THE ISLAND OF THE RUBY SANDS
Next morning the schooner was rolling easily on a long swell. Through
the open hatchway the sun streamed down into the hold where Harlan lay,
and as he awoke, the appetizing fragrance of boiling coffee drifted in
to him from the cabin in the stern. Above the calls and the sound of
feet on deck came a thin wild chorus which he had learned to associate
with the island nesting grounds of thousands of sea-birds.
Hastily slipping into his clothes he climbed to the deck and looked
about him. The _Hoonah_ was riding at anchor--ninety miles out at sea!
The morning air of sea-swept spaces filled his lungs with freshness.
On three sides the sun-silvered green of the ocean fairly sang to the
eye as it rolled away to meet the far blue of the horizon. Half a mile
off the starboard bow, edged by lines of breaking surf, sand-dunes
topped with green merged gradually southward, into strange jade-green
hills, low and soft as brushed velvet in the distance. To the North
the dunes tapered to a long, narrow shoal over which, as far as the eye
could reach, swells of clearest emerald broke into a splendor of flying
spray.
Above this sand-spit thousands of gulls flashed, skirling and
screeching in the sunlight, their weird, thin calls mingling with the
diapason of the surf that boomed against the beach and the hundred
reefs of Kon Klayu. Overhead a constant stream of gulls and
sea-parrots plied between their fishing grounds and the south end of
the island where they had their young.
"By Jove, it's a regular little island paradise?" Harlan called to
Kayak Bill. "How comes it that everyone is afraid of such an inviting
looking spot?"
Kayak, who was picking his way forward to where Boreland was already
busy with the outfit, paused and leaned a moment against the main-mast.
His eyes with one slow glance took in land and sea.
"Wall, son, I reckon she's somethin' like a pussy-cat. She's a-smilin'
and a-purrin' in the sun today, but I'm thinkin' when it blows up a
sou'easter, with nothin' in God's world a-tween here and Honolulu to
stop the sweep o' it, she shows every one o' her reefs like a cat
barrin' her claws."
Kayak Bill looked about him once more before striking a match to light
his pipe. Then drawling something about the "ox-wee-nee-chal" gales,
he passed on to the bow of the schooner, leaving Harlan smiling.
Silvertip and his mate were kneeling in the stern, both busy with the
pully-blocks that held the steering cable of the _Hoonah_. Their low
tones did not carry beyond a few feet. Silvertip slanted uneasy
glances in the direction of the foaming shoals that ran far out into
the sea. His helper, evidently disagreeing with him on some point
shook his head. Harlan caught something about fog and getting off the
course in the night.
At last the man burst out:
"By yingo, I tank we are on wrong side of----"
"Shut up, you tarn squarehead," snapped Silvertip, with a glance in
Harlan's direction.
The man made a gesture as if he washed his hands of the whole affair,
then raised his head to look about him. A dark streak far toward the
southern horizon indicated a breeze from that direction.
"I guess we haf a beam wind home," he announced.
"Yas, tank God," assented Silvertip, with a last look at the rudder
cable. "Ant as kwicker ve leaf dis de'th trap, as better for me. She
blow up gale har in turty minutes. Ven Ay vas cook on _Soofie
Suderlant_----"
"Breakfast is ready, men!" interrupted Ellen's clear voice from the
cabin hatchway.
The Swedes came to their feet and after a moment of whispered
conversation, joined the others in the cabin. Half an hour later, when
Boreland and Silvertip came on deck again, the breeze had freshened
slightly and the sailor looked about him in a restless and worried
manner, his glance finally lingering on the sand-spit.
"Borelant, Ay tank ve lant you har right avay kwick. Ay tank she blow
by an' by like hal."
Shane, glancing at the clear sky and the sun-kissed waves, laughed.
"Nonsense, Silver! The island's got you buffaloed, just as it has all
the sailors in this section. . . . But it's up to you. I'm ready to
go ashore any time you say. The sooner you land me and show me our
cabin, the better I'll like it."
The whale-boat at the stern of the schooner was drawn alongside, and
another which had been carried on the forward deck was lowered.
The first one loaded, Kayak Bill and the two Swedes climbed down into
it and shoved off from the side. Boreland and Harlan, loading the
second one, stopped in their work to watch them.
Tossing up and down on the long, green swells, the moving boat drew
nearer and nearer to the foaming lines of surf. Presently they were in
the welter of white. Once when the little craft went completely out of
sight behind a monster swell, Loll, watching from the cabin top,
shouted in alarm, but yelled again in delight as it rose high on the
same billow.
Silvertip and his mate bent to the long oars. In the stern Kayak Bill,
hatless and wind-blown, steered wisely over the rollers which
threatened to break on them any moment.
In profane admiration Boreland watched. "It's the ninth wave," he
shouted presently. "Kayak'll take her in on that one. . . . By
thunder!" he broke out as the boat rushed toward the shore in a smother
of foam, and landed well up on the beach, "if that old cuss could rope
a steer as well as he can land a boat in a surf, I wonder that they
ever let him out of Texas!"
The work of landing the outfit went steadily on and with each trip to
the beach Silvertip urged more haste. Tides, currents, quick-rising
fogs and gales, and the extreme danger of the anchorage--these were the
burden of his conversation. Since he was the only one in the party who
had been on Kon Klayu before they were obliged to accept his reasons
without argument.
Despite haste, however, it was late afternoon when the last boat-load
went ashore. Turning from his contemplation of it, Gregg Harlan looked
down ruefully at the water-blisters that decorated the palms of his
slim hands. He was spending the most arduous day of his life. He was
tired. Every muscle in his body ached from the heavy work of handling
the outfit and in his mind was a weariness slightly tinged with
bitterness.
It was not until he saw Ellen and Jean in the departing whale-boat that
he realized how much he had counted on the few hours of their
companionship aboard the _Hoonah_. With Loll he was on friendly,
almost brotherly terms, because of his sincere appreciation of Kobuk
and the boy's new pigeon. But as for anything else--he smiled now a
little bitterly as he recalled Ellen's polite but wary treatment of
him, and the seemingly casual way in which she managed to prevent any
interchange of thought between himself and her young sister. He
fancied Jean felt this also and resented it, for several times during
the day, across the confusion of the deck, her eyes had sought his and
in the meeting there was a warming sense of intimacy.
But she was gone now. He would never see her again. He had handed
down her violin as she reached up from the tossing whale-boat to
receive it. He remembered her firm, boyish hand-clasp as she said
good-bye to him. Was there regret in her eyes at the separation, or
had he imagined it?
Gregg leaned wearily against the cabin looking toward the shore.
Everything seemed to have gone wrong for him today. He had intended
going in with the last load for an hour's stay on the Island, but
Silvertip, fearing that the wind might grow stronger, had insisted on
his remaining behind to watch the schooner.
Through the glasses he could see Loll and Kobuk racing up and down the
beach now. Jean and her sister sat, somewhat forlornly, he thought, on
part of the outfit piled up on the sand. The men had gathered about
the whale-boat which was to be left on the Island, and were drawing it
up higher on the shingle.
It would be an hour or more before the Swedes returned to the _Hoonah_.
Gregg looked out across the rolling, endless ocean. Although the sun
was yet shining brightly there was a feeling of evening coming on. The
cries of the gulls seemed to have taken on a tone of infinite sadness.
All at once, for some inexplicable reason, he was overwhelmed by a
sense of the futility of life--of living. No quest seemed worth
pursuing. No dream worth dreaming. He had often felt this way during
the past three months, and when he did--he drank. He longed, with
sudden intensity, for a bottle of Kayak's clear, white brew. Alcohol
was the magic brush that transformed the monotone of life into shades
of wondrous hue.
His dejection was deepened by the fact that ever since leaving Katleean
he had been trying vainly to recall that thing he should remember.
While he strained and sweated over the loading of the outfit, his mind
had been busy seeking, searching, trying to pierce the curtain of
oblivion that separated him from that subliminal self who knew the
thing he wanted. He felt as though he were being tantalized. It was
almost the same feeling he remembered having in boyish dreams that came
during examination time, when the answers to dream questions flashed in
his mind for a moment then diabolically faded before he got them down
on paper.
After a while his unseeing eyes left the water. He gingerly felt the
blisters on his hands and shook his head with a half-contemptuous,
half-humorous smile at himself. Then restlessly he began to pace the
deck. If only he had something stinging--something stimulating to
drink! But the White Chief had seen to it that there was nothing
intoxicating aboard the _Hoonah_. It would be eighteen hours at least
before he could hope to be in Katleean where Kayak Bill had left a
generous supply of hootch stowed away in the top bunk of his cabin. In
the top bunk----
He stopped short. From some remote corner of his brain there had come
to him one of those inexplicable flashes of memory that revealed,
unbidden, the thing he had struggled so hard to remember! In a moment
he was back in Silvertip's top bunk the night of the Potlatch dance.
The voice of the White Chief came back arguing, commanding,
threatening. The whine of Silvertip protested, and finally assented.
As a realization of what this conversation portended dawned on Gregg,
his blistered hands clenched. Curs! Cowards! to lend themselves to
such a work of deception! . . . The aroused young man tossed back his
wind-ruffled hair and squared his shoulders. He must reach Boreland
immediately; must tell him what he knew before the Swedes left the
beach of Kon Klayu.
He sprang to the starboard side of the schooner and trained the glasses
on the shore. The men were gathered about the whale-boat talking. He
could see Silvertip's hand emphasizing some statement as he pointed to
the hills. Gregg knew that once the Swede left the beach, he would
never return to it. He had landed his party and his work was done.
Desperately Harlan longed for some kind of craft in which he might
reach the shore before the sailors left it. There was none. For a
moment he considered waiting until they came aboard. But could he,
single handed, force them to return for the Borelands? . . . No, the
outcome of such a course was too uncertain. Something must be done at
once.
There was only one other way in which he could get word to the
adventurers. His eye measured the heaving, foam-streaked distance
between him and the beach. Could he make it? A year ago in the
States, before drink had gotten such a hold on him, that half mile
would have meant nothing to him--but now . . . Temperature, unknown
currents, undertows must be reckoned with here. Again, shaking him
with its intensity, returned the intolerable craving for a drink.
His eyes once more swept the long line of breakers. If he would warn
the Borelands he must do it at once! He must make that half mile
before Silvertip left the beach. . . . He would do it!
Even as he decided he had torn open the front of his shirt. Swiftly he
stripped to his underwear and the next instant had dived over the side
of the schooner.
He came sputtering to the surface. Contrary to expectations the water
was much warmer than that at Katleean. With a feeling of relief he
struck out for the beach.
He had not gone thirty yards when he became aware that a strong current
was carrying him toward the south end of the Island. Desperately he
put every ounce of his strength into his shoreward strokes. The
buffeting of the running chop sea began to tire him. He was becoming
winded. He was losing his sense of direction. After ten minutes he
realized, with alarm, that he could never make a landing, near
Boreland's outfit. . . . Five minutes more and he knew he would be
lucky if he made any landing at all. . . . The current was sweeping
him on toward the cliffs at the south end of Kon Klayu where black
reefs bared their fangs in a welter of foam. Even in the smother of
the chop he was aware of the increased roaring of the breakers.
He made one mighty, but ineffectual effort to reach the shore, then
with a feeling of baffled despair he turned his back on the breaking
surf and began to fight his way, inch by inch, back to the safety of
the _Hoonah_.