A WEIRD RESTING PLACE
Rain came sweeping down upon the sea. This flattened out the waves but
added greatly to their misery. The wind raced on. Riding with it they
moved forward into the great dark unknown.
Just when Florence was ready to give up hope her keen ears caught again
the sound of waves rushing over rocks.
“One more shore!” she exclaimed. “Is there another island?”
“No other island,” Katie’s voice was solemn, “only rocks.”
“Yes,” Florence thought as a fresh chill ran up her spine, “there are
rocks.”
She remembered it now. She had seen them rising above the water. One was
called Gull Rock. Sportsmen went there to fish. Were they approaching
Gull Rock? And if they were? She found little comfort in such thoughts.
The waves were still running high.
Forcing her mind away from the immediate terror, she thought of Dave and
Jeanne, of Mike and Tony and the mysterious boy in the crimson sweater
hiding away in the forests. Did he truly set the fires? If he did what
was his motive? No one had seen him even close enough to know how he
looked. Would Mike and Tony catch him? Would—
Of a sudden a dull, grating tremor passed through the staunch little
boat.
“Wha-what happened,” she gasped. They had reached the crest of a wave.
Now their boat was gliding backward. The darkness was intense. Peer as
she might, she could see nothing save the dim outline of Katie’s body.
“It’s the rock,” Katie’s voice was deathly calm. “That wave was not high.
The next will be higher. We will be carried onto the rocks. We must jump.
It is our chance.”
She did not say, “Our only chance.” Florence knew it all the same. At
that moment she was thankful for slacks and sneaks. They would improve
her chance.
“Katie!” she cried, “The rock! Is it high?”
“Who knows? We must jump. Now—” Katie caught a long breath. “Now we are
going up. Now—” There came a shuddering grind much more terrible than the
first. “Now jump! And run—run away from the sea.”
Gripping the gunwale, Florence vaulted over the side, struck a slippery
rock, all but fell, then, regaining her footing dashed with the energy of
despair up the slanting rock.
Had not the stout Katie gripped her arm just in time, she must have
dashed quite across the rock and have fallen down the steep side into the
boiling water below.
As for Katie, there was no chance of over-valuing her wisdom at such a
time.
“Come!” she cried, once her companion had regained a little of her
composure, “That great wave left our boat on the rock. There will be
three small ones, then perhaps a greater one. We must save our boat if we
can. You on one side, I on the other, we must slide it higher.”
Left to herself, Florence would not have taken one step toward those
racing waters, but inspired by her companion’s splendid courage, she
retraced her steps, seized the boat and, with energy born of despair, did
her full share of lifting the boat to a higher position.
“Now!” Katie panted. “Now! Now! And now!”
As she heaved away Florence counted the waves. “One, two, three.” Would
the fourth be larger?
“Yes! Yes!” she cried, as its dark, shadowy bulk appeared to rise above
her. “It—it—is a terrible one.”
“Run!” Katie cried once again.
Florence needed no urging. This time, however, she measured her distance
with great care.
With anxious eyes they stared into the darkness. Had they done enough?
Had their precious boat been saved, or would it go floating away, never
to be seen again? Florence had visions of herself perched on a barren
rock through a night of cold and darkness.
“Hurray! We win!” Katie exclaimed. “The boat is still there!”
It was true. The wave had reached out, but not far enough. They were in
possession of a shelter from the storm and a means of leaving when the
storm had passed. Florence breathed a deep sigh of relief.
“Come,” said Katie, “we must lift it higher.”
“Oh!” Florence exclaimed, as, starting forward, she stumbled over some
solid object and fell flat.
“Are—are you hurt?” Katie bent over her.
“No. I—I fell over something, Katie! It’s a driftwood log! We can use it
for a roller. That makes it easy.”
So it did, in more ways than one. Having rolled the boat forward on the
log, they fumbled in the prow of the boat for a fire-fighter’s hatchet
they knew was there. They hacked at the log until there were dry chips
aplenty.
Then Katie said, “We’ll tip over the boat. We’ll use part of the log to
prop it up. This makes a house.” There was a note of pure joy in her
voice. “I have matches in the pocket of my boot. They are always there.
We shall have such a fine fire.”
Such a fine fire as it was, too. To Florence, whose teeth would not cease
chattering, it seemed the jolliest fire in the world.
The north shore of Isle Royale is strewn with smooth, eight-foot pulpwood
logs that have escaped from booms in Canada and, drifting across, have
lodged on those shores. From the crevices of their rock Katie and
Florence managed to gather nine of these dry logs. Soon four were blazing
brightly.
Hidden from the wind by their over-turned boat, warmed by the fire, the
girls managed to struggle from their soaked outer garments and prop them
on sticks before the fire.
For a full hour they lay there before the blazing logs. Soaking in the
cheering heat and dreaming, half asleep, they all but forgot that this
spot was far from their snug floating home, the _Wanderer_, and Isle
Royale with all its problems.
When Florence at last sat up to stretch herself and stir up the fire, she
exclaimed, “Katie, I’m hungry. Seems to me I remember something about a
meal we were to eat on the rocks after the fishing was done.”
“Not these rocks.” Katie laughed a deep, happy laugh. “But these will
do.”
They had planned a supper of planked fish on the rocks off Edward’s
Island. Snugly stowed away in the prow of the boat was a closed tin
bucket containing sandwiches, a small pie and salt for the fish.
With some difficulty, Katie managed to prepare a plank from a flat
section of log.
“Now,” she said, “the fish.”
“The big one?” Florence asked.
“No. Never!” Katie was horrified. “That prize! No. We shall go home
tomorrow and we shall say, ‘See, we have been fishing and we caught this
one. Such a whopper!’” Once again she laughed her deep, mellow laugh.
“No,” she added, “one of the little ones will do very well. A two-pound
fish. Who could ask for more?”
The fish was cleaned, boned and laid out flat on the plank. Then, with a
wire, Katie bound it fast. For a full half hour after that the fish hung
stewing and sizzling over the fire. Turning browner and browner, it was
at last like the rich gold of an autumn leaf.
“Now,” said Katie with a sigh, “it is done.”
In her short life Florence had eaten many grand meals and in many a
curious place. But none was as grand as this and no place more strange.
“Now,” she sighed when it was over, “we must sleep, for tomorrow will be
another day.”
Sleep they did. Rolled up in their dried out garments, crowded close
together before the great, glowing bed of coals, they slept the sleep of
forgetfulness.
Twice during the night Florence was conscious of Katie’s movements as she
replenished the fire, and that was all.