ROBBED BY THE WAVES
ROBBED BY THE WAVES
ROBBED BY THE WAVES
Sandy lay sprawled on one side. His forehead was damp with sweat, but he was already rubbing one ankle gently against the other in an effort to restore circulation.
“Feels as if someone were poking hot needles in my feet,” he said. “But don’t get me wrong,” he added. “I’m not complaining.”
“Are you burned much?” Ken asked.
“Not enough to worry about,” Sandy assured him.
“Well, here goes,” he said a moment later. He drew his right knee up beneath him and, using that knee and his right shoulder and elbow as points of leverage, he shoved himself up to his knees, keeping them wide apart so that he could balance against the roll of the barge. Then he dragged his left foot forward and put it flat on the floor, so that he was resting on one knee and one foot.
He tried pushing against that foot, to bring himself erect, but the ankle gave way as soon as he put any weight on it.
“Ouch!” he muttered, and rested a minute, wriggling his foot to bring the painful muscles back to life.
He tried it twice more. And then suddenly he was on his feet. He had to lean against the table in order to stay upright, but the grime-streaked face beneath the red hair looked grimly jubilant.
“Look at me,” he said. “I’m standing! Never thought it would feel like such an achievement.”
Ken grinned. “No hands, too. Now let’s see if you can walk over to that cupboard and find a knife.”
Unsteadily, and wincing at every step from the pains shooting up his legs, Sandy made it to the cupboard wall. He waited there a moment, until the barge was on a comparatively even keel, and then he clamped his teeth on the knob of the first door and jerked his head back. The door flew open, almost knocking him backward, and a shower of objects came tumbling out, bouncing from Sandy’s chest to the floor.
Sandy looked down at them. “Nothing but food,” he muttered disgustedly. “Flour, peanut butter, noodles....”
“When we’ve got more time,” Ken said, “I’ll remember to laugh at the sight of you complaining at the appearance of food. But right now I’m more interested in the next cupboard. Try again.”
Sandy braced himself as the barge twisted in a corkscrew dive. Then he closed his teeth around the knob of the next cupboard and pulled that one open. A row of cups hanging on hooks swayed violently with the movement of the barge, and small piles of plates and saucers would have flown into the room except for the guard rails that held them in place. Sandy’s glance fell on a flat traylike box on the upper shelf, above the level of his eye.
Ken saw it too. “That’s it!” he said excitedly. “It’s just like the box Mom keeps knives and forks in—in a drawer in the kitchen table. Can you get it down?”
“I’m certainly not going to leave it there,” Sandy told him.
There was one other chair in the cabin, besides the one that Ken was using. Sandy hooked a foot over one rung and dragged it along the floor, hopping painfully on the other foot. When the chair was beneath the cupboard he crawled up onto it, straightened up, and gave a shout of triumph.
“Plenty of knives!”
But the cupboard shelf was too shallow for him to poke his head in and pick one knife up with his teeth. After pondering for a moment Sandy finally clamped his teeth over the edge of the box, turned around, jumped down from the chair and made it to the table just as the box tilted forward. There was a rattle of cutlery on the floor, but there were still several pieces of battered kitchenware inside when the box thudded to the table.
Sandy grinned, massaging his aching jaw muscles against one shoulder. “I feel like a retriever,” he said, bending over to study the contents of his prize.
“Good doggie,” Ken applauded. “What luck?”
“One knife coming up,” Sandy assured him. He turned his back to the box and felt among the contents with his bound hands until he located the object he had noted there.
As soon as Ken could see what Sandy was holding he said, “Great! A paring knife. Now let’s hope it’s sharp. Stick the handle between my teeth and hold your hands in front of me.”
The barge dipped sickeningly and Sandy braced himself against the table to avoid being thrown. Ken leaned back hard against his chair. There was a heavy thud as a wall of water swept over the stern and struck the rear wall of the cabin. The pool in the middle of the room was widening fast.
“Come on,” Ken said. “Hurry up.” He dreaded thinking how long it was going to take him to free Sandy’s hands. The pump had already been out of operation for some time. How much water had the barge taken on already? How much more could it stand?
He closed his mind to the questions as the barge settled, and twisted sideways on the chair so that Sandy could get close to him.
Sandy got into position, back toward Ken, who reached forward and took the handle of the knife between his teeth, blade downward.
“A little closer. Up a couple of inches,” Ken mumbled between clenched jaws. “Good. Hold it.”
He moved his head rhythmically back and forth, drawing the blade of the knife across the tough cord. Sandy held himself rigid, his legs spread for balance against the roll of the deck. The muscles in his arms and shoulders bulged with the effort of holding his hands in place.
Finally one strand parted. But Cal had done his job well. Each loop was independently tied. Ken kept on. His eyes ached under the strain of trying to focus on the rope a scant few inches from his nose.
Another loop parted. And then a third. And then a fourth.
The knife clattered to the floor. Ken sank back, exhausted.
“There’s one more to go,” Ken gasped.
“Wait a minute.” Sandy took a deep breath, bent his head, and hunched his shoulder muscles. He gave one powerful tug. The last rope snapped. His hands were free.
He stood motionless for a moment, panting. Then he began to knead his fingers to get the numbness out of them. As soon as he could pick up the knife—and without bothering to massage the painful welts on his wrists—he went to work on Ken.
A few quick strokes were enough to free Ken’s hands. And then his feet were free too.
“I’ll be tying Cal up while you get enough life back into your feet to be able to stand on them,” Sandy said quickly. “Rub your hands too. We’ve got work to do.”
Sandy turned Cal over on his face on the wet floor, ripped off the man’s belt and used it to tie his hands behind him, as the boys had been tied.
“Here,” Ken said. He had to use both his hands—his fingers were still nerveless—to take a limp dish towel from a nail on the wall and bring it to Sandy. “This will do for his feet.”
Sandy pulled off Cal’s heavy boots and bound his feet together, ripping the towel into strips first to give him the length he needed.
“Your hands O.K.?” he asked when he had finished.
“As good as yours, I guess. Do you know how to start a pump?”
“First give me a hand with Cal,” Sandy said. “We’ll put him up on the bunk before he drowns down here.”
“I doubt if he’d do the same for us,” Ken muttered. But he helped hoist Cal’s heavy body up to the lower bunk Sandy had recently occupied.
“Put on his oilskins,” Ken said then. “There ought to be another suit around here too.”
He found another rubber coat, sou’wester, and boots in one of the still-unopened cupboards while Sandy was getting into Cal’s storm clothes.
Sandy listened intently for a moment before they opened the door. “Wind’s coming from our rear,” he said. “We’ll be in the thick of it out there on the aft deck. So watch out for a big wave—and hang on to something if you see one coming. Ready?”
“Ready.”
They stepped quickly out onto the heaving aft deck and slammed the door shut behind them.
Outside, they found themselves in an angry world. All around them rose huge combers that seemed to be racing toward the barge or away from it with express-train speed. The foam-flecked water reflected the dirty gray of the sky. There was no land in sight, and no other craft. There was nothing but water—steep vicious mountains of it that seemed at every moment in danger of tumbling down upon the wallowing barge.
“Hang on! Here comes one!” The wind ripped Sandy’s shout out of his mouth. He linked one arm through Ken’s as he spoke and threw the other arm around a massive iron bitt bolted to the deck.
A ponderous wall of water was coming toward them from the port quarter. The barge fought to rise with it, her timbers groaning at every joint. But the creaking craft, laden with stone and water, was too heavy to climb to the top.
The wave struck the stern, and the upper several feet of it sluiced straight over the bulwark. It poured over the boys, knocking their feet out from under them.
For long seconds they were submerged. Ken clung to Sandy and the redhead clung to the bitt. Finally the bulk of the deluge poured through the scuppers. Their heads came above water, and then the rest of their bodies. They lay gasping for breath.
Sandy struggled up first. “All right?” he asked, hauling Ken to his feet.
“I think so.” Ken had lost his sou’wester. Water streamed down his face from his soaked hair.
“Watch out for the next one,” Sandy warned, “while I take a look at this engine.”
The pumping machinery was housed in a small flat-topped shed about the size of a large dog kennel. Sandy dropped to his knees in front of it and unhooked the side panel that opened downward on hinges. Ken stood alongside, his eyes scanning the heaving waters that surrounded them.
“Looks dry!” Sandy yelled triumphantly. “I’ll try her.”
He wrapped the starting rope around the pulley of the two-cylinder air-cooled engine and gave it a jerk. The engine turned over, but it didn’t start.
Ken leaned down and put his mouth to Sandy’s ear. “How about gasoline? Got enough?”
Sandy unscrewed the cap of the tank. He poked his hand down as far as he could and shook his head. He had felt nothing but emptiness. Then he looked around the inner wall of the engine house, spotted a measuring stick, and thrust that down into the tank until it touched the bottom.
When he brought it up Ken could see that only the bottom quarter-inch of the stick had touched liquid.
He lifted his eyes from the stick barely in time to shout “Here it comes!” Another massive wall of water was about to crash down upon them.
It was an even bigger wave than the one before. A crushing weight of sea swept over the engine house, to shatter into stinging spray against the rear bulkhead of the cabin. For what seemed endless minutes there was three feet of water piled on the deck, and when it finally drained toward the sides it pulled the boys along with brutal force. They were barely able to prevent themselves from being sucked overboard.
They pulled themselves wearily to their feet again when the worst was over. The water was cold and the air was colder still. Their lips were blue. Their teeth chattered.
Sandy rubbed his hands and blew on the fingers to warm them up.
Ken was looking at the engine house. The side panel had been down when the wave struck.
“Soaked!” Ken shouted, pointing to the engine.
Sandy nodded grim agreement. “Have to dry it. Get blanket—towel—anything.” He jerked his head toward the cabin.
Ken nodded. He took a quick look at the sea around them and then made a dive for the cabin door. He was out again in a moment with a heavy bath towel he had found under the bunk.
Sandy was no longer bent over the engine house. He was trying to open the hasp of a small lean-to built against the cabin wall.
“Gasoline!” he shouted. “I hope.”
Ken nodded and set to work. Within a few minutes he had dried the plugs and the wires of the engine.
Sandy was still struggling with the rusted fastener. When he looked over and saw Ken point to the engine, with a gesture that said “It’s ready,” Sandy stepped back and drove his foot at the door of the lean-to. It cracked down the middle. Sandy struck it again and the hasp flew off. The door sagged open on twisted hinges. Sandy dropped to his knees and peered inside.
When he straightened up again he held a five-gallon can in his hand.
“Sandy!” Ken had time to shout only the single word, and to clamp his fingers around the engine-house doorway. He hadn’t noticed the huge wave approaching until it broke over the bulwark and poured across the deck in a smothering flood.
Ken saw Sandy go down and his big body swept along in the grip of the water. Ken reached for him blindly, his eyes pinned shut by the piercing spray. He felt his fingers clutch a flailing oilskin-clothed arm, and he hung on with all his strength.
The water poured over them for what seemed an endless length of time. Sandy’s weight dragged painfully, threatening to pull Ken’s arm from its socket.
And then again the water receded and they were left on the sloshing deck.
When Ken was able to move he found he had to force his fingers open to free his grip on Sandy’s arm.
“That was close,” he gasped.
Sandy choked and coughed. “Too close.”
Then Ken noticed that Sandy’s hands were empty. The gasoline can he had been carrying was no longer in sight.
“The gas—overboard!” Ken said.
Sandy shook his head, struggling to get to his feet. “Don’t worry. Two more cans in there.”
“In where?”
Sandy’s eyes followed Ken’s and the color drained out of his wet cold-reddened face.
The lean-to had disappeared. Only a few shattered boards marked the spot where it had stood before the wave struck.
THE IRON BOX AGAIN
THE IRON BOX AGAIN
THE IRON BOX AGAIN
Sandy looked at Ken, and then back at the spot where the lean-to had stood. He seemed completely stunned by the catastrophe which had overtaken them.
Ken’s bloodless lips shaped the words. “That was our last chance.”
“We’re not licked yet,” Sandy shouted. “Come on around the other side. I noticed something there—covered by canvas. Maybe it’s a hand pump.”
This time Ken couldn’t respond to the determined hope in Sandy’s voice. But he obediently followed the redhead around the cabin into the windy fury of the cabin’s other side. There Sandy went down on his knees beside a canvas-wrapped mound nestling against the bulkhead.
His fingers tore at the lashings without effect. The ropes were frozen fast.
Ken roused himself out of his despair and exhaustion.
“Knife,” he said briefly, and fought his way around the corner to the cabin door. When he came out he had the paring knife in his hand.
Sandy took it from him and hacked at the icebound ropes until he could rip the canvas off.
“Itisa hand pump!” The wind threw his shout back into his teeth.
Sandy braced himself against the storm’s strength, grabbed the pump handle, and began to move it back and forth.
It seemed a small weapon with which to fight the vast quantities of water that must already have accumulated in the barge, but Ken knew it was all they had. He took up a position opposite Sandy and bent his own back to the task.
Suddenly a stream of dirty water began jetting from the outlet hole to splash on the deck.
“She’s coming!” Sandy yelled. “Faster!”
Back and forth, back and forth, they worked the handle as rapidly as they could. When a big wave raced over the aft bulwark and threatened to drown them, they still hung onto the pump handle, and were working it again the moment the receding water let them breathe.
Back and forth ... back and forth.... Under their heavy oilskins their frozen bodies began to warm up.
Ten minutes went by, and then ten more. They were becoming uncomfortably hot. Sweat mingled with the salt spray on their faces. Their aching muscles cried for rest. But they kept on. Back and forth ... back and forth....
Suddenly Ken knew that the agony of his parched throat was one thing he could no longer bear.
“Water,” he said. “I need water.”
Sandy answered without losing his rhythm. “Go ahead. I’ll get some later.”
The cabin was warm and peaceful and quiet. Ken had to avoid passing near a chair, for fear he would slump down on it and never rise again. He forced himself to hurry, gulping his drink and turning back toward the door the moment he had slaked his burning thirst.
Back at the pump once more, he caught the rhythm quickly. And it wasn’t so bad now, he thought. He must be getting numb.
Back and forth ... back and forth.... Sandy seemed tireless. He even shook his head when Ken motioned toward the cabin, indicating that he could keep the pump going alone if Sandy wanted to go inside for a moment.
Back and forth ... back and forth....
Ken fastened his eyes on the stream of water that was pouring from the outlet. It seemed extremely small compared to the enormous amount of water that must be in the bilge.
“How fast?” he asked Sandy, jerking his head toward the outlet.
Sandy understood his query. “Two quarts a stroke.”
For a moment Ken thought he must be fooling. Only two quarts a stroke! He had already figured that they were pumping at about the rate of one stroke a second. Now he tried to compute the results of their labors. Two quarts a second—thirty gallons a minute.
It wasn’t enough! It couldn’t be! Every time a wave washed over the bulwarks it probably dumped several hundred gallons of water into the hold—more than they could pump out in ten long minutes of back-breaking work. And the waves came far oftener than once in every ten minutes. It was a losing battle.
“What’s the use?” Ken shouted at Sandy, looking down at their steadily moving hands.
Again Sandy understood. “We’re buying time. Can’t keep her afloat forever, but maybe something will happen. Ship might sight us. Or the storm might die down.”
His body sagged slightly. The effort of speech, against the wind and on top of his weariness, had been too much.
Ken tried to smile, and could feel the caking of salt on his cheeks crack when his muscles moved.
“Sure,” he shouted. “Something’s bound to happen. Go inside and rest a minute.”
Sandy looked questioningly at the pump.
“I’ll keep her going,” Ken assured him.
Sandy nodded. Then his figure disappeared around the corner of the cabin.
Ken made himself keep an even pace. His impulse was to drive his muscles with every bit of strength he could muster—to quicken the rate of the strokes. But he knew he couldn’t maintain a faster speed for more than a moment, and that the effort would leave him completely exhausted.
Back and forth ... back and forth.... The rhythm never broke except when a big wave came over the bulwarks and Ken had to put all his energies into hanging onto the handle to prevent himself from being swept off his feet.
Back and forth ... back and forth....
Suddenly he was aware that Sandy had been gone a long time.
Ken felt panic seize him by the throat. If Sandy was lying unconscious in the cabin, too weak to get up—if he had been washed overboard—!
Ken let go the pump handle and turned toward the rear of the cabin.
“Sandy! Sandy!” he called desperately into the wind.
And in that moment Sandy appeared at the corner of the cabin. With him was Cal, looking pale and obviously terror-stricken.
Sandy’s haggard face wore a grim smile. “New recruit!” he shouted. He shoved Cal forward, ordered him with a gesture to seize the pump handle.
Then Sandy leaned close to Ken’s ear. “Go inside for a rest. We’ll take turns working with him.”
Ken was still staring, stupefied. “But—”
“Don’t worry,” Sandy told him. “He knows we’ll go down if he doesn’t lend a hand. He’s scared stiff.”
He looked at Cal, who seemed to be gazing at the pump as if he’d never seen it before.
“Work!” Sandy yelled. “You—”
None of them had noticed the big wave coming.
Ken grabbed for the pump and ducked as the sweeping torrent landed.
But the water shot Cal’s feet out from under him and threw his big helpless body toward the bulwark. Sandy grabbed him just before he went over. When the wave subsided he shoved Cal erect again.
“Now pump!” he yelled. “And hang on the next time a wave comes over!” Then he seized the handle himself and nodded to Ken to take a breather inside.
Ken moved toward the cabin door, still feeling dazed.
Inside, out of the wind and the cold, he dropped onto the lower bunk for a few minutes until his thudding heart slowed to normal again.
He had been startled when he saw Cal come out on deck with Sandy, but now—as he thought it over—he realized that Cal’s strength could be an asset instead of something to dread. Now that he and Sandy both were free of their bonds they could take care of Cal if it became necessary. In the meantime, Cal could give valuable service at the pump, spelling the boys one at a time. Sandy had pointed out that they were buying time. Cal could help them to buy a little more of it.
Ken looked at his watch. It was only half past nine! He felt as if days had gone by since Sandy and he first staggered out onto the deck to try to re-start the pumping engine.
Suddenly he realized that the fire in the stove had died down—that the cabin was not as warm as it had been. He was beginning to shiver as his sweat- and sea-drenched clothes congealed. He struggled up from the bunk, shook the fire, and poured on more coal.
Coffee, he thought—that’s what we need. He found the coffeepot in a corner under the cupboards, filled it, and set it on the stove.
Then he dived back toward the corner again. He had belatedly become aware of an object that he had seen there—a two-burner gasoline stove, apparently for use in the summer when the coal stove would not be kept going.
Ken picked the small compact mechanism up and shook it. Its tank gurgled. There was gasoline inside! Not much—but perhaps a gallon. Hugging the stove to his chest he made his way outside to the pump.
“Gas!” he shouted to Sandy.
Sandy needed no further explanation. His cracked lips split wide in a grin.
“Keep pumping!” he ordered Cal. And then, taking the stove from Ken, he led the way to the engine house.
Carefully, as if they were pouring molten gold, they emptied the liquid from the stove’s gas tank into the tank of the engine. Then Sandy wrapped starting rope around the pulley.
“Here goes!” The engine spun under Sandy’s pull, but it didn’t quite catch. Sandy wrapped the rope around the pulley again. He hunched his shoulders forward and threw his full weight against the line.
The engine coughed—sputtered—spit. It died momentarily, and then it started again. The gears began to move the rocker arm that worked the twin pistons. Water spurted out of the pump’s big outlet pipe!
“She’s going!”
Sandy closed the flap of the engine house. He got it shut just before another wave struck them. They came up gasping when it had subsided. The engine hadn’t faltered.
Ken shouted against Sandy’s ear. “How long will she run on a gallon?”
Sandy shrugged. “Maybe an hour. Better keep the hand pump going too.”
Ken nodded. Somehow he felt the worst was over. They were going to survive after all, now that the big pump was in operation. And suddenly a lot of questions—questions he’d had no time to consider in his fear for their lives—began to push their way forward from the back of his mind.
“Will Cal keep pumping if we leave him a minute longer?” he asked.
Sandy looked puzzled but he nodded. “I think so. He’s afraid we’re going down.”
“Then come inside a minute.” He took Sandy’s arm and pulled him toward the cabin.
“What’s the idea?” Sandy asked, when they had closed the door. “We can’t let him go it alone too long. He’ll tire and slow down.”
“This barge is a part of the counterfeiting organization,” Ken said. “What do they use it for?” He jerked open the two cupboards they had not yet explored.
“Are you crazy?” Sandy demanded. “With luck we may keep this thing afloat for a couple of hours—or less—if we pump our fool heads off. Why’d you bring me inside here to listen to riddles?”
Ken was tossing clothes and various oddments out into the middle of the floor. He answered without ceasing his search. “Barges are handy for getting rid of bodies. We know that’s why we were brought aboard. They’re good for any illegal job that has to be done privately. Why wouldn’t they be a good place for printing counterfeit money?”
“Here?” Sandy’s jaw dropped. “Where are you expecting to find the printing press? In the coffeepot?”
Ken, peering under the bunks, muttered, “Nothing but a couple of life belts.” He turned and began to scan the rough surface of the floor.
“Look,” Sandy began impatiently, “if you can’t—”
He broke off as Ken shoved his nose close to the floor, studying one particular plank. Without looking up he reached onto the table for a fork from the cutlery box. He jammed its tines into the crack alongside the plank and pressed down on the handle. The plank lifted.
Ken pulled it upward and it rose easily—a length of ten-inch-wide board. He whistled softly.
Sandy dropped onto his knees beside him. Together they peered into the cavity that had been exposed.
“Printing ink,” Ken said, lifting out one of the several bottles visible. “Green.” He checked another. “And black.”
Sandy had his hand beneath the floor too, his anger with Ken lost in curiosity. “A portable printing press!” he breathed. “Dismantled—but you can see that’s what it is!” He looked over at Ken, his eyes round. “I humbly apologize for—”
Ken had lifted something else out of the cache.
Sandy gasped.
“Mom’s jewel box!”
“A duplicate of Mom’s box,” Ken corrected.
With shaking hands he lifted the lid. The box was empty. But the lead lining in the bottom lay on a slant out of its proper place. Ken inserted the fork under one corner and pulled.
The lining lifted, revealing a half-inch of space beneath it. Ken took out the object that had been concealed in that shallow secret compartment. It was flat, almost the same size as the box, and wrapped in flannel.
He unwound the cloth.
Neither of them said anything for a long moment. They were looking at the three steel engravings required to print a ten-dollar bill.
OUT OF THE SKY
OUT OF THE SKY
OUT OF THE SKY
Sandy reached out to touch them as if he didn’t trust the evidence of his eyes. “The one for the back. And the two for the face—one for green ink, one for black.” He shook his head amazedly. “And they were in that box!” He felt the lead lining. “It’s as thin as paper,” he said. “They must have made it that way to compensate for the weight of the plates—to make both boxes weigh about the same.” He looked up at Ken. “But they didn’t quite do it—they were a few ounces out.”
“Dad brought the plates past customs not knowing what he was doing.” Ken spoke slowly, piecing together fragments of information. “They never thought we’d find out—they never thought anybody would find out.” He was rewrapping the plates and putting them back into the box.
Sandy got to his feet quickly. “And maybe nobody ever will, if we don’t get ourselves out of this mess.”
Ken lifted up the mattress on the lower bunk and shoved the box under it out of sight. “We’ll need that evidence,” he said, “and we don’t want Cal to throw it overboard or something.”
Sandy dropped the plank back in place. “Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll have to spell him for a while.”
The bargeman was still working away at the pump, but his strokes were slower now and he was panting with near exhaustion. He made way for the boys and leaned up against the cabin, clutching at it to maintain his balance as the barge heaved and swung.
“Stay there,” Sandy ordered, “where we can keep an eye on you.”
Once again the seconds began to keep pace with the pump handle and the stream of water spurted out of the outlet pipe. Back on the deck the gasoline engine throbbed reassuringly, its pump cascading a flood of water over the side.
Ten minutes passed by—then ten more. Ken was breathing heavily, his arms like lead once more.
“Drop out,” Sandy ordered. “Let him take over.”
“What about you?” Ken shifted to a position against the wall and let the bargeman take hold of the pump handle.
“You spell me in ten minutes.” Sandy’s jaw was clenched grimly as he moved his powerful arms back and forth.
The engine coughed and died.
“Needs gas!” Cal let go of the pump handle.
“Keep pumping,” Sandy said. “There is no more gas. Whatever pumping is going to be done on this barge—we’re going to do it.”
Cal looked at the water issuing from the outlet. “We’ll never make it.” His voice was thin with fear.
A wave washed over them and drowned out the rest of his words.
When they were free of water again Sandy went back to work. “Save your breath,” he suggested.
Ten minutes later Ken replaced Sandy at the pump and the exhausted redhead got what rest he could by slumping against the cabin wall. Ten minutes after that he took Cal’s place.
Round and round they went, fighting desperately against time, trying to match their puny strength against the ponderous walls of water that rolled down on them and swept over the bulwark.
By eleven o’clock it was plain that they had been losing ground rapidly. The barge was growing more sluggish with each passing wave. Her portside was noticeably down—it was becoming even more difficult to maintain a footing on the slippery, sharply sloping deck.
Ken hung on to the pump handle as water washed over the side. “How long?” he asked through clenched teeth.
Cal sputtered and coughed as the water receded. He pointed a shaking finger to the cargo. “She’s shifting!” he gasped. “We’ll turn over!” Panic drove him to the bulwark. He poised there ready to jump.
Sandy grabbed him and pulled him back. “Don’t be a fool! You wouldn’t last out there a minute.” He held on to the man while he turned his head to shout to Ken. “Go on inside and bring out the life belts—and a length of line.” He thrust Cal toward the pump handle. “Get moving. She’s not going quite yet.”
Ken was gone almost ten minutes. When he returned, sliding along the tilted deck in a moment of comparative quiet between two waves, he carried two life belts and a coil of half-inch line. He had already fastened a life belt around himself.
He handed a life belt to Sandy and took over the pump while the redhead worked his way into the canvas jacket. “Had to pick up something,” Ken said. He poked at his life belt. “Got it fastened under here.”
Sandy took over Cal’s place. “Get into the jacket,” he ordered.
“Hang on!” Ken cried. “A big one coming!”
The barge took long, agonizing seconds to rise from under the weight of water. Over the noise of the wind they could hear the rattle of stones as still more of the cargo slipped toward the portside.
Sandy looked forward anxiously. He stopped pumping and swiftly tied the three of them together with the line, leaving twenty feet of slack between them.
“Look!” Ken cried. “Blue sky!”
High overhead a small patch had appeared in the heavy overcast. As they watched, the wind spread the clouds further and further apart and the patch of sky grew larger.
“One patch of blue sky doesn’t mean the sea will calm down,” Sandy said grimly. “It may take hours more for that to happen—days even.”
As if to prove his words another comber swept over them an instant later, to bury itself in the gravel and add additional tons of water to the load the barge was already carrying.
More gravel cascaded down toward the bulwark. The portside seemed a scant three feet above water while the starboard side reared menacingly in the air.
Sandy straightened up. “This isn’t accomplishing much,” he said. “There’s no use kidding ourselves.”
“Abandon ship?” Ken asked.
“We’ll wait until the last possible moment,” Sandy said. “We’ll climb up on the stone—way over on the starboard side. When she goes down, she’ll roll to port. That’s when we’ll jump to starboard. We have to clear the barge when we hit the water or....”
There was no need for him to finish the sentence. In silence, with Sandy in the lead, they climbed up onto the pile of stone and made their way to the top.
Overhead the sky was clearing rapidly. The sun had found a way through the last of the scudding gray clouds. Even the wind was easing slightly. But the waves were as high as they had ever been. From their new vantage point the mammoth walls of onrushing water seemed even larger.
Huddled on the rough stone, they watched the barge tilt more and more as the minutes passed. The cold got at them now that they were no longer straining at the pump handle. Their hands were numb, their lips blue. Only tightly clenched jaws could keep their teeth from chattering.
The boys sat close together; Cal a few feet distant. There was no conversation—there seemed to be nothing to say.
More stone slid down, carrying them toward the portside. They clawed their way back up. Cal got to his feet.
“Get down!” Sandy shouted. “Nobody jumps until I give the word. Then we all jump together.”
“She’s going over!” Cal swayed on unsteady feet.
Sandy hauled on the line until he had brought the terrified man down to his knees. “Don’t—”
“Sandy!” Ken’s voice rang out above the noise of the wind and the waves. “Do you hear it? A plane!”
“Where!” Sandy’s voice cracked in the middle of the word and his head jerked upward.
Frantically they scanned the clear sky.
“There!” Ken shouted finally. Instinctively he began to wave his arms wildly in the air. “They’ll see us, won’t they? And send the Coast Guard?”
“We have to signal them—we need something big.”
Forgetting the rope that tied them together, Sandy lunged down the pile of stone toward the cabin. Ken and Cal were pulled down with him as he hurled himself around the corner of the cabin.
Before they could get to their feet Sandy was back, carrying a blanket from one of the bunks. He scrambled up the pile of stone, hauling impatiently at the line and waving the blanket even before Ken and Cal could reach him.
“It looks like it’s coming closer!” Ken shouted.
The air-borne craft in the sky was dropping rapidly now. Blinking their eyes against the glare of the sun, they could see that it was a helicopter—a bare thousand feet above the barge.
Approaching from windward, the helicopter continued to lose altitude as it swung in a circling maneuver until it was directly over the barge. Then it began to descend in a straight line like an elevator in an invisible shaft. When the machine was a scant thirty feet above their heads a door in the underbelly opened and something fell seaward to land on the pile of stone a few feet from where they stood.
“It’s a ladder!” Ken shouted. “A rope ladder! Come on!”
The ladder was swinging back and forth in the wind. Sandy made a grab for it and caught at the twisting rope. The helicopter continued to drop until it hovered only fifteen feet above them.
Ken looked upward. His father’s face was peering down at him from the aircraft.
“Dad!” Ken began to laugh, almost hysterical with relief now that their long ordeal was over. “Don’t bother to come aboard,” he shouted. “We were just leaving, anyway.”
Beside him, one arm thrust between the ladder rungs, the other around Ken’s shoulders, Sandy was laughing too.