CHAPTER XIX
COINCIDENCE
Whistler kept cool in his mind. As far as his body went, that was icy.
He knew that, after all, he was personally in less danger than those whohad been thrown far from the boat. He could hear nothing of what went onoutside; the rolling and plunging of the overturned yawl continued.
Where had Torry gone? And the ensign, and the other members of theyawl's crew? Once Whistler had spent a long time in the sea, driftingabout on a hatchcover; having been saved from that perilous adventure,he was not likely easily to give up hope now.
There was air enough under the overturned yawl, and he knew herwater-tight compartments would keep her afloat indefinitely. But theremight be work for him to do outside.
He might help the other members of the shipwrecked crew. Therefore hefilled his lungs with air and dived under the side of the yawl.
Just as he came out into the open sea he collided with another personcoming down. They seized each others' hands and rose to the surface.
It was Torry! When they popped up and expelled the air from their lungsand blinked the water from their eyes, each boy instantly recognized theother.
"Crickey!" coughed Torrance. "I thought we'd lost you."
"Are you all right?" demanded Morgan.
"Just as all right as a fellow can be when he--he can't walk ashore,"chattered Torry.
"Here's the yawl!" cried Whistler. "Where's Mr. MacMasters? And Rosy andSlim? And the others?"
But when his eyes were well cleared of the water he beheld the entirecrew of the yawl, including Ensign MacMasters, perched along the yawl'skeel like a string of very much bedrabbled crows on a rail fence.
Strangely enough the gale seemed to have lulled for the time. Havingdone its worst to them, it gave the unfortunate castaways a breathingspell.
With the aid of their mates, Whistler Morgan and Torry were able toreach the keel of the overturned boat. There they perched, too, and,chattering in the cold wind, tried to look about them.
Where was the raft? This question, first and foremost in Whistler'smind, troubled him intensely. It was impossible to see far across thetossing sea; but he was sure that the life raft was nowhere within therange of their vision.
"Poor Frenchy and Ikey!" groaned Whistler.
"That raft can't sink," urged Torry in his ear.
"But they could easily be torn off it by the waves."
"Don't look at it in that way. They may be better off than we are,"returned his chum.
"What's that yonder?" shouted Slim suddenly.
"Land!" Mr. MacMasters cried.
"And a lot of good that'll do us," growled Slim. "We'll be dumpedashore, maybe, like a ton of trap-rock."
The sodden boat was drifting steadily toward the island. The surfthundered against its ramparts most threateningly. But the outlook didnot seem so serious as that upon the other island they had passed.
Ensign MacMasters, after some fishing, secured the loose end of thebroken hawser. With the help of those nearest to him he hauled this outof the water. Then, by his advice, they all lashed themselves to thelong rope with their belts or neckerchiefs.
"No matter what happens, we want to hang together," he declared. "No oneman can fight this sea alone."
His cheerfulness and optimism raised their spirits. At least they hungon to their insecure refuge with much ardor, and not uncheerfully waitedto be cast upon the strand.
A great swell suddenly caught the yawl and drove it shoreward. Mr.MacMasters uttered a warning shout and waved his hand in a gesture ofcommand. They all cast loose from the keel, and the boat was carriedhigh upon the breast of the breaker.
Still fastened together by the rope, the castaways were tumbled over andover in the surf. The yawl was east upon the strand with dreadful forceand if they had continued to cling to it their chances of beingseriously injured would have been great indeed.
Lightly the men and boys lashed to the rope were tossed by thesurf--rolling over and over, but still clinging to each other and to thehawser. Mr. MacMasters at one end and Whistler Morgan at the othermanaged to obtain a footing on the sand despite the undertow.
They threw themselves upon the beach and clung "tooth and toenail" whenthe breaker receded. Slim was completely exhausted; but before anothercomber rolled in those who were strong managed to drag the weaker onesout of the reach of the undertow.
There was only a fitful light on sea and shore. The castaways lay in apanting group, looking at each other dripping with brine, and verymiserable.
"Begorra!" exclaimed Irish Jemmy at last, "I broke me poipe. Lend me acigareet, will you, Rosy?"
Rosy gravely reached into his blouse and brought forth a little packagefilled with tobacco pulp.
"You're welcome, Jemmy," he said gravely. "Help yourself."
"Begorra!" growled the Irishman, "ye might have kept thim dry."
"That's a good word!" exclaimed Mr. MacMasters, briskly, struggling torise. "We all need to get dry. I have matches in a bottle in my pocket,and the bottle didn't get broken. Come on and find some dry wood. We'llhave a fire. We may have to camp out here till morning."
"Oh, Mr. MacMasters!" urged Whistler, who was loosening himself likewisefrom the rope. "Let us look for the fellows who were on the raft first."
"Shout for them," advised the ensign. "But don't worry if they do notanswer at once. This is a big piece of land, this island."
Whistler and Torry shouted loudly; but after fifteen minutes they werehoarse, and the wind seemed to blow their voices back into their teeth.
"Save your breath to cool your porridge," advised Jemmy. "You're wastin'it. If ye shout from now till doomsday ye won't bring them back ifthey're drowned. And if they are all right we'll find them safe andsound."
That was sensible; but it did not make Phil and Al any the less anxiousregarding Frenchy and Ikey. The younger lads had always been in theircare, and the situation looked serious.
Whistler and Torry knew they were expected to help gather wood, and sothey gave up shouting and followed Rosy and the others toward theforest. The whole island, as far as they had seen, was forest-covered.
There had been a heavy fall of rain that day, and to find dry fuel wasnot an easy task. While they were thus engaged the two boys came upon anopening in the trees. In the dusk it seemed that the opening was thebeginning of a well-tramped path, leading inland.
Whistler called to Mr. MacMasters to show him this sign of humanoccupancy of their refuge. Before the ensign arrived at the spot Torrymade a second discovery.
"Look who's here!" called the boy in a low voice. "Here's a Man Friday,sure enough!"
There was a light approaching through the forest path. It was a torch,and before long the wavering brand revealed a strange figure--no ManFriday but, as Whistler whispered, a Woman Friday!
She was a peculiar looking being, indeed, dressed in a single looseflowing garment, which covered her from neck to ankles. She wasbarefooted and bareheaded, her iron-gray hair tossed about herweather-beaten face in wild elflocks.
Her eyes were as brilliant as coals. Either she was not right in hermind or she assumed that manner. At first she merely glowered at the twoboys and the Navy officer, and said nothing in reply to the latter'squeries.
Her hands and fingers were gnarled from hard work. She looked as toughas bale wire, to quote Torry.
When she finally spoke her voice was as deep and coarse as a man's. Shesaid:
"You-uns was blowed up in yon channel. And you lost your boat, ain'tyou?"
"Crickey!" gasped Torry to Whistler. "She's a German--a German with asouthern accent! What do you know about that?"
Meanwhile Mr. MacMasters was interrogating her to some purpose.
"Have you seen others of our party?" he asked. "There were fourteen menand boys on a raft."
"Ain't seen no stranger befo' to-day, but you-uns," she declared. Hereyes seemed as lidless as a snake's. They did not blink at all.
"Then how did you know t
hat our steamer was blown up?" the ensignqueried.
"Old Mag knows a heap other folks don't know," croaked the woman.
The rest of the party came up and heard this statement. Jemmy gave herone look and crossed his fingers.
"She's a witch, and the banshees do her bidding," he whispered hoarsely.
"Well," said Mr. MacMasters, much puzzled, "is there any place where wecan get dry--and get some food?"
"I'll take you all to my cabin," she said. "That's what I come for."
She turned around abruptly and strode back along the path. There seemednothing for the castaways to do but to follow her. But they certainlydid discuss the queer woman in whispers while they kept on her trail.
"She's a witch sure enough," repeated Jemmy. "Sure you kin see that easyfrom the cut of her jib. The ensign had better have no doin's with her.Maybe she'll charm the whole of us with her evil eye."
The island was half a mile or more across. It was almost dark by thetime the party of castaways with their strange leader came out upon theother shore.
Here the sound between the islands and the mainland wasmist-enshrouded, and it was evident that a nasty night had shut down.Whistler and Torry were terribly anxious about their friends who hadbeen on the life raft.
However, they could not start off alone to hunt for Michael Donahue andIkey Rosenmeyer. They were just as much under Mr. MacMasters' ordersashore as they were at sea.
They had confidence in the ensign's judgment, too. They believed hewould make a search for the rest of their party just as soon as it waspracticable.
The cabin to which the woman led them was a large log hut of only oneroom, but with a number of bunks, built in two tiers, along the walls.At one end was an open hearth and chimney and arrangements for cooking.A long table and some rough-hewn benches were in the middle of the openspace.
It was more like a barracks than a home; and from the ancient and fishysmell about the place, the party from the battleship was sure that ithad not long since housed fishermen and their nets.
Mr. MacMasters and most of the others turned in at once for a nap; butWhistler Morgan was much too anxious to sleep. The old woman who calledherself "Mag" went to work at once to prepare a meal, and the boyoffered to help her.
He peeled the vegetables and cut corn from the cob for a sort ofBrunswick stew which she prepared. Mag put into it a rabbit, a pair ofsquirrels and a guinea fowl, the neck of which she wrung and thenskinned and cleaned in a most skilful manner.
While she was thus engaged she talked to Whistler. The boy noted, as hischum had, that she arranged her spoken sentences much as Germans do whoare not well drilled in English. Yet she had the southern drawl andaccent.
"I know whar yo' boys come from," she advanced almost at once. "Yo' arefrom the _Kennebunk_ battleship--and she's a fur ways from here."
"You have seen the rest of our crowd, then!" cried Whistler earnestly,"haven't you, Missus?"
"No, no!" the old hag said, wagging her head. "Old Mag sees strangesights and knows more'n most folks. Oh, yes! Your little steamboat wasblowed up by a big bomb in yon channel."
"It was blown up by a Hun mine," declared Whistler bitterly.
The old woman's eyes flashed at him threateningly. "What yo' mean by'Hun'? Them that put that bomb there is just as good as yo' folks.I ain't got no use fo' Yankees yet."
"You don't call yourself a Southerner, do you?" asked the boy curiously.
"What am I then?"
"You're German. At least, your folks were," Whistler declared withconviction.
The woman scowled at him and said nothing more. When Whistler hadfinished helping her he moved his chair back from the fireplace, for theheat from the live coals was intense. He saw a scrap of torn paper uponthe earth floor, near his foot.
His suspicions had been aroused now and he covered the paper with hisfoot until he could get a chance to pick it up without the old womanobserving him. Having secured it he moved still farther back to thetable. There was a smoky hanging-lamp over the board which gave himlight enough to see by. Secretly he examined the torn paper.
It seemed to be part of a letter, and was closely written on both sidesof the scrap. On one side was the beginning of the missive, and after aminute Whistler realized that it was written in German script.
At the head of the letter was a line that not alone amazed, but startledthe boy. Coincidence often has a long arm, and in this case the adageproved true. The letter was addressed to
"_Herr Franz Linder._"