Chapter TWELVE: A Web of Lies

Jerry James’s ankle seemed swollen to twice its normal size by the time the big seaman, Gunnar, had carried him below and gently deposited him on the bottom bunk of Sandy’s and Jerry’s cabin.

“It’s yust a sprain, Ay tank,” Gunnar mumbled as he peered at the ankle after having removed Jerry’s dripping clothing and wrapped him in blankets.

“Does it hurt much, Jerry?” Sandy asked anxiously.

Jerry tried to smile and shrug it off. But it was obvious to Sandy that his friend was in great pain. He turned around, bumping into Sam, who had also jammed himself into the tiny room. Outside the open door, Mr. Briggs stared in at the scene with eyes of unpitying curiosity.

“Have you got any medicine, Sam?” Sandy asked. “I mean, something to kill his pain a little.”

Sam shrugged. “Best thing that we can do is give him some rest and try to get that swelling down. He’ll need a doctor’s care when we get to port.” He paused as the _James Kennedy_ began to heel over in a long roll. Everybody reached for support, and Sam grinned and added, “_If_ we get to port.”

“We will,” the mate butted in. “Captain just called down to say the wind’s going down.”

“Py yiminy,” said the big Swede, beaming, “Ay tank Ay live long enough for farm, after all.”

Sam smiled fondly at Gunnar. “You big galoot,” he said, good-humoredly. “You can’t stand to be ashore two days without getting landsick.” He turned his gaze back to Jerry James. “You know,” he said, “I think I’ve got just the thing to take down that swelling some and ease the pain, too.”

“What’s that?” Sandy asked.

“Well, seeing as how you must have swallowed a couple of bucketfuls of it yourself not long ago, I’ll tell you. It’s lake water!” He leaned out into the passageway and called, “Hey, one of you lads, get up above and fetch us a bucket of lake water, hear?” Then he grinned, plainly enjoying himself. “All you have to do is stand on deck until the first wave comes along!”

In another five minutes, Jerry James had been carefully lifted into a sitting position by Gunnar and his sprained right foot had been thrust into a bucket of cold Lake Erie water. Jerry had winced at his first contact with it, but he soon grew accustomed to it. In half an hour more, the swelling had gone down considerably and Jerry was able to turn in with his ankle swathed in strips of sheeting soaked with water.

“Keep dousing it with water every hour or so,” Sam had suggested to Sandy.

Then Sam and Gunnar had trudged back to the barren mess hall to join the rest of the crewmen who squatted glumly against the bulkheads, munching the hard biscuits and cold water passed out to them by a Cookie who seemed to have lost his usual cheerful spirits.

Up above, meanwhile, Captain West saw, to his alarm, that he had been mistaken about the storm. The winds had indeed died down, but only for a time.

Now, with the coming of darkness, they were again rising. What had resumed as the gentlest of whispers was now a wild screaming and hammering around the pilothouse that threatened to smash in even those stoutly reinforced windows. The seas were again pounding. The _James Kennedy_ seemed to be weakening. No longer did she plow ahead, straight and true, with the passage of each successive wave. Now she was wallowing in the troughs—and the thundering seas battered her mercilessly. Each time, she staggered and drove on. But each time, she seemed to drive on a little less powerfully.

The waves roared at her in combinations now—sometimes two waves following quickly upon another, frequently three.

Alone in his pilothouse, Captain West realized that a few hours more of such punishment would mean the end of his ship and all aboard her. Below, in the mess hall, the veteran sailors realized it, too. But they said nothing, merely exchanging fearful glances. Only God could save them now, they knew. In such a storm, even the most superb seamanship was useless.

Captain West knew it, too. He wondered if he should radio for help. But what good would that do? Who could get to him? Besides, Captain West had no wish to make contact with the mainland. The storm had given him his perfect excuse for arriving in Buffalo too late to communicate with his employer, Mr. Kennedy. He wished to stay out of contact with the Kennedy offices for as long as possible.

But something had to be done. Quickly, Captain West bent over his chart. His eyes swept over it, eagerly searching for some island or outcropping of land to which he might run for shelter. All around him now were the voices of insane power, the clashing and crashing of that surging sea, the wailing of the wind. As Captain West bent his head, a great wall of water gathered before the _James Kennedy_’s bow.

It rose, black and awful, to the height of Captain West’s pilothouse—and then it struck.

It fell with a roar. Captain West dove for a stanchion. He threw his arms around it and held on. The water burst the bulkheads of the pilothouse. It flattened those steel walls as though they were made of paper. It swept away the pilothouse as easily as a wave washing away a fruit crate.

Captain West heard that wrenching roar, and then the lake water poured over him. He clung desperately to the stanchion. He felt that monstrous weight—hundreds and hundreds of tons—driving the _James Kennedy_ down and down, and he wondered if the vessel would ever re-emerge from it.

Down below, in his tiny cabin, Sandy Steele held his breath as he felt that wave strike the ship and drive it down.

But the _James Kennedy_ came up.

Buried though she had been, the gallant vessel shook herself like a soaked and weary mastiff, and her bow popped out of the frothing white seas, streaming water from every side—and she gave a long shudder and drove forward again.

A concerted sigh of relief broke from the throats of the lake sailors huddled in the mess hall.

Sandy Steele felt the light film of perspiration that had gathered on his forehead, and he involuntarily squeezed the arm of his friend.

Captain West slowly released his grip on the stanchion.

They had been through the worst of it, he knew now.

The wind was dropping as swiftly as it had risen. Above him, the clouds were thinning out. A ghostly glow seemed to illuminate the scene as the moon shone palely through them. In its light, Captain West could see the dark seas running around him, glittering like polished black glass.

Captain West surveyed the damage to his pilothouse. The compass was destroyed. The steering gear was so badly damaged that it would be impossible to make any headway against a strong wind. But the wind was falling to a murmur. He would be able to steer, and he would navigate by hand compass from one of the lifeboats.

He decided to wait another few minutes to be certain that the storm was over. Then he would go below to fetch Sam and the big Swede, Gunnar. He couldn’t call them. The speaking system was ruined, too.

Captain West removed his hat and began to wring it dry. If he lived to be a hundred, he told himself, he would never see another wave like that one.

The men in the mess hall were in an ugly mood.

They knew that the worst was over, and so they had begun to grumble. With nothing to fear, they had time to complain. Mr. Briggs was quick to seize upon their discontent and turn it to his own ends.

He had been listening to two of them grumble bitterly about the fact that they had had nothing solid to eat since lunch the day before. The smaller of the pair, a man with sharp features and untidy, mouse-colored hair, had begun to talk louder and louder.

“Thirty-six hours, Dick,” he complained. “Thirty-six hours since we’ve had a real bite or a hot sup. Nothing but hard biscuits and stale water.”

“Aye,” said his friend heavily. “And whose fault is it? What are we doing out on Erie at a time like this, when we could be ashore in Detroit? We could be drinking our coffee nice and easy in some restaurant right now. Whose fault is it? That’s what I want to know.”

Mr. Briggs’s little eyes roved rapidly over the mess hall. He saw with satisfaction that Sam and Gunnar had dozed off. He sidled over to the two discontented men, who had begun to cast dark, threatening glances about them as though they sought the author of their misfortunes.

“Who’s to blame, you say?” Mr. Briggs whispered, glancing quickly around him. “I’ll tell you.” He pointed down the passageway. “It’s those snippy brats of Old Man Kennedy’s, that’s who’s to blame!” he burst out.

“Oh, come, now,” the little man named Bogert said. “Don’t tell me that a couple of vacationing high school boys have anything to do with running this ship.”

“Just listen to me!” Mr. Briggs said fiercely. “Who do you think caused that fire in the galley last night? It was those two blasted brats tomfoolin’ around, that’s who it was! If you’re wondering who you’ve got to thank for your empty bellies, it’s those kids down the way. Especially the blond one. Every last scrap of decent food was burned up in that fire. That’s why you’re getting biscuits and water.”

The two men exchanged angry glances. Seeing that he had convinced them, Mr. Briggs rushed on.

“And why are we out on Lake Erie instead of being berthed in Detroit? That’s their fault, too! The skipper didn’t want to make for Buffalo so soon. But he had to. With a couple of firebugs like them aboard, he said he couldn’t take any chances!”

The big man named Dick let out a low growl.

“How about Perkins, Dick?” the mate added, deliberately attempting to goad the big man into a rage. “Perkins was your friend, wasn’t he, Dick? And now he’s on the bottom of Lake Erie, washed over the side in a storm we never should have been in! All because of a couple of dirty brats who haven’t shaved yet!”

The big man shook his head. He got to his feet and gazed down at the mate. He clenched and unclenched his hamlike hands and another deep growl rumbled from his chest.

“What are you going to do, Dick?” his friend Bogert asked. The little man was slightly nervous.

“I’m gonna pay ’em back,” the big man said slowly. He blinked his eyes stupidly. “I’ve been starvin’ and I lost my best friend and I almost got washed overboard myself and it’s all on account of them kids. I’m gonna pay ’em back, Bogert.” He turned to the mate and growled, “Where are they?”

But he needn’t have asked.

At that moment, Sandy Steele walked down the hall with a bucket. He needed more water to freshen his friend’s bandages.

“There he is!” the mate shouted. “There’s the wise one—the one that called me a liar!”

The big man whirled and pounced. Before Sandy knew what was happening, he had been grasped by the collar and spun around. There was not even time to struggle. The big man held him firmly in that left hand and drew back his big right fist for a smashing blow.

“Wise kid,” Dick muttered. “I’m gonna give you a good one from old Perkins.”

Sandy started to duck.

But the blow never landed.

Instead, it was Dick himself who was whirled around now, while an angry voice said, “Ay tank Ay give you goot wan.”

Then there was a sharp spat of bone meeting bone. An expression of amazement came over Dick’s face. Then his face went blank and his knees buckled and he sank gently to the deck.

Gunnar smiled and lifted his enormous right fist for the rest of the shocked sailors to see.

“Ay yust tell you maybe Ay hit real hard next time.”

Murmurs of admiration came from the lips of the onlookers, and at that moment, Mr. Briggs sought to steal from the room. But Sam, who had also been awakened, moved to head him off.

“What’s your hurry, mate?” he asked easily.

“Well, er, I was, er, just going to....” Mr. Briggs stammered, clearing his throat. He cast a nervous glance at the big Swede, who stood glaring at him while, behind him, the big man, Dick, slowly pushed himself up from the deck. “Well, you see—” the mate stuttered, but then his eyes lost their fear and his face grew spiteful and defiant again as Captain West came sloshing into the room.

“What’s going on here?” he bellowed.

Every head spun toward him and there was a babble of excited voices in reply. But, of course, it was Mr. Briggs who answered the skipper’s question.

“Oh, nothing at all, sir,” he said, giving Captain West a broad wink. “Just a bit of friendly horseplay, that’s all, sir.”

Captain West grunted and nodded. Then he said, “You, there, Sam and Gunnar. Get up above to the pilothouse. A wave swept everything but the deck away, but you can still steer by hand compass. Get one from one of the lifeboats. The rest of you,” he roared, whirling quickly, “the rest of you get back where you belong. The storm’s over! We’ll make Buffalo by tomorrow night.”

A weak cheer followed that news. The men shuffled down the passageway. Captain West waited until the sailors had gotten out of earshot, before he jerked a rude thumb at Sandy and growled, “He making trouble again?”

The mate nodded. “Just before you came below, he stirred up a fight between Dick and the Swede.”

Sandy Steele sucked his breath in sharply.

“That’s a lie!” he burst out sharply.

Captain West ignored his protest. He merely glared savagely at Sandy and said, “Shut up!” He seemed to be pondering something. Then, his forehead smoothed out and he spoke to his mate.

“Briggs, we’re only a few hours away from that Chadwick-Kennedy deal. I’m taking no chances on Buster, here. So, he’s yours until we dock tomorrow night. Take him into your cabin with you and batten down the door. Don’t come out until I send for you. You hear me?”

The mate nodded glumly. “Don’t I get nothin’ to eat?” he whined.

“Stop bleating about your blasted belly,” the captain snapped. “I’ll send Cookie in to you. Now, now, hold on! Whoa! What about the other brat? Where’s he?”

“In bed,” the mate said. “He sprained his ankle during the storm.”

“Bad?”

Mr. Briggs grinned evilly.

“Bad enough to keep him in bed.”

“Good,” Captain West said. “Now, get out of here—and don’t let me see your ugly face until we dock in Buffalo. And as for him,” he went on, jerking his head toward Sandy, “I don’t _ever_ want to see _his_ face again!”

Sadly assuring himself that the feeling was mutual, Sandy Steele preceded the mate down the passageway to his cabin.