Now came a second flash. What was this? The wall was low now. It seemed that here were only jagged rocks. The girl’s heart sank.
One more moment passed into eternity, then another flash and she knew. About them was only black water flecked with foam. They had drifted past the mile-long island without finding the gap. They could not go back. They must go on. Where to?
Florence buried her face in her hands and tried to think, but her thoughts, like the sky and sea, were one mad whirl.
Rain came sweeping down upon the sea. This flattened out the waves but added greatly to their misery. The wind raced on. Riding with it they moved forward into the great dark unknown.
Just when Florence was ready to give up hope her keen ears caught again the sound of waves rushing over rocks.
“One more shore!” she exclaimed. “Is there another island?”
“No other island,” Katie’s voice was solemn, “only rocks.”
“Yes,” Florence thought as a fresh chill ran up her spine, “there are rocks.”
She remembered it now. She had seen them rising above the water. One was called Gull Rock. Sportsmen went there to fish. Were they approaching Gull Rock? And if they were? She found little comfort in such thoughts. The waves were still running high.
Forcing her mind away from the immediate terror, she thought of Dave and Jeanne, of Mike and Tony and the mysterious boy in the crimson sweater hiding away in the forests. Did he truly set the fires? If he did what was his motive? No one had seen him even close enough to know how he looked. Would Mike and Tony catch him? Would—
Of a sudden a dull, grating tremor passed through the staunch little boat.
“Wha-what happened,” she gasped. They had reached the crest of a wave. Now their boat was gliding backward. The darkness was intense. Peer as she might, she could see nothing save the dim outline of Katie’s body.
“It’s the rock,” Katie’s voice was deathly calm. “That wave was not high. The next will be higher. We will be carried onto the rocks. We must jump. It is our chance.”
She did not say, “Our only chance.” Florence knew it all the same. At that moment she was thankful for slacks and sneaks. They would improve her chance.
“Katie!” she cried, “The rock! Is it high?”
“Who knows? We must jump. Now—” Katie caught a long breath. “Now we are going up. Now—” There came a shuddering grind much more terrible than the first. “Now jump! And run—run away from the sea.”
Gripping the gunwale, Florence vaulted over the side, struck a slippery rock, all but fell, then, regaining her footing dashed with the energy of despair up the slanting rock.
Had not the stout Katie gripped her arm just in time, she must have dashed quite across the rock and have fallen down the steep side into the boiling water below.
As for Katie, there was no chance of over-valuing her wisdom at such a time.
“Come!” she cried, once her companion had regained a little of her composure, “That great wave left our boat on the rock. There will be three small ones, then perhaps a greater one. We must save our boat if we can. You on one side, I on the other, we must slide it higher.”
Left to herself, Florence would not have taken one step toward those racing waters, but inspired by her companion’s splendid courage, she retraced her steps, seized the boat and, with energy born of despair, did her full share of lifting the boat to a higher position.
“Now!” Katie panted. “Now! Now! And now!”
As she heaved away Florence counted the waves. “One, two, three.” Would the fourth be larger?
“Yes! Yes!” she cried, as its dark, shadowy bulk appeared to rise above her. “It—it—is a terrible one.”
“Run!” Katie cried once again.
Florence needed no urging. This time, however, she measured her distance with great care.
With anxious eyes they stared into the darkness. Had they done enough? Had their precious boat been saved, or would it go floating away, never to be seen again? Florence had visions of herself perched on a barren rock through a night of cold and darkness.
“Hurray! We win!” Katie exclaimed. “The boat is still there!”
It was true. The wave had reached out, but not far enough. They were in possession of a shelter from the storm and a means of leaving when the storm had passed. Florence breathed a deep sigh of relief.
“Come,” said Katie, “we must lift it higher.”
“Oh!” Florence exclaimed, as, starting forward, she stumbled over some solid object and fell flat.
“Are—are you hurt?” Katie bent over her.
“No. I—I fell over something, Katie! It’s a driftwood log! We can use it for a roller. That makes it easy.”
So it did, in more ways than one. Having rolled the boat forward on the log, they fumbled in the prow of the boat for a fire-fighter’s hatchet they knew was there. They hacked at the log until there were dry chips aplenty.
Then Katie said, “We’ll tip over the boat. We’ll use part of the log to prop it up. This makes a house.” There was a note of pure joy in her voice. “I have matches in the pocket of my boot. They are always there. We shall have such a fine fire.”
Such a fine fire as it was, too. To Florence, whose teeth would not cease chattering, it seemed the jolliest fire in the world.
The north shore of Isle Royale is strewn with smooth, eight-foot pulpwood logs that have escaped from booms in Canada and, drifting across, have lodged on those shores. From the crevices of their rock Katie and Florence managed to gather nine of these dry logs. Soon four were blazing brightly.
Hidden from the wind by their over-turned boat, warmed by the fire, the girls managed to struggle from their soaked outer garments and prop them on sticks before the fire.
For a full hour they lay there before the blazing logs. Soaking in the cheering heat and dreaming, half asleep, they all but forgot that this spot was far from their snug floating home, the Wanderer, and Isle Royale with all its problems.
When Florence at last sat up to stretch herself and stir up the fire, she exclaimed, “Katie, I’m hungry. Seems to me I remember something about a meal we were to eat on the rocks after the fishing was done.”
“Not these rocks.” Katie laughed a deep, happy laugh. “But these will do.”
They had planned a supper of planked fish on the rocks off Edward’s Island. Snugly stowed away in the prow of the boat was a closed tin bucket containing sandwiches, a small pie and salt for the fish.
With some difficulty, Katie managed to prepare a plank from a flat section of log.
“Now,” she said, “the fish.”
“The big one?” Florence asked.
“No. Never!” Katie was horrified. “That prize! No. We shall go home tomorrow and we shall say, ‘See, we have been fishing and we caught this one. Such a whopper!’” Once again she laughed her deep, mellow laugh.
“No,” she added, “one of the little ones will do very well. A two-pound fish. Who could ask for more?”
The fish was cleaned, boned and laid out flat on the plank. Then, with a wire, Katie bound it fast. For a full half hour after that the fish hung stewing and sizzling over the fire. Turning browner and browner, it was at last like the rich gold of an autumn leaf.
“Now,” said Katie with a sigh, “it is done.”
In her short life Florence had eaten many grand meals and in many a curious place. But none was as grand as this and no place more strange.
“Now,” she sighed when it was over, “we must sleep, for tomorrow will be another day.”
Sleep they did. Rolled up in their dried out garments, crowded close together before the great, glowing bed of coals, they slept the sleep of forgetfulness.
Twice during the night Florence was conscious of Katie’s movements as she replenished the fire, and that was all.
In the meantime, driven from her sun bath by that same storm, Jeanne had begun worrying about the safety of her friends.
“Must be getting pretty wild out there,” Dave said, as he tried to see through the driving fog.
“Do you think they would go far?” Jeanne asked anxiously.
“You know Florence,” was the reply. “She’d take a chance.”
Turning to a fishing guide on the dock he said, “Where are the best spots?”
“For lake trout fishing? Blake’s Point and Five Foot.”
“And neither is protected from storms?”
“I’ll say not,” the man laughed hoarsely. “Blake’s Point reaches out into Lake Superior like a pointing finger. Five Foot is a clean mile from anywhere.”
“Would it do any good to go out and look for them?” Dave asked.
“In this fog?” the man laughed again. “Not a bit. Never find them.
“Oh, they’re probably O.K.,” he consoled. “They’re a sturdy pair. They’d make a point on one of the small islands. Plenty of driftwood everywhere. With a good fire and moss for a bed they’ll get on very well.”
“And there are narrow channels between the small islands,” said Dave. “Storms don’t hit there. They may come sneaking in along the shore any time.”
Loaded with supplies, the Iroquois arrived alongside the Wanderer at dusk. Captain Frey was on board.
“Some of these supplies,” he said, “go to Florence Bay. That’s about twenty-five miles up the north shore. The Iroquois can’t get in there. We have a hundred fire-fighters there. They’ve been living on salt pork and beans for two days. How about going there tonight?” he asked Dave.
“We—we can do it,” was Dave’s prompt response. He was thinking of Florence and Katie. But his first duty was to those hungry men.
“If those girls don’t show up by dawn,” he said to the guide, “get out your boat and look them up. I’ll stand the expense.”
“O.K.,” was the prompt response, “you can depend on me.”
“I know that,” Dave replied heartily.
An hour later, well loaded with supplies, the Wanderer stole out into the night. From time to time as they moved slowly down the channel between small islands and at last around Blake’s point, they gave long blasts on their siren. The only response was the scream of a seagull or the wail of the wind.
The pitching of the boat made rest impossible, so, encased in sweaters, blankets and a huge oilskin coat, Jeanne sat huddled on deck, feeling the cold damp of spray on her cheeks, and wondering about the fate of her two good pals.
Shortly after midnight, guided by the light of a forest fire, they slipped into a narrow bay, there to be given an uproarious welcome by a hundred hungry men.
“We’ll wait the night out here,” was Dave’s decision. “There are supplies for McCargoe’s Cove on board. We’ll drop them off on the way back. And you—” there was an extra note of friendliness in his voice as he spoke to the little French girl, “you better get some sleep.”
Jeanne’s beauty-rest that night was a short one. However, her hours of dreaming in the sun the previous day stood her in good stead and she was up with the sun. Early as it was she found the Wanderer in motion.
After serving the crew with coffee and hot cakes, she came on deck to watch the shore line slipping by.
It was still early when the boat began sliding into McCargoe’s Cove. At the entrance of this cove was one of the most entrancing little islands Jeanne had ever seen.
“Oh, Dave!” she exclaimed. “Please drop me off in the dory and let me visit that island until you come back this way!”
“Sure! Be glad to.” Dave signaled for a stop. “They call it Birch Island. It’s a beauty.”
As she came close to the island in her small boat, Jeanne assured herself that here was a place of great enchantment.
White birches, evenly spaced and reaching for the sky, grew to the very water’s edge. Mingled with these were hundreds of fern-like balsams.
A single fisherman’s cottage, built of weather beaten logs, stood close to the shore. Silent and seemingly deserted, it told of another day.
That this cabin had not been long deserted, Jeanne was not slow in discovering. True, save for a few rusty cans of pepper, ginger and other spices, there was no food on the narrow shelves. But the frying pan, tea-kettle and coffee pot still shone brightly.
Leaving the cabin, the little French girl wandered down a narrow path that ran the length of the island. It was not a long walk. She was soon at the far end of the island. There, to her surprise, she discovered a second cabin. Perhaps one might say it was only a shelter. Built of driftwood logs, it had but three sides and a roof. The front was enclosed only by a mosquito-bar canopy.
When Jeanne had looked within she backed hurriedly away. She was, she thought, intruding on someone’s privacy. A few pots and pans hung against one wall, while on the opposite side, in considerable disarray, were garments, quite evidently a man’s. From the nature and color of these clothes she concluded the man must be from some city and quite a young man.
She was not long lacking in proof of this theory. Even as she stood there, the low thud of footsteps reached her. With a voiceless cry and a soundless leap, she was away in the bush.
She had escaped. Yet curiosity compelled her to linger for a peeping look through the bushes.
What she saw startled her no end. A tall, good-looking youth of uncertain age stood before the shelter. His gaze wandered from place to place. “He suspects something,” the girl told herself as her heart skipped a beat.
And then she barely avoided a gasp. She had, for the first time, noted his manner of dress.
“A crimson sweater!” she breathed. “The—the youth in the crimson sweater.”
Had she found any reason for questioning her judgment in this case it would not have been for long. Of a sudden, the youth glanced down at his feet then, without a backward look, dashed away into the bush.
Surprised and startled, Jeanne held her ground. For all this, her heart was beating a pretty tattoo against her ribs. Where had this boy gone? Would he return? And if he did what should she do? Her first thought was to slip swiftly and silently away. And yet—she recalled her first warning, dropped from the airplane. He had not heeded the warning, at least had not come out into the open and proved himself innocent. Would a second warning help? She dared hope it might.
With fingers that trembled in spite of her best efforts to control them, she drew a stub of a pencil from her jacket pocket, pulled a square of birch bark from a tree to serve as paper, then wrote in scrawled words:
“Second warning: You are suspected of a terrible crime. If you are innocent you will come out and clear yourself. Gypsies never forget.
Signed, Gypsy Jeanne.”
Why had Jeanne signed this second warning? Perhaps she could not have told. Was it because the youth in the crimson sweater seemed a rather romantic figure?
With knees that all but refused to support her, she moved slowly toward the shelter. Once there, she slipped inside, placed the note on a small, hand-made table, weighted it down with a stone, then, springing away like a startled deer, went racing toward the fisherman’s cabin and her boat.
Arrived at the small dock she found all serene as before. Some small bird whistled at her from a tree. A pine squirrel chattered at her. For a moment she stood there thinking. Why had the young man run away? He had seen something. What had it been? In a twinkle she had the answer, her handkerchief was gone. “Must have lost it and my initials were in the corner,” she thought, a little startled.
After that, shoving off in her boat, she rowed to the opposite shores, hid in a narrow cove and waited until Dave’s return, then climbed aboard and rode away without a word concerning her adventure.
Dawn came on the barren rock that had saved Florence and Katie from the storm. They were awakened by wild screams. These were uttered by a host of angry gulls demanding to know who had invaded their favorite roosting place during the night.
Breakfast of fish and gull’s eggs, a few bright hours of watching the waves lose their threat, then once more they were on the water.
Two hours of hard, double rowing against the wind, a line out for trout and two catches—one a beauty—then they were entering the Passage Island harbor they had missed before.
Exclaimed over and welcomed by the lighthouse keeper’s smiling wife, they were fed on roast beef and baked potatoes and brown gravy, plied with questions, and at last taken aboard a neat little motor craft that carried them back to Tobin’s Harbor and their astonished friend who had all but given them up as lost.
“See!” exclaimed Katie, true to her promise. “We have been fishing. And just look what we caught. A whopper!”
A whopper indeed it was—thirty-seven pounds by the scales—easily the best fish of the season. Was Florence proud? No end of it. There was, however, little time for strutting. A few moments of triumph and her insistent mind was demanding, “What of the future?”
“Where is the Wanderer?” she asked.
“Somewhere on the north shore,” was the answer. “Make yourself comfortable. They should be back before dark.”
In two big chairs before a driftwood fire the girls dozed the hours away. And so ended one more happy adventure that might not have been so happy after all, had it not been for Lady Luck’s kindness and Katie’s good, strong arms.
When Florence learned of Jeanne’s exciting discovery on Birch Island she was for going there at once.
“You saw him!” she exclaimed. “The boy in the crimson sweater? The firebug?”
“Yes,” Jeanne replied quietly. “The boy in the crimson sweater.”
“What is he like? Does he look dangerous? What if—”
Florence shot a dozen more questions at Jeanne. Strangely enough, the little French girl was quite vague in her answers, much more so than the occasion warranted. And, when the question of her accompanying Florence arose, she pleaded a headache.
“It’s only a two hour’s run in a small motor boat,” Florence said to Dave. “You have another wait of several hours?”
“That’s right.”
“Then suppose I hire the lodge fishing boat and get Indian John to run me over here?”
“O.K. by me. You might take Katie with you. But watch your step! If this fellow is really a firebug, he may be dangerous.”
“I’ll watch,” Florence was off.
Arrived at Birch Island, they found the fisherman’s cottage just as Jeanne had left it. But when, after a silent march down the island, they came to the spot where the log shelter had stood, they discovered that it was gone.
“Every trace of it,” Florence exclaimed.
No, this was not quite true. Dry moss had been strewn over the spot upon which it had stood. When this was dragged away, they found a smooth, hard surface which once had been an earthen floor.
“Jeanne was not dreaming.” Florence looked about her as if expecting the mysterious boy to appear. “There has been a shelter here. But now it’s gone.”
“Easy to move,” said Indian John. “Take ’em down logs. Put ’em in boat. Row away, that’s all.”
“Yes, or just throw the logs into the lake and let them float away,” said Katie.
For some time they stood there in silence. At last Florence said, “I am not Jeanne and not a gypsy, but she says there is always a third warning and so there shall be.”
Imitating Jeanne, she wrote her warning on birch bark. It read:
“The Gypsy’s third warning. And the last. A last chance to clear yourself. Once we leave Birch Island, we shall set a company of fire-fighters on your trail.
Signed, The Gypsy’s Friend.”
After pinning this note to a tree with the aid of three long thorns, she was prepared to follow her companions back to the fisherman’s cabin.
It was a silent and mystified Florence who walked slowly back. All that had happened appeared to prove that she was right. This boy wished to hide. Why, unless he were doing wrong? And what was more probable than that he was setting fires? And yet— Why had Jeanne been so silent, so reluctant to tell all?
As they at last stood again on the small fisherman’s dock, Florence looked at Indian John’s jet black hair and smiled.
“John,” she said, “you are rapidly growing gray. There are white ashes in your hair.”
It was true. Fine white specks of ash were slowly drifting down from the sky.
“The threat is still with us,” the girl murmured.
Nor, on this day, was it long in making itself known. A brisk wind, blowing off the island, began bringing in an uncomfortable feeling of heat. Then, quite suddenly, like battling troops coming out of the trenches, a long line of flames appeared at the crest of a low ridge not a mile from Birch Island.
“Florence!” Katie exclaimed. “It is terrible. This beautiful island will burn unless—”
“Unless what?” Florence asked eagerly.
“Unless we can save it.”
“How?”
“There are many birch trees, not so many balsams. Balsam needles will catch from sparks. Birch leaves will not. If we cut away the balsams and throw them into the water—”
“We must try,” Florence broke in. “All this,” her gaze swept the small island, “must not be destroyed.
“John,” she said, turning to the Indian, “run the boat to a safe spot and anchor it. Come back in the skiff. We must all do our best.”
“Perhaps,” she thought grimly a moment later, “that boy in the crimson sweater will be smoked out like an owl in a hollow tree.”
Very little she knew about the truth of her prophesy. Not knowing, she dragged a dull ax from the fisherman’s cabin and began doing her bit to save Birch Island.
It was a battle indeed. As the wind increased and the fire crept closer not ashes alone, but tiny, glowing sparks fell at their feet.
Whacking away at the trunks of small spruce trees, dragging them to the water’s edge, then whacking and dragging again, Florence never faltered. Grim, grimy, and perspiring, hating her dull ax, she toiled doggedly on. One thought was uppermost in her mind, this battle, perhaps their last, must be won.
And then she received a sudden shock. A boy stood beside her. Taller than she, he smiled down at her. He was dressed in high boots and corduroys. His blue, plaid shirt was open at the neck. In his hand he carried an ax with a razor-like edge. She had never seen him before.
“Come on in,” she invited.
“What are you doing, may I ask?” He smiled again.
“We are saving this island,” she fairly snapped. “If—if we get all the balsams out it won’t burn.”
“Say! That—that’s an idea!” His face brightened like a sky after a storm.
“I’ll cut. You drag ’em off,” he said shortly.
After that for a full hour it was cut and drag, cut and drag, a seemingly endless task. And the fire grew hotter every moment.
Not even the girl’s strenuous endeavors could keep her from wondering about that boy. Who was he? Where had he come from? Why was he here?
“He works like one who is defending his own home,” she told herself.
Strangely enough there was something vaguely familiar about his movements. “As if I had seen him before. But I can’t have.”
Then a strange and mystifying thing happened, as the boy bent over to pick up his ax which had slipped from his aching fingers, a small square of white fluttered from his pocket to the ground. He was quick in retrieving it but not quick enough. In one corner of this girl’s handkerchief Florence had read the initials, “J. E.”
“Jeanne’s handkerchief,” she whispered to herself with sudden shock. “Where did he get it and why does he keep it?” Strangely enough, at that moment, all unbidden, three words came into her mind, “The Gypsy’s warning.” Then the stern business of the moment claimed her entire attention.
The last, slim end of the island was closest to the fire. The heat became all but unbearable. Twice the boy’s cotton shirt began to smoke. At last he drew it off, and dipped it in water, to put it on again.
Then came the moment when the last balsam tree toppled into the water.
“Come on,” he grabbed Florence’s arm. “We gotta get out o’ here quick.”
They did get out quick.
When at last Florence reached her skiff where Katie and Indian John were anxiously waiting, to her astonishment she saw the strange boy go racing away.
“Wait!” she called. “Come back.”
Did he hear? It seemed he must. But he raced straight on.
“We’ll just row out a little where the heat is not so bad,” Florence suggested. “Then we’ll wait and see what happens.”
This they did. The moment when the raging furnace reached the water’s edge, then came to a sudden halt, was a glorious one indeed.
Florence was watching with all her eyes when, of a sudden, she seemed to hear oarlocks creaking. At first, looking out over the smoke-clouded water she saw nothing. Then she caught the shadowy outline of a small boat moving out on the water.
“Must be that boy,” she told herself. “But where is he going?”
The answer came to her at once. Beyond him was the outline of a small power boat. He was rowing toward that.
Strangely enough, just as he reached the motor boat’s side, a current of air lifted the smoke and everything stood out clearly.
“It is that boy,” Florence said aloud. “But what’s he doing?”
“Standing up in his row-boat,” said Katie.
“Putting on a sweater. A crimson sweater!” Florence was ready to fall from the boat in her excitement. “He—he’s that boy, the boy in the crimson sweater. And how he has fought this fire!
“And that motor boat!” she exploded again. “It’s the one Jeannie says carries the Phantom Fisherman.”
Then, as if a curtain had been dropped, the smoke fell hiding the boy in the crimson sweater, the Phantom and all. Was Florence sorry? She could not tell.
She did not know it at that moment, but this was the last time she was to see either the Phantom or the boy in the crimson sweater on Isle Royale.
“It’s the end,” Florence thought, as they went chugging back toward Tobin’s Harbor. “The wind is really shifting. It will drive the fire back upon itself.” Even as she thought this, cold drops of rain struck her cheek. Rolling up from across the lake a real rainstorm, the first in weeks, was on its way.
Two hours later, drenched to the skin but joyously happy, the little party arrived at Tobin’s Harbor.
Late that night, the great log cabin used as a lounge for the lodge was comfortably crowded with people. The little fisherman’s wife was there. One child was asleep in her lap, another played at her side. On her face was a look of joy.
“Listen!” she was saying to the old man near her, “how it rains!” Great sheets of rain were beating against the window panes. “A northeast wind,” she added in a whisper, “the fires are over. Our homes and our islands are safe.”
This was the joyous feeling in every heart. That was why they were there. Drawn together by an invisible bond of common interest and friendship in hope and in despair, they had gathered to celebrate.
In the corner, an impromptu trio—piano, cello and violin—began playing, Over the Waves.
As the music rose and fell, as the sparks from the driftwood fire leaped toward the sky, Florence thought that no moment in her whole life had been as joyous as this.
“Jeanne,” she exclaimed, “you must dance. Dance to the patter of rain on the roof.”
“Yes,” Jeanne agreed almost eagerly, “I shall dance. I have been practicing a new dance quite in secret.”
“A new dance,” exclaimed one of the musicians, “what is it?”
“Dance of the Flames,” said Jeanne.
“Good! We have the very thing, an Indian dance to the fire god—you shall dance to our music.”
A few moments later, after the lights had been dimmed, when the flames from great logs in the broad fireplace leaped high and the strains of a weird Indian dance rose from the corner, a slender figure clad in garments of orange and red, with two long scarfs streaming behind, came dancing into the room.
It would be hard to describe the dance that followed. Only the little French girl could have so caught the movement and seeming spirit of flames. Now she was a low fire creeping stealthily upon some stately spruce tree. And now, urged on by some mischievous wind, she went rushing forward. And now, by a trick performed with the scarfs, she appeared to rise straight in air as the flames rushed to the very top of the tree.
When at last, quite exhausted, she flung herself down at Florence’s side, there came a burst of applause that would have done credit to a much larger gathering.
Katie arrived with a great pot of delicious hot chocolate and a pan of cakes. They ate and drank and then, led by a very pious old cottager, sang a hymn of thanks to the God who, with their aid had saved their island for them and for their children, years on end.
“Jeanne,” Florence whispered, as they groped their way back to the boat, “it is for such times as these that we live.”
“Ah, yes,” the little French girl agreed, “for such times as these.”
Just then Florence caught the sound of a voice that caused her to start. “Ya dese fires dey will be over now. Dis is de end we is been waiting for so long.”
At that Florence did a strange thing. Rushing up to the aged fisherman who had spoken she said, “You are the man!”
“Ya, I is de man,” the fisherman agreed, “but what man, this is de question?”
“Twice I heard you say the fires were being set.”
“Ya, it may be so.”
“Why did you say that? Was it true?”
“Perhaps ya. Perhaps no,” was the strange answer, “dese is been hard times. Might be we old men think too many t’ings.” At that the old man disappeared as silently as usual into the night, leaving the girl with her own thoughts.