By now the boat was high and fairly dry on the sandy floor of the cove. The tide was still on the ebb and Phil estimated that they had roughly two or three hours before the water would return and attempt to retrieve its earlier spoils. The reason for the boat's downfall had been apparent on first sight of the hull as they scrambled down the rocks into the cove. There was a gaping hole in the prow of the boat just below the waterline. The fibreglass had splintered on impact of what must have been one of the smaller, sharper rocks that lay so dangerously beneath the surface of the sea surrounding the island. Upon closer inspection Phil found himself doubting his own initial optimism.
"I don't think what we've got in our repair kit is going to be enough to cover this one." he observed.
Arthur took a look at it. "We couldn't cover it. We've only got thin strips of glass matting. This would want a thick sheet of it."
"So it was all a waste of time then!" there was obvious disappointment in Gregory's voice. "We're no further on than when we started!"
"I didn't say that." Arthur smiled. "I wouldn't give up just yet."
"Don't play games with me. Either you can fix it or you can't. Which is it?" He scowled.
"With a couple of bits of plywood it should be possible to cover the hole from inside and out." Arthur gestured with his hands as he spoke. " Then it would only need a thin strip of fibre to seal around the edge."
"Would that work?" Gregory sounded sceptical.
"It would hold for long enough to get back to the mainland, provided, that is, that you travel at a respectable speed!"
"So where are we going to get a couple of bits of plywood from?" Gregory's voice sounded negative and unconvinced. "I don't see too many of them lying around here."
"Aren't there a couple of old packing cases in the cottage?" Phil suggested. "They should be about the right size for the job."
"Is there time to fetch them before the tide comes in?" Gregory permitted himself to sound hopeful again.
"Shouldn't be a problem." said Arthur.
They returned to camp. Arthur dived into the store tent to fetch the small repair kit that had been brought in case of minor damage to the canoes and set off immediately, sand-paper in hand, to begin preparatory work on the hole. He cleaned up the splinters of fibreglass that jutted into the gash and thoroughly sanded a circular strip of the hull about ten centimetres wide surrounding it. Brushing away the fine white powder he continued to rub the coarse sandpaper along the length of two small splits that ran out from the centre of the impact. Squeezing out a small amount of hardener from what resembled a toothpaste tube he mixed it with about a cupful of resin, laying strips of woven glass fibre tape along the length of the cracks and working in the sticky resin with an old house paintbrush.
Phil went with Gregory to collect the packing case. Somehow each time they made the journey over the hill it seemed a little longer. There was no trouble locating the wooden boxes. One lay on its side just outside the door, whilst a second, battered into a drunken shape, lay in the middle of the ruined house where it had been thrown when they had attempted to tidy the mess left by Gregory's earlier visit. It was the work of a moment to remove two sides from it, gently prising out the thin tacks that held them to the skeleton of softwood.
By the time they arrived back at the cove with their trophy the tide had begun to climb up the beach. Phil estimated that they had not much more than an hour before the waves would break against the side of the boat, making it impossible for the plastic resin to stick. He noted the neat repairs already made to the cracks.
"Impressive!" he praised Arthur, who gave a wry smile and produced a bolt, two large washers and a wing nut.
"This is the idea." Arthur explained. "We make a sandwich of the hull between the boards. The bolt goes through the middle of both boards and tightens up, pulling them together. Can you arrange that?"
Thus given his instructions, Phil and Greg set to work. As there was no drill the boards were roughly punctured using a Philips screwdriver. Before long the hole was covered and the pressure of the bolt held the boards in place.
Whilst this delicate manoeuvring was in progress Arthur mixed up a new batch of resin and cut strips to seal round the edges. He mixed a little more than the recommended quantity of hardener into the resin and knew he would need to work quickly to finish before it started to congeal into the soft jelly that would then harden. The result was anything but elegant but it would suffice.
"That should do the job. " Arthur had packed his tools away and the group stood ere surveying the handiwork. "But I wouldn't leave it too long before you get back to shore and I wouldn't try any more James Bond stuff on the way! That is only a patch and will not stand up to any great strain."
"You're sure a useful guy to have about." Harry beamed. "We're really grateful for what you've done. I wish we had a chance to meet all over again without our little. er.. our little misunderstandings." He looked embarrassed.
"Yes, thank you for your help." Greg muttered, grudgingly it seemed to Arthur. "And now if you don't mind we'd better be getting along."
"I wouldn't get too excited just yet." Phil pointed out. "There's no guarantee that the engine is going to work. It has been submerged for a couple of hours which can't have done it any good." He climbed up to inspect the damage.
A little while later he shouted down, "I think luck is on your side. This is a marine diesel engine, quite rare in a boat like this. I've cleaned the filter, and the battery seems to be in a watertight case. We'll give it a whir." No sooner said than a large cloud of black smoke issued with a deep roar from the stern catching them all by surprise. The bilge pumps swung into action, driven by the spluttering engine, forcing the observers to move swiftly out of the line of fire. As they watched the smoke began to clear and the engine settle into a more regular, if still a little laboured, growl.
Phil reappeared, grinning and wiping his oily hands on the legs of his jeans. "You look a little soggy!" he said in mock surprise. Arthur grinned back at him but somehow it seemed Gregory was finding it difficult to find anything amusing.
The first lapping tongues of the incoming tide failed to penetrate the makeshift seal and within half an hour the boat was afloat. The two men took the earliest opportunity to leave heading steadily out towards the mainland.
"Say 'so long’ to Tracy for me." Harry had said. "I expect we'll bump into each other again soon." He would have gone back to the camp to see her, Arthur was sure, if it hadn't been for the impatient presence of his tall friend.
It would have been a wasted journey. Back at the fire, which had been fed some time before and was burning healthily, there was no sign of Tracy or Reuben. Feeling grimy after the afternoon’s labours they decided to wash. It was in reaching for the towel from the makeshift washing line that they noticed that Gregory's nearly dry clothes were still there.
"That'll teach him to be in such a hurry!" Arthur chuckled.
"What do you mean? He's gone off in one of my finest tracksuits!" Phil made a wry face.
"It was old and full of holes!" Arthur mocked.
"It was much loved. Sure, it takes years to get clothes into that degree of comfort." Phil looked back at the clothes on the line. "Mind you it looks as though he's left a little something to make up the difference." He reached into the pocket of what had been a light sports jacket and removed a large wallet.
"It won't be long before he misses that!" Arthur took it and opened it up. Inside were a number of damp banknotes, almost a hundred pounds he guessed. There was also a credit card, a neatly folded scrap of thin paper such as might be used in a fax machine and what appeared to be an identity card with a photograph of a young but recognizable Gregory staring out through the plastic coating. The name, however, was not familiar, and neither was the language in which the card was inscribed.
Arthur glanced at Phil with a puzzled expression. Phil took the card but could not make head nor tail of it either. The next discovery was even more alarming. As he had suspected the paper turned out to be a fax message. The plastic cards on either side had largely protected it from the wet and whilst the folds themselves were damp the message was clear and legible. Staring up from the top of the sheet was a photograph of Tracy, a school portrait, and below it a message.
"...Big White Chief suggests caging the young bird may improve the memory of the rooster. No sign yet of Mother Hen?"
"So he knew all the time." Arthur muttered. "He had her picture for goodness sake. But what does this all mean?" He was confused and beginning for the second time that day to get a distinctly uneasy feeling.
"At a guess, " Phil spoke quietly, all traces of the light-hearted mood had vanished, "the Rooster is her father, which rather suggests they are holding him. They want him to tell them something, but he's not co-operating."
"'Caging the young bird...! They meant to kidnap her then."
"But they couldn't risk it, not with us around. No wonder he was in such a foul mood. 'No sign of Mother Hen?' That is a question mark, isn't it?" The words here were slightly smudged by the dampness of a fold.
"Yes, I think so. What about this 'Big White Chief'."
"It seems they're not working on their own." Phil replied. "And if that is the case, I don't think we've seen the last of our dear friends. As soon as they can get their hands on another boat they'll be back. And this time they won't just be popping in for cocoa!"
"Where on earth have they got to?!" Arthur was worried. Very worried.