The Black Stallion and Flame Page 5

  The copilot’s thoughts were similar to the captain’s. His eyes scanned the sea, noting the whitecaps and the shadows of the scattered clouds. It was touch and go between rain and sun. Which would it be? He picked the sun and hoped he was wrong. The search area had to be a great one and how would high-flying planes ever be able to spot an object as small as their raft?

  During the storm they had been out of communication range for too many hours to give their searchers a clue as to where they had ditched. He looked up at the small hydrogen balloon that carried their radio antenna aloft. Their SOS would let their searchers know they were still alive and awaiting help. But were they getting through to anyone?

  He kept turning the hand-energized transmitter, sending out the SOS steadily. And, like the captain, he held a mirror in his hand, flashing it in the sun. Aircraft would see the flashes long before those below could see or hear the plane.

  When help appeared they’d send off their smoke signals or, if it happened to be nighttime, their red signals. The flares were being kept dry and ready just in case. Then, too, they had their green sea-marker for daytime use and their flashlights for use at night. Now all he had to do was to relax—and keep cranking, of course. Keep sending out that SOS … SOS … SOS.…

  The navigator had his own separate thoughts. He figured, I’d estimate our position to be 17–30 north, 57–30 west. That puts us in touch with the Windward Islands where we ought to be able to land. He passed on the estimated position to the captain, who put it immediately in the log.

  The night had enabled the navigator to lose his sense of helplessness; the weather had been clear and ideal for sighting the stars. He’d had no trouble. Using his automatic octant he’d shot Pollux, then plotted and calculated their position on his chart. Just before dawn he’d been able to get a good three-star fix and was confident that their position was more or less correct. He took up a compass heading of 114 degrees and figured it shouldn’t be too long before they sighted one of the islands.

  He sat up and, just to make sure, shot several single-shot sun lines, then crossed a line and a radio bearing for a fix. He studied coordinates. Yes, he still made it 17–30 north, 57–30 west. If he was right, the island of Antago should be showing up in the west anytime now. But just in case he was wrong, he’d better keep that information to himself. Surprises were easier to take than disappointments.

  It didn’t rain. The shadows of the clouds on the sea became more scattered. The sun beat down on the raft and the long hours went by slower and slower and slower. Even the fish seemed to seek refuge from the sun by gathering underneath the shadow of the bobbing raft.

  The captain was on watch and now he stirred beneath the protection of the tarpaulin to pick up his insignia pin. He opened it carefully to avoid putting a hole in the raft, tied a parachute shroud line to it and then dropped it into the water. Before long a fish struck the shiny pin. After killing it with a blow on the head the captain pulled it eagerly aboard, careful to keep the fish’s spine from touching the inflated rubber. Then he turned to the others, wanting to share his catch with them.

  They were all asleep and he didn’t want to wake them. Sleep was most important. He decided to keep the fish intact until they awakened. He secured it to the side of the raft, letting it trail deep in the water to keep it away from the sun.

  A moment later he realized that he had made a terrible mistake. Not more than a hundred yards away from the raft a dorsal fin split the blue water like a huge black sickle. Then it was gone, the shark plunging down deep below the surface with a great splash of his tail fin.

  Had it gone or was it after the bait? The captain reached for the line trailing in the water. Now he remembered the warning in his operations and survival manual! “Avoid attracting or annoying sharks. Most of them are scavengers continually on the move for food. If they don’t get it from you they will lose interest and swim on. Don’t fish from your raft if sharks are nearby. Abandon hooked fish if shark approaches.”

  The captain didn’t call the others. He sat alone, stonily silent, waiting … pulling the line in as fast as he could. Then the huge dorsal fin broke the surface again and he could have touched the shark. Breathlessly he waited. The line snapped and his fish was gone.

  The captain pulled in the cord and sat back, praying he’d seen the last of the shark who could so easily slash the rubber raft and sink it.

  He wondered how ferocious sharks really were. Some people said that unless driven to fury sharks were usually harmless; others maintained they were willing to eat anything that came within reach. Quiet now, the captain told himself. Don’t move. Maybe he’s gone away.

  But the shark reappeared, swimming around the raft, his dorsal fin raised high. Again and again he circled, coming so close that the captain scarcely dared to breathe. Would the shark charge? Would he make a quick pass at the raft?

  The captain watched, not daring to move. He counted the number of times the shark circled the raft. He considered calling the others but decided to put it off for another few seconds. He was scared. He picked up an oar.

  The shark whipped the water with his tail and disappeared below again. Where would he come up now? Beneath the raft?

  It was time to call the others, quickly! But before the captain could make a move the dorsal fin broke the surface more than fifty feet away. The captain breathed easier. Get out of here, you. Get! he almost screamed aloud. His hands tightened about the oar.

  Suddenly the shark turned and twisted completely around, streaking directly for the raft! The huge dark fin cut through the sea of glass, leaving whorls of ripples behind.

  The captain struck the water with the flat of the oar, hoping the noise would scare the shark away. The sharp retort shattered the quiet and the others in the raft sat up abruptly as though they had been struck in the face.

  “Look sharp, everybody!” the captain ordered. “A shark’s after us. He’s somewhere right around us but he won’t stay down long.”

  The captain’s voice snapped them to attention, and they strained their eyes trying to pierce the depths. Oh, good Lord, don’t let him come up beneath us! they thought as one. Not that!

  “There’s something off to starboard. Is that it?” the navigator shouted. “No. No. Nothing. Look to port. There. No, it’s another shadow.”

  “Quiet!” the captain ordered sharply.

  They all saw the fin far off to one side. Maybe their enemy was leaving. They scarcely breathed. It was the biggest dorsal fin any of them had ever seen. The shark must have been thirty or forty feet long from dorsal fin to tail! All he had to do was to lunge at them just once, to hit and run—and it would be the end. The shark seemed to have stopped momentarily, lying just beneath the surface. Was he resting, waiting? Would he attack or wouldn’t he?

  “He’ll leave. I know he will,” Alec said.

  “I hope so,” the navigator responded fervently.

  “If he doesn’t—”

  “Smile, ol’ buddies. We’re still afloat,” the copilot said grimly.

  “Quiet!” the captain ordered.

  “There he goes—down again,” Alec said.

  They waited, sweating from fear that the raft might suddenly rise beneath them. But nothing happened and that was the last they saw of the huge black dorsal fin.

  Despite its sea anchor, the raft had moved with the wind and current. In the early afternoon the captain took in the sea anchor and rigged a square sail in the bow, using tarpaulin, and oars as mast and crossbar. He erected the mast by tying it securely to the front cross seat and providing braces. He padded the bottom of the mast to prevent it from chafing or punching a hole in the rubber floor. For a rudder he used an oar. “Now,” he told the others, “let’s try to get someplace. It doesn’t seem that anyone’s looking for us.”

  “We haven’t reached anyone, that’s why,” the copilot said, still cranking the Gibson Girl.

  “I think we’ve got a pretty good chance of finding something,” the navi
gator told them for the first time. “According to my estimate …”

  Their eyes turned to him, pleading and hopeful. “I could be wrong,” he went on. “Don’t get all steamed up. But there’s a chance, a good one, that we might sight land today. Keep looking.”

  The late-afternoon sky was clear except for a strange cloud that hovered close to the sea. The atmosphere there had more of a greenish tint than the area around it—as if, perhaps, it was a reflection of sunlight from shallow lagoons or shelves of coral reefs. All the rest of the sea was either dark green or dark blue, indicating deep water.

  The crew watched the hovering cloud. Might it not mean that land was near? Didn’t the survival manual state that sometimes such a cloud in a clear sky hangs over or floats downwind from an island?

  They sniffed the air for smells of land which would carry a long way over the sea with the right wind. They hoped to smell the musty odor of mangrove swamps and mud flats, and that of burning wood. They listened for the roar of the surf and the cries of sea birds that might already be roosting on some nearby land. Their eyes searched the skies for birds flying homeward at dusk. Finally they saw a flock far in the distance, a long file making a beeline for the center of the hovering cloud! They watched the flowing stream of birds in dead silence, afraid to speak, even to hope, able only to pray. They watched so intently that each and every one thought he could actually hear the soft, humming swish of wings and, below the birds, the roar of the surf breaking on an island shore.

  After a long while the captain shifted his gaze from the cloud and studied the sea. There was no doubt that the pattern of the waves was changing. He turned to the others, saying quietly, “I think it’s safe to say we’re approaching land.”

  “If it’s land, it’s the island of Antago, according to my reckoning, the most windward of the Lower Antilles,” the navigator said.

  “I don’t care what it is, ol’ buddy, just as long as it’s solid ground,” the copilot answered.

  “You’d better care,” the navigator retorted. “Why be stranded on a deserted island? Antago’s got people, plenty of them, and ships to take us home.”

  The wind was strong on their quarter as they sailed westward, and by sunset they were within sight of land. It rose from the sea in a series of rolling hills of green cane rimmed by palm-fringed beaches. But more heartening to the survivors than the beauty of the land were the villages rising from the waterfront to high, well-cultivated plains. There was nothing remote or primitive about the island; it was productive, civilized, a place where they could easily get help.

  The rays of the setting sun shone in the captain’s eyes as he tried to select his landing point carefully. He watched for gaps in the surf line and headed for them. He ordered everybody to put on life vests again and trailed the sea anchor over the stern with as much line as he had. The anchor together with the oars would help keep the raft pointing toward shore. If possible they’d ride in on the crest of a wave. He didn’t expect any trouble. It was only a medium surf with a small coral reef to cross. They had won! They had staved off death. They were going home. It was good to think about. He had a wife and four kids.

  “It won’t be long now,” he said aloud but softly.

  They were all nodding quietly back at him, all but the boy Alec, who wanted with all his heart to know the answer to the question that tormented him: I wonder if my horse made it too?

  WALLED ARENA

  7

  The chestnut stallion stood motionless on a slight incline overlooking his herd. He might have been a giant statue on a pedestal except that no sculptor could have reproduced accurately his fineness of form and carriage.

  He was the color of fire and the very air about him crackled as if he were discharging invisible flames. His head was small but his eyes were large and black and brilliant. It was his eyes that betrayed him for what he was—a wild stallion on guard, alert, questioning and dangerous.

  Suddenly, and for the first time in many minutes, he moved. There was a quivering of his flaring nostrils, followed by a nervous twitching of his ears. His cascading mane and tail were picked up and riffled by a sudden gust of wind, then he was still again.

  He was the veteran of hundreds of battles, completely unafraid of the intruder who sought his mares as openly as this black one. He raised his handsome head higher, surveying the stranger’s small band and coveting it. His body rocked slightly on his long, clean legs, and the interplay of his muscles was beautiful to see. He exuded power, bearing himself as if he could never be conquered by man or beast, never be ridden or put between shafts. And he knew exactly what to do in the face of danger.

  He turned to his own mares, moving with all the dignity of a thousand monarchs. He was the object of trembling reverence and awe until he snorted. Then the mares heeled like a giant pinwheel, starting to form a tight circle with their hindquarters at the outer edge. Mindful of their long-legged foals at their sides, some of the mares trotted more slowly than others. The red stallion moved upon them swiftly. Nipping the tardy mares gently, for he was considerate as well as intelligent, he hurried them into formation and then turned again to face his foe. He waited for the fight to be brought to him.

  The moments dragged on. He waited for the strange stallion to move, to fidget. But it seemed that his foe, too, was content to wait. Such steadiness in another stallion was unknown to him. In all his years of combat it had never happened before. Little did he know that the strange stallion was his equal in all things and that he faced the fiercest battle of his life.

  The Black Stallion wasn’t startled by what he had found. The trail he had followed was plainly marked with hoofprints as large as his own, and the scent of other horses had been strong in his nostrils. But now he did not go forward eagerly. He quieted his excited mares with a sharp reprimand and then stood stock-still while the breeze bent the tall cane around them.

  Only the rapid rise and fall of his ribs and the brightness of his eyes betrayed his excitement. He began to breathe harder, his strong muscles bulging beneath his glossy satin coat.

  His eyes left the leader of the herd just once. That was when he glanced skyward at the flowing clouds and saw the great black bird that swept across the valley and perched itself on a dead tree beyond the cane.

  The Black turned back to his foe, waiting for him to attack. His fury mounted like an oncoming wind and finally he shook his head, tossed his mane and rose high in the air. He came down hard, pawing the ground and lashing the wind. He squealed furiously as if to tell his foe that he, too, had led wild herds and conquered many stallions! Never had he been matched in courage and cunning! He feared no savage beast, no other stallion!

  One sharp ear was turned to his own mares while the other remained pricked forward toward his foe. His fury continued to mount and again he tossed his head and rose, pawing the air. When he finally came down he seemed to be breathing fire.

  Suddenly the Black moved forward. His mares followed him, smashing through the cane in their eagerness not to be left behind. But the Black had little thought for his band at this time and his speed increased with every stride. Faster and faster he ran, his action so smooth and swift, despite his bruised hoof, that it seemed as if it would have been no trouble for him to have flown. He soared above the ground, taking longer and longer strides, his great nostrils puffed out with air. As he approached the big herd, jubilation was evident in every movement. He was ready to conquer!

  Suddenly he stopped as if struck by a bullet. On the wind rang a shrill whistle, uttered not by the red leader but by still another stallion!

  Among the young stallions who stood just outside the ring on guard there was one who, more than any of the others, coveted the position as supreme leader of the herd. He was milk-white in color and unlike the other young, ambitious stallions his body was unscathed; there were no cuts, bruises or tooth marks. And yet he was a veteran of more fights than any horse in the herd with the exception of the red stallion he expected one day to d
ethrone. He left the ring, going downwind, his eyes like his leader’s watching the strange black stallion. In the cold, bleak light of early morning, his warm nostrils could be seen reddening as he blew them out, snorting, while his great eyes bulged in their sockets. Then he again whistled his clarion call of battle and broke into a run, moving down the valley with the grace of a large white bird.

  Suddenly he stopped and whirled as if undecided as to the proper method of attack. He snorted repeatedly at his black opponent, his body trembling with rage … or was it in sudden terror?

  He reared, going up and up and up. Coming down, he looked back at the herd for the first time since he’d left it. He stood still for a moment, sniffing the air, pricking up his ears, listening to the whinnies and snorts from the mares. Then as if it had all been decided for him, he turned downwind once more.

  Fire flashed in his eyes as he screamed again and again. He rose once more, lashing out with his hoofs and rocking the valley with a thunderous sound when he came down. He squealed fiercely at the Black Stallion, as if hoping to frighten him away … all to no avail.

  Finally he bounded off on long slender legs, half on the ground, half in the air, having betrayed himself for what he was—a stallion too young, too inexperienced for the black horse who silently, quietly awaited him.

  All at once the Black Stallion was no longer earthbound! He moved toward the white horse, full of life and vigor and, most of all, confidence. He had not been frightened at all by the milk-white charger, who by his antics had sought to instill nameless terror within him. Often he had met such young stallions in battle, all seeking to be the chosen king of the herd and to assume leadership. They were all too eager, and this one was no different.

  He watched the other coming toward him again. The milk-white stallion was running with his head bent a little too close to the ground. His pace, too, was irregular as if he weren’t quite sure whether to lope or trot or stop.