Chapter ELEVEN: The Big Blow

Sandy could not suppress a gasp of astonishment the moment he emerged on deck and felt the smashing power of that screaming wind, and sensed, rather than felt, the awesome force of those mountainous seas thundering down on the _James Kennedy_ with the crunching sound of huge boulders colliding. There was water everywhere, pelting down from above in the rain and rising in great shafts of spray and spume as the waves cracked and crashed on the wallowing freighter.

Jerry James was aghast. He opened his mouth and shouted something at Sandy, but the wind tore the words from his mouth. The two boys were forced to talk in gestures. Sandy laid down his crowbar, placing a foot on it to keep it from rolling over the side. Then he pointed to the rail. He wound his rope around his waist. Next, he looped it over the railing, before fashioning a good strong slipknot. He backed off a few feet, the muscles of his calves straining to maintain a purchase on the slippery, heeling decks. Carefully, he tugged. The rope held. He nodded at Jerry and his friend followed suit. Once, just before Jerry had finished, the black-haired youth looked up and saw, in fright, a huge wave bearing down on them amidships. It struck the side just as the _James Kennedy_ rolled away from it—luckily for the two youths.

The impact of that wave sent a long shiver through the 600-foot length of their freighter and what seemed a very wall of water shot high into the air before it fell on them with a drenching crash. It drove them to their knees.

So great was the shock, that neither Sandy nor Jerry could remember the sensation of coldness or wetness. All they could think of was that mighty weight that flattened them, almost driving the breath from their bodies.

Then the water began to wash away, and Sandy Steele felt an almost irresistible tug. Quickly, he wound his arms around the line he had only just fastened to the railing. He tried to stand up, but the rushing water knocked his legs out from under him. He seemed immersed in a whitish, greenish froth, but then, as his eyes and ears cleared he saw the low clouds swinging overhead and the lake water boiling by beneath him, and heard the despairing cry of his friend:

“Help, Sandy! Help, I’m going!”

Too late, Jerry James had rushed to finish tying his slipknot. But he had it only half finished when the wave struck. The water swept him up like a chip and now it was rushing him toward his destruction, over the side.

Sandy Steele saw his friend’s peril.

Without hesitation, he released his own grip on the line and dove for Jerry’s body.

He dove against the water and he struck Jerry with a waist-high tackle.

As his wiry arms closed around his friend’s middle, Sandy snapped his own body around in a half-twist, whirling himself against the pressure of the rope. It was well that he did, for the receding wave was pushing him in the other direction. That way, the rope would have unwound and the two boys would have rolled over the side and drowned.

But Sandy Steele’s split-second thinking applied the pressure in the right place and the rope held.

Gasping, the two lay on the deck. They could see the angry, running seas beneath them, and then, as the _James Kennedy_ heeled away, the rim of the lake and then only the clouds.

They were saved.

But they were too weak to congratulate each other, and all that Jerry James could do to show his gratitude was to flop his hand weakly on his friend’s back. Now, as they blew lake water from their mouths, they were aware of the cold, of their drenched clothing clinging to their goose-pimpled flesh, and of the chill breath of the wind.

“Let’s go!” Sandy finally shouted. “If we stand here, we may get socked with another one.”

Jerry nodded and quickly secured himself to the rail, glancing up every now and then as though he expected to see another great black wave racing toward him. Then they made their way forward to the Number Four hatch where the little band of lake sailors struggled bravely to keep the lake out of the _James Kennedy_’s hold.

There were nine deck hands and one deck officer, a tall, serious-looking man named Davis. Through his water-filled eyes, Sandy could see that Mr. Davis had taped his spectacles securely to his temples, for fear they would be washed away. He remembered Sam saying that Mr. Davis was “as blind as a bat” without his glasses. Sam was with the group, too—ordered down from the pilothouse by Captain West. That was probably because the skipper wanted to make good use of the great strength that lay in Sam’s deep chest and thick shoulders. Sam swung a heavy sledge hammer, as he and two other men—one of them a blond, Swedish giant named Gunnar—attempted to batter the sprung steel hatch cover back into place. Sandy could hear the metallic clanging of their blows above the wind and sea as he and Jerry approached, both of them side-stepping along the rail while they clung to their ropes.

Then Mr. Davis yelled, “All hands to the rails!”

To his horror, Sandy saw that the _James Kennedy_’s prow had plunged into a wall of water that reared before it. The bow sliced into it as the _V_ of a plow might pierce a snowbank—and though the boat itself remained steady, that parted wave was now flowing around either side of the forward cabins and sweeping down the decks!

Swiftly, the men whirled and scurried for the rails. They dove for them, in fact! They curled around them and bent and turned their heads away from the onrushing water, and Sandy noticed that the hammer-swingers had fastened their tools to their wrists by thick lengths of rope.

Then the water hit.

It was far worse than the wave that had nearly carried Jerry James to his death.

But it did not last as long. It struck with swift savagery, lifting Sandy and Jerry and the rest of them from their feet. It sought to tear them free of the rail and drive them aft and into the water. But that great crushing blow and terrible tug was only of a few seconds’ duration, and then it was gone.

Sandy looked around. Water was spilling back over the sides of the _James Kennedy_, but at the rail, where there had been ten men, there were now only eight.

Two men had been washed overboard, one of them a hammer man.

But there was little time to dwell upon the horror of those missing figures at the rail.

Mr. Davis had lost his glasses. The wave had torn them from his head. The tall deck officer peered wildly about him. He had backed from the rail, digging furiously at his eyes to clear them of water. Now, as he looked around him on the deck of the heaving ship, it was plain that he had lost his bearings. He took a step forward. Another. Then, rapidly, two more. He was walking toward the rail!

Involuntarily, Sandy and Jerry took two steps toward him. But they were too far away.

Their friend Sam wasn’t.

The stocky seaman with the muscles like steel hawsers swiftly shot out a clutching hand and stopped his superior officer before he drowned himself.

“You’ll have to go back, sir!” Sam shouted above the wind. “You can’t stay out here blinded like that. Here,” he shouted at one of the men, “help Mr. Davis below.”

The man wound a guiding arm around the deck officer, and together, they made their way aft along the rail.

Sam glanced at Sandy Steele and Jerry and shouted, “You two—we need your help. Come over here. That’s right, pay out the line.”

The two lads let go their tight hold on their safety lines and came over to the torn hatch, turning around and around to unwind their ropes.

“Now,” Sam shouted again, cupping his hands so that he could be heard above the storm and the rattling of the ship. “Now, we can’t waste any more time rushing over to the rail every time we ship a little water. That last wave must have poured a couple of tons of water into the hold. A few more like that, and we’ll be down in Davy Jones’s locker. Here’s what we’re going to do.

“We’ve got eight men left and two sledge hammers. So, Gunnar here takes one hammer and I take the other. While we’re hammering down the hatch cover, you three hold Gunnar,” he said, pointing to a trio of seamen, “and you three hold me.” He pointed to Sandy and Jerry and a fourth seaman. “If the water comes over the side again, well, we’ll just have to ride it out. You men secure yourselves to those bits. And for gosh sakes,” he yelled, his husky voice rising to full volume, “don’t anybody let go of Gunnar or me when the water hits!”

Quickly, Sandy and Jerry did as they were ordered. They fastened themselves to those stubby, mushroom-shaped iron pegs that are called bits. Then, Jerry and the other seaman wound their arms around Sam’s powerful legs and Sandy, because he was the tallest, grabbed him by the waist.

Sam and Gunnar got to work.

Their hammers clanged rapidly against the stubborn steel, forcing it down at a steady but agonizingly slow pace. Sandy marveled to feel the strength surging through Sam’s hard torso, as he hugged the sturdy seaman with all his might. Sam’s chest heaved and the muscles of his back bunched as he brought the heavy hammer up and down, up and down.

Soon, Sandy’s own body ached from the strain of holding Sam erect against the swaying and staggering of the _James Kennedy_. And the hole was being closed so slowly!

Once, a fair-sized wave swept suddenly over them. Sandy felt Sam go down under its onslaught, but he held him fast even though his body screamed in pain from the effort. The seaman and Jerry held on, too, and when the waters had spilled back into Lake Erie, a grinning Sam spat contemptuously and scrambled to his feet and swung his hammer again.

The resumed clanging of the hammer swung by Gunnar, the Swede, told Sandy that his crew had held fast as well.

Now, the hatch was closed. Sam and Gunnar were swiftly and skillfully pounding the steel snugly into place when a sudden gust of wind spun Sam around just as he was bringing his hammer down for the final blow.

Unable to stop himself, Sam now had his whistling sledge hammer aimed directly at the unsuspecting head of Gunnar! In a fraction of a second, the iron hammerhead would drive deep into Gunnar’s skull. It would smash it open as easily as an eggshell, with Sam’s great strength propelling it.

In that tiny interval of time, Sandy Steele swiftly sat down. He buckled his legs and dragged Sam back with him, and as he did, he heard a familiar voice beneath him yelp with pain. There was a loud metallic clang—like the sound of a firebell—as Sam’s sledge hammer swished harmlessly past the back of Gunnar’s head and struck the steel deck with terrific force. But the big Swede had been saved, even if Sandy’s friend Jerry seemed to have wound up a casualty.

He lay writhing on the deck and Sandy had to bend quickly to make sure the rolling of the ship didn’t roll him over the side.

“What’s wrong?” he shouted in Jerry’s ear.

“My ankle,” Jerry yelled back, grimacing. “I think it’s sprained. When you fell on me, I guess.”

Sandy groaned. He was sorry that his friend had been hurt, of course, but now, he realized, he would have to go it alone. He glanced up and saw the Swede staring down with a puzzled look on his face. His gaze wavered from Jerry to the spot where Sam’s hammer had struck, making him jump in surprise. Now Sam was waving his arms wildly and shouting an explanation of what had happened. As he spoke, Gunnar’s mouth came open and his blue eyes grew round.

When Sam had finished, Gunnar came over to Sandy. He leaned down and yelled in his ear, “Tanks. You ban safe my life. You goot poy.”

Sandy nodded, embarrassed. Then he said, “Can you help me move my friend? I think he’s sprained his ankle.”

Gunnar bent and lifted Valley View High School’s husky right end as easily as a child. “Ay take him below,” he said simply, shifting Jerry’s weight to one side and supporting him with one huge arm, while with the other he held fast to the rail. He staggered off.

Sam grinned at Sandy. “Nice work, Sandy,” he said, shouting through cupped hands again. “You sure made a friend today.”

Sandy nodded. He had glanced up to see Captain West staring down at him from the pilothouse. It recalled to him that the most important mission of his voyage still lay ahead of him, and that his dependable friend, Jerry, probably would no longer be of help.

“I sure hope so, Sam,” Sandy said. “Because I think I may be needing one.”

Then Sandy Steele and Sam swayed aft with the rest of the _James Kennedy_’s weary deck hands.