Safe on the _Mirabelle_, Chris, exhausted and increasingly conscious
of the pain of the whiplash, took his own shape with sighs of
thankfulness and looked about him. A wind was rising, rocking the
interlocked ships, and he could plainly see that the crew of the
_Mirabelle_ had done enormous damage to the _Vulture_ and its
attacking men. Cannon shots from the opening sally, and at such close
range, had broken two of its three masts, and the decks of the
_Vulture_ were a clutter and tangle of lines, sails and splintered
spars. The fact that the men of the _Mirabelle_ were in better
physical shape than the pirates stood them in good stead, for their
agility and strength had carried them through the battle even against
the wilier and more murderous knowledge of Claggett Chew's men. The
pirates, Chris could see, were turning back, and those who still
fought were one and all wounded or grazed, and losing ground with
every passing moment.
[Illustration]
Chris had been so terrified and panicstricken by his own personal
danger and fight for life that it took him a few minutes to catch his
breath and grasp the situation from where he stood on the Captain's
bridge. Wondering if he still had the strength to force a leak in the
_Vulture's_ hull, as he had begun to do, he felt in the leather pouch
at his neck for the knife. At the bottom of the pouch his fingernails
hit a gritty substance, and into his head came an echo of Mr. Wicker's
words: "Remember the leather pouch!"
Taking out the knife, the folded balloon, and the map of where the
Jewel Tree had been, Chris, leaning against the side of the
_Mirabelle_, shook out the grainy stuff into the palm of one hand.
It looked like ground-up lava. Gray-black, almost a powder, it had a
faintly sulphurous smell. As he turned it speculatively in his hand,
wondering how he was supposed to use it, a few grains sifted between
Chris's fingers and fell over the side into the sea.
Instantly, as soon as they touched the water, several infinitesimal
flames started up, burning on the waves as hardily as if they had
fallen onto dry grass, and their heat produced a sturdy mist which
rose in heavy spirals from every grain.
Then Chris knew what it was for. Shaking every particle carefully back
into the bag, he hurried to find Captain Blizzard.
"Sir!" he cried as soon as he was within earshot, "the pirates are
bested, and we can make a safe escape if you will give an order to set
loose the grappling irons and lines and bid our men raise sail!" He
looked eagerly at Captain Blizzard. "The pirates look pretty tired
now, but the _Vulture_ might pursue us if I didn't know a way to stop
her!"
The Captain looked thoughtfully at Chris and hesitated not at all.
Too much had already depended on the boy and had been faithfully
carried out for even Captain Blizzard to doubt of his ability. Orders
were quickly given to cast off from the pirate ship and Chris
disappeared to a hidden corner. There he hid everything the leather
bag had contained excepting the grainy powder. Next, taking the bag
from around his neck and leaving the mouth of it wide open, he changed
his shape to that of a sea gull.
Taking the pouch in its beak the gull soared high above the two
vessels, now drifting imperceptibly apart. Sounds of violent fighting
could still be heard inside Claggett Chew's cabin, but the pirate crew
seemed grateful enough to fall to the bloody decks to rest and care
for their wounds. As the two ships finally stood clear of one another,
a resounding cheer of victory rose from the courageous members of the
_Mirabelle_. Their shirts ripped into hasty bandages, their bodies
glistening with sweat and rusty with their own or their foes' blood,
they were a bedraggled sight. Nevertheless, as they raised their arms
or flung their caps into the air, flinging after the pirates a few
last resounding epithets. Chris's heart swelled with emotion at the
men he was proud to call his friends.
As the gull, he swung up into the air away from the _Mirabelle_, and
began shaking the dust from the open pouch on the sea around the
_Vulture_. By the time the bag was empty, a mist impossible for any
helmsman to see through had surrounded the battered ship from stem to
stern, and in despite of a freshening wind, was rising steadily to the
top of its one remaining mast.
Chris returned to his own ship, and in his own shape at last, surveyed
the dwindling island of mist that clung persistently around the
Vulture, blow though the wind might, and turn and turn again though
the helmsman might try to do. How long, Chris wondered, would the mist
hold? Or would the _Vulture_ be doomed to drift at the mercy of the
sea in its magic white shroud?
He gave it a long look, a diminishing irregular white shape on the
vast spread of the ocean, then turned quickly and went to the decks
below to help his wounded friends. Yet not before he had seen that the
prow of the _Mirabelle_ was turned triumphantly home!