Free Rum Affair by Dorothy Dunnett

his pram with a towline. He fixed this, shoved in rowlocks, took up his oars; then with Seawolf’ s lashed sternpost looming in front of him started to pull her away. He rowed, slowly at first; and then like a charnel house in a wind machine as Seawolf, responding, began to change course, and finally veered out of the danger zone after him.
    “Gawd,” said Lenny reverently. He, Johnson and Rupert, argumentatively sober, stood on Dolly’s deck watching.
    “What’s happened?” I asked. “Why doesn’t he start Seawolf’s motor?” They were going to enjoy answering.
    “Because the engine’s jammed full ahead,” said Johnson, his expression completely covered with glass. “He can’t go slow or reverse: very fussing. That’s why he hit us. And the wind’s gone, so sailing’s no good. Poor Cecil. He’ll have to tow Seawolf clear of us all to get room to drop anchor . . . Oh, God be praised. I know what’s going to happen.”
    We all strained our eyes. “The tow rope’s going to break?” suggested Rupert.
    The tow rope broke. Ogden performed a back somersault inside the dinghy. Ogden’s yacht, still sailing backwards, overtook Ogden’s dinghy, caught it a smart blow on the beam and flipped it aside, upside down. She then sailed slowly on, backwards, while Ogden, somersaulting briskly into the water, rose bubbling beside the fast-dispersing shapes of his oars.
    Rupert squeaked.
    “Shut up. There’s another reel,” said Johnson.
    There was. Victoria, finding herself alone on a powerless yacht backing rapidly out into the shoals of Lochgair, rushed to the cockpit and started the engine. Seawolf burst into shuddering sound and advanced, roaring, in top gear into the anchorage.
    There was an echoing roar as every yacht in the bay started up its anchor winch and its engine at one and the same time. There was a brisk movement, as of fry in a jam jar, and then one by one all the engines cut out again.
    On Seawolf the roar of the throttle had weakened; the pulse slowed and a tinny rattling came clear over the water, together with some thin shouting traceable to Victoria. The trailing end of her dinghy rope had caught in the screw.
    In the water, a long way behind, a dimpling pool located the swimming figure of Ogden. Seawolf’s engine cut and she slid forward dreamily, headed towards the sandbanks on the other side, Victoria steering. As we watched, the yacht lost way and began to slip sideways, impelled by the tide. Victoria, a silhouette against the saloon skylight, was seen to leave the cockpit and, running forward, to pick up the anchor and heave it successfully over the side. There was a distant ticking as the anchor chain followed, a splash as the anchor hit water and sank, and then silence.
    “The anchor chain!” said Lenny. The ticking had stopped.
    “The anchor chain?” said Rupert, but louder.
    “It’s got stuck in the hawsepipe,” reported Johnson amiably. “And there’s poor Victoria drifting out again on the tide with a short-chain anchor punching holes in the yacht like a pickled ticket collector. I think we should help her.”
    Almost before he had finished talking, Dolly’s dinghy was in the water, with me in it. I was not being left aboard Dolly for anything, even though copper boots and kangaroo skin are not the best thing for nautical ballet. Then Johnson was talking to a slick white launch from Evergreen which had appeared with a uniformed helmsman, also rescue-bent; and in a moment Johnson, Rupert and I had transferred to the launch and were tearing over the dark water to Seawolf, while Lenny started up the outboard and snarled off in Dolly’s dinghy to the lugubrious spot in the sea which was Cecil Ogden.
    While Evergreen’s paid hand lashed motorboat to yacht and prepared to lead Seawolf gently back to civilisation and safety, the rest of us boarded Ogden’s boat.
    Nearly helpless with giggles and madly pleased with herself and with us, Victoria helped us aboard.
    Johnson