RESCUED
As the _Wanderer_ came nearer to the blinking signal of distress, it
seemed more and more certain that it was approaching some light-buoy and
not a boat at all. When at last, however, the beams of the ship’s lights
reached the spot, Florence smiled in spite of herself, for the vessel in
distress was none other than the speedboat, that, having robbed them of
their passengers, had so joyously left the harbor hours before.
“Well, look at that!” Dave exploded, as he signaled for slow speed ahead.
“Oh, it’s you! It’s the _Wanderer_!” a shrill voice screamed.
“That’s the little lady who was going to be _so_ thrilled,” Florence
remarked.
“She doesn’t seem thrilled now,” said Dave.
“Probably chilled instead,” the girl shuddered.
And chilled it was. “Just think!” one woman exclaimed, as she climbed
stiffly on board. “The motor’s dead. Probably it’s going to storm. The
cold night. We—”
“And not a blanket, nor bite to eat,” added another. “It was perfectly
frightful.”
“Climb right up and come into the cabin,” Florence invited cheerily.
“I’ve got a roaring fire and gallons of coffee!”
“Coffee! Hot coffee! Man! Oh, man!” exclaimed the leader of the party.
“Take us to it!”
“It was my batteries,” grumbled the stout speedboat man, as he crowded
into the cabin after them.
“Started out with bum batteries. That’s b-a-d.” It was Chips who spoke.
“But I got some that belong to pumps,” he volunteered. “I’ll lend ’em to
you.”
“Not for taking us on to Isle Royale,” exclaimed the leader of the party.
“We’re through! No more speedboats for us. We stay right here. What do
you say?”
The shouts of approval which rose at this suggestion warmed Florence’s
heart.
“What’s more,” the leader fairly bristled, “that money we paid you for
the trip!” he shouted at the speedboat man. “Shell out, or we’ll sue you
for damages. That money goes to this young skipper and her crew.” He
turned to Florence.
“I’m not the skipper,” she protested.
“It’s all the same. What do you say?” he turned on the speedboat man.
“All right!” The man held out a roll of bills.
“Here you are, sister.” After adding one bill, the leader transferred the
roll to Florence. “A bit extra for doughnuts and coffee and—and as a
penalty for our insulting a real boat.” At this they all laughed.
An hour later the _Wanderer_ was once more rolling on her way, and
Florence was preparing for ten more winks of sleep. Before her eyes
closed, however, her mind ran dreamily to the mysterious Chips and the
more mysterious gray-haired man and the girl they had rescued from
Greenstone Ridge.
Dawn found the _Wanderer_ and its passengers at the island. Once they
arrived, they were not long in discovering that the man, Chips, had not
been over-advertised. Born and bred in the north woods, a natural
director of men, he inspired confidence and hope everywhere.
Scarcely had he left the boat when he asked, “Where’s your map? Now where
are the fires? There are hundreds of men on the island. Where are they?
That’s good! This is bad. Where are the patrol boats? Where’s the
_Iroquois_? Move these men. Put pumps there. We’ll make a stand across
here: Lake Ritchie, Chickenbone Lake, and McCargo’s Cove. That line must
hold. This end of the island must be saved at all cost. See?”
Everyone did see at once; and little by little order was being restored.
“You’ve saved us,” a bearded cottager gripped Florence’s hand. “You young
people of the _Wanderer_ did it. You brought us Chips. You’ve stood by.
We’ll not forget.”
Warmed by this speech and glowing with hope, Florence turned to Dave and
exclaimed, “We’ll win now. I know it!”
“Win what?” Dave grinned good-naturedly.
“We’ll save the island.”
“Oh, that. I always knew we would.” Dave laughed.
And yet, would they? After one long, sober thought, Florence was not so
sure. There were rumors of a third fire, started several miles from the
first two, near Tompsonite Bay, on the farther end of the island.
“Are these fires truly being set?” the girl asked herself. “And if they
are, why?” For the moment she found no answer.
After unloading a few groceries at Rock Harbor, they went pop-popping
round Schoville’s Point to Tobin’s Harbor Landing, then round to Belle
Isle at the north side of the island. Everywhere there was talk of fire,
but to Florence’s growing astonishment she caught no word suggesting that
the fires might have been set. At last, she all but dismissed the thought
from her mind. But not for long.
Isle Royale is forty miles long. The east end broken up into points is
like the fingers on a man’s hand. Blake’s Point, which forms the long
middle finger, extends far out into Lake Superior. It is here that sturdy
fishermen mumble a prayer on nights of storm and fog, for the roar of
breaking waves is like the roar of the sea, and great gray walls seem to
reach out hands to drag them in.
Once, so we are told, a freighter, carried away by a terrible storm,
crushed head on against this wall, and sank. She was loaded with canned
salmon. For a long time after that the fishermen caught canned salmon in
their nets.
On this day as the _Wanderer_ rounded this point there was no storm. A
lazy breeze pushed a thin, gray haze before it. A seagull soared high. A
wild duck swimming before their boat, eyed them for a moment, then rose
to go flapping away. Off to the left, perhaps a mile, some objects, a
little grayer than the haze, appeared to glide back and forth across the
water.
“What is it?” Jeanne asked in surprise.
“The Phantom Fisherman,” Florence said with a low laugh. “He is always
there when there is a fog. When you come near him, he fades away into
deeper fog.”
“How strange!” said Jeanne, charmed with this note of mystery.
“Probably trolling for lake trout,” said the practical Dave. “There’s a
reef out there they call ‘Five Foot’ because it comes within five feet of
the surface.”
“The Phantom Fisherman,” Jeanne repeated dreamily.
And so, gliding along between narrow rocky islands, they came once more
to Tobin’s Landing. Here they meant to spend the night, and perhaps all
the next day. There was a suggestion of storm in the air. A storm from
the southwest meant fanned flames and added peril to all. Their great
command at this moment appeared to be, “Stand by to serve!”
At Tobin’s harbor all was peace. In this snug little bay the wind had
gone to rest. As evening came, the water was like glass. Here spruce and
balsam, growing down to the very water’s edge, cast dark green shadows,
and there, like fairy maidens in filmy dresses, white birches appeared to
bend over and look down into the water’s clear depths.
When the gong sounded for the evening meal, savory odors greeted the crew
of the _Wanderer_. Katie’s pasties were all that the heart might desire.
The crust melted in one’s mouth and the meat was done to a turn. When it
came to her saffron buns, opinion was divided. Jeanne, ever fond of new
experiences, pronounced their strange flavor “delicious!” Florence ate
them in brave silence, while Dave turned his attention to “good old army
bread.”
“Anyway,” Florence said in a low tone, “Katie is a dear, and she’ll be a
great help.”
“Yes,” Dave agreed. “And if we’re ever one man short, she can pinch-hit
for the best of us.”
As darkness began to fall, weary from the night’s adventure and the day’s
toil, Florence sought her berth. But Jeanne, who, like the crickets and
katydids, always sang best at night, went on the dock in search of some
new and interesting adventure.
She found it in the form of a man with a mass of tangled gray hair and
very bright eyes, who sat on the dock, staring dreamily at the moon.
“One doesn’t see the fire tonight,” he said as he rose, and bowing
politely, offered her a seat beside him.
“It’s there all the same,” Jeanne said, as she dropped into a chair.
“Of what do you speak?” asked the old man.
“The fire,” said Jeanne. “It’s like some big, red-faced giant, hiding
behind the hills. Bye and bye it will pop up all of a sudden and roar at
us.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said the man, with a chuckle, “but then, why worry
about tomorrow? When you are my age you’ll know there may be no
tomorrow!”
“No tomorrow?” Jeanne tried to think what that might be like and failed.
“Tell me,” she exclaimed, as if to break the spell, “This is a land of
primeval forests. It should be one of ghosts, fairies, elves, just any
little people. Are there no legends about it?”
“Yes, one,” said the old man.
“Tell me,” said Jeanne.
“Have you seen Monument Rock?” the old man asked.
“No.”
“You must.”
“Good. I shall,” said Jeanne.
“The legend is about Monument Rock,” said the old man. “It is just over
yonder. If it were daytime I might point it out to you—the rock, I mean.
“You see,” he settled back in his place, “before the white man came, no
one lived on the island, that is, hardly anyone.
“Indians came in their great canoes to hunt and to crack away rocks and
gather great copper nuggets which they beat into spear points and
arrowheads. But when the dark whispering trees cast their shadows on the
bay they seemed to hear voices saying: ‘This is no fit place for man to
live. This is the home of all island gods.’ And always they hurried to
their canoes and went paddling away. That is,” his voice seemed to trail
off, “almost always.” From somewhere far away a faint echo murmured
“Almost always.”
For a time they sat there, the aged man and the blonde-haired girl, lost
in meditation, contemplating the beauty of the night.
“Ah,” the old man breathed at last. “It is magnificent, all this. God
made it glorious and man has done little to mar it.
“Once,” his voice grew mellow, “a few years back, when there were more
people here and there were joyous young people with us, we held a night
party on the little island, just over there.
“Those young people sang beneath the stars.” His voice was low—“They sang
as no one had sung before, sang to life, beauty and joy, to God, who is
all these.
“And then,” he heaved a deep sigh, “we made a great bonfire. The wood was
dry. There was not a breath of air. The flames rose straight
up—up—up—till they reached the stars. We were in touch with Heaven.”
“And then?” Jeanne breathed.
“As the flames touched the stars, someone in a boat coming down the bay
started music. What kind? I do not recall. Someone was playing Kreisler’s
‘Old Refrain.’ Ah,” he breathed, “it was the final touch.
“Late that night,” his voice dropped, “I threw myself on my cot and said,
‘Why should I live longer? This is life’s great moment!’
“And yet,” his voice rose again, “there is more of life—much more. And
the way leads up, always upward toward the stars.
“It is late. I must be going.” Springing to his feet, the old man
vanished into the night.
“What a strangely glorious old man!” Jeanne mused, as Dave came up. “And,
oh!” she cried, “he was going to tell me the legend of Monument Rock!”
“He is Doctor Emery,” said Dave. “They call him ‘Dean of the Island.’
Perhaps he will tell you that story tomorrow.”
“Perhaps,” Jeanne answered.
“And yet,” she thought to herself, “it could not be half so charming as
it would have been, told here beneath the stars!”
As Jeanne crept softly to her berth in Florence’s stateroom, Plumdum gave
a low “yip—yip.” He was silenced at once, but Florence, wakened from her
dreams, did not fall asleep for some time.
As she listened to the sounds of the night, the low tweet-tweet of the
night bird, the swish-swish of a moose swimming the bay and the distant
howl of a bush wolf, her mind was crowded with thoughts that for the
moment seemed not connected at all.
There were the gray-haired old man and his granddaughter whom they had
rescued from Greenstone Ridge. Who was he? And would they meet again?
There was the big man whose speedboat had failed. Would he try again?
Would their license be renewed, or would this man put an end to their
work as passenger carriers? And the fires? Were they under control? Dared
she hope this? She dared not hope. Why had the voice in the night said
these fires had been set?
“Why would they?” she whispered. “How could they?”
Suddenly, as if in answer to her whisper, a voice broke the silence of
the night. “Ya. Dese fires dey iss bein’ set. Dey iss—no doubt about dat.
But who is setting dem? Dat’s de question.”
“The same voice,” Florence almost said aloud. Springing from her berth
barefooted, in pajamas, she dashed out onto the deck to send the gleam of
her flashlight far and wide.
“There is no one on the water,” she whispered. Shuddering, she crept back
beneath the blankets.
A moment later she heard footsteps on deck. At first she thought it must
be the mysterious man. As she listened, however, she recognized Dave’s
substantial tread.
“Florence,” he spoke through the latticed window, “we’ve been going it
rather strong of late. Guess we’ll take a half-day off. If you and Jeanne
have anything to do, you might go at it in the morning. We won’t leave
here before noon.”
“Good!” she exclaimed, “we’ll go on some sort of a hike. I’m aching for a
chance to stretch my legs. They get all cramped up here on deck.”