BATTLE OVER THE WAVES
There were hours of rest for the Red Rover and his staunch little
companion, a lulling of the wild storm that for many hours had lashed the
rocky shores of Isle Royale. Then came darkness and with it a swift
resolve to risk all on a night of pure adventure.
A hearty handshake with the guide who had stood by them so staunchly, and
they were away.
Slowly the tiny craft crept out upon the black waters of night. They had
dressed for the occasion, this girl and boy. He wore a suit of khaki
borrowed from the scout, she a boy’s shirt found in one of the cabins,
and the patched knickers. Dressed so, and riding in their dark green
boat, only with difficulty would they be seen upon the dark waters.
There were reasons for this precaution, the scout had assured them.
Having guessed their plan, the kidnapers might even now be lurking in the
shadow of some cove, ready to pounce upon them. For this Red was not
unprepared. One of the “shootin’ irons” hung at his belt.
Keeping close to shore, they passed great jagged piles of rock that
loomed large in the night. They crossed “Nebraska Bay,” skirted more
rocks, then, following the scout’s advice, cut boldly away toward the
rocky shoals which, because of the darkness, could not be seen.
“Listen!” The boy rested on his oars. There came no sound save the sound
of heavy swells breaking lazily over distant rocks.
“There’ll be some roll out there,” he murmured.
Then over the waters there moved a breath of air that, beginning with a
whisper, ended with a sigh as it passed on into the night.
“How weird it seems out here!”
“Spooky!”
To break the spell, they took up the oars.
And now, as on that other occasion, they dropped into the steady rhythmic
swing that would carry them far and tire them not at all.
They did not sing, nor whistle, nor even hum. That would not be safe. For
all that, their spirits blended as one as they swept along to the dreamy
swing of “Blue Danube,” “Indian Love Song” and “Where the River Shannon
Flows.”
In the steel mill and on the gridiron the young football star had known
team work, but never such as this. Forgotten were the perils that lurked
in the night; forgotten the danger of darkness and possible storm. For
the moment here was life, life as he had never before known it. What else
could matter?
So, with the moon just showing over the rocky crest of Isle Royale, they
swept across the narrow channel, then took up a course that in time would
lead them out into the wide open sea.
The girl too had caught the spell of the night. As they stole into the
shadow of a great rock towering up from the depths, she shuddered, but
rowed steadily on.
“A real little brick!” Red thought to himself. “Nothing soft.”
He resolved that, should they make it, she certainly must be on the side
lines in that greatest of all games that was to come.
The rocks they passed grew lower and lower. The shoal was breaking up
here. Soon they would leave it all behind. And then, with only that
winking, blinking light to guide them, they would face the swells and go
gliding over them to—. Red’s thoughts broke off.
“Listen!”
Had he heard something, the low groan of an oarlock, the mumble of a
voice? Who could say? It did not come again.
Swinging the boat about, he headed it straight for the Passage Island
light that, gleaming a good four miles away, seemed to send them an
encouraging wink.
With a rush of glee a great swell seized them and lifted them lightly.
But, like some good-natured giant, it let them down gently to go on their
way with a whispering swish of foam.
And now, forgetting their songs, they put their shoulders to the task
before them. Meeting the swells at an angle to avoid the dash of chilling
waters, they rose on the crest of a high one to drop into the trough,
then swept across a half score of low crests, to be again lifted on high.
“Listen!”
This time it was the girl whose instinct told her to rest on her oars.
Once again there passed over the waters that whisper that ended in a
sigh.
“It is as if voices of the Unseen were trying to tell us something,
perhaps to warn us.” Her voice was low. “Do you believe in the Unseen?”
“I—I don’t know.” It was weird, this whisper in the night.
Once again they took up their oars. Not long had they to wait ere they
saw that which was creeping upon them in the night. The moon had long
been under a cloud. Now it sent its beams across every sweeping swell.
And upon one of these swells rode a boat.
“A rowboat,” Red grumbled low. “A boat and two men. Now it is life or
death. They are armed. They will not hesitate to shoot.”
Realizing the truth of his words, the girl thrilled to the very center of
her being.
There was need for no explaining. The scout had been right; these men had
been watching. They had, perhaps, watched from the wrong point. This had
given the boy and girl a start. But now here they were, some hundreds of
yards behind, two men against a boy and a girl, and half the distance yet
to go.
“Now!” The boy’s hiss answered the hiss of a wave that rolled by. “Now we
must show them!”
They did show them. They rowed with unity of motion and with all the
force God had given them; rowed until even in the chill of night their
faces ran with perspiration and their arms became bars of aching fire.
And yet, it was not enough. Those others were rowing with the desperation
of those who hear the clanging of a prison gate behind them. Beyond a
doubt they knew prison life. Theirs was the frenzy of those whose souls
are stirred to the depths by great fear. They knew fear. This was their
only emotion. Love, pity, compassion, these they did not know. So they
worked with the frenzy of despair.
And they gained now a boat’s length, now another, another and yet
another. Each wave crest that lifted them high found them closer to their
prey.
They would have won but for one man’s over-reaching hate and the hosts of
“Invisible Ones” that the girl believed peopled the heavens.
Of a sudden, weary with rowing, overcome by his burning hate, the man
nearest the prow threw down his oars. The next instant a shot rang out
and a bullet sang across the waters.
“Lie down in the boat!” was Red’s command to Berley.
The girl hesitated, but obeyed.
On the crest of the wave the boy bent low. Once again a bullet sang close
at hand.
In the trough he rowed desperately. Swinging his boat half about, he
avoided, as long as he could, rising on the next crest. When at last he
did rise, he dropped flat beside his companion.
Just in time. A bullet crashing into the boat passed over them.
“Two can play at that.”
Red crept forward, placed his “shootin’ iron” across the stern, waited
his time, then loosed a roar like the burst of a cannon.
The answer came singing over—too high.
Then, as if provoked by the unfairness of the battle, the “Unseen” took a
hand. Sudden darkness settled upon the water. A cloud as black as ink
came sweeping in from the north. A voice from the air, not a whisper, but
a roar, told them that one of those sudden storms that sweep across Lake
Superior in November was at hand.
The girl was up and in her place on the instant.
“And now may God have mercy on our souls!” she murmured, as Red seized
his oars and they began to row.
Who can describe the fury of such a storm, the rushing of wind, waves
mounting higher and higher, foam hissing to the right and left of you,
darkness all about you, even the gleam of the light from Passage Island
lost for long, desperate moments?
And yet you battle as never before. Heading your boat squarely into the
teeth of the storm, you rise and fall, rise and fall like a cork in the
center of the Atlantic. You battle. You pray. You hope until hope seems
vain.
And then, just as all seems over, the storm passes with one long,
whispering sigh.
As the moon came out and the rush of wind passed, the boy and girl looked
upon a world of steel-blue waves flecked with foam. And on those waves
some distance away there rode a boat. It was a white boat with an
orange-colored bottom. A great deal of orange was showing; very little
white. The boat was upside down.
Once again, as they looked, Red said hoarsely: “Listen!”
As before, there came the long whisper that ended with a sigh.
But even as they rested on their oars there came to their listening ears
a louder sound, the drumming of an airplane’s motor.
“They are coming!” Red took up his oars. “Passage Island is just over
there. It can’t be far now.”