The Moving Picture Boys and the Flood/Chapter 21
CHAPTER XXI
ADRIFT AGAIN
"Not so bad."
"That's right! It might be a whole lot worse."
"It's rough, but we can stand it."
"We've got to. There's no going ashore while this flood keeps up."
Thus, in turn, Blake, Joe, Mr. Ringold and C. C. commented, as they stood in the doorway of the slab shack erected on the stern of the lumber raft. Blake had lighted the lantern he had taken the precaution to save from the sinking motor boat, and this gave light enough to see the interior of the cabin that must be their abiding place, for how long they could not tell.
"Well, there's a place where we can stretch out, anyhow," said Blake, after a pause.
"And a stove to cook on, and plenty of wood for fires," added Joe, as he looked down at the raft. "It won't be so bad, after all."
The slab cabin was a roomy one, made to accommodate at least half a dozen men, for there were that many bunks. There were rude chairs, a couple of tables, and some cooking utensils and dishes. Evidently the crew that had been bringing the raft down stream had counted on being aboard for some time.
"They must have gone off in a hurry," commented Mr. Ringold, for some of the chairs were overturned, and there were the remains of a meal, partially consumed, on the table. Articles of clothing were scattered about, and the bed coverings were tossed back on some of the bunks, as though the sleepers had hurried out, without waiting to stop and gather up their belongings.
"There must have been some sort of accident to the raft," observed Mr. Piper. "Probably it was suddenly caught in the rising flood, and maybe it collided with a boat, or another raft. Part of it was carried away, that's evident from the jagged end that hit us. And I reckon the men fairly jumped overboard, leaving everything here just as we see it."
"That's probably the explanation," agreed the manager. "Well, let's get our things in out of the rain, and see what we can do."
It was showering heavily now, and the boys were more glad than ever that they had taken the precaution of wrapping the films in waterproof coverings.
Some other lanterns were found in the cabin, and, being filled with oil, they were lighted and hung up on the walls.
"We ought to show a light outside, too, I suppose," said Blake, reflectively.
"That's so, to avoid being run down by a passing steamer," said Mr. Ringold, "though I don't believe many vessels will take a chance of navigating the river when it's in this condition. Still, it's best to be on the safe side."
There was a pole about amidships of the raft, evidently intended to be used for displaying a light, and a lantern was put as high on this as possible.
By this time our friends had brought into the cabin the things they had so hastily removed from the motor boat, and then they sat down to consider matters, and decide on some course of procedure.
"First of all," began Mr. Piper, "we must"
"Have something to eat!" interrupted Blake. "There's dry wood in here, and a stove. I see a coffee pot, and I know we brought some ground coffee—not much, but some. Where's that keg of fresh water?"
"Here," replied Joe, who had brought it in. "It won't go very far, though."
Indeed the water supply was going to be a serious matter, though, if worse came to worst, they could use the river water, by allowing it to stand for some hours, to settle. It was fresh, but full of mud, and unpleasant to taste and smell. They could also catch the rain as it fell.
"I saw a barrel outside the shack," spoke Mr. Ringold. "Maybe that has water in it."
"I'll look!" offered Blake. "It has!" he cried a moment later, "and it's fresh water, too. That will last us some days."
"Then go ahead, and make coffee," suggested Joe, "and we'll see what else there is here."
An inspection of the cabin showed that there was some food left. It was not very choice, but it was better than nothing, consisting of canned stuff, and, with what our friends had managed to take off their sinking boat, would do for a while.
A fire was soon crackling in the rather dilapidated stove, and the odor of coffee, fragrant and appetizing, filled the air.
"Well, this isn't so bad," remarked Blake, as he sat munching a canned corned beef sandwich. "We're pretty snug in here."
"Yes, and we don't have to worry about running a motor, or sinking," added Joe. "We can't sink. I really like this better than the Clytie, after all."
"You might—if you say it quick!" spoke Blake, half-sarcastically. "Still we're a good deal better off here than out there," and he nodded toward the river.
"But the question is: What's going to become of us?" asked C. C. "We can't stay here for ever."
"Nobody wants to," said Blake. "But we've got to—for a while; until we're taken off, anyhow. We certainly can't swim to shore. We're about in the middle of the river now, and this is several miles wide. We've got to make the best of it."
"We can't do anything but let her drift," said Mr. Ringold. "The sweep, or steering oar, is gone, though we might manage to rig up another. We'll try in the morning."
The meal, rude as it was, revived them all, and cheered their drooping spirits. They discussed the matter, and decided there was little use in keeping a watch during the night. They had just to float on.
"Well, it's good and dry in here, anyhow," observed Blake, as he crawled into one of the bunks.
"Yes, that's another comfort, and we've got more room than we had aboard the Clytie," said Joe.
"Don't go to making fun of the old craft," cautioned his chum. "She served us well. I'm sorry she's gone."
They went to sleep with the rain pattering on the roof of the cabin, thankful for the raft, in spite of the havoc it had made in their plans.
A dreary, drizzling day succeeded. They made themselves as comfortable as they could in the cabin, and went carefully over their food supplies.
"Enough for two days, anyhow," said Mr. Ringold. "After that, well"
He shrugged his shoulders, and did not finish. But they all knew what he meant.
They were in the middle of a wide and desolate stretch of the Mississippi. In the far distance, as they rushed along with the swift current, they could see small towns and villages. They could not, however, reach them, for they could not steer the raft. They tried to make a long sweep, such as the lumbermen use, but they had no pole long enough, and no tools with which to cut one out of the lumber at their disposal.
Joe and Blake did, indeed, try to construct a pole out of one of the loose slabs on the side of the shack, by splitting it with a small axe. But the result was only a weak, wobbly staff, that broke the first time it was used.
"We've just got to drift on—until something happens," said Mr. Ringold.
Joe examined their cameras, for they had two, and also the developed and undeveloped films. The latter were safe in the water-tight cases. In the afternoon, when it cleared a little, Joe and Blake took more moving pictures from the front end of the raft.
They saw no craft of any kind. They seemed alone on the waste of waters.
Night came, and they floated on. They ate less now, for they wanted to make their food supply last as long as possible. But the victuals seemed to go alarmingly fast.
"Maybe we'll drift ashore to-morrow," said Mr. Ringold, hopefully. "If we do we'll leave the raft, and walk until we get to some place where we can hire a boat. For, now that we are reasonably certain that our friends are somewhere down the river, we must make every effort to find them."
It was about midnight when they were all awakened by a severe shock.
"What's that?" cried Mr. Ringold, leaping from his bunk.
"We hit something!" cried Joe.
"I should say we did!" yelled Blake. "We're ashore, that's what we are. We're not moving!"
The raft was not moving, save for a slight undulating motion, due to one end being afloat, and the other on land; at least so they supposed.
Taking one of the lanterns, Blake went outside. There was no rain, and a pale moon, behind some watery clouds, gave a little light.
"What is it?" Joe wanted to know.
"We've run into an island—or an island has run into us," Blake answered.
"An island!" echoed Mr. Ringold. "I was hoping it was the mainland."
"No such good luck," went on Blake.
They joined him "on deck," if one may use such a term concerning a raft. Looking forward they saw that the front, and jagged, end of the raft—the same that had rammed and sunk the Clytie—had struck on a small island, and was wedged fast in the bank.
They did not sleep much more that night. In the morning, an examination showed that it would be out of the question to remain on the island, and leave the raft. The spot of land, in the midst of the flood, was too small. Probably when the river was at its ordinary height the island was considerably larger. It proved of one advantage to our friends, however, for there was a spring in the middle of it, where the ground was higher, and this gave them a supply of fresh water.
"I wonder if we couldn't work the raft off?" mused Blake, when they had eaten a very light lunch, for their food was now very low.
But the raft was too heavy, and too firmly imbedded in the soft mud of the island, to enable our friends, try as they might, to float it. They toiled and tugged all the afternoon, for they felt the almost vital necessity of getting away, and reaching a place where they could get more food.
"I guess we're stuck—and stuck fast!" said Blake, wearily. Then it began to rain again, and they retired to the cabin and went to bed, though no one slept much.
It was about ten o'clock when Joe, getting up for a drink, felt the raft suddenly move.
"Something's happening!" he cried.
At once they were all aroused. The affair of logs trembled and shivered. Then, with a rending, splintering sound she floated free of the island.
"We're afloat again!" cried Joe. "The river must have risen and pulled us free."