Aground

9
Morrison had turned and was wading back to the sand spit.
Rae Osborne sank down unsteadily on the cockpit cushions. “Why do you suppose he did it? Ruiz, I mean.”
Ingram shook his head. “Whatever his reasons were, he took ‘em with him. I think he’d finally just had all of this thing he could stomach. He wasn’t Morrison’s type of goon.”
“I think Morrison’s a psychopath.”
“Ruiz was probably beginning to have the same idea.”
“At least Morrison didn’t get the raft. But how will losing it affect us?”
“Not a great deal,” Ingram replied. “I was going to use it to carry out the kedge anchor, but I can still swing it. We’d better get started, though. It’ll be high tide in around three hours.”
“Rut what about the radio?”
“We’ll try that first. But don’t bet on it.”
They went down the ladder. The air was stifling below decks, with a sodden and lifeless heat that seemed to press in on them with almost physical weight. There were still some thirty or forty wooden cases stacked along the sides of the large after cabin, and the deck was littered with discarded rope lashings. He turned to the radiotelephone on its shelf aft on the port side. He loosened the knurled thumbscrews and slid out the drawer containing the transmitter section. Four of the tubes were gone from the sockets. Rae Osborne looked at him questioningly.
“Ruiz told me they threw them overboard,” Ingram said. “He could have been lying, of course, but I’m not so sure. They wouldn’t have let you wander around on here so freely if there’d been any chance of getting this thing operating again.”
“That’s right, too. But at least we can try.”
He nodded. “And another thing. While you’re searching, keep an eye open for a diving mask. I could use one, and most boats have a few kicking around somewhere. You start up in the crew’s quarters and work back through the galley. I’ll start here and go forward. But first I’d better check Morrison.”
There was a pair of big 7-X-50 glasses in a bracket above the navigator’s table on the starboard side. He grabbed these and went on deck. Crouching in the cockpit, he focused them on the sand spit. At first he couldn’t see the man, and began to feel uneasy. Then he swept the area around the piled boxes again and caught a momentary glimpse of the broad back just behind them. He was bent over, working on something on the ground. Ingram nodded. Trying to chew his way into those boxes, he thought; he’s got six hundred rifles over there and enough ammunition for two or three small wars. He’ll try his best to keep us pinned down here till he can make it back aboard.
He returned below and began the search for the tubes. He went over every inch of the after cabin, moving the crated guns around to get at things. He searched the drawers under the bunks, and the spaces beneath the drawers, the chart stowage, medicine locker, inside the RDF and the all-wave radio, book racks, clothing lockers, and even in the bilge. He found a carton of radiotelephone spare parts which contained several tubes, but they were apparently all for the receiver; at any rate, none matched the type numbers stamped beside the empty sockets. He moved into the two double staterooms that faced each other across the narrow passageway connecting the main cabin and the galley, but found nothing except the suitcase which had apparently belonged to Ives.
By this time Rae Osborne had been through everything in the galley. “No tubes,” she said. “But here’s a diving mask I found in a locker up forward.” They went aft. Ingram looked at his watch; it was 2:20 p.m.
“Scratch the radiotelephone,” he said. “So we either refloat the schooner or stay here.”
“Can we do it?” she asked.
“I think so—” He broke off suddenly and listened. She had heard it too, and looked at him with some alarm. It was a rifle shot, coming to them faintly across the water. There was another. She waited tensely, and then shook her head with a rueful smile. “Makes me nervous, waiting for it to hit.”
“Don’t give it a thought,” he said. “If it’s going to hit anything, it already has before you hear the shot. The bullet travels about twice as fast as the sound. I think he’s sighting in one of those rifles. Keep listening.”
He had hardly finished speaking when something struck the hull just forward of them with a sharp thaaack, followed a fraction of a second later by the sound of the shot. She nodded.
There were four or five more shots, and then the firing ceased. “He’s warning us to stay off the deck, so we can’t do anything about getting her afloat,” Ingram explained.
She looked worried. “What do we have to do? And can we do it?”
“I think so. The first thing is to finish lightening ship. I’ll need the mattresses off all those bunks.”
She gave him a burlesque salute, and a lopsided smile that was inhibited on one side by the grandfather of all shiners. “One order of mattresses coming up. I wouldn’t know what for, but you seem to know what you’re doing.”
He grinned briefly. “Let’s just hope you still think so twenty-four hours from now.”
While she was bringing the mattresses, he picked out three of the long wooden boxes that apparently contained disassembled machine guns, and shoved them up the ladder. After going into the cockpit himself but staying down to keep out of sight, he laboriously worked them up onto the deck and lined them up end-to-end along the starboard side of the cockpit. When he was putting the second one in place, Morrison began shooting again. Two bullets struck the hull, one directly below him. She was pushing the mattresses up the ladder now. There were ten altogether. He propped six up along the outside of the machine-gun boxes and laid four in a pile atop the deckhouse just forward of the hatch. They should shield the cockpit against direct gunfire and the danger of flying splinters. They knelt for a moment behind them, resting in the shade of the awning. “Cozy,” she said appreciatively. Just then Morrison opened fire again with a string of three shots. All three of them struck the same spot, the outer mattress propped against the forward machine-gun box.
Ingram frowned. “With iron sights, at three hundred yards? He’s bragging.” Two more slapped against the same mattress; they could see the upper edge kick as they hit. He grabbed the glasses and peered cautiously over the ones atop the deckhouse. Morrison was firing from a prone position, using a rest made up of one of the cases and what appeared to be a rolled blanket, the one they’d left over there. But it was the rifle that caught his eye and caused him to whistle softly; it had a telescopic sight.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Scope-sighted deal,” he explained. “Apparently some of those were either sniper’s rifles or sporting guns.”
“That’s bad, I take it?”
“Not particularly, but I’d have been just as happy with something a little less specialized.” He was thinking of having to take that kedge anchor out; it was beginning to look considerably less simple. Morrison could shoot, and he had something to shoot with.
She looked at him curiously. “You sound like another gun expert. Were you one of those jungle commandos too?”
He shook his head. “I was in the Navy. I never shot a rifle during the whole war, except in boot camp. But I used to do a lot of hunting.”
“Where?”
“Texas, and Sonora, when I was a boy.”
“Where are you from?”
“Corpus Christi. My father was a bar pilot there.”
She looked around musingly. “You don’t suppose this might set a new record of some sort for the places Texans run into each other?”
“I doubt it. But I’d better get to work.”
“What can I do?” she asked.
“Nothing at the moment. Just stay back and keep down.” He went below and began shoving the heavy wooden cases up the ladder. When he had several in the cockpit, he came up, lifted them onto the deck on the port side, and shoved them overboard. There was something very satisfying in the splash they made; he was sick to death of Morrison and his damned guns. It was a long, hard job, and he was winded and drenched with sweat as he took a last look around the cabin where nothing remained now of its late cargo but the confused litter of rope. He went above and shoved the last ones overboard, and looked at his watch. It was 3:40. Glancing out across the water, he noted the incoming tide had slowed now; it should be slack high in a little over an hour. He wiped sweat from his face. “So much for that.”
Rae Osborne indicated the five cases of ammunition still lined up along the port rail near the break of the deckhouse. “How about those?”
Ingram shook his head. “We keep them for the time being. They’re our hole card, in case this other stuff doesn’t work.”
“I feel useless, letting you do everything.”
“I’ll have something for you in a minute. In the meantime, whenever Morrison gets quiet over there, check him with the glasses.”
“You think he might try to swim out?”
“I don’t think he will in daylight, but we can’t take any chances. Keep your head low.”
Ducking down the ladder again, he went forward to the locker beyond the crew’s quarters and dug out an anchor. It was a standard type, with a ten-foot section of heavy chain shackled to the ring; it would do nicely. He carried it aft and came back for a heavy coil of nylon anchor warp. While he was getting this out, he came across a pair of four-sheave blocks and a coil of smaller line he could use for a tackle. He grunted with satisfaction; it would be better than the main sheet to haul with. Trying to use the Dragoon’s anchor windlass up there on the exposed fore-deck would be sheer suicide. Morrison would have a clear shot at him with that scope-sighted rifle. He carried it all aft and dumped it in the cockpit. At the same time Morrison cut loose with a string of four shots as if he were practicing rapid fire. One of them struck the side of the mainmast and ricocheted with the whine of an angry and lethal insect.
Rae Osborne watched with rapt interest as he wedged the anchor’s stock and bent the nylon warp to the ring at the end of the chain. “Where does it go?” she asked.
He nodded astern. “Straight aft as far as I can get it.”
“But how do you take it out there?”
“Walk and carry it.”
She grinned. “So you ask a silly question—”
“No, that’s right. I’ll admit it’s not quite the standard procedure, but it’s about all we’ve got left. That’s what I wanted the diving mask for.”
“But how about breathing?”
“That’s easy. The water’s not over seven or eight feet deep until I hit the channel, and then it’s not over twelve.”
“What about Morrison and that rifle?”
“No problem,” he said, wishing he felt as confident about it as he was trying to sound. He lowered the anchor over the side and arranged the coil of line in the bottom of the cockpit. “You pay it out. And when you get within twenty or thirty feet of the end, hang on.”
She nodded. “Roger.”
He took the automatic out of his belt and put it on the seat beside her. “You know how to operate the safety on this?”
“No. I don’t know anything about guns at all.”
He showed her. “That’s all there is to it, besides pulling the trigger. If Morrison should make it out here and get aboard, kill him. None of this TV routine of pointing it at him and trying to impress him. Put it in the middle of his chest and empty the clip.”
She looked apprehensive. “I think I get the message. All this is just in case you don’t come back? Is this anchor really necessary?”
“Absolutely. But there’s no danger. I’m just covering all bases.”
“All right. Anything else?”
“That’s all, except looking the other way till I get in the water.”
She turned away while he stripped down to his shorts and dropped over the side with the mask. Adjusting the latter, he went under. Some of the boxes he had thrown overboard were piled up almost to the surface under the schooner’s side. He pulled them down so the schooner wouldn’t fall over against them on the next low tide in the event they didn’t get off this time. There was no hull damage, at least on this side. Her keel was stuck in the bottom—just how far, he couldn’t be sure. A lot would depend on what kind of tide they got this time. He surfaced for another breath, and Rae Osborne was leaning across the deck looking down at him. “Be careful,” she said. He nodded, went under, and picked up the anchor.
It was still heavy, even submerged, but the weight held his feet firmly against the bottom so he had no difficulty walking. He noted with satisfaction that the water was slightly deeper astern; once they got her back as far as twelve or fifteen feet, they’d have it made. He walked bent over and leaning forward to cut down the water’s resistance. He turned and looked back. The water was as transparent as air; he was going straight, and the line was paying out beautifully. He was about thirty feet past the stern now. Dropping the anchor, but holding a bight of the line in his hand, he let himself rise until his face broke the surface, took a quick breath, and pulled down against the weight of the anchor and its chain. He picked it up and went on.
The bottom so far was all sand, with patches of grass. There were numbers of conchs scattered about in the grass, and once he saw a leopard ray and a small barracuda. The current was beginning to bother him now as he got more line out. The schooner was fading out behind him, and it was harder to keep in a straight line. He surfaced again.
Nothing happened. Morrison still hadn’t seen him. The bottom sloped downward. He was going down into the channel, in water ten to twelve feet deep. Just before the schooner disappeared completely behind him, he picked out an isolated clump of grass ahead for a landmark. The going was harder now; it was backbreaking work pulling the line. He surfaced again, and just as he sucked in his breath and went under, something exploded against the water off to his left like the slap of a canoe paddle. He felt a little chill of apprehension. Morrison had located him at last.
The next time he surfaced, the explosion was nearer, and the third time he barely had his head under when the bullet struck and ricocheted off the surface so close to him he could feel the impact in the water. Nobody could sight and shoot that fast; Morrison was tracking him. He had his course figured out, and how far he was going each time, and was waiting. Well, he could solve that. He picked up the anchor, but this time, instead of plowing on until he was out of breath, he stopped after three steps and began pulling the line toward him and gathering it in coils. When he surfaced, he was twenty feet short of where Morrison was expecting him. When he went down again he was able to make a fast thirty feet with the coiled slack line he had. Both times, the shots were wide.
But he was beginning to be afraid now. He wasn’t getting enough oxygen for the tremendous exertion of pulling that anchor warp across the tide, and carbon dioxide was accumulating to dangerous levels in his body. Those hurried gulps of air weren’t enough; he had to stay longer on the surface, or drown. Then, suddenly, he could get no slack at all. He’d come out to the end. He took another breath, heard the bullet strike somewhere beyond him, and worked the anchor back and forth, digging its fluke into the bottom. He started back, going very fast now, pulling himself hand over hand along the warp. When he came up for air, Morrison wasn’t expecting him in this direction, and there was no shot. He had to surface once more on the way back, and then he could see the schooner’s stern ahead of him. Just as he was about to black out completely he came up under her side and lay on the surface too weak to move as he held onto the line and drank in air in long, shuddering breaths.
Rae Osborne was just above him, the fear still showing on her face. “Let’s don’t go through that again. I thought he was going to kill you.”
Ingram could only nod. It was two or three minutes before his strength began to return. “Toss the line up over the boom,” he directed, “and pass me the other end.” He caught the doubled line and managed to pull himself on deck. She disappeared down the ladder while he slipped on the khaki trousers, and when she came back she silently handed him a towel. He collapsed on the cockpit seat and mopped at the water running out of his hair.
“That was a little too much,” he gasped. “I guess I’m an old man.”
“Not old, Ingram. But a man.”
He glanced up quickly. There was sudden confusion in her face. “Well, thank you,” he said, surprised.
The old arrogance of manner was back now and everything was under control. “Forget it,” she said indifferently.
“Sure. But sometimes I wish I could figure you out.”
“Really? I thought you’d done a beautiful job of that—and expressing your opinion.”
“So I was wrong,” he said uncomfortably. “But I did try to apologize, didn’t I, when I found out it was just an act?”
“Oh, that.” She dismissed it with a shrug. “I was talking about Nassau, there in the Carlton House bar.”
He stared at her, completely baffled. “Carlton House? When were you in there?”
It was her turn to stare. She sank down on the opposite side of the cockpit just as one of Morrison’s 30-caliber slugs struck the foremast and went screaming off across the water; neither of them even noticed it. “Oh, good Lord! You mean you didn’t even see me?”
“No,” he replied. “I didn’t see you anywhere. Except there in your room.”
“Ouch! Don’t remind me of that. I guess I’m the one who owes you an apology. But I was furious. I thought you’d done it deliberately.”
“I’m sorry,” Ingram said. “That’s happened to me before. I’m an absent-minded goof at times, and I think I was reliving my past.” He was conscious of still being puzzled, however; she was too intelligent to get very upset over anything as petty as that.
She grinned. “I don’t think you’ve grasped the real beauty of it yet. Most of the time I seem to have all the social grace of a water buffalo. It’s just carelessness, but it can lead to some very embarrassing situations. You remember I got out of the taxi to go shopping, and asked you to take my things on to the hotel and register for me. I was two blocks away before it dawned on me this was a little on the casual side, to say the least, since I didn’t know anything about you at all. There was no telling what you might think, or how you might take it. And to make it worse, I couldn’t even remember exactly what I’d said. But of course when I got out to the Pilot House Club everything was all right. Apparently whatever I’d said hadn’t been that ambiguous, and I’d been embarrassed about nothing. It even struck me as a little funny—until I walked into the Carlton House bar where you were drinking beer and sat down around the curve of the bar and smiled at you, and you looked right through me and three feet out the other side. So much for the amusing little situation.”
“I am sorry,” Ingram said. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Maybe under the circumstances, we’d better just go back and start over.” She solemnly held out her hand. “I’m Snafu Osborne, the girl with two left feet and a stranded yacht.”
“Cousin Weak-eyes Yokum, ma’am,” he said gravely, and took her hand. “And I’ll get your boat back in the water if you’ll promise never to tell anybody I looked at you and didn’t see you. They might lock me up.”
She laughed. “Well, I’m glad we’ve got that straightened out. Now what’s next on the schedule?”
“All we have to do now is get a tackle on that anchor warp. You can help me reeve these blocks.” He slipped the T-shirt over his head and put his sneakers and the watch back on. After laying the two blocks out in opposite ends of the cockpit, he began reeving the line through the sheaves. When it was completed, he crawled forward along the port side of the deckhouse and made one end of the tackle fast to a cleat. Then he led the anchor warp in through the chock on the stern, hauled it as tight as possible by hand, and took a purchase on it with the tackle. He hauled again. With the multiplying leverage of the big four-sheave blocks the anchor warp came out of the water astern, dripping and as tight as a drumhead. The blocks were overhauling now. He stopped the warp off at a cleat on the stern, ran the tackle out again, took a new purchase, and hauled. The anchor was holding beautifully, and the warp ran straight out now, as rigid as a steel bar. He took a turn around a cleat to hold the strain, and looked forward along the deck. The Dragoon was on an even keel as well as he could tell, and the tide was still flooding almost imperceptibly onto the Bank. They might make it, he thought; they just might. He held up crossed fingers. She smiled as they faced each other crouched on the bottom of the cockpit.
“What do we do now?” she asked.
“Just hold what we’ve got. In a few minutes we’ll start the engine and try to back her off.”
“And if she doesn’t come off?”
‘We’ll try again on the next tide. In the morning.”
“I’m sorry I got you into this mess, Ingram.”
“You didn’t,” he said. “Ives did.”
“I’m still responsible. You just got caught in the line of fire.”
“Who was Ives?” he asked.
“My first husband,” she said.
“Oh.” He turned and looked out across the water. “That was the reason you didn’t tell the police?”
“No. I didn’t tell them because I still wasn’t sure then that Hollister was Patrick Ives. I wanted to find out definitely. There wasn’t much they could do, anyway, as long as the boat was out here.”
“And you were afraid something had happened to him?”
“No.” She smiled faintly. “I was trying to catch up with him for the same reason you were. I have a stubborn streak in me, and I hate being played for a sucker. To be quite frank, he made an awful fool of me. Did Ruiz say anything at all while I was down there getting the rope?”
“No. Except that I’d have to go ahead and shoot. He wouldn’t go back. I asked him if it was Ives they killed, but he wouldn’t say.”
“Do you think it was?”
“It could have been,” Ingram said. “It’s a cinch something happened to him between the night they stole the boat and the night they loaded the guns aboard.”
A bullet slammed into the hull just forward of them, followed immediately by the sound of the rifle. Maybe Morrison was trying to drive them crazy. He looked out at the surface of the water that was almost at a standstill now as the tide reached its peak. Reaching past her, he switched on the ignition, set the choke, and pressed the starter. On the second attempt, the engine rumbled into life. He let it warm up for two or three minutes and checked the wheel to be sure it was amidships.
There eyes met. He nodded. “Here we go. We hope.”
He put the engine in reverse and advanced the throttle. Bracing his feet against the end of the cockpit, he caught the tackle and hauled. Rae Osborne slid over beside him and threw her weight on the line. There was vibration from the engine, and water rushed forward along the sides of the schooner from the churning propeller, but the Dragoon remained hard and fast against the bottom with the unmoving solidity of a rock.
Thirty minutes later he cut the ignition and slumped down in the cockpit, exhausted. As the sound of the engine died, a bullet slammed into the furled mainsail above them. There was something mocking about it, he thought; maybe it was Morrison’s way of laughing at them.