CHAPTER SEVENTEEN   A NARROW ESCAPE

“You got time to cross yonder an’ hide in de marsh,” Uncle Mose told Kitty and Brad when they heard the sound of the approaching motorboat.

“Let’s get going,” said Kitty, picking up her oar. “You’d better hide your tobacco and new pipe, Uncle Mose.”

“Yas’m, sho will.” The old man’s sunken eyes turned toward the inlet. “You kin hear de motorboat a long time ’fore she come in sight.”

“I’m glad you told us what you did, Uncle Mose,” said Kitty. “Don’t you worry. Mr. Beeson will never buy this island.”

“T’ank de Lawd! You tell young Massa I keep de trus’ an’ look atter de place like he ask me to.”

Brad was impatient to be off, and Kitty bent her back to the oar as he pulled away from the little harbor. Glancing at Uncle Mose before they turned a point in the shore, she saw him waving his battered felt hat at them and pointing straight across the marsh.

Instead of turning north by the way they had come they headed for the tide-filled creeks that cut the marshy wastelands into jig-saw patterns. They could have used the motor for greater speed, but Kitty knew the noise would carry for quite a distance across the empty wastes. Not until they had gone almost a mile up one of the winding creeks did they pause behind the shelter of some tall marsh grass.

“Hope we don’t get stuck in here,” said Brad. “Tide’s so low.”

“But it’s already turned. That’s a help.” She rubbed her tired hands together a moment and said, “Uncle Mose gave us an earful, didn’t he?”

“I’ll say!”

“Looks as though that’s the final piece to complete the puzzle.”

“Maybe and maybe not, Kit. We’ve got to catch ’em with the goods before we can really bring conviction.”

“Sure is risky for that poor old negro. Beeson doesn’t look like the kind of man who would hesitate to put the old man out of the way if he interferes with his plans.”

“You’re right.”

“Maybe we should have brought him away with us just now.”

“Oh no, that would never do. Beeson would be sure you were responsible—after what happened at the troop train the other day.”

“I guess you’re right. That would make him cut off his traffic with the Germans till suspicion dies down.”

“Kit, it’s come to the point where we no longer have a right to keep all this to ourselves.”

“You mean the FBI should know?”

“Certainly. It’s not mere surmise now. What Uncle Mose told us bears out accurately the theories we’ve been forming.”

“You’re right, Brad.” Even though they had prided themselves on their discoveries so far, Kitty had to admit that the affair was now too dangerous for them to handle. She could never forgive herself if, through their bungling, Uncle Mose lost his life.

“But we’ve got to get out of here first,” said Brad. “It’s beginning to look as though we’re in for a real blow, Kit.”

“A real sou’easter.”

Suddenly Brad half rose and peered above the strip of marsh grass behind which they were hiding. “Listen, Kit, sounds like Beeson’s boat is coming right in here.”

“Good heavens! What’ll we do?”

She crawled over to the stern locker and hunted for the field glasses. As she adjusted them she stood in the boat and scanned the western horizon. Finally she concentrated her gaze on a section of the inlet near the pine bluff.

“No. He isn’t in the marshes. Even with the wind taking the sound from us, the bluff must be a sort of sounding board to throw it back.”

“We’ll have to be careful—wind’s blowing from us to him,” cautioned Brad.

She let Brad have the glasses and he watched while Beeson towed the barge to the dock. “Uncle Mose is already there to carry the food scraps up to the hogs,” he explained as he watched.

“Can you see anything that looks like supplies for the Germans?” she asked.

“Not at this distance.”

He handed her the glasses and she watched until Beeson went stomping up to the house in his knee boots.

Great masses of purple clouds boiled in the western sky, while the tall marsh grass lay almost level under the rushing wind.

“We’d better beat it for home!” exclaimed Kitty. “Looks to me as if this is turning to a hurricane.” On the Gulf coast she had often seen storms come up like this in a very short time.

“There was a hurricane reported south of here—guess we’re getting an edge of the gale,” said Brad.

They debated whether to return to the inlet with which they were familiar, but decided the safest course would be to follow the marshy creek, even thought it might take them longer to get home. Brad still had the little map which he had sketched in his billfold. They studied that, trying to figure out the most direct route back to Palmetto Island.

“This creek swings round mighty close to Mangrove Island,” Kitty said dubiously.

“That’s better than going too close to Terrapin Island.”

Acting upon their decision they picked up their oars again. They were now moving against the force of the rising tide and found progress slow. They made several elbow turns and eventually found themselves close enough to Mangrove Island to make a landing, if they had so desired.

“I’ve wanted to explore it ever since you boys told me about seeing the boat in the mangroves on the other side,” Kitty said.

“No time to explore now,” Brad stated rather shortly. “If I ever get you out of this saboteurs’ nest I’ll never bring you into the marshes again—till the war’s over.”

Kitty laughed. “I’m not afraid, Brad. What’s there to be afraid of now?”

Even as she spoke there came a pinging sound, piercing and sharp above the howl of the wind. Almost simultaneously Brad groaned and slapped his hand to his shoulder as he toppled backward into the bottom of the boat. The oar slipped from his limp fingers and bobbed off on the tide.

“Lie down, Kit! Lie down!” he ordered even as he fell.

“Brad, are you hurt?” she wailed.

With his right hand he seized her arm and pulled her to the bottom of the boat beside him. The hand was wet with blood from the wound in his shoulder.

“He got me all right. But keep low! Don’t lift your head above the gunwale.”

Two more shots came whistling across the boat.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” stated Brad desperately.

Even if they had two oars to use Kitty knew it would be suicide to sit up to row.

“I’ll start the motor,” she said.

On her stomach she wiggled toward the motor. At such a disadvantage she wondered if she could get the engine going. But she must! There was no other way for them to get away from that shower of lead.

“But you can’t see to steer,” said Brad. “We’ll go headlong into the marsh.”

“We’ve got to take a chance. I have a general idea of the channel beyond here—passed this way the other day when Billy and I came here.”

To Kitty’s infinite relief the starter responded to her touch. The sound of that motor was only an invitation to more shots. This time they were aimed low, evidently with the hope of puncturing the boat’s side and hitting them as they crouched below the gunwale. But the lead spattered harmlessly into the water.

“Brad, Are You Hurt?” Kitty Wailed

By holding the lower curve of the wheel, and watching the tree-lined shore, Kitty could steer, and give the motor as much speed as she dared. When they had gone several yards, and just after a fresh spatter of lead struck their stern, she took a chance on lifting her eyes high enough for a look ahead.

Three more shots trailed them, but fell short of the mark, and a few minutes later they felt that they must be out of range. By the smudge of smoke at their right Kitty knew they were now passing the dump pile, with open, safer water ahead. Not until then did she dare give the boat any real speed.

She glanced down and saw Brad’s face drawn and white at her feet. Blood had run from his coat to the bottom of the boat. Kitty rose from her crouching position and saw a sheltering arm of marshland ahead. When she rounded this so the boat was hidden from Mangrove Island she cut off her motor and bent over Brad. When she unbuttoned his coat she found his shirt saturated with blood.

“A little lower and it would have gone through your heart,” she said anxiously. “Wait, I’ll try to stop that blood.”

She was thankful her father always kept the launch prepared for emergencies. They never went out without field glasses, flashlights, a lantern, a jug of water, tins of food and a first-aid kit.

Her deft fingers cut away the bloody clothes. She cleaned the wound as best she could, then bound it tightly to check the blood.

“You seem to know how to do it,” he said gratefully.

“I took two first-aid courses at school, but haven’t had much chance to practice.”

“Hope you don’t have another chance like this any time soon,” he said ruefully.

With the blood checked Brad struggled to a sitting position, his left arm lying limp in his lap.

“You knew somebody was watching us before the shot came,” said Kitty with conviction, recalling his sudden anxiety to have her safely home.

He nodded. “I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to frighten you. I thought it might be somebody quite harmless.”

“Far from it!”

“Kit, I thought I saw the blue of a sailor’s uniform.”

“Oh, then it wasn’t Germans, hiding there till Beeson came back?”

“I may have been mistaken about the clothes, but anybody from the island could have seen us watching Beeson go ashore at his dock.”

“That’s so,” Kitty admitted. “No doubt they have field glasses, too.”

“It wasn’t likely to be anybody from the U-boats. They’d take too much risk coming ashore any time but at night.”

“A sailor’s uniform,” she repeated. “Could it have been Punaro?”

“It’s possible. Of course Cary wears blue, too.”

“But I thought you said Punaro always brought the stuff out here in the early morning?”

“You forget this is Saturday afternoon. He’s off, too,” Brad reminded her.

She realized then how ghastly white he had grown. His lips had a bluish look, and he was trembling slightly in the chill wind. She was afraid of shock from the loss of blood, and hurried back to her motor. She must take him to the hospital as speedily as possible.