Aground

11
He thought of her, and hoped she hadn’t heard him come up. He needed a few minutes alone to pull himself together; he couldn’t face her this way. But still he was going to have to tell her; there was no way to avoid it. Their chances of escape were almost gone now, and until he got the last of that gasoline out of there they were living on a potential bomb. A pint of gasoline in the bilge could form an explosive mixture in the air inside a boat, and they had two hundred gallons of it. Just one spark from anything—static electricity, a light switch, even a short circuit in the electrical system from one of Morrison’s bullets—and the Dragoon would go up like a Roman candle.
Using the engine was out of the question. Even if any fuel remained in the tanks when the schooner righted herself, trying to start it would be an act of madness when the slightest spark at the starter brushes or the generator could blow them out of the water. And even after he pumped the bilges dry, it wouldn’t be safe; not for days.
They had to be washed out, and ventilated. But the mere consideration of these technical matters was beginning to have its calming effect; potentially ghastly as they might be, they were still technical, and fear receded as the professional mind took over. They didn’t need the damned engine to get back to Florida, if they could only get her afloat. And there was still a chance of that—a slight one, but a chance. Pumping the gasoline out would lighten her by another thousand to fifteen hundred pounds, and they might be able to pull her off with the kedge alone now that he had the gear rigged to haul her down on her side. At that moment another bullet slapped into the hull up forward and the sound of Morrison’s rifle came to him across the water. That completed the job. He had hated few people in his life, but right now he hated Morrison, and he thought of him with a cold and implacable anger. They wouldn’t be defeated by him. If it’s the last thing I ever do on earth, he thought, I’m going to beat him.
He slipped forward along the deck. When he knelt beside her, she said, “I smell gasoline.”
“It’s on me, a little on my trousers.” He told her about it. She took it well, as he should have known she would. “I don’t think it’s going to change things too much. We may still get off on this tide. Just remember, don’t smoke. Don’t turn on a light. Don’t even go below. And that means even after I get it pumped overboard.”
“I understand. What shall I do?”
The schooner creaked as she came up a little in the darkness. “Just listen for Morrison,” he said. “As long as he’s shooting, it’s all right, but the tide’s flooding now and it’ll drive him off that flat pretty soon. If he’s going to try to get aboard it’ll be within the next few hours. Go right up to the corner of the forward deckhouse so you’ll be sure to hear him. The gasoline going overboard will make some noise.”
“Right, Skipper.”
“You’re magnificent. Or did I tell you that?”
“You can be as repetitious as you want. I don’t mind at all. Actually, I’m scared green. You just can’t see it.”
He took her face between his hands. “I’m going to get us out of here.”
“Have I ever doubted it?” she asked. “You might call me a fan. I’ve been watching you in operation for the past—good Lord, has it only been two days?”
“All I’ve done so far is lose.”
“That could be a matter of opinion, Ingram. But, listen—if you expect me to keep my mind on Morrison, we’re going to have to spread out.”
She disappeared into the darkness forward. He went back to the cockpit. There was no way now to tell what time it was, but it must be after one. High tide would be between 4:30 and 5:30; call it four hours from now. Using the power-driven bilge pump was out of the question now, of course, since they couldn’t start the engine, but the hand pump would empty it easily in less than an hour and still take care of any water that might seep in through Morrison’s bullet holes. It was on the narrow bridge deck between the cockpit and the break of the deckhouse. He groped around until he found the plate that covered it, grabbed the handle, and began pumping. He could hear the gasoline going over the side in a satisfying stream. Off in the darkness to starboard Morrison’s rifle cracked, but there was no sound of the bullet’s striking the boat. Five minutes went by. The gasoline continued to flow; he’d have it out in a half hour, he thought, the way it was going. Then the handle became harder to raise, and the sound of the stream died to a trickle. It stopped. He cursed, wearily and bitterly, sunk for a moment in utter despair. Damn Tango and his filthy housekeeping. There was no telling what kind of mare’s nest of litter there was in the bilges.
The answer, of course, was simple enough; go down there, locate the suction, and clear it. He thought of it, and shuddered—thought of the dead blackness so impenetrable that directions ceased to have any meaning, of kneeling in gasoline and running his arms down in it while the flaming torch that was Barney Gifford did its frenzied and spasmodic dance along the perimeter of his mind. He mopped sweat from his face. Well, she thinks you’re a grown man; either go down and do it, or go up there and tell her that she’s wrong. It’s all mental, anyway; as long as there’s nothing to set it off, it’s harmless, provided you come up for air before you breathe too much of it. He began taking off his clothes. He put the gun and his watch and sneakers on the seat beside them so he could find them in the darkness, and went down the ladder clad only in his shorts.
At the bottom, he turned and faced aft, visualizing the location of the pump. The cabin sole was dry here, near amidships; the gasoline that had come out of the bilge was out near the bulkhead as she lay over on her side. He could hear it still running out of the tanks, but not as strongly now. Kneeling, he groped around until he found the access hatch, and lifted it out. He started to think of Barney, and the nightmare began to crowd in around the edge of his mind. He pushed it back and concentrated coldly on the job. The fumes were choking him; it was time to go up for air. He went up the ladder until his head and shoulders were out of the hatch, breathed deeply for two or three minutes, and returned. Locating the opening, he groped around in the gasoline beneath it, but couldn’t find the bilge pump suction. He stepped down into it, in gasoline up to his knees, knelt down, and felt further aft. There it was. He could feel the soggy mass of papers around it. The fumes were beginning to make him sick now. He pulled the papers out and threw them toward the starboard side of the cabin. Then he became aware that there were more, both on the bottom under his feet and floating free where he had stirred them up with his splashing around. He felt one brush against his hand, caught it, and lifted it out, and from its size and shape he was pretty sure what it was. Somebody had stored cans of food in the bilges without removing the labels.
He swore softly in the darkness, and managed to fish out three more. A bullet tore through the planking with a splintering sound and slapped into the bulkhead somewhere just forward of him. He shuddered, thinking of the electrical circuits, but went on groping. Then it occurred to him that he was doing more harm than good. As long as they were lying on the bottom they probably wouldn’t get into the suction, but he was stirring up more than he was getting out. He climbed back to the cockpit, wiped the gasoline off his legs and arms with the towel, and began pumping. In five minutes the suction was clogged again.
He went down into the blackness and the fumes and the border country of nightmare once more, and was crouched knee-deep in gasoline with his face just above its surface when he froze suddenly and the skin along his back drew tight with the stabbing of a thousand needles. It was a sound, the familiar, homelike throbbing of an electrical appliance nobody ever really listened to—the refrigerator motor. He’d forgotten all about it until now; the thermostat had tripped, and it had come on. He waited for the white and blinding flash of the explosion. Nothing happened. Seconds ticked away. His legs were trembling, but he breathed again, softly, almost tentatively, as though even daring to hope might tip the scales the other way.
There was nothing he could do. He could go forward to the galley and disconnect it, but breaking the circuit while there was a load on it would cause a spark. None of the switches or electrical fittings aboard were vapor-proof. He went on waiting. A full minute must have gone by now. Maybe the fumes weren’t as dense up there, since the bulk of the gasoline was aft. Strength began to return to his legs and arms, and his mind cleared sufficiently to warn him of the other and ever-present danger—asphyxiation. He hurriedly cleared the pump suction and went back up the ladder. The motor was still humming its industrious way along the edge of eternity.
He caught the pump handle, and for a second he was conscious of a crazy impulse to laugh and wondered if he’d begun to crack. Even this simple act of pumping the stuff overboard could blow it up; the friction of the gasoline against the walls of the pipe and against the air and the water as it fell over the side into the sea generated enough static electricity to set it off. Except for the saving grace of the almost saturated humidity around them, they’d probably be dead already. He went on pumping. After a while you get numb, he thought; you can’t absorb any more, so it rolls off. This time it was nearly ten minutes before the pump clogged. As the trickle died and silence closed over the boat once more, he became aware that the refrigerator motor had cut out. He went below, groped his way forward, and pulled out the plug. He cleared the suction, and returned to the pump. In less than two minutes it choked off again. He went below and cleared it. When he came back he vomited over the side and his skin was inflamed and itching from immersion in the gasoline. He pumped. It was scarcely twenty strokes before the stream died to a trickle and quit. He sat down on the cockpit seat.
It was hopeless. He was never going to pump it overboard until it was light down there and he could see those papers and get them all out at once. Dipping the towel over the side to wet it, he scrubbed at his legs and arms in an attempt to get some of the gasoline off them, and put his clothes back on. The taste of defeat was bitter in his mouth and he wanted to smash his fists against the deck. Maybe they would never get the Dragoon off. They were doomed to stay here forever—or until some random spark blew them into flaming wreckage.
No! He stood up. They weren’t whipped yet; there was still the fresh water. He slipped forward and knelt beside Rae Osborne. “I may have got a third of it out,” he added, after he had told her about it. “Pumping some of the fresh water overboard will help too. We’ve still got a chance.”
“Of course we have. She’s coming up all the time.”
He’d been oblivious to the passage of time, and wondered how long they had now until high tide. “How long has it been since there was a shot from Morrison? I forgot about him.”
“Nearly a half hour.”
That was ominous. He hated leaving her up here alone, trying to watch both ends of the boat at once, but he had to get that water out. Every pound was important. Then he had an idea. “Did you ever do any fishing?”
“Once or twice.” She sounded puzzled. “Why?”
“That’s what you’re going to do right now.” He went aft to the cockpit and groped around for a piece of line that was long enough. Making one end fast around the anchor warp, he came forward, paying it out, and put it in her hand. “Pull it taut, and just hold it. If he gets on back there, you’ll feel him.”
“Fine. Where will you be?”
“In the galley. Just yell, and I’ll be here in five seconds.”
He slipped down the forward hatch and felt his way back to the galley. The pump was over the sink. He groped around until he found several pots, filled them with water, and set them aside for insurance. There was no telling how much was in the tanks, and if he pumped them dry before he realized it, they would be in trouble. He began pumping into the sink and letting it run overboard. The gasoline fumes weren’t as bad here as in the after cabin, but they were still too strong to breathe for very long. He opened the porthole above the sink and leaned forward to get his face in front of it. He was all right then. A timber creaked as the schooner righted herself a little more on the rising tide. He wondered how much longer they had, and increased the tempo of his pumping. Sweat dripped from his face. If he could get even a hundred gallons overboard it would lighten the schooner by at least another eight hundred pounds. Then it occurred to him that if many of Morrison’s bullet holes were below the water line as the tide came up and she righted herself, salt water might be running into the bilges faster than he was pumping out the fresh. Well, there was nothing he could do about it. Maybe it was hopeless, and had been from the first. It was beginning to seem now that he had been aboard this grounded boat forever, and he wondered if he would even recognize the feel of one that was afloat and free beneath his feet.
He heard her footsteps on deck, and then she spoke softly near the porthole. “Skipper?”
Morrison, he thought, and felt for the gun against his stomach. “Yes?”
“Everything’s all right. I just wanted to tell you it’s getting pink in the east. I can see the water a little now, and it seems to be hardly moving.”
He hurried on deck. She was right. It was still too dark to see the sand spit, but there was definitely a touch of color in the east. He strained his eyes outward toward the surface of the water, and could make out that the tide was flooding very slowly now. They’d be at the peak in less than half an hour.
“Here we go,” he said. “Keep your fingers crossed.”
“Right. But is there anything I can do of a more practical nature?”
“There will be, very shortly. Just wait here. It’ll be almost an hour before he has light enough to use that scope-sighted rifle, so I’m going to haul with the anchor windlass this time. We’ll get this schooner off or pull her in two.”
He hurried aft and gathered up the free end of the warp. Then he returned to the bow, threw five or six turns on the windlass drum, set the ratchet, and handed her the end. “Just hang on,” he said. He inserted the bar in one of the slots at the edge of the drum, and winched it upward. The warp came taut. Going aft again, he slacked the tackle and cast it off. The warp was clear the full length of the deck except at the corner of the forward deckhouse. It wasn’t much of a fairlead, but it would have to do.
She was on an absolutely even keel, as nearly as he could tell. If she was ever going to come off, she should do it now. He wondered if he should dog down the ports along that side. No, it would take a lot more weight on that boom than he had now to bring her down that far. “Hang on,” he called out to Rae Osborne. “We’re going to take a list.”
“Okay, Skipper,” she called back.
He slacked off the main sheet, and hauled on the guy. The main boom with its dangling cluster of ammunition boxes swung slowly outward. The deck began to list. The boom came up against the sheet and stopped. He ran back and pulled some more slack through the blocks, and hauled the guy again. The boom came directly outboard and the deck rolled down until the scuppers were almost awash. Then he wanted to cry out with joy; there had been a definite tremor under his feet, the feeling of a boat that was alive. She’d moved!
Rae Osborne called out excitedly. “I felt something!”
He laughed. “What you felt was a schooner trying to see if it remembers how to float.”
He quickly tied off the guy and made the main sheet fast to hold the boom in position. The ammunition boxes dangled just above the water, directly abeam. He ran forward. It was growing light now, and the tide was at a standstill. They had to get her off before it started to drop. Ten or fifteen minutes at the most, he thought.
He slid the bar into a slot in the drum, and heaved upward. The ratchet clicked, and clicked again. Just taking up the slack, he thought. Come on, baby. You can do it. The warp ran aft as rigid as iron. He took a fresh purchase and heaved. The ratchet clicked three times in rapid succession, and then once more, and Rae Osborne cried out, “Ingram! She moved—” Her voice broke, and he realized for the first time that she was crying.
They got a foot. Another foot. She stopped. He heaved upward with his shoulder under the bar, praying the anchor would hold and that the warp wouldn’t part. She came free, and moved back a few inches. Her keel’s still dragging in the sand, he thought. But if they could get her back another fifteen feet they’d have it made. Sweat was pouring off his face. Rae Osborne was leaning back with her feet braced against the deck, pulling against the windlass with all her strength. “You don’t have to pull,” he gasped. “Just keep a strain.” “I know,” she said brokenly, “but I can’t help it.” They were gaining steadily now. Five feet of warp came in over the stern. She stopped again. He put his shoulder to the bar. God, he prayed, don’t let her hang up now. Just a few more feet. Just a few more—She came free. She moved ten feet. Fifteen. The line began to come in smoothly, almost easily. The keel was off the sand now, and she was completely afloat. He dropped the bar and ran aft. Jumping down into the cockpit, he caught the warp and hauled.
She was moving freely, and they could pull her faster without the windlass as long as they kept her momentum alive. Rae Osborne ran back and joined him. They pulled side by side, gasping for breath, while the coil of dripping nylon grew larger in the cockpit. Then they were in the channel, with at least six feet of water under the keel. The warp began to lead downward. He took a turn and a hitch around the cleat, and stood up.
Rae Osborne straightened, and stood looking at him with tears streaming down her face. She brushed at them with her hand, and laughed, but her voice broke and she started to cry again. “Don’t mind me,” she said in a very small voice. “I’m just having the hysterics you promised me.” Then she was in his arms, and he was kissing her on the mouth and throat and all over the tear-streaked face. They both began to laugh, somewhat crazily, and collapsed on the cockpit seat.
“Ingram, you did it! You’re wonderful.”
“We did it,” he corrected.
“Was I any help?”
“You don’t think I could have done it alone, do you?”
“What do we do now?”
“Hold her here until the tide starts to ebb, and then let her drift down this channel until we’re at least out of range of Morrison and his rifle. Then we’ll have to wait for a breeze to sail her off the Rank. We’ve got no control over her at all this way, and we might go aground again.”
“Good Lord! I forgot all about Morrison. Why do you suppose he didn’t shoot at us when he saw we were getting away?”
“He may not know it yet,” Ingram said. “He must have gone to sleep. I just hope he doesn’t wake up until we get farther away.” He reached for the glasses and focused them on the sand spit, but the light was still too poor to see anything at that distance. He could be asleep behind the boxes, anyway.
“What’ll happen to him now?” she asked.
“He’s got water. He’ll be all right until the Coast Guard can send a boat or plane down to pick him up.”
They sat and rested, suddenly aware now with the release of tension just how near complete exhaustion they were. “Do you realize,” she asked, “that it was only two days ago, almost to the hour, that we landed out here?”
He shook his head. “It’s not possible.”
The schooner swung around. The tide was beginning to ebb. There was enough light now to judge the water’s depth with some degree of safety. He heaved up the anchor and let her drift slowly seaward, watching the water ahead. After about four hundred yards he let go the anchor again, gave her enough scope to hold, and took the warp forward so she would lie bow to the tide in the normal manner. He heaved the lead. “Fifteen feet,” he said. “And plenty of water on all sides. We’re at least a half mile from him now, so he won’t even bother to shoot. We’ll wait here till we get a breeze, and in the meantime I’ll start cleaning out the bilge so we can pump that gas overboard.”
The sun was just coming up. She looked around, and sighed, almost in wonder. “I just can’t seem to grasp the fact we’re off that sand bar at last.”
Something fell below in the cabin. It sounded as though books were sliding out of the rack because of the schooner’s extreme list to port. “I’ll take care of it,” Ingram said. “I want to open the rest of those portholes, anyway.”
He went down the ladder. The light below was quite good now, and he could see the lake of gasoline extending up out of the bilge along the port side for almost the full length of the cabin. He thought it was higher than it had seemed in the dark; the chances were that water had come in through some of Morrison’s bullet holes and the gas was floating on top of it. Well, no more could come in while she was over on her side, and he could take care of it as soon as he cleared the litter out of the bilge. The fumes were sickening. Two books had fallen out of a rack and were lying in the edge of the gasoline near the forward end of the cabin. He picked them up and tossed them onto a bunk.
“Youse is a good boy, Herman,” a voice said behind him. “I knew all the time you could do it.”
He whirled. Morrison was leaning against the ladder, naked except for a pair of shorts. He had a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, a pack of them in his left hand, and a large kitchen match in his right, its head poised under his thumbnail. He grinned, and tossed the pack. “Smoke?”