COINCIDENCE
Whistler kept cool in his mind. As far as his body went, that was icy.
He knew that, after all, he was personally in less danger than those who
had been thrown far from the boat. He could hear nothing of what went on
outside; the rolling and plunging of the overturned yawl continued.
Where had Torry gone? And the ensign, and the other members of the
yawl's crew? Once Whistler had spent a long time in the sea, drifting
about on a hatchcover; having been saved from that perilous adventure,
he was not likely easily to give up hope now.
There was air enough under the overturned yawl, and he knew her
water-tight compartments would keep her afloat indefinitely. But there
might be work for him to do outside.
He might help the other members of the shipwrecked crew. Therefore he
filled his lungs with air and dived under the side of the yawl.
Just as he came out into the open sea he collided with another person
coming down. They seized each others' hands and rose to the surface.
It was Torry! When they popped up and expelled the air from their lungs
and blinked the water from their eyes, each boy instantly recognized the
other.
"Crickey!" coughed Torrance. "I thought we'd lost you."
"Are you all right?" demanded Morgan.
"Just as all right as a fellow can be when he--he can't walk ashore,"
chattered Torry.
"Here's the yawl!" cried Whistler. "Where's Mr. MacMasters? And Rosy and
Slim? And the others?"
But when his eyes were well cleared of the water he beheld the entire
crew of the yawl, including Ensign MacMasters, perched along the yawl's
keel like a string of very much bedrabbled crows on a rail fence.
Strangely enough the gale seemed to have lulled for the time. Having
done its worst to them, it gave the unfortunate castaways a breathing
spell.
With the aid of their mates, Whistler Morgan and Torry were able to
reach the keel of the overturned boat. There they perched, too, and,
chattering in the cold wind, tried to look about them.
Where was the raft? This question, first and foremost in Whistler's
mind, troubled him intensely. It was impossible to see far across the
tossing sea; but he was sure that the life raft was nowhere within the
range of their vision.
"Poor Frenchy and Ikey!" groaned Whistler.
"That raft can't sink," urged Torry in his ear.
"But they could easily be torn off it by the waves."
"Don't look at it in that way. They may be better off than we are,"
returned his chum.
"What's that yonder?" shouted Slim suddenly.
"Land!" Mr. MacMasters cried.
"And a lot of good that'll do us," growled Slim. "We'll be dumped
ashore, maybe, like a ton of trap-rock."
The sodden boat was drifting steadily toward the island. The surf
thundered against its ramparts most threateningly. But the outlook did
not seem so serious as that upon the other island they had passed.
Ensign MacMasters, after some fishing, secured the loose end of the
broken hawser. With the help of those nearest to him he hauled this out
of the water. Then, by his advice, they all lashed themselves to the
long rope with their belts or neckerchiefs.
"No matter what happens, we want to hang together," he declared. "No one
man can fight this sea alone."
His cheerfulness and optimism raised their spirits. At least they hung
on to their insecure refuge with much ardor, and not uncheerfully waited
to be cast upon the strand.
A great swell suddenly caught the yawl and drove it shoreward. Mr.
MacMasters uttered a warning shout and waved his hand in a gesture of
command. They all cast loose from the keel, and the boat was carried
high upon the breast of the breaker.
Still fastened together by the rope, the castaways were tumbled over and
over in the surf. The yawl was east upon the strand with dreadful force
and if they had continued to cling to it their chances of being
seriously injured would have been great indeed.
Lightly the men and boys lashed to the rope were tossed by the
surf--rolling over and over, but still clinging to each other and to the
hawser. Mr. MacMasters at one end and Whistler Morgan at the other
managed to obtain a footing on the sand despite the undertow.
They threw themselves upon the beach and clung "tooth and toenail" when
the breaker receded. Slim was completely exhausted; but before another
comber rolled in those who were strong managed to drag the weaker ones
out of the reach of the undertow.
There was only a fitful light on sea and shore. The castaways lay in a
panting group, looking at each other dripping with brine, and very
miserable.
"Begorra!" exclaimed Irish Jemmy at last, "I broke me poipe. Lend me a
cigareet, will you, Rosy?"
Rosy gravely reached into his blouse and brought forth a little package
filled with tobacco pulp.
"You're welcome, Jemmy," he said gravely. "Help yourself."
"Begorra!" growled the Irishman, "ye might have kept thim dry."
"That's a good word!" exclaimed Mr. MacMasters, briskly, struggling to
rise. "We all need to get dry. I have matches in a bottle in my pocket,
and the bottle didn't get broken. Come on and find some dry wood. We'll
have a fire. We may have to camp out here till morning."
"Oh, Mr. MacMasters!" urged Whistler, who was loosening himself likewise
from the rope. "Let us look for the fellows who were on the raft first."
"Shout for them," advised the ensign. "But don't worry if they do not
answer at once. This is a big piece of land, this island."
Whistler and Torry shouted loudly; but after fifteen minutes they were
hoarse, and the wind seemed to blow their voices back into their teeth.
"Save your breath to cool your porridge," advised Jemmy. "You're wastin'
it. If ye shout from now till doomsday ye won't bring them back if
they're drowned. And if they are all right we'll find them safe and
sound."
That was sensible; but it did not make Phil and Al any the less anxious
regarding Frenchy and Ikey. The younger lads had always been in their
care, and the situation looked serious.
Whistler and Torry knew they were expected to help gather wood, and so
they gave up shouting and followed Rosy and the others toward the
forest. The whole island, as far as they had seen, was forest-covered.
There had been a heavy fall of rain that day, and to find dry fuel was
not an easy task. While they were thus engaged the two boys came upon an
opening in the trees. In the dusk it seemed that the opening was the
beginning of a well-tramped path, leading inland.
Whistler called to Mr. MacMasters to show him this sign of human
occupancy of their refuge. Before the ensign arrived at the spot Torry
made a second discovery.
"Look who's here!" called the boy in a low voice. "Here's a Man Friday,
sure enough!"
There was a light approaching through the forest path. It was a torch,
and before long the wavering brand revealed a strange figure--no Man
Friday but, as Whistler whispered, a Woman Friday!
She was a peculiar looking being, indeed, dressed in a single loose
flowing garment, which covered her from neck to ankles. She was
barefooted and bareheaded, her iron-gray hair tossed about her
weather-beaten face in wild elflocks.
Her eyes were as brilliant as coals. Either she was not right in her
mind or she assumed that manner. At first she merely glowered at the two
boys and the Navy officer, and said nothing in reply to the latter's
queries.
Her hands and fingers were gnarled from hard work. She looked as tough
as bale wire, to quote Torry.
When she finally spoke her voice was as deep and coarse as a man's. She
said:
"You-uns was blowed up in yon channel. And you lost your boat, ain't
you?"
"Crickey!" gasped Torry to Whistler. "She's a German--a German with a
southern accent! What do you know about that?"
Meanwhile Mr. MacMasters was interrogating her to some purpose.
"Have you seen others of our party?" he asked. "There were fourteen men
and boys on a raft."
"Ain't seen no stranger befo' to-day, but you-uns," she declared. Her
eyes seemed as lidless as a snake's. They did not blink at all.
"Then how did you know that our steamer was blown up?" the ensign
queried.
"Old Mag knows a heap other folks don't know," croaked the woman.
The rest of the party came up and heard this statement. Jemmy gave her
one look and crossed his fingers.
"She's a witch, and the banshees do her bidding," he whispered hoarsely.
"Well," said Mr. MacMasters, much puzzled, "is there any place where we
can get dry--and get some food?"
"I'll take you all to my cabin," she said. "That's what I come for."
She turned around abruptly and strode back along the path. There seemed
nothing for the castaways to do but to follow her. But they certainly
did discuss the queer woman in whispers while they kept on her trail.
"She's a witch sure enough," repeated Jemmy. "Sure you kin see that easy
from the cut of her jib. The ensign had better have no doin's with her.
Maybe she'll charm the whole of us with her evil eye."
The island was half a mile or more across. It was almost dark by the
time the party of castaways with their strange leader came out upon the
other shore.
Here the sound between the islands and the mainland was
mist-enshrouded, and it was evident that a nasty night had shut down.
Whistler and Torry were terribly anxious about their friends who had
been on the life raft.
However, they could not start off alone to hunt for Michael Donahue and
Ikey Rosenmeyer. They were just as much under Mr. MacMasters' orders
ashore as they were at sea.
They had confidence in the ensign's judgment, too. They believed he
would make a search for the rest of their party just as soon as it was
practicable.
The cabin to which the woman led them was a large log hut of only one
room, but with a number of bunks, built in two tiers, along the walls.
At one end was an open hearth and chimney and arrangements for cooking.
A long table and some rough-hewn benches were in the middle of the open
space.
It was more like a barracks than a home; and from the ancient and fishy
smell about the place, the party from the battleship was sure that it
had not long since housed fishermen and their nets.
Mr. MacMasters and most of the others turned in at once for a nap; but
Whistler Morgan was much too anxious to sleep. The old woman who called
herself "Mag" went to work at once to prepare a meal, and the boy
offered to help her.
He peeled the vegetables and cut corn from the cob for a sort of
Brunswick stew which she prepared. Mag put into it a rabbit, a pair of
squirrels and a guinea fowl, the neck of which she wrung and then
skinned and cleaned in a most skilful manner.
While she was thus engaged she talked to Whistler. The boy noted, as his
chum had, that she arranged her spoken sentences much as Germans do who
are not well drilled in English. Yet she had the southern drawl and
accent.
"I know whar yo' boys come from," she advanced almost at once. "Yo' are
from the _Kennebunk_ battleship--and she's a fur ways from here."
"You have seen the rest of our crowd, then!" cried Whistler earnestly,
"haven't you, Missus?"
"No, no!" the old hag said, wagging her head. "Old Mag sees strange
sights and knows more'n most folks. Oh, yes! Your little steamboat was
blowed up by a big bomb in yon channel."
"It was blown up by a Hun mine," declared Whistler bitterly.
The old woman's eyes flashed at him threateningly. "What yo' mean by
'Hun'? Them that put that bomb there is just as good as yo' folks.
I ain't got no use fo' Yankees yet."
"You don't call yourself a Southerner, do you?" asked the boy curiously.
"What am I then?"
"You're German. At least, your folks were," Whistler declared with
conviction.
The woman scowled at him and said nothing more. When Whistler had
finished helping her he moved his chair back from the fireplace, for the
heat from the live coals was intense. He saw a scrap of torn paper upon
the earth floor, near his foot.
His suspicions had been aroused now and he covered the paper with his
foot until he could get a chance to pick it up without the old woman
observing him. Having secured it he moved still farther back to the
table. There was a smoky hanging-lamp over the board which gave him
light enough to see by. Secretly he examined the torn paper.
It seemed to be part of a letter, and was closely written on both sides
of the scrap. On one side was the beginning of the missive, and after a
minute Whistler realized that it was written in German script.
At the head of the letter was a line that not alone amazed, but startled
the boy. Coincidence often has a long arm, and in this case the adage
proved true. The letter was addressed to
"_Herr Franz Linder._"