Chapter XI: The Wavering Red Light

“Look, Don. What a strange red light.” Pearl, who had been curled like a kitten on the prow of the boat, rose on her elbows to point away to sea.

“Where?” Don asked.

“Over by Witches Cove.”

“Plenty of lights on the sea,” he grumbled. He was tightening the last bolts in the pride of his life, his sloop with a kicker, which he had whimsically named _Foolemagin_. They had been home from Monhegan a full day now. His motor had gone wrong, and he was repairing it. In a few moments she would be cutting the waters down the bay. He did not wish to be disturbed.

“But this one acts so strangely,” Pearl persisted. “It sort of wavers up and down, like—like a ship in distress.”

“Distress! What nonsense!” the boy exclaimed impatiently as he tossed down a hammer and seized a wrench. “There is no sea tonight. A little swell, that’s all. How could a ship go aground on a night like this?”

“There now!” he sighed at last. “She ought to do for a trial trip.”

Releasing his boat from the float to which she was anchored, he threw the motor into gear. Purring as sweetly as a cat on the hearth, the motor set the boat gliding through the water.

“What could be finer?” He dropped back on the circular seat in the stern.

Indeed, what could? The sea, the night and a boat. Such a boat, too! True, the hull of the _Foolemagin_ had seen much service. But it was strongly built, and Don Bracket knew his business. He had calked her well. And her motor was nearly new. Little wonder that the boy’s heart swelled with joy and pride as the boat, responding to the lightest touch, headed for the open sea.

The boy had worked hard and long for this prize. In a twelve-foot punt he had rowed hundreds of miles. Setting lobster pots, trapping crabs, digging clams for the summer folks, he had added a dime here, a quarter there, a dollar now and then until there was enough.

“Now,” he thought, “since Monhegan disappointed me, I’ll get busy here at home. I’ll make a lot more lobster pots. I’ll set them out by Green Island, Witches Cove and the Hue and Cry. I’ll get big ones, five pounders, beauties.”

In his dreaming he quite forgot the girl who still lay half curled up back of the prow. To one who did not know her, Pearl might have seemed a kitten sort of girl, soft, dreamy and purring. Not so Don. He knew she could swim as strong and far as he, that she could row a punt or drag a lobster pot from the shoals with the best of them.

She could relax it is true. Everyone should be able to do that. She was relaxed now, staring dreamy eyed into the gathering darkness. But of a sudden she sat bolt upright.

“Look, Don!” she cried. “Look at the wavering red light. Over by Witches Cove.” They were much nearer now. “It is someone in distress. Must be.”

Without reply, Don turned the prow of his boat toward the shoals back of Witches Cove, set his motors doing their best, then leaned back to watch with half closed eyes that wavering light.

“Lights,” said the girl, as if half talking to herself.

“There are plenty of lights about the bay these days—too many,” said the boy. “Mysterious doings, I’d say. That fellow in the cabin by Witches Cove knows something about it all, I’ll be bound. He may have something to do with this light, decoy or something. But I’ll see.”

He kept his boat headed squarely for the light.

The girl did not answer his remarks. They had set her thinking all the same. There had been strange doings about the bay. And not the least mysterious person who might be connected with them was the man who had taken up his abode in the abandoned cabin among the black clump of firs that cast their dark shadows over Witches Cove.

Many and strange were the thoughts that passed through her mind as they came closer and closer to that dark sea cove about which weird and fantastic tales had been woven.

There were persons who could not be induced to fish there; no, not even at midday, and now it was night.

For this girl whose home had always been on Peak’s Island, this cove had always held a charmed fascination. As a small child, listening to the tales of gray witches that rose from its depths in the dark of the moon, she had time and again begged to be taken there.

As soon as she was old enough to row a punt this far, she had fairly haunted the spot on Saturdays and holidays. The banks of this pool were steep and rocky. There were spots where its depths even at low tide exceeded twenty feet. There were times when the waters were as dark and green as old jade. At such times the movement of the incoming tide seemed caused by some monster disturbed in his slumbers at the pool’s bottom, and the rush of water among the rocks seemed a whispering voice. The very fish she caught there were different. As if touched by the brush of a great artist, they took on fantastic colors—red, deep blue, purple and green. The girl loved the spot. She thrilled now as she neared it.

It had been on one of her Saturday afternoon fishing trips, not two weeks back, as you may remember, that she had first discovered that someone had taken up his abode on this small rocky and hitherto uninhabited island.

She fell to thinking now of the two great cats and the little man with the wide-rimmed glasses.

“There! Right back there!” she said suddenly as the light, swinging clear of the sea, continued to waver backward and forward in a jerky and uncertain manner.

“I know,” the boy answered. “Be there in a minute. It may be some false alarm. Be ready for a sudden start if I need to make it. If it’s smugglers or booze runners we may have to run for it. They don’t love company too well.”

The thing they saw as they rounded the reef and stood close in, astonished them much. Lying on her side, with a gash in her side, was a one time smartly rigged sailboat. Holding to the mast, and waving a lantern around which was wound a red cloth, was a boy a year or two younger than Don. Clinging to him for support as the heavy swell lifted and lowered the wreck was a mere slip of a girl.

“Not a day past twelve,” was Pearl’s mental comment.

In an instant she recognized them. Yet she could not believe her eyes.

“It can’t be,” she said in a low tone, more to herself than to Don. “But it is! It’s the girl Ruth saved from the surf at Monhegan, and her brother.”

The strangest part of all was that the girl at this moment showed no sign of terror. Her black eyes danced, as much as to say, “Well, here is a real lark!”

“Where’d you come from?” Don asked.

“Monhegan.”

“Monhegan!” Don gasped. A girl and a boy in a sailboat coming fifty miles over an open sea. The thing seemed incredible.

“We didn’t mean to come so far,” said the boy. “Went out for a little lark. Didn’t know much about this boat. Uncle gave her to me a week ago. She got going and I couldn’t head her in, so we just came on down. Some joke, eh?”

Don didn’t see any joke in it. A fine boat wrecked and all that, but he had to admit that affairs do not look the same to all people.

“What you going to do?” he asked.

“Can’t you take us ashore?”

“Yes. But this boat of yours?”

“Let her bust up. Don’t care much for sailing. Dad’s getting me a motor launch.”

“You mean—” Don stared incredulous. True, the sailboat was an old model. For all that, she had been a fast one in her day, and could easily be made seaworthy.

“Cost thousands,” he thought.

“Don! Don!” Pearl was tugging at his arm, whispering excitedly in his ear. “Ask them to let us have it. We can fix it up. I want it for my very own.”

So excited was she that her whisper came near to being a low scream. The strange boy heard, and smiled.

“If you can save her, she’s yours,” he promised. “Only get us out of this. We’re wet and getting cold.”

To Don the thing that the other boy proposed—that the boat, any boat for that matter, should be left to pound its heart out like a robin beating its breast against a cage, seemed a crime little short of murder. To a boy whose ancestors for generations have belonged on the sea, a ship is a living thing.

“We’ll take you over,” he said shortly. “Get in. Quick.”

Without further word, the boy and girl climbed aboard.

By great good fortune Ruth was at the dock when they came in. To her was entrusted the task of conducting the boy and girl to warm quarters where they might find a change of clothing.

In Ruth’s cottage the boy and girl sat beside the fisher girl in silence, dreamily watching the fire.

“Do you mean to say,” said Ruth, breaking the silence, “that your sister’s very narrow escape from drowning made no impression upon you, that you are as willing as ever to gamble with your life?”

“She didn’t drown, did she?” the boy looked at her and laughed. “She had luck. Her time hadn’t come, that’s all. No use making a fuss about that.”

“Life,” Ruth said quietly, “is a precious possession. No one has a right to think of it lightly.”

“Life,” said the boy with a toss of the head, “is a joke. We’re here because we’re here and because we are to have a good time. What’s the use of making a fuss?”

Ruth looked at him but said no more.

In her own room an hour later she sat looking off at the bay. Her thoughts were sadly mixed. She felt that the plan of life that had always been hers was slipping.

“Much work, friends, a home and a little pleasure now and then, holidays, and—and—

“‘Life,’” she quoted thoughtfully, “‘is a joke. Life is a joke. What’s the use of making a fuss?’”

She took down a box from a what-not in the corner. There was money in the box, the last of the swordfish money. She had bought a punt because it was truly needed. She had meant to spend the remainder for useful things about the house and for fishing tackle which was also very practical.

But now, “Life is a joke.” She allowed the coins to slip through her fingers like grains of sand.

“A figured taffeta dress,” she thought. “I’ve always wanted one, and a new hat, and new pumps. I’ll have them, too. Life is a joke.”

Had she truly convinced herself that it was not worth while to look upon the business of living as a serious matter? Who can say? Perhaps she did not know herself.

As for Don and Pearl, they hurried back and were soon busily engaged in the business of preparing to salvage the wreck.

To Pearl, who kept repeating to herself, “If we can only do it. If only we can!” the moments consumed by Don in rolling barrels and carrying chains to the sloop seemed endless. But at last with the meager deck of the _Foolemagin_ piled high, they headed once more for Witches Cove.

The cove, as they neared it this time, seemed more fearsome and ghostly than ever before. The moon was under a cloud. The clump of firs hung like a menacing thing over the cliff. The light from the mysterious stranger’s cabin was gone. Pearl shuddered as she caught the long drawn wail of a prowling cat.

She shook herself free from these fancies. There was work to be done. Would they succeed? She prayed that they might. The tide was still rising. That would help. The empty barrels, once they were sunk beneath the surface and chained to the broken hull, would help to buoy the sailboat up.

With practiced hand Don began the task that lay before him. Pearl helped when she could.

The first gray streaks of dawn were showing across the water when, with a little sigh of satisfaction, Don beached the disabled boat on their own sandy shore.

“With a line from shore,” said Don, “she’ll be safe here until noonday tide. Then I’ll get her drawn up high and dry.”

Pearl did not reply. Curled up in the prow of his motor boat, she had fallen fast asleep.

“Brave girl,” he whispered. “If we can make that boat tight and seaworthy she shall be all your own.”

* * * * * * * *

At eleven o’clock of a moonless, starlit night Pearl lay on the deck of the boat, her own first sailing boat. The work of repair was done. The _Flyaway_, as they had rechristened her, had gone on her maiden trip ’round the island and down the bay. She had proven herself a thing of unspeakable joy. Speed, quick to pick up, with a keel of lead that held her steady in a heavy blow, responsive to the lightest touch on rudder or sail, she was all that mind might ask or heart desire.

Already Pearl loved her as she might a flesh and blood companion. To lie on her deck here beneath the stars was like resting in the arms of her mother.

Three hours before, Ruth had rowed Pearl out in her new punt. Then, because there was work to do ashore, she had rowed back again.

One “Whoo-o! Whoo-o!” through cupped lips and she would come for her.

The night was still. Scarcely a vessel was stirring on the bay. Only once, a half hour or so before, she had caught the creak of oars. She had not so much as risen on elbow to see what boat it might be. Had she done so, she would have experienced a shock.

“Getting late,” she told herself. “Have to go in.”

Rising on her knees, she cupped her hands to utter the old familiar call, “Whoo-oo-ee.”

A call came echoing back. She listened for the sound of Ruth’s shoving off. Instead she caught low exclamations of surprise.

“Oh, Pearl,” came in troubled tones, “the punt’s gone! Did you see anybody?”

“No.” The girl was on her feet, fumbling the sail. “But I heard them. They were headed for Portland Harbor. They must have stolen it. Quick! Get some boat and come out. There’s a stiff breeze. We’ll catch them yet.”

“Right!” Ruth went racing down the beach.

For a girl Pearl displayed an astonishing amount of skill with sail and rigging. Before Ruth in a borrowed dory bumped alongside she had the sail up and was winding away at the anchor rope. A minute more and they were gliding silently through the night.

“Nothing like a sailboat for following a thief,” Ruth whispered. “Silent.”

“Not a sound. Slip right onto them.”

“Hope we can!” The older girl’s work-hardened fingers gripped a long oar. If they overhauled the thief there’d be no tardy justice. He’d get it good and plenty right on the side of the head. It was the way of the bay. They were heartless wretches, these Portland wharf rats. On the sea boat stealing is bad as horse stealing on land. Yet if one of these men missed the last ferry he took the first rowboat he came upon, rowed across the bay, then cut her adrift. The owner was not likely to see his boat again.

As the water glided beneath them and the semi-darkness advanced to swallow them up, Ruth kept an eye out for a light or a movement upon the water. Twice she thought they were upon them. Each time, with an intake of breath, she gave Pearl whispered instructions and the boat swerved in its course. Each time they were disappointed. A floating barrel, a clump of eel grass had deceived them.

And now they were nearing a vast bulk that loomed dark and menacing before them. Old Fort Georges, built of stone before the Civil War, now abandoned save as a storeroom and warehouse, lay directly in their path.

This fort, that was said by some to be a storing place for enough army explosives to blow the whole group of islands out to sea, had always cast a spell of gloom and half terror over the girl at the helm. She was glad enough when Ruth told her to swing over to the right and give it a wide berth.

The fort is built on a reef. To pass it one must allow for the reef. Pearl, who knew these waters as well as any man, was swinging far out when her cousin whispered:

“Wait! Swing her in a bit. I heard a sound over there. Like something heavy being dropped into a boat.”

As Pearl obeyed her heart was in her mouth. Eerie business, this skulking about an abandoned fort at midnight.

What followed will always remain a mass of confused memories in Pearl’s mind. As the boat glided along, something appeared before them. With a suddenness that was startling, Ruth cut down the sail, then seized the rudder. Even so they missed the other boat, Ruth’s punt, by a very narrow margin.

They shot by, but not before Ruth, jumping clear of the sailboat, landed in the punt.

As she gripped at her breast to still her heart’s mad beating, Pearl caught sounds of blows, then cries for mercy, followed by muttered words of warning. There came a splash, then another. Then save for the labored pant of someone swimming, all was still.

At once wild questions took possession of Pearl. What if her cousin had been thrown overboard? Here she was with sail down, a girl, defenseless.

Gripping the rope, she hauled madly at the sail. It went up with a sudden start, then stuck. She threw her whole weight upon it. It gave way suddenly, to drop her sprawling upon the deck. She lost her hold. The sail came down with a bang.

She was in the midst of her third frantic attempt to get under way, to go for help, when a voice quite near her said:

“It’s all right. Let the sail go. I’ll hoist it. Catch this painter.”

“Ruth!” Pearl’s tone voiced her joy.

A rope struck across the deck. She caught it. The next moment her cousin was climbing on board.

“It _was_ my punt,” said Ruth quietly.

“But the men? What did they do?”

“Went overboard, and swam for the fort. Let ’em shiver there till morning. Do ’em good. Teach ’em a lesson.”

“Something queer, though,” she said as she made the painter fast. “They seemed terribly afraid I’d beat up their cargo. Must be fresh eggs. Let’s have a flashlight. We’ll take a look.”

A circle of light fell across the punt. A long drawn breath of excitement escaped the girl’s lips.

“No wonder they were in a hurry to get away!” There was genuine alarm in her tone.

“Why? What is it?” Pearl gripped her arm.

“Dynamite,” Ruth answered soberly. “Enough to blow us all to Glory sixteen times. And if I had struck a stick of it squarely with my oar—” Again she let out a long low sigh.

“Well, we’ve got it,” she concluded. “Next thing is something else.”

There really was only one thing to be done; that was to take the dynamite to the office of the Coast Guard in Portland and to tell the officer all there was to tell about it. This they did on the next morning. When this was done they considered the matter closed. It was not, however, not by a long mile.