For Ray, the few minutes just prior to the take-off had been a terrific
strain. He was satisfied that the Silver Bird would lift her burden, but
he knew there was almost no margin. A score of disastrous possibilities
existed—a puff of wind at the wrong second, too healthy a pull at the
joy-stick, oh, anything might happen.
Thus, when he felt her finally pull herself steadily up, up, up, he
wanted to shout with pleasure. He turned a grinning face to his
companion and she smiled back reassuringly. They were off!
The buoyancy thus bred endured for perhaps a half hour. And, as can be
understood, was followed by something very like depression. For, before
them stretched hours upon end, monotonous and empty.
Aside from the unremitting vigilance, the constant watch over a dozen
instruments, now and then a slight movement of the hand or foot, there
was nothing to be done. If that throbbing motor kept on working properly
as it was now, they would touch earth in Warsaw; if not, well—
Underneath, Long Island slipped away; gave place to flat, gray water.
The next land they would sight, barring a glimpse of Cape Cod, would be
Newfoundland. Then the grim expanse of ocean—the ocean that had claimed
so many of their predecessors.
Ray thought that Mrs. Benham must be getting more of a thrill out of the
undertaking than he was. The first woman—
Ray expected to handle the controls virtually all the way and had braced
himself against the long, sleepless hours. There was plenty of black
coffee in the thermos bottle at his hand and the very excitement of the
trip would do its part.
During the period of preparation he had taught Mrs. Benham the rudiments
of flying and she could take over the controls for brief spaces when he
should feel the need of relief. She it was who looked after the radio
and several times during the morning hours she had been in communication
with land stations as well as two incoming liners. The call of the plane
was SBDK.
In the waning afternoon they sighted Harbor Grace, Newfoundland, and
Mrs. Benham picked up a greeting from the wireless station there. She
replied:
Thanks for good wishes. All well and ship behaving perfectly.
SBDK.
Out over the sea roared the Silver Bird, out into the unknown that had
swallowed without trace flyers quite as intrepid and skillful as the two
whose faces were now set to the east.
Ray planned to make straight for the Irish coast, a matter of seventeen
or eighteen hundred miles. They would, if nothing went awry, attain the
British Isles on the morning of the next day. That would give them
daylight to win halfway across the European continent before night
should again overtake them.
The coming of darkness found them well out and doing better than ninety
miles an hour under clear, star-shot skies. As the load of fuel
lightened, they would make even faster time.
Comfortable thought, that. Ray exulted. They would make it! The weather
dope had been right.
Marjorie Benham, listening in constantly, scribbled on a paper and
shoved it over to him:
The Majestic is calling. They picked up our last message. I’ll
shoot them an all’s well if you will give me our position.
Ray did so and the message was sent. And the march of the weary hours
went on.
A fresh sense of unreality enveloped Ray Folsom. Here they were, over a
winter sea, under a winter sky—cleaving the velvet of the night at one
hundred miles an hour.
They were warm, thanks to the efficient exhaust heater; they were
otherwise comfortable albeit a little cramped. There were food and drink
at hand. It was easy—so absurdly easy!
He thought of the woeful prophecies with which the papers had teemed for
a fortnight; grinned over the stupidity of it all. Why, there was
nothing to it except a fairly good motor performance!
And if they were successful, there would be no end of hullabaloo over
what did not amount—so far as actual labor was concerned—to the grinding
of a set of valves!
It was remarkable, Ray thought. A job so utterly easy that it was hard
to remain awake, yet hero stuff awaited at the journey’s end. For that
he was glad on Marjorie Benham’s account. She was a game sport.
He flooded the cabin with light and turned to look at her. She smiled
sleepily and he motioned her to take a nap. But she shook her head and
her lips formed: “I can’t.”
Ray switched off the light and peered once more through the windows of
his little domain. Peaceful, so amazingly peaceful. The motor, almost,
was singing a lullaby.