THE BOATS ARE GONE
When Curlie Carson had fastened the mysterious post-shaped affair to the
springs of his berth, he fought his way against wind, waves and darkness
back to the radiophone cabin.
"Anything come in?" he asked as he shook the dampness from his clothing.
"Nothing I could make out," shouted Joe. "Got something all jumbled up
with static once but couldn't make it out." Rising, he took the receiver
from his head and handed it to Curlie. Then, as the craft took a sudden
plunge, he leaped for a seat. Missing it, he went sprawling upon the
floor.
In spite of the seriousness of their dilemma, the girl let forth a
joyous peal of laughter. Joe's antics as he attempted to rise were too
ridiculous for words.
There was tonic for all of them in that laugh. They felt better because
of it.
Some moments after that, save for the wild beat of the storm, there was
silence. Then, clapping the receivers to his ears, Curlie uttered an
exclamation. He was getting something, or at least thought he was. Yes,
now he did get it, a whisper. Faint, indistinct, mingled with static,
yet audible enough, there came the four words:
"Hello there, Curlie! Hello!"
At that moment the currents of electricity playing from cloud to cloud
set up such a rattle and jangle of static that he heard no more.
"It's that girl in my old home town, in that big hotel," he told
himself. "To think that her whisper would carry over all those miles in
such a gale! She's sending on 600. Wonder why?"
"Ah, well," he breathed, when nothing further had come in, "I'll unravel
that mystery in good time, providing we get out of this mess and get
back to that home burg of ours. But now--"
Suddenly he started and stared. There had come a loud bump against the
cabin; then another and another.
"It's the boats!" he shouted. "They've torn loose. Should have known
they would. Should have thought of that. Here!" He handed the receiver
to Joe and once more dashed out into the storm.
The _Kittlewake_ carried two lifeboats. As he struggled toward where
they should have been, some object swinging past him barely missed his
head.
Instantly he dropped to the deck, at the same time gripping at the rail
to save himself from being washed overboard.
"That," he told himself, "was a block swinging from a rope. The boat on
this side is gone. Worse luck for that! We--we might need 'em before
we're through with this."
Slowly he worked his way along the rail toward the stern. Now and again
the waves that washed the deck lifted him up to slam him down again.
"Quit that!" he muttered hoarsely. "Can't you let a fellow alone."
Arrived at last on the other side, he rose to his knees and tried to
peer above him to the place where the second lifeboat should be
swinging. A flash of lightning aided his vision. A groan escaped his
lips.
"Gone!" he muttered. "Should have thought of that! But," he told
himself, "there's still the raft!"
The raft, built of boards and gas-filled tubes, was lashed to the deck
forward. Thither he made his difficult way.
To his great relief, he found the raft still safe. Since it was
thrashing about, he uncoiled a rope closely lashed to the side of a
cabin and with tremendous effort succeeded in making the raft snug.
"There, now, you'll remain with us for a spell," he muttered.
Clinging there for a moment, he appeared to debate some important
question.
"Guess I ought to do it," he told himself at last. "And I'd better do
it now. You never can tell what will happen next and if worst comes to
worst it's our only chance."
Fighting his way back to his cabin, he returned presently with the
post-shaped affair which he had lashed to the springs of his berth.
This he now lashed to the stout slats of wood and crossbars of metal on
the raft. When he had finished it appeared to be part of the raft.
"There, my sweet baby," he murmured, "sleep here, rocked on the cradle
of the deep, until your papa wants you. You're a beautiful and wonderful
child!"
Then, weary, water-soaked, chilled to the bone, stupefied by the wild
beat of the storm, aching in every muscle but not downhearted, he fought
his way back to the radio cabin.
* * * * *
Nature has been kind to man. She has so made him that he is incapable of
feeling all the tragedy and sorrow of a terrible situation at the time
when it bursts upon him. Vincent Ardmore, as he clung to the wrecked
plane, with his companion gone from him forever, did not sense the full
horror of his position. He realized little more than the fact that he
was chilled to the bone, and that the wind and waves were beating upon
him unmercifully.
Then, gradually there stole into his benumbed mind the thought that he
might improve his position. The platform above him still stood clear of
the waves. Could he but loosen the straps which bound him to the
fuselage, could he but climb to that platform, he would at least be free
for a time from the rude beating of the black waters which rolled over
him incessantly.
With the numbed, trembling fingers of one hand he struggled with the
stubborn, water-soaked straps while with the other he clung to the rods
of the rigging. To loosen his grip for an instant, once the straps were
unfastened, meant almost certain death.
After what seemed an eternity of time the last strap gave way and, with
a wild pounding of his heart, he gripped the rods and began to climb.
As he tumbled upon the platform, new hope set the blood racing through
his veins.
"There might yet be a chance," he murmured, almost joyfully; "the storm
is breaking." His eyes wandered to the fleeting clouds. "Dawn's coming,
too. I--I--why, I might send a message. The motor's gone dead, of
course, but there are still storage batteries. If only the insulations
are good. If water has not soaked in anywhere!"
With trembling fingers he tested the batteries. A bright flash of fire
told him they were still alive. Then with infinite care he adjusted the
instruments. At last he tapped a wire and a grating rattle went forth.
"She's still good," he exulted.
Then slowly, distinctly, he talked into the transmitter, talked as he
might had he been surrounded by the cozy comforts of home. He gave his
name, the name of his aircraft; told of his perilous position; gave his
approximate location and asked for aid. Only once his voice broke and
fell to a whisper. That was when he tried to tell of the sad fate of
his companion.
Having come to the end, he adjusted the receiver to his ears and sat
there listening.
Suddenly his face grew tense with expectation. He was getting something,
an answer to his message.
For a full moment he sat there tense, motionless. Then, suddenly,
without warning, a new catastrophe assailed him. A giant wave, leaping
high, came crashing down upon the wreckage of the plane. There followed
a snapping and crashing of braces. When the wave had passed, the
platform to which he clung floated upon the sea. His radiophone
equipment was water-soaked, submerged. His storage batteries had toppled
over to plunge into the sea.
So there he clung, a single individual on a mass of wreckage, helpless
and well-nigh hopeless in the midst of a vast ocean whose waves were
even now subsiding after a terrific storm.