The drift carried us off at once, and the next wave almost hid the hull of the Belle Helène. I knew at once we were powerless, and that our one hope lay in drifting ashore. There is no worse sea boat than a low, flat ducking boat, decked though she be, and of good coaming, for she butts into and does not rise to a sea. But now, I thanked my star, one thing only was in our favor. We rolled like a log, already half full of water, but we floated, because in each end of our skiff was a big empty tin air tank, put there in spite of the laughing protest of the builder, who said no room was left for decoys under the decks. Just now, those tin cans were worth more than many duck decoys.
“Keep down!” I ordered. “And hold on!” The boys obeyed me. I could see their gaze bent on me, as the source of their hope, their reliance. Jimmy was now free from the first violence of the seasickness, but I saw Jean’s hand on his arm.
“Gee!” I heard the latter mutter as the first sea crossed under us. “Dat was a peach.” I took heart myself, for we lived that one through. “Bail!” I ordered, and they took their cups to it, while I did all I could with the long punt paddle to make some sort of course. Now and then the blazing trail of the Belle Helène’s search-light swung across as we rolled, to leave us, the next instant, in blackness. As the seas permitted, we could see her, riding and rocking, sometimes, alight from stern to stern and making a gallant fight for her life, as were we all.
So long as the rollers came in oily and black, we did well, but where the top of one broke under us, we sank deep into the white foam that had no carrying power, and our cockpit filled so that we all sat in water. Only the tanks held us, log-like, and we bailed and paddled: and after they saw we did not sink, my hardy bullies, perhaps in the ignorance of youth and boy’s confidence that a boy and water are friends, began to shout aloud. We wallowed on.
No sound came to us from either of the other boats; and now, very quickly it seemed, we came at the edge of the surf.
“I’m touching bottom, boys,” I called, and cast the long punt pole adrift as I took up the short paddle I had held under my leg.
Now we had under us two feet of water or ten, as the waves might say, and any moment we might roll over; but we wallowed in, rolling, till I knew the supreme moment had come. I waited, holding her head in well as I could so unruly a hulk, and as a big roller came after us, paddled as hard as I could. The wave chased us, caught us, pushed us, carried us in. There was a lift of our loggish bows, a blinding crash of white water about us. Our boat was overturned, but in some way, since the beach was all sand and very gentle, the wave flattened so that the back-tow did not pull us down. In some way, I do not know how, I found myself standing, and dragging Jimmy by the hand. Jean already was ahead, and I heard his shout and saw his hand as he stood, knee-deep but safe. So we all made it ashore, and our boat also, which now we hauled out of the spume. And the long white row of breakers, less dangerous than I had feared, came in, white maned and bellowing.
I could still see the rocking lights of the yacht, and the shifting stroke of the search-light on the sea, but I did not hear and see aught else, at the time, and my heart sank.
It was Jimmy whose ear first got the sound which came in—the feverish phut-phut of the motor skiff. Then the ray of the great light swung and I saw the boat still outside the breakers—nor could I tell then why we had beaten her in. It seemed Peterson was hunting for us others.
“Stay back, boys!” I called to my companions. “You might get thrown down by the waves—keep back.” But now I was ready to rush in to meet the long boat, whose keel I knew would leave her to overturn if she caught bottom.