CHAPTER 21

TEMPTATION

      The pram, close hauled and also heeling now, came up to the navigation span, tacked once more, and helped by the tide, shot right through, with another neat tack in the middle, to show that if her crew had been lucky, they also knew what they were doing.
      “Lost them,” said Will.
“Let’s follow them,” said Tim. “There’s more wind on the other side of the bridge. We’ll catch them easily.”
      Darker wavelets across the harbor showed that the breeze was strengthening. It was clear that the Buccaneer, longer and carrying more sail than the pram, was indeed the faster boat; Tim was right, thought Will; they would catch them easily. They could then turn back, and no one would be any the wiser that they had sailed into forbidden waters. Anyway, he said to himself, with ingenious twelve-year-old logic, it had been several days since he had last asked his mother about going beyond the footbridge. She had said that they had not had enough experience then, this was now; who was to say that the experience they had gained in the meantime was not enough? He said nothing, but hardened the sheets as Tim brought the Buccaneer closer to the wind to head for the navigation span; in doing so, he gave his fatal assent.
      “We can sail under the bridge too,” Tim said. “Just lower the mainsail half way, the tide will take us through. It’ll save all kinds of time if we don’t have to drop everything and row.”
      Will scrambled forward to cast off the halyards, lowering the gaff to a horizontal position as they darted into the shadow of the bridge. It was another regrettable misjudgment. The sail collapsed and lost all drive; with the jib alone drawing, the Buccaneer’s bow fell off the wind, she lost way, and they found themselves heading for the great rough blocks of granite of the bridge’s pier.
      “Bring her up, bring her up!” shouted Will, scrambling forward to fend off.
      “I can’t! She won’t come!”
“Gybe, then!”
      Tim put the helm up; the bow swung slowly, and Will reached out to push off the pier. In doing so he let a halyard slip, and the peak of the gaff dropped, knocking Tim on the head, and blanketing him with the sail.
      “Ow! What are you doing? I can’t see!”
      “It’s not my fault! You steered into the bridge. Quick, fend off your end, we’re going to hit!”
      “I can’t, you numbskull! I’m trapped!” Tim was thrashing about under the folds of sailcloth; suddenly he appeared, red faced, and put out a hand in time to prevent the rail from scraping the barnacle-encrusted pier.
      They were now lying alongside the pier, stuck between wind and tide. “Hold her off,” said Will. “We’ll have to drop the sails.”
      This was easier said than done. Will tugged at the mainsail with one hand, still fending off with the other, but the jaws of the gaff had jammed halfway up the mast, and the sail would not budge. He pushed hard off the pier to free both hands, causing the already heeling Buccaneer to lurch dangerously, yelled, “Keep her off!”, and hauled on the peak halyard while yanking hard on the sail. The jaws let go, and dropped suddenly as the after end of the gaff swung up and back, catching Tim squarely in the ribs, and causing him to fall with a yell of pain against the transom; the boat lurched, water pouring over the rail; Will grabbed for the mast to steady himself, letting go the halyard, and the end of the gaff came back down, hitting Tim on the head again.
      “Yow!” he yelled. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Don’t blame me! You nearly had us over! I’m going to drop the jib. Push the stern off.”
      He cast off the halyard, and the sail came down at a run. Relieved of the effect of the wind, the Buccaneer drifted with the tide, swinging to emerge stern first from under the bridge.
      By the time the boys had sorted out the tangle of sails, sheets, and halyards, they saw that the pram had passed the tugboat dock, and was still tacking down the harbor. Will pulled out an oar and paddled the Buccaneer’s bow into the wind. As they hoisted the sails again he thought, anyway, we can still catch them, then head back. In the excitement of resuming the chase Tim economized on brain power, as his parents were later to point out, by not thinking at all.
      Heeling to the fresher breeze, with a line of foam sliding along her lee rail, and the chortle of the harbor chop under her bow, the Buccaneer quickly began to make up for lost time, but as they reached the tugboat dock the boys saw the pram luff by the stern of a yacht at one of the visitors’ moorings downstream of the town landing, drop her sail, and come neatly alongside.
      Deflated, the boys carried on. It would not do to turn back now; their defeat would be too obvious. Neither spoke, but each knew that the other was fervently hoping that the manner in which they had negotiated the passage under the bridge had not been observed from the pram. As they came up to the yacht they saw that her tender’s crew was watching them. The two girls stood in the cockpit, blonde, alike, and very pretty; they might have been twins.
      “Let’s show them we know how to sail, at least,” said Tim. “We’ll tack under their stern.”
      He put the helm down, and the Buccaneer came smartly about; there was nothing to be ashamed of in that, anyhow, he thought. The new tack took them close by the watching girls, who waved, with friendly smiles.
      “We like your boat,” one called.
      “She’s lovely,” said the other. “Watch out going back under the bridge. You don’t want to get stuck.”