The Forest Pilot: A Story for Boy Scouts

by Edward Huntington

“A few more like that, Larry,” Martin shouted above the gale, “and that chain will snap. The anchor is caught fast in the rocks at the bottom.”

Meanwhile the sailors and the captain were working desperately to cut loose the other anchor and get it over the side as their only chance of keeping the boat off the rocks. The gale, the rolling of the vessel, and the waves buffeted them about, however, so that before they could release the heavy mass of iron, the yacht again plunged her nose into the waves, then rose on her stern, trembling and jerking at the single anchor chain. For a moment it held. Then there was a sharp report, as a short length of chain flew back, knocking two of the sailors overboard, and gouging a great chunk of wood from the fore mast. At the same time the boat settled back, careening far to port with the rail clear under.

The violence of the shock had thrown Larry off his feet, but for a moment he clung to the railing with one hand. Then as the boat righted herself, quivering and creaking, the flood of water coming over the bow tore loose his hands, and hurled him blinded and stupified along the deck. The next thing he knew he found himself lying in a heap at the foot of the narrow companionway stairs down which he had been thrown by the waves.

He was dazed and bruised by the fall, yet above the roar of the storm, he heard faintly the howling of the huskie dogs, confined in a pen on the forward deck. Then there was the awful roar of the waves again, the crash of breaking timbers, and again a deluge of water poured down the companionway. At the same time Larry was struck with some soft, heavy object, that came hurtling down with the torrent of water. Gasping for breath and half choked with the water, he managed to cling to the steps until the water had rushed out through the scuppers as the boat heeled over the other way. Then crawling on hands and knees he succeeded in reaching the cabin door, the latch of which was not over six feet away.

With a desperate plunge he threw it open and fell sprawling into the room. At the same time two great malamoot dogs, who had been washed down the companionway with the preceding wave, sprang in after him, whining and cowering against him. Even in his fright he could not help contrasting the present actions of these dogs with their usual behavior. Ordinarily they were quiet, reserved fellows, given to minding their own business and imparting the general impression that it would be well for others to do the same. Now all their sturdy independence was gone, and cowering and trembling they pressed close to the boy for protection, apparently realizing that they were battling with an enemy against whom they had no defence.

But the storm gave Larry little time to think of anything but his own safety. Even as he struggled to rise and push the cabin door shut, the boat heeled over and performed that office for him with a crash. The next moment a torrent of water rushed down the companionway, but only a few drops were forced through the cracks of the door casing, fitted for just such an occasion, so that the cabin remained practically dry. Over and over again at short intervals this crash of descending waters shook the cabin and strained at the door casing. And all the time the movements of the boat kept Larry lying close to the floor, clinging to the edge of the lower bunk to keep from being thrown violently across the cabin.

The dogs, unable to find a foothold when the cabin floor rose beneath them, were often thrown violently about the room, their claws scratching futilely along the hard boards as they strove to stop the impetus of the fall. But the moment the boat righted itself, they crawled whimpering back and crouched close to the frightened boy.

Little enough, indeed, was the protection or comfort Larry could give the shivering brutes. He himself was sobbing with terror, and at each plunge and crash of the boat he expected to find himself engulfed by the black waters. Now and again, above the sound of the storm, he heard the crash of splintering timbers, with furious blows upon the decks and against the sides of the hull. He guessed from this that the masts had been broken off and were pounding for a moment against the hull, held temporarily by the steel shrouds until finally torn away by the waves.

Vaguely he wondered what had become of Martin, and the Captain, and the two remaining members of the crew. Perhaps they had been washed down the after companionway as he had gone down the forward one. But far more likely they were now in their long resting place at the bottom of the bay. There seemed little probability that they had been as lucky as he, and he expected to follow them at any moment. Yet he shut his teeth and clung fast to the side of the bunk.

It was terribly exhausting work, this clinging with one’s hands, and at each successive plunge he felt his grip weakening. In a very few minutes, he knew he should find himself hurled about the cabin like a loose piece of furniture, and then it would only be a matter of minutes until he was flung against some object and crushed. He would not be able to endure the kind of pounding that the dogs were getting. The protection of their thick fur, and the ability to relax and fall limply, saved them from serious injury.