The Black Stallion and Flame (6 page)

They had cleaned and eaten it immediately, giving it no chance to spoil. Alec wondered what his mother and father would have thought of his eating
raw
fish and wishing for more! He rubbed sunburn cream over his face, a face no longer young but lined and grim. Was his horse already dead? Why did these things have to happen? All he could do was to lie still, to wait, to agonize.…

Henry Dailey still slept, too tired to move, too old to care. But the captain, who had been sleeping alongside Alec, sat up, glanced at the sun and shook his head sadly. So far he’d done all he could, everything according to the rules and the book. He had checked the physical condition of all on board and they were in as good shape as could be expected. Tomorrow and the next day and the one after that might tell another story. But he’d face that when he had to.

He had planned on one good meal daily; two would have been preferable but they didn’t have enough food in their survival kits to last if they were adrift more than
a few days. The food in the kits had been carefully chosen to provide proper sustenance in just such cases as this, and if they could catch enough seafood to go along with it they could survive even longer when the food in the kits was gone. Water was even more important for their existence. He had figured they could get by on less than a quart daily. He had set up their sun-still and de-salting kit and he counted on getting more fresh water by collecting some rain and dew.

The compasses, watches, matches and lighters were being kept in dry, waterproof containers. He was keeping his log, indicating time of ditching, winds, weather, direction of swells, time of sunrise and sunset and other navigation data. He had remained calm, setting an example for the others. He’d even laughed and gotten the others to do likewise. He had salvaged from the plane’s debris extra clothing, Thermos jugs and cushions.

He had made sure the raft was properly inflated. The air chambers were well rounded but not drum tight. They needed checking constantly. Air expanded on hot days so he must remember to release some during the day and add air at night when the weather cooled. And he must remember to keep that valve
tight
.

He had improvised a sea anchor, too, by using a drag from a raft case. The closer they remained to the ditching area the better chance they had of being picked up—or so he liked to believe.

He had checked the raft constantly for leaks, examining all valves and seams and underwater surfaces, then wrapping the anchor rope with cloth to make certain it wouldn’t chafe the raft. He made sure all aboard were careful with their fishhooks, knives and ration tins. He never allowed them to put such things on the floor.
He kept the raft properly balanced, making the heaviest person sit in the center. He had repair plugs for use if necessary.

He knew Sea-Air Rescue would be looking for them by now. The message to all ships and planes in the South Atlantic would have read something like this:
Urgent. All aircraft and ships are requested to be on the alert for survivors and distress frequencies from Bermuda Atlantic Transport 29167 unreported since 2200. Last reported position 11–14 north, 45–10 west.…

He had received similar messages himself in the past and twice had been successful in helping to locate the survivors of ditched planes. He glanced skyward. It was comforting to know that somebody was up there looking for them. He’d have to help in every way he could, for a raft in the open sea could easily be missed if those on it didn’t cooperate with the searchers. When he saw a plane he’d use mirrors and every other possible signal device to let it be known they were down here. Although it was summer, it could be awfully cold sitting on a raft in the open sea. And lonesome. Yes, it was nice to know somebody was up there looking for them … just as he had done for others and would do again providing he lived through this.

The copilot’s thoughts were similar to the captain’s. His eyes scanned the sea, noting the whitecaps and the shadows of the scattered clouds. It was touch and go between rain and sun. Which would it be? He picked the sun and hoped he was wrong. The search area had to be a great one and how would high-flying planes ever be able to spot an object as small as their raft?

During the storm they had been out of communication
range for too many hours to give their searchers a clue as to where they had ditched. He looked up at the small hydrogen balloon that carried their radio antenna aloft. Their SOS would let their searchers know they were still alive and awaiting help. But were they getting through to anyone?

He kept turning the hand-energized transmitter, sending out the SOS steadily. And, like the captain, he held a mirror in his hand, flashing it in the sun. Aircraft would see the flashes long before those below could see or hear the plane.

When help appeared they’d send off their smoke signals or, if it happened to be nighttime, their red signals. The flares were being kept dry and ready just in case. Then, too, they had their green sea-marker for daytime use and their flashlights for use at night. Now all he had to do was to relax—and keep cranking, of course. Keep sending out that SOS … SOS … SOS.…

The navigator had his own separate thoughts. He figured,
I’d estimate our position to be 17–30 north, 57–30 west. That puts us in touch with the Windward Islands where we ought to be able to land
. He passed on the estimated position to the captain, who put it immediately in the log.

The night had enabled the navigator to lose his sense of helplessness; the weather had been clear and ideal for sighting the stars. He’d had no trouble. Using his automatic octant he’d shot Pollux, then plotted and calculated their position on his chart. Just before dawn he’d been able to get a good three-star fix and was confident that their position was more or less correct. He took up a compass heading of 114 degrees and figured it shouldn’t be too long before they sighted one of the islands.

He sat up and, just to make sure, shot several single-shot sun lines, then crossed a line and a radio bearing for a fix. He studied coordinates. Yes, he still made it 17–30 north, 57–30 west. If he was right, the island of Antago should be showing up in the west anytime now. But just in case he was wrong, he’d better keep that information to himself. Surprises were easier to take than disappointments.

It didn’t rain. The shadows of the clouds on the sea became more scattered. The sun beat down on the raft and the long hours went by slower and slower and slower. Even the fish seemed to seek refuge from the sun by gathering underneath the shadow of the bobbing raft.

The captain was on watch and now he stirred beneath the protection of the tarpaulin to pick up his insignia pin. He opened it carefully to avoid putting a hole in the raft, tied a parachute shroud line to it and then dropped it into the water. Before long a fish struck the shiny pin. After killing it with a blow on the head the captain pulled it eagerly aboard, careful to keep the fish’s spine from touching the inflated rubber. Then he turned to the others, wanting to share his catch with them.

They were all asleep and he didn’t want to wake them. Sleep was most important. He decided to keep the fish intact until they awakened. He secured it to the side of the raft, letting it trail deep in the water to keep it away from the sun.

A moment later he realized that he had made a terrible mistake. Not more than a hundred yards away from the raft a dorsal fin split the blue water like a huge
black sickle. Then it was gone, the shark plunging down deep below the surface with a great splash of his tail fin.

Had it gone or was it after the bait? The captain reached for the line trailing in the water. Now he remembered the warning in his operations and survival manual!
“Avoid attracting or annoying sharks. Most of them are scavengers continually on the move for food. If they don’t get it from you they will lose interest and swim on. Don’t fish from your raft if sharks are nearby. Abandon hooked fish if shark approaches.”

The captain didn’t call the others. He sat alone, stonily silent, waiting … pulling the line in as fast as he could. Then the huge dorsal fin broke the surface again and he could have touched the shark. Breathlessly he waited. The line snapped and his fish was gone.

The captain pulled in the cord and sat back, praying he’d seen the last of the shark who could so easily slash the rubber raft and sink it.

He wondered how ferocious sharks really were. Some people said that unless driven to fury sharks were usually harmless; others maintained they were willing to eat anything that came within reach.
Quiet now
, the captain told himself.
Don’t move. Maybe he’s gone away
.

But the shark reappeared, swimming around the raft, his dorsal fin raised high. Again and again he circled, coming so close that the captain scarcely dared to breathe. Would the shark charge? Would he make a quick pass at the raft?

The captain watched, not daring to move. He counted the number of times the shark circled the raft. He considered calling the others but decided to put it off for another few seconds. He was scared. He picked up an oar.

The shark whipped the water with his tail and disappeared below again. Where would he come up now? Beneath the raft?

It was time to call the others, quickly! But before the captain could make a move the dorsal fin broke the surface more than fifty feet away. The captain breathed easier.
Get out of here, you. Get!
he almost screamed aloud. His hands tightened about the oar.

Suddenly the shark turned and twisted completely around, streaking directly for the raft! The huge dark fin cut through the sea of glass, leaving whorls of ripples behind.

The captain struck the water with the flat of the oar, hoping the noise would scare the shark away. The sharp retort shattered the quiet and the others in the raft sat up abruptly as though they had been struck in the face.

“Look sharp, everybody!” the captain ordered. “A shark’s after us. He’s somewhere right around us but he won’t stay down long.”

The captain’s voice snapped them to attention, and they strained their eyes trying to pierce the depths.
Oh, good Lord, don’t let him come up beneath us!
they thought as one.
Not that!

“There’s something off to starboard. Is that it?” the navigator shouted. “No. No. Nothing. Look to port. There. No, it’s another shadow.”

“Quiet!” the captain ordered sharply.

They all saw the fin far off to one side. Maybe their enemy was leaving. They scarcely breathed. It was the biggest dorsal fin any of them had ever seen. The shark must have been thirty or forty feet long from dorsal fin to tail! All he had to do was to lunge at them just once, to hit and run—and it would be the end. The shark
seemed to have stopped momentarily, lying just beneath the surface. Was he resting, waiting? Would he attack or wouldn’t he?

“He’ll leave. I know he will,” Alec said.

“I hope so,” the navigator responded fervently.

“If he doesn’t—”

“Smile, ol’ buddies. We’re still afloat,” the copilot said grimly.

“Quiet!” the captain ordered.

“There he goes—down again,” Alec said.

They waited, sweating from fear that the raft might suddenly rise beneath them. But nothing happened and that was the last they saw of the huge black dorsal fin.

Despite its sea anchor, the raft had moved with the wind and current. In the early afternoon the captain took in the sea anchor and rigged a square sail in the bow, using tarpaulin, and oars as mast and crossbar. He erected the mast by tying it securely to the front cross seat and providing braces. He padded the bottom of the mast to prevent it from chafing or punching a hole in the rubber floor. For a rudder he used an oar. “Now,” he told the others, “let’s try to get someplace. It doesn’t seem that anyone’s looking for us.”

“We haven’t reached anyone, that’s why,” the copilot said, still cranking the Gibson Girl.

“I think we’ve got a pretty good chance of finding something,” the navigator told them for the first time. “According to my estimate …”

Their eyes turned to him, pleading and hopeful. “I could be wrong,” he went on. “Don’t get all steamed up. But there’s a chance, a good one, that we might sight land today. Keep looking.”

The late-afternoon sky was clear except for a strange
cloud that hovered close to the sea. The atmosphere there had more of a greenish tint than the area around it—as if, perhaps, it was a reflection of sunlight from shallow lagoons or shelves of coral reefs. All the rest of the sea was either dark green or dark blue, indicating deep water.

The crew watched the hovering cloud. Might it not mean that land was near? Didn’t the survival manual state that sometimes such a cloud in a clear sky hangs over or floats downwind from an island?

They sniffed the air for smells of land which would carry a long way over the sea with the right wind. They hoped to smell the musty odor of mangrove swamps and mud flats, and that of burning wood. They listened for the roar of the surf and the cries of sea birds that might already be roosting on some nearby land. Their eyes searched the skies for birds flying homeward at dusk. Finally they saw a flock far in the distance, a long file making a beeline for the center of the hovering cloud! They watched the flowing stream of birds in dead silence, afraid to speak, even to hope, able only to pray. They watched so intently that each and every one thought he could actually hear the soft, humming swish of wings and, below the birds, the roar of the surf breaking on an island shore.

After a long while the captain shifted his gaze from the cloud and studied the sea. There was no doubt that the pattern of the waves was changing. He turned to the others, saying quietly, “I think it’s safe to say we’re approaching land.”

“If it’s land, it’s the island of Antago, according to my reckoning, the most windward of the Lower Antilles,” the navigator said.

“I don’t care what it is, ol’ buddy, just as long as it’s solid ground,” the copilot answered.

“You’d better care,” the navigator retorted. “Why be stranded on a deserted island? Antago’s got people, plenty of them, and ships to take us
home.”