The sailors did not take long in making good the damage done to the
sail. A new one was bent and then the schooner’s action changed from
a wallowing and rolling in the trough of the waves to a light
skimming over them. The storm, now that the wind and waves appeared
to have satisfied themselves by inflicting all the damage they
could, seemed to die down.
“You had better go below to your own cabin,” said the captain to
Raynor when all had been made snug again. “You will hear no more of
your attempt to get away.”
Without waiting for a rejoinder, he was gone. Raynor turned dazedly
to Noddy.
“I guess I’m in his good books again,” he said.
“Well, why wouldn’t yer be?” said the Bowery boy, “you saved his
life.”
At this juncture there was a shrill yell behind them. It was Pompey.
“By de holy poker, de ghostesses done brung back young Massa Raynor,
jes lak dey does mah puddin’,” he cried, feeling Raynor’s arm to
make sure it was solid flesh and blood.
“Gollyumption,” he exclaimed, “it’s Massa Raynor, all right. Whar
dose ghostesses done tak you-all to? Ah ’specs dey rides yo on a
broomstick an all.”
“I haven’t been with any ghosts,” laughed Raynor.
But Pompey put on a knowing look.
“Yo’ kaint fool dis chile dat ’er way,” he said, “ah knows too much
of der mysteriferiousness of der prognosticatius. Dats de science ob
ghostesses. Yo’ all went to der same place as dat puddin’ done go
when de spooks took it.”
It was no use to try to argue with the old negro. Ever since the
night the boys had tried to escape, Pompey’s naturally superstitious
mind had conceived the idea that the _Polly Ann_ was “hanted.”
Nothing would drive it out of his head.
Terror Carson made no further advances to Raynor. In fact, the next
day he hardly appeared to notice the boy who had saved his life by
his quick wit and action. But Raynor did not worry about that. In
fact, the less attention he received from the seal poacher, the
better pleased he was.
The next day they found themselves enveloped in floes of ice. The
wind blew hard and cold too. Suddenly, while they were crunching
through the floating floes, the look-out gave a loud hail.
“Land ho!”
The shout was echoed by a score of voices. It brought a thrill to
Raynor, who ran to the galley door. Across the ice floes he could
make out a rough, low-lying, rocky island. The waves dashed against
some low cliffs in clouds of white spray. A few sea birds hovered,
wheeling and screaming, above it.
Terror Carson hurried forward. He gave the island one glance and
then said: “That’s Skull Island. There used to be good sealing
there. But that’s all done away with now. The beasts have gone to
other places. There’s water there, though. A perennial spring. I’ve
a good mind to land and replenish the kegs.”
“Why is it called Skull Island?” inquired Raynor, feeling, that as
Carson appeared in a good mood, he might venture the question.
“On account of a fight that took place there some years ago,” said
Carson. “Rival sealers battled on the island and the conquerors
stuck up the skulls of their enemies on poles.”
“It is a dismal-looking place,” said Raynor. “Does anybody live
there?”
“No, it is uninhabited. Nothing but a few sea-birds and, once in a
while, some sealer, after water, goes there,” was the rejoinder.
To the right, or western side of the island, there was a sort of
lane or channel through the closely packed ice. It soon appeared
that it was Terror Carson’s intention to guide his craft through
this to a mooring ground. He took the wheel himself, as he usually
did in emergencies. Soon, sharp orders to the sail-handlers came
crackling from his lips in a continuous volley.
“Easy on your main sheet.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Blocks and tackles forward.”
“All clear, sir.”
It was ticklish work, for here and there the gnarled heads of black
rocks showed above the surface of the water. If one had penetrated
the _Polly Ann’s_ hull there would have been an end to her then and
there. But Terror Carson steered her, with an expressionless face
and consummate skill, past every peril. At last they lay off a rocky
cove. The leadsman in the bow sang out that there was plenty of
water.
“Let go the anchor,” bellowed Carson.
The cable roared out, and for the first time in many days, the
_Polly Ann_ lay at rest.
Raynor leaned over the rail, not having anything to do just then,
and watched the island with a strange fascination. Even its sinister
name did not detract from his desire to go ashore and give it a
thorough exploration. In time to come Raynor was to grow to know
that island well and regret the day he ever saw it.