A Viking of the Sky: A Story of a Boy Who Gained Success in Aeronautics

by Joan Clark

  CHAPTER XVII

  FIGHTING THE TORRENT

  To make the trip from Axion down into the flood-tortured southlandwithout any further loss of time, Hal Dane set out to fly all night. Hehad already signed up with the Red Cross department in his own city, andhad gotten his instructions. He was to report to Major Huntley, incharge of the Alabama flooded district, who would assign him his work.

  The squat gyroscope had been planned for safety, rather than makingmileage records. Yet when those limber, awkward-looking rotor bladesbegan to reach their maximum of two thousand whirls a minute, why, thestrange craft achieved a speed of near a hundred miles an hour!

  Late afternoon had been hazy, with the sun going down an ominous ball ofred. Now as the night wore on, Hal swept into heavy weather. Mistchanged into a dense, clinging fog. The wind rolled up into a gale thatseemed to strike from all sides at once. For safety's sake, Hal rodehigh, at something like ten thousand feet. He had the feeling of a lonehuman survivor drifting above a fog-shrouded world. He must have passedover hamlets and cities innumerable, yet no glow of home or streetlights penetrated upward through the fog blanket to point him a guidingbeacon.

  Hal's training in blind-flying stood him in good stead here, for relyingon his marvelous earth inductor compass and his instrument of artificialhorizon, he managed to keep an even keel. He held a wary eye to thealtimeter, however, for come fog or come wind, safety demanded that heride at a vast height to avoid a death-dealing crash against somejutting mountain crag. Three times, the multiple raging of the galeengendered by the tempest swinging upward through the gorges, told Halthat he was crossing mountain ranges.

  On through the night the aviator drove his strange rotor, dodging,twisting, tacking, riding down the wind gusts. Then towards morningnature seemed to soften and grow milder. The wind sank to a breeze.Stars came out just before the darkness lifted for the first palepearl-gray of dawn. A rose glow spread till the whole horizon seemedaflame.

  It was glorious here, high above the earth, but as Hal turned his eyesdownward a dreadful view met his eyes. Dismay shot through him.

  Had his famous compass failed him? Had winds driven him far off histrack? Had he crossed the whole length of Alabama and the top of Floridato go drifting like a derelict above the Gulf of Mexico?

  There was a sea of water below, a limitless, shoreless stretch. Butinstead of white-capped waves and the clear blueness of the tropicalwaters of the gulf, here lay a muddy, ochre-colored ocean.

  Then the horrible truth swept over Hal Dane. He was flying the flood!These ugly waters covered no natural sea bed, but swirled sullenly abovethe homes, the villages, the cities of the southern section of a wholestate.

  All landmarks had been blotted out, but the aviator got his bearings bycompass, and studied the map he drew from his pocket. This must be it,the country drained in normal times by the three rivers, the Conecuh,the Pea and the Choctawhatchee. But now the waters followed no separateriver beds down to the sea. Instead they had burst all bounds andcovered the face of the land.

  He drifted down until he hovered at only a hundred feet of altitude.From this height he could clearly vision the astounding panorama ofwatery waste.

  Spires of churches and here and there taller buildings in a groupshowing partly above water told that here lay some town. Straight lanesof water between the tops of forest trees meant that beneath the flood ahighway ran. Borne on the yellow tide of the foul, swirling sea were thedead and swollen bodies of mules, hogs, horses and cows. Mingling withthese were houses swept from their foundations and drifting with thecurrent.

  At intervals, he would catch sight of some hill or some turtle-backedIndian mound on whose crest was huddled a village of tents--frailshelters for the refugees fleeing from the wild onrush of the flood.

  Was Jacky Wiljohn found and safe within one of those tents, or was thelittle fellow still out on some half-flooded land ridge or marooned insome drifting building?

  Now that he had come and seen for himself, Hal Dane realized for thefirst time the awful magnitude of this peace-time tragedy. Here was adisaster that equaled pestilence and battle in its devastation. He hadread of these things--but seeing them was different, more awful.

  Fog and storm had drifted Hal somewhat off his course. He consulted hiscompass, took his bearings again, and decided that he must be to thewest of Troja, the hill city on the edge of the flood where weresituated the Red Cross headquarters.

  He whirled the nose of his plane into the east. A little later he caughtsight of what he knew must be his destination. Below him lay a littlecity whose outskirts were lapped by the sullen yellow waters. Up in theheights a whole new city section had been developed with its streetslined by rows of little army tents. Some seaplanes lay at rest in asheltered bay of flood water. Out on a stretch of meadow army planeswere roped to stakes, tails to the wind.

  Hal circled about the field a few times until he could pick a goodlanding spot. Then he cut his motor dead and began to drop. Withoutspread rotor blades acting like a parachute, the curious sky boatwith its short stiff side wings, drifted straightly, gently down towardsearth.

  By the time Hal settled to his landing, he was surrounded by a ring ofcivilians and soldiers with a sprinkling of keen-eyed, sun-tannedfellows that he felt were likely aviators. Some of the crowd guffawedloudly over the squat, awkward look of the old hen as they immediatelydubbed the odd, square-built machine. The majority of the men, though,applauded the unusual feat of the straight-down drop.

  A heavy-set, haggard-eyed man in uniform, who appeared to be the one inauthority here, stepped out and extended a hand in greeting.

  Hal returned the warm grasp. "You, sir, I'm sure must be the MajorHuntley I was to report to."

  "Yes, and you," the fatigue lines on the officer's face were momentarilylifted by a whimsical smile, "you must be the Hal Dane our man up inAxion wired us about last night. His message read, 'Fellow with the mostcurious-looking plane in the world coming down to help you!'"

  "That just about describes us," said Hal with a grin, as he cocked hiseye over toward the old hen.

  "Well, Hal Dane, Camp Number One welcomes you and your help. That's astrange contraption you've brought down though. We've had abouteverything else sent in to help us--coast guard cutters, steamboats,flatboats, army planes, navy planes--but never any such sky boat asthat--something new on me--"

  "Something new on everybody," said Hal, "but if it works like we hope,it may be a help in getting folks out of tight places."

  "From all accounts, you flew the whole night through. Come on up toofficers' quarters for breakfast and some rest." Major Huntley led outin the direction of a row of tents.

  "I'll take the breakfast--the sleep can wait," Hal stretched his longlegs to the Major's brisk stride. "Reckon I'm a good bit fresher thanyou folks that have been in this thing from the beginning."

  "Oh, we've all gotten flood-toughened. There are fellows here thathaven't had their clothes off in six nights." Huntley had piloted Hal toa bench before a long, rough trencherboard table. While the hot,nourishing soup, bread and coffee were being ladled out, the Major wenton. "Since you're willing to keep on working for the day, we're tooshorthanded not to accept your help."

  Hal found the men of the officers' mess a fine, capable lot of fellows,even if they were haggard from overwork and their uniforms all yellowstained and mud caked. Grim days, grimmer nights of toiling in flood andmuck left no time for dress parade formalities.

  At his first chance, in a voice out of which he couldn't force thetremble, Hal asked after Colonel Wiljohn. Was he here? The little JackyWiljohn, had he been found yet?

  Yes, the Colonel was here, a fine old fellow, doing great work with hiscrew of aviators. Too bad about the boy, though! Not a sign of him andthe mother had ever been found. The big hotel at Malden, just below theforks of Pea River and the Choctawhatchee was flooded now, but it hadbeen deserted for days, everybody had been gotten out in
boats early inthe flood. That young Mrs. Wiljohn and the boy had gone off in a canoe,picnicking, it seemed, up some little creek the day the floods had begunto rise. They'd never been heard of since. Which was something of amystery, considering the number of boats and planes that had combed allsections in a special hunt for these two.