A/N: I don't own the characters.
Anyway, this chapter is dedicated to Colonel, the former cat of 111 MI Section, Intelligence Corps. Born in late 2004, Colonel joined the Section in August 2007 and quickly became a popular and respected member of the unit. Swiftly taking charge of the Junior NCO's accommodation he set and maintained a remarkable standard of cleanliness, particularly with regard to excess food. Following the wishes of the Commanding Officer he also took effective steps to reduce the soldiers' consumption of unhealthy snacks such as hamburgers and kebabs, which he selflessly disposed of at great risk to his own life. On leaving the Army he voluntarily shouldered the responsibility of patrolling the grounds around his new home, and ensuring that all dogs, children and vehicles behaved in a manner that met his high standards. He died at his post of natural causes on 14 June 2012, doing his duty to his last breath.
You never let us down, Colonel. Sleep well, old friend.
Time went by, as time did on Wild Cat Island, with surprising speed. Eventually Mother looked at her wristwatch. "Well, Mr Jackson, it's half past four; time to see if we can row in a straight line. Bridget will be ready for her supper by the time we get to Holly Howe, and if Titty and Roger want to race to the head of the lake and back before dark they'll need to be getting under way quite soon."
Captain Flint heaved himself up. "I'll row some of the way with you, Mrs Walker," he said. As good as it had been to sit here talking, it was time to go now. Plans had been made. They'd be visiting Timothy and Slater Bob at the copper mine when the Callums came, racing the whole length of the lake and back with three boats and probably spending many enjoyable evenings on his old houseboat. For now, though, the six young people should be left to settle back into their camp and their lives together. Those lives were limited by school and - soon - careers, and their holidays were precious to them. As much as he enjoyed their company he had to leave them to their own.
When the last goodbyes had been said and the two rowing boats were beyond hailing distance, the Swallows and Amazons got back to the business of island life.
For the Mates, this meant organising supper; their cooking abilities had advanced far beyond buttered eggs and pemmican sandwiches, and they were planning a hotpot of diced lamb, onions, carrots and potatoes. Susan had brought a large tin of Bisto gravy powder with her and thought she might as well try it out straight away. Of course the fresh meat wouldn't be good past tomorrow and pemmican would be back on the menu, but it could also be diced and thrown in the pot with vegetables. There would be fish as well, perch fresh from the lake, and Nancy had talked about snaring rabbits in the woods above Beckfoot. If Dick and Dorothea could cook a rabbit it was pretty certain that Susan and Peggy could, too.
The two Able Seamen, of course, were eager to start their race. Although they'd both handled Swallow often enough, under the careful supervision of John and Susan, this was the first time they would be let loose on the lake alone. Perhaps that this was so was unfair, John mused. After all Roger was as old as he'd been himself when he's skippered Swallow that first summer, and the fact was he'd had far less sailing experience then than Roger had now. Well, Mother hadn't seemed too worried so he supposed he shouldn't be either. How Susan would feel might be a different story, of course, but even she would have to respect how well Titty and Roger had handled that hellish night on the Goblin as the gale blew them out to sea.
Titty was nervous. Not about the race, of course - it was the taking part that mattered, not the winning, and anyway she was sure she could beat Roger - but about the choice of boat. She was the only one of the Swallows who'd ever been alone in Amazon, but even so she couldn't imagine not racing in Swallow.
Both the Captains understood that, of course. As the four of them walked to the harbour Nancy asked, "So, Roger, are you alright with Amazon's centreboard?"
"Of course I am!" Roger said indignantly. "It's not hard, is it? Down for tacking and reaching, up for more speed with the wind astern. And remember, I skippered Scarab last year."
"Alright, Roger," she laughed. "You know when to use the centreboard. I'll just show you how Amazon's tackle works, then. It's not difficult, pretty much the same as Scarab's."
Ten minutes later the two Able Seamen, having sculled their ships out of the harbour, were hoisting their sails out on the lake. As agreed, John and Nancy stood on the rocks on the very southern tip of Wild Cat Island, waiting for the two dinghies to begin sailing, circle round and approach the start line, which they had decided would be the line between themselves and the southern end of Cormorant Island. Titty had Swallow's sail up first, and brought her round along the shore of the island. Roger, delayed by an unexpected hitch with Amazon's centreboard tackle, made up time with a good tight turn and cruised, bow level with his sister's, towards the line. The wind had changed direction an hour ago and now blew from the south, and both little ships, sheets let well out, already had bones in their teeth as they ran back up towards the harbour.
John, Susan's whistle in his mouth, watched them come. He saw Roger cast off the centreboard tackle, ready to lift the iron blade and let Amazon run. Titty had hitched a rope to Swallow's tiller, and now held on to it as she hurried forward and tightened the halyard slightly. The three long vertical wrinkles in Swallow's sail smoothed out and she picked up a bit of speed. Roger, glancing between the islands, raised Amazon's centreboard a quarter of the way and matched her. The two ships ran on towards the line.
There were perhaps ten seconds to go now. John looked at Nancy and asked, "So, within a half length, do you think?" That was the standard they'd all agreed on: if either ship was more than half a length - seven feet - in front as they crossed the line, John would blow three blasts on the whistle and they'd have to circle round and start again. As the race would cover a distance of close to eleven miles - more like fifteen, really, as they'd be tacking all the way down from the North Pole to the southern tip of the lake - both skippers felt that half a length was a reasonable margin of error at the start line.
"John, Swallow's maybe a yard ahead and Roger's closing it nicely. You've trained your ABs rather well, haven't you?"
John smiled at her. "You've helped, Nancy. Anyway, here we go…" He fixed his gaze on Cormorant Island and watched as the ships ran towards the line. Yes, there they came and Amazon's bow was forward of Swallow's mast. Less than two feet in it, he guessed as he blew a single long blast to signal that the race was on; perhaps they were trained well enough. Anyway. He turned to Nancy and said, "Well, they're off. How much shall Swallow win by?"
She smiled. "She might just win, you know. Amazon can beat her every time at tacking because she can sail closer to the wind, and that's going to help Roger on the southern leg. She's also better at a straight run, like they're doing now, although there's not much in it there. It's not just the ship that matters, though. I think Roger's the better sailor now, but Titty cares more. She won't be sailing to beat Roger; she'll be sailing to help Swallow win."
John nodded. He'd often thought himself that of all the Swallows, Titty was the only one who loved the little dinghy as much as he did himself. His first command, and the one he'd always remember. "You might be right, Nancy," he said. "Caring about it matters." He looked away across the lake for a moment, then asked, "So, back to the camp?"
She laughed. "Oh no," she said, "Susan and Peggy are busy with some dreadful discussion about cooking, and you know they'd just ask us to peel potatoes for them. Let's stay in the harbour and skylark for a bit. It's always been a special place for me."