“We’re the crew of an American bomber, forced down by lack of fuel this afternoon,” he explained. “We nearly turned a sub-machine gun on you people a minute ago, thinking you were Japs. If we hadn’t heard one of the ladies speak—”
“That was Dora Wilcox,” another girl broke in. “She and her father had a mission station here; and I’d just come out to join my father at his cocoanut plantation when the Japs came. We’ve been hiding from them ever since. The little brutes caught and killed Reverend Wilcox only last week. I’m Claire Barrows, and my father is here beside me.”
“We had a hard time persuading Miss Wilcox to come with us,” a man’s voice added. “She wanted to stay with the native converts until they themselves urged her to leave. The Japs are due to occupy this island in force at any time.”
“Nanu and Kari Luva and their wives decided to escape with us in their catamaran,” Dora Wilcox chimed in. “Why don’t you people join us? This craft is really too heavy for three men and four women to paddle, and we’re well stocked with water and food. I’m sure that Providence brought us together—and kept you from shooting us in the dark.”
There was no resisting the girl’s logic. Barry Blake quickly introduced his crew by name as they lifted Crayle into the native boat. He himself came aboard last, carrying his precious still and fishing tackle. The two rubber rafts were left to float ashore and mystify any Jap patrol that might find them.
Dora Wilcox, he soon discovered, was the real leader of the refugees. The four natives showed a childlike devotion to her. Even Clarke Barrows, the middle-aged plantation owner, deferred to the girl’s opinion. Barry Blake found himself consumed with curiosity to see the face of this young person who planned like a general and thought of everybody else before herself.
Dora Wilcox’s hope was to sail the entire three hundred miles to Australia. She had brought palm fiber mats to cover the catamaran during the day and make it appear abandoned. The mats would serve the double purpose of camouflage and shade. At night the sail would be raised. With a favorable wind, she told Barry, the double-dugout craft could travel as much as eighty miles between dusk and dawn.
The young Fortress skipper glanced up at the scudding clouds. Weather, he realized, would have a great deal to do with the success or failure of their escape. Without a keel the catamaran would make a lot of leeway. If the wind held from the northeast, it could easily blow them ashore on a Jap occupied island. The wisest plan would be to get as far to windward as they could before dawn.
“Let us take the paddles, Miss Wilcox,” he said. “My crew will relieve your native boys until it’s time to hoist sail. Then perhaps we can figure out a way to beat the leeward drift.”
“We’re at your orders from now on, Lieutenant,” the girl replied. “None of us is a navigator. If an American bomber crew can’t take us through, no human power could do it.”