. And the worst of it was that even if they all thought different things Pete was very much afraid that the fathers and mothers of all the Coots would agree in one thing, that, no matter who had been casting off boats, the simplest way of avoiding any more trouble would be to have the Coots off the river. Just when at last their boat had a cabin to her and a stove and they were looking forward to being afloat to the end of the holidays and spending week-ends aboard her all through the winter. Just when that Dick and Dorothea had come to join Tom and there were a hundred things they would be able to do with the Titmouse and the Death and Glory sailing about together. And then he thought of Tom’s father and mother. Well, Mrs. Dudgeon had known they were all right anyway.

  He finished his apple and crawled through the cabin to throw the core overboard and to have a look at the weather.

  The wind was much less than it had been in the night, but was still blowing freshly off the staithe towards the reeds along the further shore. Pete, warm from his bunk, stood in the cockpit and clinked the money in his pocket. It was early. He knew that. But how early? He looked back into the cabin to see what time it was. Joe, last night, had forgotten to wind up the old clock. Pete looked across the staithe. The sun was well up. Everything looked extra bright after yesterday’s rain. A cat, on its way home, walked slowly across the road by the inn. He heard a man whistling. Why not slip along to young Rob’s and be back with the milk before the others woke? He pulled out the milk-can from under the after deck and scrambled ashore.

  Swinging the milk-can, Pete walked to the edge of the dyke beside the staithe and stopped with a jerk. Surely there had been boats in that dyke last night. Why, he remembered looking at them with Tom before going to the other side of the staithe to see the fishing boats pulled up on the green turf. And now the dyke was empty. He ran across the staithe. Half those boats had gone too. There were still a few pulled right up out of the water but all those that had been lying afloat or half afloat with anchors ashore were gone. Pete looked out across the wide Broad. What was that by the reeds away on the further side? The next moment he was haring back to the Death and Glory.

  He put the milk-can down on the staithe, jumped into the cockpit and charged, stooping, through the cabin to get his telescope.

  Bill blinked at him from his bunk. “What’s the hurry?” he said.

  “Come out and look,” said Pete, hurrying back into the cockpit with his big telescope. “Salvage job, I reckon. That must have blowed hard in the night.”

  He lifted the telescope and trained it on the distant reeds. Over there was rippled water, and the reeds were waving in the wind, and the water was splashing among them, and … one, two, three … why, there must have been half a dozen boats or more blown against the reeds. Looking through the telescope he could see the water beating along their sides.

  “Come on, Bill,” he cried. “Quick. Come on, Joe. We got to get them boats.”

  Bill was first into the cockpit, Joe close behind him. Pete was already on the staithe, casting off the Death and Glory’s warps. He pushed off and jumped aboard.

  “Quick. Quick,” he cried. “We’ll get ’em all back before anyone know they’ve gone.”

  But Bill and Joe thought differently.

  “They’ll take no harm against them reeds,” said Bill.

  “Up with that sail,” said Joe.

  “But ain’t we going to get them?” said Pete. Always before, the mere sight of a boat in difficulties had been enough to bring the Death and Glory full speed ahead to the rescue.

  “Not going to be had that way twice,” said Joe. “If anybody see us with them boats they’ll say we cast ’em off, same as George Owdon say when we tie up that cutter that were caught in the trees.”

  “Sure as eggs is eggs they’ll say it’s us,” said Bill, who was hurriedly setting the sail.

  Joe steering with one hand and hauling taut the sheet with the other was anxiously looking back towards the village.

  “No one stirring yet,” he said.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Pete.

  “Dig out,” said Joe.

  Already they were moving fast. With every yard they got a better wind as they left the shelter of the land and the Death and Glory fled from Ranworth staithe as if pursued by ghosts.

  “If we can get clear of the Broad before anybody see us,” said Bill coming back into the cockpit.

  “But they see us here last night,” said Pete.

  “It’s the worst that happen yet,” said Joe. “Who’s going to believe us now?”

  “Can’t we do nothing about them boats?” said Pete. It was dreadful to see them, three or four open rowing boats, a small motor cruiser, a half-decked sailing boat and a couple of dinghies, splashed by the waves and tossing, tossing endlessly against the reeds.

  “We just got to get out,” said Joe. “It’s the only thing we can do, and that ain’t much. Anybody showing yet, Bill?” With the strengthening wind he had to look to his steering.

  “No…. At least…. Hullo…. There’s chaps on the staithe now.”

  A distant shout was blown after them across the water. A man…. Two men and a small boy were standing waving on the staithe.

  “There’s young Rob,” said Bill, who had grabbed Pete’s telescope and was looking through it. “He’ll tell ’em it weren’t us.”

  “Put your head in a bucket and boil it,” said Joe angrily. “He don’t know who done it but he know who we are.”

  Joe at the tiller, could not look back. The other two saw one of the men take a furious kick at something on the staithe that flew into the air and landed with a splash in the water.

  “They’re raging mad,” said Pete.

  “They’re pointing at us,” said Bill.

  “Course they are,” said Joe between his teeth. “And they ask young Rob, what’s that boat? and young Rob he chirp up and tell ’em that’s the Death and Glory. He won’t know no better.”

  “I ain’t walk under a ladder,” said Bill. “Not since that time I do and fall in the next day. And I ain’t spilt no salt. And I ain’t seen never less than two magpies together. I ain’t the Jonah.” He looked doubtfully at Pete.

  “I ain’t no Jonah,” said Pete.

  “Shurrup,” said Joe. “Nobody ain’t no Jonah. Somebody cast off them boats apurpose. Tell me all them boats could get away together and call it bad luck. Somebody push ’em off. What are them chaps doing now?”

  “Getting a boat out,” said Bill.

  “Coming after us,” said Pete.

  Joe glanced over his shoulder and then looked ahead once more.
In another few moments the Death and Glory would be out of the Broad and behind the trees in the dyke leading to the river.

  “They’ll not catch us now,” he said. “And they won’t try. They’ve enough to do with all them boats to tow off of the reeds. But that don’t make no differ. That’ll be patched on us same as everything else. Stand by to gybe….”

  In another moment Ranworth staithe was out of sight behind the trees, and the Death and Glory was blowing slowly down the dyke. They met a reed-boat with the men whom Dick had photographed. The men waved, and the three Coots waved back.

  “That done it,” said Joe gloomily when they were out of hearing. “Them chaps have seen us, even if young Rob don’t give us away.”

  “But we ain’t done nothing,” said Pete.

  “Tell that to Mr. Tedder,” said Joe.

  They swept out of the dyke into the main river.

  “Let’s go down to Acle,” said Bill.

  “We can’t,” said Joe. “There’s Tom coming and that Dick and Dot. We got to stop ’em going to Ranworth. We got to go so’s they’ll meet us. Gybe oh!”

  The sail swung across with a loud flap and the Death and Glory turned upstream. That way, at least, were friends as well as enemies.

  Free from pursuit, they began to think of breakfast. Also, the further they got from Ranworth the nearer they came to Horning and the less they were inclined to hurry.

  “Look here,” said Bill. “We don’t want to get back before Tom bring us the news.”

  “Stop anywhere now,” said Joe.

  They were passing the lawns with the black sheep, and coming into a reach where the wind headed them.

  “Out oars,” said Joe. Today, he had not the heart to talk of engines, at least until he had his breakfast inside him.

  They rowed grimly up that reach and then, getting the shelter of some high reeds, tied up a little below No. 7 nest.