Chapter IX: The Defense of Chippewa

She had barely reached the _Wanderer_ when a messenger, having raced over the two-mile trail from Rock Harbor Lodge, appeared on the shore. Quite out of breath, and greatly excited, he shouted across the narrow stretch of water,

“Hey, there! Chippewa Harbor is burning!”

“What?” Florence was startled. “How do you know?”

“Got a short wave message from Ve and Vi, whoever they are.”

“Ve and Vi,” Florence said, “they are the fisherman’s daughters. They have a short wave outfit for winter use. I shouldn’t wonder,” she hesitated. Then she shouted across to the messenger, “Who’s there?”

“At Chippewa? Only the fishermen and a troop of boys.”

“Boys? What boys?”

“Troop No. 18.”

“Eight-eighteen?” The big girl’s hopes fell. She knew those boys. City bred, they knew nothing of fire fighting. Two boys, Mike and Tony—the worst of the lot—she suspected, were their leaders. What was to be expected from them?

“Go back and get a message to them. Tell them we’re coming!” she called.

“But what’s the good?” Dave demurred, as Ruth ordered the deck cleared for action. “If the place is burning what can be done?”

“You know as well as I,” Florence replied rather sharply, “that reports on this island are always exaggerated. The least we can do is to go over there and take the folks off. Think of losing everything,” she said in a sober tone, “Home, furnishings, everything—the work of a lifetime.”

Soon they were skirting the rocky shores, headed for Chippewa, sixteen miles away. Sitting on the deck, Florence closed her eyes, and tried to picture in her mind the snug little harbor with its tiny huts, its toy-like log cabin store and its little group of fishing folk. Had she seen it all for the last time? It would seem so, for as her eyes opened she saw a long column of yellow smoke trailing out over the lake. As they rounded a point some two miles from the harbor, her anxiety increased. So dense was the smoke that it did not seem that one building could be left standing.

Imagine her surprise and joy when upon rounding the final jutting of rock she beheld Chippewa Harbor just as she had seen it last!

“Doomed, for all that,” Dave said soberly. “Look at that line of fire not a half-mile off and coming this way!

“For once,” he spoke slowly, “the _Wanderer_ is going to run.”

“Oh! No! Not yet!” Florence remonstrated.

“Not yet, but soon,” was the reply. “When we touch the dock you tell those folks to get everything that’s portable on the deck of this boat without delay.”

“But will they do it?” All too well the girl knew the stubborn determination of these Scandinavian people.

To her surprise she found the fisher-folk ready to comply. They had seen enough, were ready to admit themselves beaten. Even the troop of city boys, who knew nothing of fire fighting, joined in the rescue work. In no time at all the cottages, fishhouse and store were stripped.

“What about these?” a boy asked, pointing to several large boxes.

“Government property,” Florence decided. “They stay.”

“When do we go aboard?” Mike, leader of the boys’ troop, asked.

“You don’t go!” Florence gave him a strange smile. “You, too, are government property. Oh, you won’t burn,” she added, as she saw the sullen look on the boy’s face deepen. “All you have to do is run over the ridge, climb down fifty feet, and find a good place to rest. The fire will never touch you. Besides—” She did not finish.

“All right. Swing off. I’m staying.” There was a bluntness about her tone, as for the first time she gave Dave an order.

“But why? You can’t—” Dave did not finish. She shot him a look. He had seen that look on her face before.

“Cast off the line,” he said. Shuffling to the post, the boy called Tony lifted the line and gave it a fling.

“Well?” Tony growled, giving Florence a hard look. “So you’re stayin’?”

Florence did not answer, for at that moment robust Katie appeared at the ship’s rail. One look at Florence and, boy-like, she vaulted the rail, sailed over three feet of water, and landed with a thud on the dock.

In sudden consternation, Florence saw that Jeanne, too, was preparing to try the leap to shore. By this time the distance was too great. She would fall into the water and might be injured by the boat’s propeller.

“No! Jeanne!” she screamed, “Don’t jump. Stay on the boat. They may need you.”

Laughingly Jeanne held up her hands in sign of surrender then disappeared down the hatchway.

“So you’re stayin’, too?” said the boy called Mike turning to Katie.

“You bet I’m stayin’,” said Katie. “Maybe we can lick that fire even if a whole army can’t.”

“Aw, now don’t you get excited,” said Mike, with a leering grin. “It takes men to fight a fire.”

“What’s in those boxes?” Florence demanded, ignoring their banter.

“We don’t know exactly,” said Tony. “Mebby they might be pumps.”

“Pumps?” The girl’s eyes widened. “Why don’t you open them up and see?”

“Captain’s gone,” said Mike. “Left yesterday. We can’t—”

“You can’t do a thing until he comes back!” There was biting sarcasm in Florence’s voice. “Not if the whole island burned!”

“That’s what we want,” Tony jeered. “Exactly it. When it’s all burned we can go back to the mainland.

“Lookit,” he waxed fairly eloquent, “What sort a place is this? Y’ can’t crank up the flivver on Saturday night and go to town ’cause there ain’t no flivver. An’ y’ can’t go see the girls and get a glass a beer ’cause there ain’t no gals and there ain’t no beer.”

“Too bad!” said Florence, reaching for an ax that was leaning against the dock house, and giving one of the six boxes a sharp crack.

“Y’ can’t do that!” Tony exclaimed. “Government property.”

“Can’t I?” She swung her ax again, knocking off a board. Crack—crack—crack. The box broke away, revealing a neat contraption.

“It _is_ a pump!” The girl’s eyes shone. “Any of you know how to run it?”

No answer. Her eyes wandered to the nearby ridge. A giant spruce, ignited from below, blazed clear to the sky in one terrifying whash. Seizing the remains of the box, she cast them into the bay.

“Looks like an outboard motor,” she murmured. “Shouldn’t wonder if it was made like one.”

“Yes! A rope to start it!” exclaimed Katie, grabbing a short rope with a wooden handle attached. “I’ll try it!”

“You’ll get the devil for that!” Mike threatened. “Can’t fool with government property.”

“You can’t and you don’t want to!” Florence flared up. She was uncoiling a forty-foot hose. “You’d rather let the island burn. It might be a playground for thousands. Tired people could rest here.”

“Yeah, rest!” Mike sneered, “Who’d want to rest? Go places! See things! That’s me!”

“You’ve eaten Mrs. Carlson’s doughnuts and slept in her cabins when it was raining, and now,” Florence threw him a look of scorn.

“You’re too fresh!” With a threatening gesture Tony moved closer along the edge of the rock.

To all this Katie gave no heed. She had discovered a small tank on the pump. This she had filled with gasoline. Now she was fitting the knot of the short rope into its place. If this pump worked like an outboard motor she could start it. And then—

Florence was thinking all this when with a start, her mind was brought back to Mike.

“Think y’re smart, don’t yer?” There was a dangerous glint in his eye. He took a step toward her—another, and another. “Think I’m a guttersnipe, don’t y’—a tough city guy? Well, that’s what I am. I—I’ll show y’.” He took one more step.

“No!” Florence tried in vain to steady her wildly beating-heart. “No! That’s not what I think at all. I don’t care where you came from nor what you’ve been. I only know what you are now. What you’re doing. Lying down on your job—leading all these boys the wrong way. You’re ungrateful—you—”

“Think yer smart,” Mike stepped closer.

“Don’t do that, Miss,” a wavering voice came from the line. It was the smallest, most timid boy of the lot who spoke. And yet—he had courage.

Swallowing hard, the girl tried to speak. Words would not come. Mike’s fists were clenched hard as he moved one step nearer. He was closely followed by Tony.

“Don’t let him, Miss,” came in that same wavering voice.

And then the thing happened. Three times, all unknown to Florence, the powerful Katie had pulled the rope that turned the wheel of the strange pump that looked like an outboard motor. All that time Florence had held the hose in her hand. Once again Katie gave the rope a vicious jerk. And then! Was it like an outboard motor? Like ten outboard motors all in one the thing thundered—the hose in Florence’s hand writhed and twisted like a snake. It swung half around her neck, tripped a boy passing down the line, stiffened like a bent and twisted gas pipe, then shot forth a stream that would have gone forty feet if it had not encountered an obstacle. That obstacle was Mike’s broad chest!

Thrown off his balance by that irresistible force, with the swiftness of light, Mike spun half-way round, rose in air, then went plunging into space. When space rejected him, the glad, cold waters of the harbor opened their arms to receive him!

Startled, thrown into sudden consternation by this turn of events, Florence, without intending it at all, swung the hose about and the stream sent Tony plunging after his pal.

Then, like some creature that has done its work swiftly and well, the pump coughed twice, and lapsed into silence. Above this silence there rose a low laugh. It ran all down the line of boys and all the way back again.

Taking advantage of the situation, Florence exclaimed, “Boys, we have pumps. You all have homes. If they were in danger, you’d save them if you could. You’ve got to help save this home now! Get those boxes open. Quick. Fill the tanks. Turn ’em over. If half the pumps work, we’ll win!”

Catching the spirit of the moment thirty boys leaped into action. In the shortest imaginable time five pumps were coughing and sneezing like five bull moose come up for air.

“This,” Florence thought, with a sudden touch of despair, “is all right. But how shall we reach the fire?” Her eyes fell upon a dozen gasoline barrels piled neatly by the dock house.

“Quick!” she exclaimed. “Cut two holes in the top of each barrel. Then roll four up the ridge, each about forty feet from the next one.”

Though they did not understand why, the boys followed her directions. When this was done, she said, “Now! Two of you to a pump. Take them up to the barrels!”

“Bu-but, Miss, we don’t understand,” said the small, timid boy.

“There’s little time for explaining,” Florence snapped. “But this is the idea, each pump will throw water thirty or forty feet.”

“Yea, yea,” they agreed, “but it’s a hundred and fifty to the top of that first ridge.”

“That’s just it,” the girl explained. “The first pump will force the water up to the first barrel. Then we will put the short hose of the second pump in that barrel and draw the water out. That second pump will carry the water another thirty feet to the second barrel.”

“And so on and on to the top,” someone exclaimed. “It’s a grand idea. Think of a girl workin’ that out all by herself! Come on. Let’s get goin’.” And they did.

It was with a feeling of deep satisfaction that Florence saw this first task well begun. This first ridge, with its sparse growth of fir and balsam, could be well soaked down before the fire arrived. The battle was not won, but a good beginning had been made and Florence, as she studied the youthful faces about her, knew that her little army would stick to the last.

“There are chickens on board,” she said so they could all hear. “Twelve large, fat chickens in the boat’s refrigerator. They were meant for a Lodge. We’ll roast them all over the coals of this fire when the battle is won.” A low, hoarse cheer greeted these remarks. Then, at a word, five sturdy young pumps, each with the power of ten outboard motors, began passing water from barrel to barrel until it shot forth in a broad stream.

Fired with new hope, boys not needed at the pumps seized axes and began slashing at the taller trees and dragging them away. When at last the fire, fanned by a fresh breeze, came sweeping down the highest ridge into the narrow run, then started climbing the “last desperate hope,” that lower ridge, a thin line of grim-faced, determined boys met it half-way. Such was the influence of one girl who refused to give up!

With all the pumps manned by the lightweight boys, the powerful Katie and Florence seized axes and rushed down to add their bit. It was then that a flaming spruce tree, toppling to a fall, pinned a smoke-blackened boy beneath its branches.

“Katie! Quick!” Florence screamed. “He’ll be burned to death!”

With power born of desperation, the girls wrenched away flaming branches, then dragged the boy clear. His shirt was on fire. Florence tore the garment from him and stamped it into the damp moss. Then half dragging, half carrying the injured lad, she removed him to safety.

It was only after the danger was over that she recognized the youth she had saved. She truly did receive a shock!

“Mike! It’s you!” she exclaimed.

“Who’d y’ think it was goin’ to be?” growled Mike.

“But Mike! You helping to fight the fire?”

“I wasn’t helpin’,” Mike lied. “I was just dryin’ out me clothes.”

“Yes?” Florence turned over his right hand. It was still red from the work it had done. There were two fresh blisters there. “Yes,” she said, speaking with difficulty, “you—you were drying your clothes!”

For a moment there was silence, save for the roar and crackle of the fire blazing away where it could do no harm. As the girl watched the flames dart high, only to fall back against water-soaked trees, she knew she was safe in snatching a few moments of rest. The victory was won. The little fishery, the tiny cabins, the humble home of her friends—all were safe. The fire would creep along the ridge until it came to barren rocks and the waters of Superior. There it would flash and sputter its life away. There might be other fires on the island. There were. She caught the light of them in the distance. But Chippewa Harbor was safe!

“It wasn’t fer you that I done it!” Mike protested.

“Then why?” she demanded.

“Think yer smart, don’t y’?” was Mike’s only reply.

The truth was, Florence had unlocked the only door to Mike’s heart. With the aid of that sputtering pump, she had licked him good and plenty. And the law of physical force was the only law Mike knew anything about.

“Mike,” said Florence after a time, “what do you know about these fires being set?”

“Not a thing,” said Mike. “Say! You don’t think—”

“No! No!” She stopped him. “I don’t think anything like that. But I must find out, right away. Here, shake on it.” Her good, stout, capable hand gripped Mike’s blisters, but Mike never flinched.