Ziz-z-z-z-z-z!
A ragged, flaming bolt of lightning ripped across the black sky. It showed the broad reach of the St. Lawrence in the vicinity of Piquetville lashed into a fury of white-capped waves and turbulent waters.
Through the furious electric storm the River Swallow was wallowing along, rolling and plunging terrifically. Owing to her narrow beam, the craft was far more “cranky” than an ordinary boat, and to anyone not used to her actions in rough water, the experience would have been an alarming one. Besides being familiar with the craft he was guiding, however, Ralph had other things to worry him beside the storm.
For one thing, La Rue,—or Hawke, as Ralph still knew him,—was standing beside him, pistol in hand, and from what Ralph knew of the man, there was little doubt that he would hesitate to use the weapon if the need arose. The boy had another cause for worry in the fact that he did not know what his companions, who had gone ashore, would think of the disappearance of the River Swallow. He knew that they would be worrying over his situation on board her, and the thought of their anxiety disquieted him to the full as much as his own predicament.
But, with it all, Ralph had a certain grim satisfaction in one factor of his problem. Below decks in a bunk, with a badly damaged head, incurred in his fall down the steps leading from the bridge, lay Malvin. The man was incapacitated for duty and was, in fact, only half conscious. As he had fallen from the bridge, it was La Rue who had seized Ralph’s arms before the boy could sound the alarm, and who had ordered Ralph, upon the pain of being shot down, to steer the River Swallow out of the harbor. The young skipper had no recourse but to obey, and so the River Swallow was struggling with the storm, with an inexperienced man—Hansen—in the engine room and on the bridge a boy who was menaced with a pistol in the hands of the diamond smuggler.
With the storm had arisen a wind that screeched and howled like a witches’ carnival about the River Swallow. The craft was rather high out of the water and of light draught, like most of the St. Lawrence River craft. She pitched and rolled awesomely under the blast. There was no real danger, as Ralph well knew, but, as has been said, to anyone unused to her violent motions in a storm, the wild behavior of the River Swallow was, to say the least, alarming.
To complicate matters, it was pitchy dark, the frequent flashes of lightning alone illumining the gloom. The wind was blowing the same way as the current, and below them lay a labyrinth of rapids, shoals and islands that required an experienced skipper to thread, even by daylight.
“This is a fine fix,” thought Ralph to himself, as the wind tore about him, the waters rolled high and the lightning flashed and zigzagged across the thunder-ridden sky. “If I ever get the River Swallow through this without piling her up on a shoal or getting the bottom ripped out of her in some rapids, I’m entitled to a gold medal.”
“Will this get worse?” asked La Rue.
The boy noted with glee that there was a note of apprehension in the fellow’s voice.