The Boy Chums in the Gulf of Mexico

by Carol Norton

  CHAPTER XXV.

  THE FLOATING HATCH.

  THE castaways lost no time in rejoicing over their good fortune. TheCaptain hastily kindled a fire while Chris, with his sheath knife,proceeded to butcher the smallest of the two turtles. Much experiencehad made the little negro expert at the work and in a few minutes hehad severed the two shells and cut off several thick steaks from oneof the hind flippers. Then, squatting before the fire, each impaled asteak on the end of a pointed stick and toasted it over the coals.

  How good the steaming juicy meat tasted to the two hungry ones. Steakafter steak was broiled and eaten before their ravenous appetites weresatisfied and they could eat no more.

  "Midnight is a sorter unusual hour for a feed," Captain Westfieldobserved, "but, I reckon, we will sleep none the worse for it. I 'low,we ain't got to lay awake none worryin' about food now. Thar's meatenough to last us for two weeks at least."

  "An' maybe, Ole Mister Gale will blow hisself out," said Chris,hopefully, as, yawning sleepily he stretched himself again on his couch.

  It was broad day when the castaways awoke from the heavy slumber whichhad followed their hearty midnight supper. They found the gale stillblowing with undiminished violence and the sky still brightly blue. Onething, however, gave them great satisfaction, the water had ceased toencroach upon their little knoll. It had evidently reached its height.

  After a hearty breakfast of turtle steaks, the two proceeded at onceto dress and cure the turtles, for they well knew that under the sun'sheat the fresh meat would soon spoil.

  They had neither salt nor smoke house with which to cure it, but theywent at the task with sure confidence in the result. The meat was firstcut away from the shells and skinned, care being taken to remove everyparticle of the greenish-colored fat. Then, cutting across the grain,the meat was divided into thin strips and spread upon leaves to dry inthe hot sun. It only remained for them to protect it from the dews ofnight and chance rains and a few days would see it thoroughly cured andcapable of keeping sweet and good so long as it was kept dry.

  With some hazy idea that they might be of some future use, the captaincleaned and washed out the two, great, trough-like, upper shells of theturtles.

  "Dat looks like a lump of wreckage out dar by de reef, Massa Cap,"Chris observed as he straightened up from his task of spreading out themeat. "Pears like de tide is settin' hit in dis way."

  "It is a bit of wreckage or a clump of seaweed," the captain agreedafter a brief survey. "It's drifting in all right, but it's going tomiss the island by a good hundred yards."

  The two suspended work while they watched the drifting object slowlynear their island.

  "It looks like a hatch with something like a stack atop of it," heobserved to the captain as the object drew close.

  "Hit's a man or 'ooman atop ob hit," cried Chris, whose eyes werekeener than the old sailor's. "He's layin' plum still, jes' like he wasdead."

  Closer approach of the object convinced the captain that the littlenegro was correct. There was beyond doubt a motionless body lying onthe low floating hatch. It was evident too that the hatch with itsburden would pass the island at a distance of at least one hundred andfifty yards. To venture out and attempt to tow it in was to assumea terrible risk. The water between it and the island was raging andtossing over dozens of dangerous hidden rocks. Only the strongestswimmer would have the slightest chance of success, and, even should hesucceed, it might be to find that he had risked his life to rescue acorpse. But the ocean breeds in its followers a brotherhood that leadsthem to deeds of quiet heroism. They never know when they may be inneed of a rescuing hand and it is seldom that one turns aside from therendering of service, no matter how dangerous it may be to himself.

  When the hatch with its burden was nearly abreast of the island Chrisbegan to strip off his clothes, but the Captain stopped him.

  "You're still too weak to attempt it, lad," he declared. "You couldn'tmake it thar an' back, I reckon I can fight it out all right. I'vemighty nigh got back all my strength."

  Hastily stripping off the pants and shirt in which he was clothed, theold sailor slipped off into the water and struck out for the wreckagewith long steady strokes, warily avoiding the foaming spots whichmarked the positions of the larger rocks. The swim was not difficultfor so experienced a swimmer. The struggle would come when he attemptedto return with his burden. In a few minutes, he reached the wreckageand, resting his hand upon the hatch gazed down at the burden it bore.He saw a man, apparently about forty years of age, attired in roughseaman's garb, his face bronzed and seamed from long years of exposureto wind and weather. The stranger was lying flat on his back on thehatch, his legs dangling over the end. A rope passed around his bodyand under the wood work prevented the larger seas from washing him offhis frail support. He was unconscious and the captain reached over andplaced his ear close to his chest. He could detect a faint beating ofthe heart. It was slow and feeble but still it was beating,--the manwas alive.

  Once satisfied of this fact, the old sailor quickly shifted to the endof the hatch, and, resting one hand upon it, and striking out with theother hand and both feet, strove to force it back to the island. He hadnot accomplished half the distance with his burden when he saw thathe could not hope to succeed. The tide was slowly but surely sweepinghim in past the island direct for the mainland. Still, he battleddesperately on, swimming with all his strength. Suddenly the littleraft seemed to move forward with increased speed.

  "Take it easy, Massa Cap," sounded Chris' voice close to his elbow. "Wecan make it togedder all right." The plucky little negro had been quickto see the danger and equally quick to come to the rescue.

  Between the two, after half an hour of heartbreaking battling withthe current, they managed to shove the raft ashore, where they sankexhausted and panting upon the sand.

  As soon as they were able to move, they unlashed the unconscious sailorfrom the hatch, and, carrying him up, laid him upon the captain'scouch. The man seemed nearly dead, and for hours the two, wet,exhausted castaways worked over him, struggling to coax the spark oflife into a flame. At last they were rewarded by seeing a tinge ofcolor creep into the bronzed face. At length the sailor sighed andopened his eyes.

  "Water," he gasped, faintly.

  "Golly! I should reckon he's had 'bout enough water," Chris exclaimed.

  "Get some for him quick," Captain Westfield commanded. "The salt brinehe has swallowed has parched his throat and stomach."

  The sailor took only one mouthful of the proffered water, then spat itout with his face twitching.

  "Salt, salt," he murmured.

  A horrible fear seized the captain. He snatched the shell from Chris'hand and took a swallow of the water. His fear was confirmed, it wassalt. The Gulf had risen close enough to their little well to percolatethrough the sand into it and render it as salt as itself.

  The little negro divined the situation from the captain's face. "Golly!dat's bad," he cried. "Doin' widout water is a heap wurser den doin'widout food."

  "Water, give me water," pleaded the rescued man. "My throat's parched,parched."

  "You shall have some water as soon as we can get it," Captain Westfieldassured him. There was something vaguely familiar to the old sailor inthe man's queerly accented speech. It was more puzzling as he had norecollection of ever having seen the man before.

  Considering his low condition the sailor recovered his full sensesand a measure of his strength with astonishing rapidity. It was plainthat he had not been deprived of either food or water for any greatlength of time. He was soon able to sit up and take notice of hissurroundings. A curious look stole over his bronzed face as his gazetook in the two castaways.

  "How did I get hyah?" he demanded.

  Captain Westfield related the story of the rescue briefly.

  The sailor's rough features worked with emotion. "I remember part," hecried. "Our vessel struck on Needle Rocks in the darkness an' went downlike a stone. I had just time to throw myself on the hatch an
' passa rope around my waist. The crew," he shuddered--"must have all beendashed to pieces against the rocks. God knows how I escaped. An' yo'risked yo'r lives to save mine, yo' an' that boy. Mon, how could yo'forgive me enough to do such a deed?"

  "Forgive you?" echoed the captain, puzzled. "I had nothin' to forgive."

  "I am Rufus Sanders, the Key West sponger who refused yo'r appeals forhelp an' left yo' to yo'r fate," cried the man, excitedly.

  "I did not know that, but it would have made no difference," said thecaptain, gently. "You were a helpless, shipwrecked man." He checked theflood of thanks on the sponger captain's lips. "You have nothing tothank us for," he declared. "We have only saved you from one fate tosuffer a worse with us. We are hopelessly imprisoned on this island,an' we have no water. All we can do is endure, pray an' hope."