NIGHT SIGNALS
Three days later the _Wanderer_ was at Houghton on the mainland. Events
had moved rapidly. A strong gale had driven the fire on the now flaming
island beyond the control of the small band of camp workers who had
volunteered anew to fight it. Rapidly formed plans for a battle on a
large scale had already been laid. The _Iroquois_ had been taken off the
run to the island. It was to carry fire fighters and their supplies to
hastily constructed camps on Isle Royale shores.
“That gives us a break,” Florence, a born optimist, exclaimed.
“It would,” Dave said, “if anyone wanted to go to the island, but this
fire will scare them away. Besides—” he hesitated.
“Besides what?” Florence demanded.
“Nothing much,” Dave looked away, “only, do you remember that big man who
was angry because we went into Siskowit?”
“Yes, what—”
“I met him on the street today. He said, ‘I hear you’ve only a sixty-day
temporary permit.’ I said, ‘They’ll renew it,’ and he said, ‘Oh, yeah?
That’s what you think!’”
“And now you don’t think you’ll get it?” Florence asked soberly.
“I don’t know what to think,” Dave replied. “One thing’s sure, if they
don’t renew it, we’re sunk.”
The moment they arrived at Houghton, Florence wrote her grandfather.
“We’ve been betrayed. We’ve been led into an unwise investment, and it
was your money. Even in good times there are few passengers to the
island. Now there is a fire, and no one will come. I can’t tell you how
sorry I am. There isn’t a chance that we shall more than break even. Of
course, with this threat of fire there is opportunity for service. And
how it will be appreciated!”
Continuing, she wrote of the kindly fisher-folk whose cabins nestled
among the trees, and of the old time cottagers who made the island their
summer home.
“If we stand by to help them off the island in case disaster threatens,
it will be, I think, a great service. But will it pay? What shall we
do? It’s your boat. You must decide.”
The answer came by return mail. “Stand by to serve,” her grandfather
wrote.
“An opportunity to serve where service is appreciated is a gift of God.
“Just now something is happening to you and, if I read your letter
correctly, you are taking it just as it should be taken. And that is
all that matters. Might I add that life need never be a bitter
struggle. It may always be a glorious adventure!”
There his letter ended.
Florence read it, her heart swelling, “Good old granddaddy,” she
murmured. “I only hope we may yet find a way out.” She was thinking now
of money.
The very next day, just as darkness was falling, the _Wanderer_ and her
gallant crew found themselves once more in a precarious situation on Isle
Royale. They were at Chippewa Harbor. Here a brave little fishing family
had taken its stand against all sorts of adversity and had won. Their
neat home, their stout little dock, and three tiny tourist cabins showed
all this. Of all the people on the island, the Carlsons of Chippewa
Harbor had interested Florence most. Perhaps this was because, unlike
other fisher-folk of the island, they did not leave when winter’s ice
threatened to close their harbor. Instead, they ordered many sacks of
flour, sugar and potatoes. To these were added hams and slabs of bacon,
cases of milk, fruit and vegetables and all else that might be needed.
Then, with bleak winter winds blowing, they settled down to six months of
isolation. During all that time, boats neither came nor went. They were
there alone. Isle Royale was their home.
Working like beavers, they cut logs for tourist cabins, mended their nets
and made all needed preparations for a successful season.
Besides the fisherman and his wife there were Ve and Vi, as they called
themselves, girls of Florence’s own age, and some younger brothers—a
happy family.
Chippewa Harbor, too, was a spot that had made many a heart beat faster.
A break in the Island’s rocky wall, it stretched back through a narrow
channel to a broader bay, where giant spruce trees towered above massive
palisades. Here, in the still hour of evening, one might rest on his oars
to watch the sun go down over the dark green treetops and dream,
transported to another world.
Ah, yes, Florence was ready to fight for Chippewa Harbor. And at this
moment it was in great need of a champion. For by great misfortune, this
would be the first tiny settlement to be reached by the fire if it came,
and at that moment it was coming fast. They could see it crawling,
leaping, rushing along the ridges. They could hear it snapping and
roaring not two miles away. So sudden had been its advance that no fire
fighters had yet arrived. Only the _Wanderer_, with her one small pump,
was standing by.
The entrance to Chippewa Harbor is narrow and rocky. A storm was roaring
in from the lake. In an hour it might be impossible for the _Wanderer_ to
leave the harbor. Perhaps, too, in that hour, the roaring fire would be
upon the fishing village.
“I think,” said the fisherman, scanning first the fire, then the sky,
“that you better put out into open water.”
“But your home, your cabins, everything you have!” Dave protested. “Our
pump may save them!”
The fisherman shrugged his shoulders, but did not speak. About him was
gathered his family—his wife, Ve and Vi, and three small sons. They, too,
were strangely silent.
“No,” said Dave. “We stay!”
Darkness fell. Only the leaping flames lighted the dark waters of the
harbor. It was a dramatic moment. Even Jeanne, always so full of life and
chatter, was silent. Indeed, during the days that had passed, Jeanne had
seemed a little strange. She took small part in their planning for the
future. It was almost as if she were an honored guest aboard the
_Wanderer_. The time was to come, however, when she and Plumdum would do
their bit. But for the moment, even the curly-haired dog, awed by the
roaring lake waters close by and the glare of the fire some distance
away, was silent.
“Look!” Florence exclaimed in sudden consternation, as she pointed toward
the crest of Greenstone Ridge that, rising a full three hundred feet,
extends from one end of Isle Royale to the other. “Look up there! A fresh
fire is starting!”
“Another fire,” the fisherman murmured hoarsely, “how do they start?”
At once Florence recalled those mysterious words spoken in the
dark—“‘Dese fires dey iss bein’ set.’” Were they?
“It seems to blink,” said Dave. “Strange sort of fire, I’d say. That—why,
that’s not a fire!” he exclaimed excitedly. “At least not a forest fire.
It’s a campfire. Looks like a signal fire as well. Watch! It’s gone. Now
it’s there again. Watch! And now—say! They’re signaling in Morse code.
Wait! Let me see if I can get their message!”
And so with the forest fire not two miles away creeping toward them and
roaring at them, the little group, unable for the moment to do anything
to save themselves or property, stood silent, watching, completely
forgetting their own troubles because of their interest in others who
might be in distress.
As for Florence, she was thinking of that message which had become deeply
impressed upon her mind. The message, as you may recall, had been
concerned with a red-and-black boat, a gray-haired man, and a girl of
sixteen.
This message once more passed through the girl’s mind, “Important! To all
lodgekeepers and captains of ships touching at Isle Royale. Be on the
lookout for a red-and-black boat. Tall, gray-haired man, girl of sixteen
on board. Important! Be on the lookout!”
“Is this their campfire up on that rocky ridge?” she asked herself.
“Yes.” It was Dave who spoke. “They must be in trouble. Their message is
just one word, ‘Help!’”
“But what could have happened?” demanded Vi Carlson, one of the daughters
of the fisherman. “All they’ve got to do is come down the ridge.”
“Yes, but if one of them were sick or injured,” Florence’s brow wrinkled.
“And see!” she cried in fresh alarm. “There _is_ a tongue of flame
farther down the ridge. There is a second fire after all. If no one goes
to help them they may be trapped.”
“We might go, you and I,” Dave suggested. “I’ll get a square of canvas.
Might need it to make a stretcher. Then we’ll be off.” He hurried away.
“There’s a trail to Lake Ritchie and a moose path up the ridge,” Ve
Carlson, the other daughter of the fisherman volunteered. “I—I’ll show
you the way. You’d never find the way by yourselves. Come on,” Ve was
off.
For a time, guided by the gleam of a flashlight, they marched along in
silence. Once a moose sprang from the trail to go crashing through the
brush. “A thousand moose on the island,” Florence thought. “They may all
be destroyed by the fire.”
“Isle Royale has always been my home,” Vi broke the silence at last.
“Always, winter and summer?” Florence asked.
“Two winters we went to the mainland. Since then, fish have been cheap.
Times have been hard. We couldn’t afford to go. They sent us a teacher,
so we stayed here. We’ve graduated from high school,” Vi laughed low, “my
sister and I, in a log cabin school.
“We go up here,” she said at last. “The moose trail is terrible, but
we—we’ll make it.”
And they did. With the beacon campfire as their guide, they climbed until
at last, with a cry of victory, they burst in upon the astonished and
overjoyed campers.
“A red-and-black boat, a gray-haired man and a sixteen-year-old girl,”
Florence quoted, scarcely realizing what she was saying.
“You’ve got our number,” laughed a tall, thin, gray-haired man. “But how
did you know all this?”
“They’ve been broadcasting about you for days,” said Florence.
“See, Grandfather!” the strange girl exclaimed. “I told you they’d find
us.”
“Yes, and for once I’m glad to be found.” The man laughed low. “This is
growing a bit thick—a fire to the right of us, one to the left of us, and
I not able to walk a step. Badly sprained ankle,” he explained.
“You see,” he went on, “Beth and I decided to make a secret visit to this
beautiful island.”
“Grandfather’s always so busy,” the girl put in. “So we just ran away.”
“Today was the first time we knew of the fire,” said the gray-haired man.
“Been on the other side of the island. When we saw it we got all excited,
and I took the wrong kind of step. So here we are. Looks dangerous to me.
Think we’d better get going?”
“No-o,” Dave looked away to the southwest. “It’s going to storm. Getting
down’s going to be slow. The fire won’t get here for three hours at
best.”
“So we’d better weather the storm in the little tent I carried on my back
for just this purpose.” The old man smiled.
“That’s it,” Dave agreed.
“You may have been wondering,” the gray-haired man said, after the tent
had been set up and they were comfortably seated inside, “why Beth didn’t
go for help, when she found I could not walk properly. Truth is, she
refused to go.” He chuckled.
“Why should I?” the girl demanded, “The fire was coming our way. There
was no one on our side of the island. We had been alone there. I did see
a light down on your side but knew nothing about you people. Besides,
these trails are terrible.”
“Mostly no trails,” Florence agreed.
“I might have been lost in some swamp. The fire might have come while I
was gone,” the girl shuddered. “So, I stayed. At long last, I might have
been able to help him down.”
“Brave girl,” the old man placed a hand on her shoulder.
The changing scenes that passed before the eyes of the small group on
Greenstone Ridge during the next hour would never be forgotten. Below
them, seeming so near that they could reach out and touch them, were the
lights of the _Wanderer_ and the fisherman’s cabin shining through the
darkness. At a greater distance, brilliant and menacing against the
blackness of evergreen forests and water, was the fire. Creeping slowly,
flaring up here, dying down there, but ever moving forward, it threatened
in time to destroy Chippewa Harbor’s little world. Back of all this,
rolling in across the waters, was a storm. Now faint flashes of light
were seen. Low rumbles were heard.
“If only it would rain hard!” Florence wished.
But what was this? Across the waters, slowly moving lights approached
Chippewa.
“Hurray!” Dave shouted, as he read their meaning. “It’s a ship. It must
be Captain Frey and his boys! Reinforcements!” Fresh hope shone in his
eyes.
Scarcely had the lights of the newly-arrived ship blended with those of
the _Wanderer_ than there came a vivid flash, a roar of thunder, and
large, cold raindrops began to fall.
“It’s the end,” breathed Florence, “the end of our battle with the fire.”
“No,” said the gray-haired man, wiser in these things than the girl knew,
“it is not the end, only a truce. The battle will be renewed.”
How right he was the girl was soon to know. The rain did not last long.
It made little impression on the blazing spruce trees. The wind changed,
however, driving the fire back, and for the time being, Chippewa Harbor
was safe.
Two hours later, after a hard but successful struggle to bring the
crippled man back to civilization, Florence climbed wearily into her bunk
for a few snatches of sleep.