Chapter XXVI: Battle Over the Waves

There were hours of rest for the Red Rover and his staunch little companion, a lulling of the wild storm that for many hours had lashed the rocky shores of Isle Royale. Then came darkness and with it a swift resolve to risk all on a night of pure adventure.

A hearty handshake with the guide who had stood by them so staunchly, and they were away.

Slowly the tiny craft crept out upon the black waters of night. They had dressed for the occasion, this girl and boy. He wore a suit of khaki borrowed from the scout, she a boy’s shirt found in one of the cabins, and the patched knickers. Dressed so, and riding in their dark green boat, only with difficulty would they be seen upon the dark waters.

There were reasons for this precaution, the scout had assured them. Having guessed their plan, the kidnapers might even now be lurking in the shadow of some cove, ready to pounce upon them. For this Red was not unprepared. One of the “shootin’ irons” hung at his belt.

Keeping close to shore, they passed great jagged piles of rock that loomed large in the night. They crossed “Nebraska Bay,” skirted more rocks, then, following the scout’s advice, cut boldly away toward the rocky shoals which, because of the darkness, could not be seen.

“Listen!” The boy rested on his oars. There came no sound save the sound of heavy swells breaking lazily over distant rocks.

“There’ll be some roll out there,” he murmured.

Then over the waters there moved a breath of air that, beginning with a whisper, ended with a sigh as it passed on into the night.

“How weird it seems out here!”

“Spooky!”

To break the spell, they took up the oars.

And now, as on that other occasion, they dropped into the steady rhythmic swing that would carry them far and tire them not at all.

They did not sing, nor whistle, nor even hum. That would not be safe. For all that, their spirits blended as one as they swept along to the dreamy swing of “Blue Danube,” “Indian Love Song” and “Where the River Shannon Flows.”

In the steel mill and on the gridiron the young football star had known team work, but never such as this. Forgotten were the perils that lurked in the night; forgotten the danger of darkness and possible storm. For the moment here was life, life as he had never before known it. What else could matter?

So, with the moon just showing over the rocky crest of Isle Royale, they swept across the narrow channel, then took up a course that in time would lead them out into the wide open sea.

The girl too had caught the spell of the night. As they stole into the shadow of a great rock towering up from the depths, she shuddered, but rowed steadily on.

“A real little brick!” Red thought to himself. “Nothing soft.”

He resolved that, should they make it, she certainly must be on the side lines in that greatest of all games that was to come.

The rocks they passed grew lower and lower. The shoal was breaking up here. Soon they would leave it all behind. And then, with only that winking, blinking light to guide them, they would face the swells and go gliding over them to—. Red’s thoughts broke off.

“Listen!”

Had he heard something, the low groan of an oarlock, the mumble of a voice? Who could say? It did not come again.

Swinging the boat about, he headed it straight for the Passage Island light that, gleaming a good four miles away, seemed to send them an encouraging wink.

With a rush of glee a great swell seized them and lifted them lightly. But, like some good-natured giant, it let them down gently to go on their way with a whispering swish of foam.

And now, forgetting their songs, they put their shoulders to the task before them. Meeting the swells at an angle to avoid the dash of chilling waters, they rose on the crest of a high one to drop into the trough, then swept across a half score of low crests, to be again lifted on high.

“Listen!”

This time it was the girl whose instinct told her to rest on her oars. Once again there passed over the waters that whisper that ended in a sigh.

“It is as if voices of the Unseen were trying to tell us something, perhaps to warn us.” Her voice was low. “Do you believe in the Unseen?”

“I—I don’t know.” It was weird, this whisper in the night.

Once again they took up their oars. Not long had they to wait ere they saw that which was creeping upon them in the night. The moon had long been under a cloud. Now it sent its beams across every sweeping swell. And upon one of these swells rode a boat.

“A rowboat,” Red grumbled low. “A boat and two men. Now it is life or death. They are armed. They will not hesitate to shoot.”

Realizing the truth of his words, the girl thrilled to the very center of her being.

There was need for no explaining. The scout had been right; these men had been watching. They had, perhaps, watched from the wrong point. This had given the boy and girl a start. But now here they were, some hundreds of yards behind, two men against a boy and a girl, and half the distance yet to go.

“Now!” The boy’s hiss answered the hiss of a wave that rolled by. “Now we must show them!”

They did show them. They rowed with unity of motion and with all the force God had given them; rowed until even in the chill of night their faces ran with perspiration and their arms became bars of aching fire.

And yet, it was not enough. Those others were rowing with the desperation of those who hear the clanging of a prison gate behind them. Beyond a doubt they knew prison life. Theirs was the frenzy of those whose souls are stirred to the depths by great fear. They knew fear. This was their only emotion. Love, pity, compassion, these they did not know. So they worked with the frenzy of despair.

And they gained now a boat’s length, now another, another and yet another. Each wave crest that lifted them high found them closer to their prey.

They would have won but for one man’s over-reaching hate and the hosts of “Invisible Ones” that the girl believed peopled the heavens.

Of a sudden, weary with rowing, overcome by his burning hate, the man nearest the prow threw down his oars. The next instant a shot rang out and a bullet sang across the waters.

“Lie down in the boat!” was Red’s command to Berley.

The girl hesitated, but obeyed.

On the crest of the wave the boy bent low. Once again a bullet sang close at hand.

In the trough he rowed desperately. Swinging his boat half about, he avoided, as long as he could, rising on the next crest. When at last he did rise, he dropped flat beside his companion.

Just in time. A bullet crashing into the boat passed over them.

“Two can play at that.”

Red crept forward, placed his “shootin’ iron” across the stern, waited his time, then loosed a roar like the burst of a cannon.

The answer came singing over—too high.

Then, as if provoked by the unfairness of the battle, the “Unseen” took a hand. Sudden darkness settled upon the water. A cloud as black as ink came sweeping in from the north. A voice from the air, not a whisper, but a roar, told them that one of those sudden storms that sweep across Lake Superior in November was at hand.

The girl was up and in her place on the instant.

“And now may God have mercy on our souls!” she murmured, as Red seized his oars and they began to row.

Who can describe the fury of such a storm, the rushing of wind, waves mounting higher and higher, foam hissing to the right and left of you, darkness all about you, even the gleam of the light from Passage Island lost for long, desperate moments?

And yet you battle as never before. Heading your boat squarely into the teeth of the storm, you rise and fall, rise and fall like a cork in the center of the Atlantic. You battle. You pray. You hope until hope seems vain.

And then, just as all seems over, the storm passes with one long, whispering sigh.

As the moon came out and the rush of wind passed, the boy and girl looked upon a world of steel-blue waves flecked with foam. And on those waves some distance away there rode a boat. It was a white boat with an orange-colored bottom. A great deal of orange was showing; very little white. The boat was upside down.

Once again, as they looked, Red said hoarsely: “Listen!”

As before, there came the long whisper that ended with a sigh.

But even as they rested on their oars there came to their listening ears a louder sound, the drumming of an airplane’s motor.

“They are coming!” Red took up his oars. “Passage Island is just over there. It can’t be far now.”