Aground — 89
spreader lights. With that radio and the lights and
refrigerator they would run the batteries down. Then
he was conscious of annoyance with himself. You’ve
lived alone too long, he thought; you’re beginning to
sound like Granny Grunt. You form a mule-headed
prejudice against a woman merely because nobody’s
ever told her you don’t set highball glasses on
charts, and now while you’re living one hour at a
time on the wrong end of a burning fuse you’re
stewing about the drain on a set of batteries. You
ought to be playing checkers in the park.
The pillow and the folded blanket were beside him.
He picked up the blanket and gave it a flipping
motion to spread it, and heard something drop
lightly on the sand. Apparently whatever it was had
been rolled up inside; he leaned forward and felt
around with his hands, wondering idly what it could
be. He failed to find it, however, and after another
futile sweep of his arms he flicked on the cigar
lighter and saw it, just beyond the end of the
blanket. It was a black plastic container of some
kind, apparently a soap dish from a toilet kit or
travel case. Well, at least he’d be able to wash up in
the morning. He retrieved it, and was about to set it
on the crates behind him when he heard a faint
metallic click inside. He pulled the lid off, and
flicked on the fighter again. There were several
things in it—none of them soap.
The first item was a money clip shaped like a
dollar sign and containing several folded bills, the
outer one of which appeared to be a twenty. The
next was a small hypodermic syringe, its needle
wrapped in cotton, and finally there was a
tablespoon with its handle bent downward at right
angles near the end, apparently so it would fit into
the box. The rest of the space was taken up with
eight or ten tightly folded pieces of paper. The
lighter went out then. He spun the wheel again and
set it upright on the sand beside him while he
unfolded one of the papers. It contained just what
he’d expected to find, a small amount of white
powder, like confectioner’s sugar. The lighter went
Aground — 90
out, and he sat frowning thoughtfully at the
darkness.
He’d never seen any of the paraphernalia before,
but had read enough about it to know what it was.
There was a drug addict aboard. But which one?
Didn’t the police always examine the arms of
suspected junkies, looking for punctures? He’d seen
both of them with their shirts off, and would have
noticed if they’d had any; they didn’t. But wait. . . .
Obviously, the blanket must have come from one of
the unused bunks. So it must belong either to Ives or
to old Tango. And the odds were against its being
Tango’s. He probably couldn’t afford a vice as
expensive as heroin; all he had was a small disability
pension from the First World War and whatever Mrs.
Osborne paid him for living aboard the Dragoon. So
it must be Ives’. She’d never said he was an addict,
but then she’d never said much of anything about
him. Well, it was a relief to know it wasn’t either of
the two still aboard; that’s all they needed now, a
wild-eyed and unpredictable hop-head to contend
with.
He put the lid back on the box, scooped out a hole
in the sand, and buried it. He’d better get some
sleep so he could wake up around two or three a.m.
By that time they should be sleeping soundly; he
didn’t have much hope he could get aboard the
schooner without waking one of them, but he had to
try. And if he got out there and found he couldn’t get
up the bobstay, he wanted to be sure of having an
incoming tide so he could make it back.
Just as he was dropping off, he was struck by a
curious thought. Why would Ives have a money clip?
There at the Eden Roc Hotel, he’d taken his business
card from a wallet when he introduced himself. Well,
maybe he carried both. . . .
* * *
He opened his eyes. It was still night, and for a few
seconds he was uncertain what the sound was that
had roused him. Then he heard it again, and grunted
Aground — 91
with disgust; it was a feminine voice raised in
maudlin song. God, were they still at it? He flicked
on the lighter and looked at his watch. It was a
quarter of two. Then he became aware the voice
wasn’t coming from the schooner; it was much
nearer. He knuckled sleep from his eyes and sat up.
The night was still dead calm and velvety dark
except for the gleam of uncounted tropical stars, and
the blanket and his clothes were wet with dew.
“Come to me, my melan-choly ba-a-a-a-a-by,” the
voice wailed, not over fifty yards away now, and he
heard the splash of oars. How in the name of God
had she got hold of the raft? He walked down to the
edge of the water just as it took form in the
darkness, and could make out two people in it. When
it grounded in the shallows, the man who was
rowing got out. The figure was too slender to be that
of Morrison. Ruiz ought to take out a card in the
Inland Boatmen’s Union, he thought.
“—for you know, dear, that I’m in love with
youuuuuu!” Rae Osborne lurched as she stepped
out, and Ruiz had to catch her arm to prevent her
falling. He marched her ashore, pulling the raft
behind him, and halted just in front of Ingram.
“I have brought you this one,” he said in Spanish.
“Thank you a thousand times,” Ingram replied,
thinking sourly of The Ransom of Red Chief.
“Let us hope you have already had sufficient sleep,
and that you are not a great lover of music.”
Rae Osborne pulled away from him and weaved
drunkenly toward Ingram. “Well, whaya know?
M’rooned on desert island. With ol’ Cap Ingram, the
Ricky Nelson of the Garden Club. Hi, Cap!”
Ruiz turned away in unspoken contempt and
disappeared into the darkness, towing the raft.
Ingram took her arm and led her to the blanket and
set her down with her back against the crates. In the
moment before she started singing again, he heard
oars going away in the night.
Aground — 92
He noticed she still had her purse, and was pawing
through it for something. Then the caterwauling
trailed off, and she hiccupped. “Got light, Cap?”
He knelt and fired up the lighter. She looked as if
she’d had a large evening. The tawny hair was
rumpled, she had a black eye that was swollen
almost shut, and there was a purplish bruise on her
left forearm. The bottoms of the white calypso pants
were wet, of course, from wading ashore, and one
leg of them had been ripped up the seam for several
inches above the knee.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He ignited the cigarette she
had in the corner of her mouth, and put the lighter
back in his pocket. But not too sorry; you asked for
it, sister.
“Talk about survival training,” she said with wry
amusement. “I think that’s about the nearest I ever
came to being checked out on actual rape.”
He muttered a startled exclamation and clicked on
the lighter again. This time he had sense enough to
look at the other eye, and he saw the cool, green
glint of humor in it just before she winked. She was
no drunker than he was.
Aground — 93
8
“Is he gone?” she asked.
“Should be about halfway back.”
“No wind that blew dismayed her crew, or
troubled the Captain’s miiiiiinnnnd!” she howled.
Then she went on quietly, “He woke up while I was
trying to get the raft overboard. I started singing
again, and said I was going over to the yacht club to
see if the bar was still open. I think I fooled him.
Anyway, he’d apparently had it as far as the
Bahamas Nightingale was concerned, so he brought
me over here instead of tying me up.”
“You can kick me now,” Ingram said, “or wait till
daylight if it’s more convenient. I thought it was on
the level.”
“If you mean you thought I was drunk, you were
pretty close to being right. Even with what I
managed to ditch, I still had to put away a lot of
rum; that Morrison must have been weaned on it.”
“You were after the raft?”
“Principally. I thought we might be able to make it
ashore somewhere. But I also wanted to get down in
those cabins and see if I could find any of Patrick
Ives’ things.”
“You were taking a long chance.”
Aground — 94
“It wasn’t quite that bad. They wouldn’t gang up
on me; Ruiz isn’t that type of thug. I wasn’t sure
whether I could handle Morrison or not, but it was
worth the risk. After all, Ingram, I’m not Rebecca of
Sunnybrook Farm. I’m thirty-four, and I’ve been
married twice. If I lost the bet, I’d still survive.”
“Did Morrison finally pass out?”
“Yes. Around midnight, I think. By that time I’d
used up all the other routines, and didn’t know any
judo, so I pretended to be sick and locked myself in
the biffy. I beg your pardon, what’s the word?”
Ingram grinned in the darkness. “The head.”
“The head. Anyway, when he quieted down, I came
out, and he was asleep in the cockpit. But I wasn’t
sure about Ruiz. When he came back from over here
and pulled the raft up on deck, he took some
bedding and went up forward, so I couldn’t tell
whether he was asleep or not. I pretended to pass
out on the other side of the cockpit and waited for
over half an hour. Then I tiptoed up to where I could
see him, and found he was asleep all right. I went
below then, and started through the cabins.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“No. It wasn’t a real thorough search, because I
was afraid to take very long or turn on too many
lights, but I found three suitcases and went through
them and there wasn’t anything that would identify
Patrick Ives. Two of them belonged to Morrison and
Ruiz, because their wallets were in them, but the
third one—in one of those staterooms where the
ammunition is—didn’t have anything except the
usual clothing and shaving gear and so on. It could
be his clothing—that is, I think it would fit him—but
for some reason they must have thrown his wallet
overboard.”
“Unless it was in his dungarees,” Ingram said. “I
mean, there in the dinghy. Those two men in the
Dorado could have taken it.”
“I thought of that, but somehow I don’t think they
did. I talked to them, remember?”
Aground — 95
“Do you have any idea why they’d destroy his
identification?”
“Just a minute,” she said. “It won’t do to get too
quiet too suddenly. So duck.” Her voice soared to a
maudlin wail. “Oh, when Irish eyes are smiling, sure
‘tis like a morrrnnn in sprinnnnnggggg—” She
chopped off suddenly, and said with amusement,
“He’ll think I fell down, or you threw something at
me.”
“It doesn’t matter now whether he thinks you’re
drunk or not,” Ingram pointed out.
“But it does,” she said. She took a puff on her
cigarette; the tip glowed, revealing for an instant the
handsome face with its prodigious shiner. There was
something undeniably raffish about it, and
appealing, and as attractive as sin. Must be atavistic,
he thought; the view just before the clinch, after a
Stone Age courtship.
“What are you driving at?” he asked.
“I don’t want Ruiz to figure out I might have fooled
him. He has a great deal of contempt for me, and I
want to keep it alive.”
“Why?”
“I think our only chance is for one of us to surprise
him while Morrison’s over here on the sand bar, and
you’re never going to get behind him if you live to be
a hundred. I watched him all day, and that boy’s
cool.”
“Also too tough to be knocked off his feet by a
woman,” Ingram said. “If he looks easy, it’s just
because you’re seeing him alongside Morrison.”
“It wouldn’t have to be for more than three or four
seconds, if we timed it right. However, we’ll table
that for the moment, and get back to Patrick Ives. It
doesn’t add up. He was aboard. They say he
drowned.”
“Are you sure he was aboard?” Ingram asked
quietly.
“Positive. I managed to get Morrison talking about
him a little tonight. Hollister was Patrick Ives, and
Aground — 96
nobody else. He never actually told Morrison that
was his name, but he practically admitted it wasn’t
Hollister. And of course Morrison knew that
Hollister-Dykes Laboratories thing was a lot of
moonshine. He told Morrison he was an M.D. who’d
got a bum deal from the ethics committee of some
county medical association over a questionable
abortion. That’s pure Ives.”
“Just a minute,” Ingram said. “Was he a drug
addict?”
“You mean narcotics?” she asked, puzzled.
“Heroin.”
“No. He was a lot of other things, but not that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, of course. Unless he’s acquired the habit in
the past four months, at the age of thirty-six, which
would seem a little doubtful.”
“All right, one more question. Are you absolutely
sure he was an aerial navigator during the war?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not just taking his word for it? I gather he
was quite a liar.”
“He was, but this is from personal knowledge. I
knew him during the war, when he was taking flight
training. He didn’t make pilot, but he got his
commission as a navigator and was assigned to a B-
17 crew in England.”
Ingram took out one of his remaining two cigars
and lighted it. The pieces were beginning to fit
together now, and he was pretty sure he knew why
Ruiz was going over the hill. A little shiver ran up his
back, and he hunched his shoulders against the
darkness behind him. He told her about Ruiz’ visit.
“Those boys are running from something really
bad. I should have figured it out in the beginning,
from the way Morrison acted. He’d rather risk
anything than go back to Florida. But it was hard to
see because as far as we know they hadn’t killed
anybody, and hadn’t planned to. In fact, they’d gone
Aground — 97
to considerable trouble to get old Tango out of the
way without hurting him—”
Rae Osborne broke in. “But somewhere along the
line they did kill somebody.”
“They must have.”
“Patrick Ives,” she said excitedly. “Why didn’t we
see it before? The body was here near the Dragoon,
but the dinghy was picked up over twenty miles
away, in deep water.”
“That’s perfectly natural,” Ingram pointed out.
“The body was submerged—and probably on the
bottom—a good part of the time, so it was acted on
only by the tides. But the dinghy was carried off to
the westward by the wind and the sea.”
“Yes, but look, Captain—Don’t you see? That’s the
reason Morrison wouldn’t let anybody go out and get
his body when Avery saw it from the plane and
called us on the radio. We’d find out Ives hadn’t
drowned at all, that he’d been killed.”
“No,” Ingram said. “If Morrison had had five years
to work on it, he couldn’t have dreamed up a story
that matched the evidence as perfectly as that did. I
was already pretty sure the man had drowned, even
before I got aboard the Dragoon, and I don’t have
any doubt at all it happened exactly the way
Morrison said it did. What he didn’t want us to find
out was that the man wasn’t Ives.”
“What?”
“I don’t think Ives was even aboard when they left
Florida.”
“But he had to be. The watch—”
“This other man, whoever he was, must have been
wearing the watch. That’s all. I don’t know whether
Ives is the one who’s been murdered, but somebody
was, and it happened ashore where it can be proved,
not out here where it could be covered up as an
accidental drowning. Naturally, Morrison wasn’t
going to tell us about it as long as he had a perfectly
good ready-made explanation for Ives’ being
missing. He was going to have his hands full as it
Aground — 98
was, forcing me to take them down there and
watching us so we didn’t escape. If we knew the real
story, we’d jump overboard and try to swim back to
Miami.”
“He intends to kill us, then, when we get to this
Bahia San Felipe?”
“I think so. And Ruiz can’t quite hold still for
anything as cold-blooded as that, so he’s about made
up his mind to pull out. If he can.”
“I see,” she said. She was silent for a moment, and
then she asked, “You’re absolutely certain there was
another man?”
“There has to be.” He scooped up the black plastic
box and showed her the contents, and told her about
the compass.
“That’s the reason they got in here over the Bank
and ran aground. They’ve been lost. Remember, they
stole the Dragoon on Monday night, so it couldn’t
have been any later than Wednesday night when
they loaded the guns down in the Keys, and sailed.
This isn’t over a day’s run from anywhere in the
Keys, because even if it’d been calm they would have
used the engine, but they didn’t go aground here
until Saturday night. So for at least two days they’ve
been wandering around like blind men because the
compass is completely butched up by all that steel—
those gun barrels. Even if one of them knew how to
use the radio direction finder well enough to get a
fix by cross-bearings, it’s no good unless you’ve got
a compass. Here’s what happens—say they get a fix
from the RDF, figure out the compass course to
where they want to go, and then after a while they
check their position again, and find out they’ve gone
at maybe right angles to where they thought they
were heading. So obviously the first position must
have been wrong. Or was it the second position? Do
that about three times, and you’re so hopelessly lost
you wouldn’t bet you’re in the right ocean.”
“But,” she said, “didn’t Ruiz say they knew about
the steel’s effect? And that Ives had checked the
error before they left?”
Aground — 99
“Sure,” Ingram replied. “On one heading. That’s
what gave it away—I mean, that he’d already
disappeared even before they sailed. It couldn’t have
been Ives who did that. He’d have known better.
Admittedly, he could have got pretty rusty in fifteen
years, and the compasses on those planes were
probably gyros, but nobody who’d ever studied
navigation could know that little about magnetic
compasses. They’re basic, like the circulation of the
blood to the study of medicine. And you don’t adjust
one by finding out what the error is on one heading
and then applying that same correction all the way
around. It’s different in every quadrant, so you have
to check it in every quadrant. Actually, on some
headings, what they were doing was multiplying the
error instead of correcting it.”
“Then I guess there’s no doubt,” she said. “But if
somebody’s been killed, why do you suppose the
police didn’t say anything about it?”
“They don’t always tell you everything they know.
And maybe they don’t know, or don’t have any
reason yet to connect it with the theft of the
Dragoon.”
“Yes, that’s possible.” She flipped her cigarette
away in the darkness. “If we could surprise Ruiz and
get that gun away from him while Morrison’s over
here, could we make it ashore in the raft?”
“Not to Florida. With luck we might get back
across the Bank to Andros, but I don’t know whether
we’d make it across the island. However, with Ruiz
off our backs and Morrison stuck over here, I think I
could refloat the schooner. At least, we could get on
the phone and call for help.”
“Morrison might get back aboard, if it took very
long.”
“No. He couldn’t swim it with a gun.”
“Would that thing he carries around with him
shoot from here to the boat?”
“I think it’ll probably carry that far, but it wouldn’t
be very accurate. However, there’s another angle on
that. Once we start bringing those cases of
Aground — 100
ammunition over, he could use these rifles. We
wouldn’t be able to move on deck except at night.
But there’s something I wanted to ask you. You say
Ruiz was sleeping on deck—that wouldn’t be way up
forward, would it?”
“Yes. Right in the bow. Why?”
He nodded grimly. “I thought so. Before we spin
any more gossamer dreams about what we’re going
to do after we fool Ruiz, we’d better take up the
question of how.”
“What do you mean?”
He told her about the idea of swimming out and
trying to get up the bobstay. “He saw that was the
only place I could possibly get aboard. So I’d have to
step right over him. Dripping wet.”
“I know it won’t be easy,” she agreed. “As I said, I
watched him all day, and he never once let me get
behind him while you were alongside with the raft.
But maybe he will now that I’m just a stupid drunk,
and obviously harmless.”
“I can’t let you do it,” Ingram protested. “Ruiz is
no punk hoodlum. He’s tough all the way through,
and he’s got reflexes like a cat.”
“Let’s don’t waste time worrying about me. I’ll be
behind him, and I don’t think he’d shoot me, anyway.
It’s you we’ve got to think about. If he breaks loose
and gets that gun before you reach him, he’ll kill
you, so unless you’re sure you can make it, don’t try.
But we’ve got to have a signal. How about this? I’ll
be calling you Herman, and referring to him as
Pancho—you know, endearing myself to everybody—
but when you hear the name Oliver, get ready to
come aboard.”
“All right.” They had to try for it sometime, and
the sooner the better. It had to be when Morrison
was out of the way. He looked at the blur of her face
just before him in the soft tropic night. “I owe you an
apology,” he said.
“Why?”
“For what I thought.”
Aground — 101
“Oh, really?” she said indifferently. It was clear
she didn’t care what he thought. “If you’ll excuse
me, I think I’ll wander off to the other end of our
little sandpile and see if I can get some sleep.”
“No,” he said, getting up abruptly. “You stay here
and use the blanket and pillow.” Ignoring her
protests, he strode off in the night. Fifty yards away
he stretched out on the sand with his head pillowed
on an arm and stared up at the black infinity of
space while he finished his cigar. He felt like a
pompous and overweening fool who’d just been
thoroughly deflated, and he was certain she’d done
it deliberately. Well, there was no law said you had
to stick your neck out and get it stepped on. He
threw away the cigar and surrendered himself to the
weariness that assailed him. When he awoke, her
face was just above him in the gray beginning of
dawn, and she was shaking his shoulder. The
blanket was spread over him. He threw it aside and
sat up, grinding a hand across his face.
“I think you had a nightmare,” she said. “I heard
you cry out, and you were trembling as if you were
cold, so I put the blanket over you. Then you began
to beat at the ground with your hands.”
“It was just a bad dream,” he said.
“Oh-oh. Somebody’s coming from the boat.”
He turned his head and saw the raft approaching
across the flat, dark mirror of the sea. “Remember
the signal,” she said softly.
“Oliver. But be sure you’re behind him.”
“I will be. Good luck.” She turned away and went
over to pick up her purse by the stack of crated
rifles, and was combing her hair when Ruiz
grounded the raft in the shallows and motioned to
her. Ingram watched her wade out, a bedraggled but
indomitable blonde girl with a black eye and torn
calypso pants, and heard the brassy idiocy of her
greeting. “Hi, Pancho. I feel like hell, I theeeenk.
And if I ever catch the lousy parrot that slept in my
mouth . . .” They moved off toward the Dragoon.
Aground — 102
Ingram stood up, pushing his leg straight against
the stiffened tendons and aware of the soreness in
every muscle of his body. You’re too old and beat-up
for this kind of duty, he told himself. He wondered
why she had put the blanket over him, but dismissed
the speculation as futile; he’d never figure her out.
Walking out into the water, he scooped up some and
scrubbed his face, and noted professionally that the
tide appeared to be at a standstill. It was slack high
water. Ruiz came back with the raft. He got in and
pulled out toward the Dragoon, and as they came
alongside he studied her critically. She was still hard
and fast aground, not even completely upright yet.
Solid-looking wooden boxes with metal straps were
lined up along the port rail and stacked in the
cockpit. She was gray and ghostlike in the dim light
of early morning, and everything was saturated with
dew. Morrison stood on the crates in the cockpit, the
inevitable BAR slung in his arm and an expression of
driving impatience on his face. It was clear he was in
an ugly mood. “How about it?” he asked, as Ingram
stepped aboard.
“A long way to go yet,” Ingram said.
“All right, here’s the ammo. Twenty-five boxes of
it, around two hundred pounds to a box. Ruiz and I
carried it up while you were flaked out over there on
your fat with Mama-san. Probably have to take ‘em
over one at a time. Ruiz’ll put a rope on ‘em and help
lower ‘em into the raft so you don’t drop any.”
“Do we get anything to eat?” Ingram asked.
“There’s a mug of coffee and some Spam. That’s
all anybody’s going to get till this boat’s unloaded.”
Rae Osborne was seated aft by the binnacle
smoking a cigarette. “How about breaking out the
rum?” she asked sulkily. “I think I’ve got crabgrass
on my teeth.”
Morrison whirled on her. “You lay off the sauce or
we’ll tie you up. We got enough to do without
dodging some drunk staggering around in the way.
You can have some coffee.”
She sniffed. “Coffee! Big deal.”
Aground — 103
“And you better remember to stay clear of Ruiz.
He’s fussy about people coming up behind him, and
he’ll bend your teeth.”
“Ruiz and what other wet-back? Don’t forget I own
this boat, little man. And I could buy you in sets, for
book-ends.”
Ruiz stared through and beyond her without any
expression at all. Morrison grunted contemptuously,
and turned away. She was doing fine, Ingram
thought, as he sipped his coffee; then he
remembered the night in Nassau and wondered just
how much of it was acting. She baffled him. He got
permission to visit the head, with Ruiz following him
with the Colt, and then rowed Morrison over to the
sand spit. The labor began. When he came alongside
each time, Ruiz had one of the boxes balanced at the
edge of the deck with a line around it and would
stand back in the cockpit to lower away while
Ingram settled it onto the bottom of the raft. They
were brutally heavy for their size, and he wondered
if they would move all of them before the fabric
bottom gave way. At the other end, however,
Morrison hoisted them to his shoulder seemingly
without effort and strode across the flat toward dry
ground. The sun rose, and grew hot. The tide began
to ebb. And still Ruiz’ guard was impregnable.
Ingram could see Rae Osborne moving about the
after deck apparently at will when he was away from
the schooner, but the moment he came alongside
Ruiz motioned her astern and away from him. She
cajoled, whined, threatened, and grew abusive,
trying to get a drink, and all of it availed her
nothing. A light breeze sprang up from the southeast
around nine a.m., but in half an hour it died away
and the heat grew unbearable as the sun attacked
them from all directions, reflected from a sea as
smooth as polished steel. They stopped for an hour
and a half during the peak of the ebb, but were back
at it by eleven. By 12:30 the tide had passed low
slack and was beginning to flood again. They had
unloaded sixteen of the boxes of ammunition, a little
over a ton and a half. And still she’d had no chance
Aground — 104
at Ruiz. They had the rum put away where she
couldn’t find it, and feigning drunkenness was
obviously out of the question.
On the next trip, however, he caught a change in
the pattern. Maybe she had solved it. She was below
when he came alongside, and didn’t return to the
deck until after he was loaded and pulling away. She
moved listlessly, as though she were ill. He delivered
the box to Morrison and rowed back. This time she
sat quietly in the after end of the cockpit until the
loading operation was completed and he was clear of
the schooner’s side. Then she arose, slightly doubled
over, and hurried toward the ladder.
“Again?” Ruiz asked.
“So you must have bad water on here,” she
snapped.
Ruiz shrugged. “Water? How would you know?”
But she was gone down the ladder.
All right, Ingram thought; I read you loud and
clear. But it probably wouldn’t be the next trip;
she’d build it up more subtly than that. The next did
go by without incident. It was after one now, and the
flood was quickening. When he came alongside on
the return, butterflies moved softly inside his
stomach; one mistake, or one tiny lag in reaction
time, and he might be dead within the next few
minutes. She was seated on the deck with her feet
on the cockpit cushions, aft on the opposite side. He
gave her only a passing glance and caught the
lifeline stanchion. The box of ammunition was
balanced on the edge of the deck just level with his
shoulder, and Ruiz had hold of the line.
She leaned forward slightly. “Don’t stand between
me and that ladder, Oliver.”
Ruiz gave her an indifferent glance as she stood
up. Ingram reached for the box, walked it over the
edge of the scupper, and let Ruiz take the strain on
the line just as she started up the deck beyond him.
He saw her turn and fall, and at the precise instant
she landed on Ruiz’ shoulders he gave a savage yank
on the line. The two of them fell forward onto the
Aground — 105
cushions on the low side of the cockpit, just in front
of him. The box of ammunition struck the edge of the
raft and almost capsized it as it plummeted into the
water. He had hold of the lifeline and was lunging
upward then, throwing a turn of the raft’s painter
around the lifeline as he went over it onto the deck.
Ruiz had pushed to his feet, but Rae Osborne was
still fast to his back with her arms locked around his
waist and over the flat slab of the automatic. The
Latin clawed at her hands, broke her grip, and
pulled the gun free just as Ingram crashed into
them. Rae Osborne was whirled free of the tangle
and slammed back against the cushions on the
starboard side as the two men went down locked
together in the bottom of the cockpit. Ingram could
feel the hard weight of the gun between their
bodies, and got a hand around the muzzle.
Not a word had been uttered, and there was no
sound except the sibilant scrape of canvas shoes
against the deck, and the meaty impacts of flesh
against flesh and of furious bodies against wood, and
the tortured gasps of breathing. Ruiz was incredibly
strong for a man of his slender build, but not strong
enough. Ingram got the other hand around his wrist,
locked it in a paralyzing grip, and slowly forced the
gun to his right until it was out from between their
bodies. He twisted savagely at the muzzle, and tore
it from Ruiz’ grasp. Pushing back, he sat up with his
back against the binnacle, switched the gun end for
end in his hand, and leveled it at Ruiz’ face as he
fought for breath. He clicked off the safety, which
Ruiz had never had a chance to do.
“Go below,” he said to Rae Osborne. “Bring up
some of that line they used for lashings.”
She went down the ladder. Ruiz sat up and slid
backward, his eyes never leaving the gun. It was
intensely silent for a moment as they both came to
rest, and Ingram was conscious for the first time
that there had been no firing from Morrison. He
must have seen it. Then it occurred to him that with
the Dragoon’s port list and their sitting in the
cockpit they were out of sight now, and even if the
Aground — 106
big man had had time to go back and pick up the
BAR he was too much the pro to shoot when there
was nothing to shoot at.
“When you come back,” he called to Rae Osborne,
“don’t stand up. Crawl back to where I am.”
“Right, Skipper. I’ve got some rope now.”
Ruiz said softly, “You’re not going to tie me up.”
Ingram centered the gun on his chest. “But I am,
amigo.”
“I won’t go back. Go ahead and shoot.”
“Who’d you kill?”
Ruiz made no reply.
“Was it Ives?”
Ruiz still said nothing.
“Where did you hide the tubes you took out of the
radiophone?”
“We threw them over the side,” Ruiz said. Rae
Osborne’s face appeared then in the companion
hatch and she crawled out into the cockpit with the
line in her hand. “Don’t move,” Ingram warned Ruiz
as she slid past him. I’ll have to beat him up before I
can tie him, he thought, and looked forward to it
with distaste. But it was the only way; she couldn’t
hold him still with the gun. He wouldn’t pay any
attention to it.
Rae Osborne handed him the line and started to
turn to face Ruiz. Then she gasped, and cried out,
“The raft!”
Ingram’s eyes shifted to the left. The painter was
gone from the wire lifeline. At the same instant, Ruiz
leaped to his feet, got one foot up on deck, and dived
over the starboard side, all in one continuous
motion. Ingram cursed and sprang up. He could see
him under the water, swimming straight out from
the schooner. The raft was some thirty or forty yards
away, being carried eastward on the flooding tide. It
was easy to see what had happened. Either his own
lunge when he’d come aboard or the impact of the
falling case of ammunition had propelled it aft far
Aground — 107
enough for the tide to carry it under the stern, and
the single turn he’d been able to take with the
painter hadn’t held it. He tracked Ruiz with the gun.
He was coming up now, less than fifteen yards away.
His head broke the surface. He shook water from
his face and opened his eyes, and for a fraction of a
second that seemed like an hour to Ingram they
looked squarely at each other across the sights of
the gun. Ingram tried to pull the trigger. Then he
sighed gently and let his arm drop. Ruiz turned and
began to swim, not even bothering to dive again. He
knew I couldn’t do it, Ingram thought. Rae Osborne
was beside him now, and she cried out, “We can’t let
him get it!”
Bitterly, without speaking, Ingram held out the
gun to her. She pushed it away, and said, “No, I
mean shoot the raft.”
He raised the gun, and shot, but he was low. The
bullet made a little splash six or eight feet short of
the raft. He raised the muzzle slightly, but before he
could fire again, two small geysers erupted in the
water just under them and something slammed into
the deckhouse off to their left with a shower of
splinters. “Down!” Ingram snapped. They dropped
back into the cockpit. The professional combat team
was in action now; Morrison was covering Ruiz with
the BAR.
Ingram raised his head to peer over the edge of
the deck. The raft was at least seventy-five yards
away now; the chances of his hitting anything at that
distance with a handgun were too dim to justify
wasting the ammunition. A couple of holes wouldn’t
disable it, anyway; they’d find a way to plug them.
He looked to the left, and could see Morrison. He
was about two hundred yards away, wading out on
the flat south and west of the sand spit to get as
near the schooner as possible and to try to intercept
the raft if Ruiz failed to catch it. Ingram estimated
the line of its drift and saw he wasn’t going to make
it unless he dropped the gun and swam; the water
was nearly up to his chest now, and was growing
Aground — 108
deeper. Hope flared for a moment, and then died. It
didn’t matter; Ruiz was overhauling it.
Morrison was ignoring them now that Ruiz no
longer needed cover. They stood up and watched
bitterly as the latter caught the raft and pulled
himself aboard. Beyond him, Morrison brandished
the BAR above his head in jubilation.
“Do you suppose they’ll try to come aboard right
now?” Rae asked.
“I don’t know,” Ingram said. “They might wait till
dark if they know for sure we can’t get the telephone
working. . . .” His voice trailed off then as he stared
out at the raft. Ruiz had picked up the oars, but he
wasn’t pulling toward Morrison. He was headed due
south, away from both the schooner and the sand
spit.
“What is it?” Rae Osborne asked, puzzled.
“Where’s he going?”
“Over the hill,” Ingram said softly. He shook his
head. A hundred miles—with no compass, and no
water.
Morrison was plunging ahead, beckoning violently
with his arm. Then he stopped and leveled the BAR.
Ruiz kept right on rowing. They saw the burst chew
up the surface behind him and come upward across
the raft, and then his body shook and jumped under
the impact and he fell sideways and rolled over with
his head and shoulders in the water. The collapsing
raft spun slowly around in spreading pink and
drifted away to the eastward on the tide. Rae
Osborne made a retching sound and turned away.
Aground — 109
9
Morrison had turned and was wading back to the
sand spit.
Rae Osborne sank down unsteadily on the cockpit
cushions. “Why do you suppose he did it? Ruiz, I
mean.”
Ingram shook his head. “Whatever his reasons
were, he took ‘em with him. I think he’d finally just
had all of this thing he could stomach. He wasn’t
Morrison’s type of goon.”
“I think Morrison’s a psychopath.”
“Ruiz was probably beginning to have the same
idea.”
“At least Morrison didn’t get the raft. But how will
losing it affect us?”
“Not a great deal,” Ingram replied. “I was going to
use it to carry out the kedge anchor, but I can still
swing it. We’d better get started, though. It’ll be
high tide in around three hours.”
“Rut what about the radio?”
“We’ll try that first. But don’t bet on it.”
They went down the ladder. The air was stifling
below decks, with a sodden and lifeless heat that
seemed to press in on them with almost physical
weight. There were still some thirty or forty wooden
Aground — 110
cases stacked along the sides of the large after
cabin, and the deck was littered with discarded rope
lashings. He turned to the radiotelephone on its
shelf aft on the port side. He loosened the knurled
thumbscrews and slid out the drawer containing the
transmitter section. Four of the tubes were gone
from the sockets. Rae Osborne looked at him
questioningly.
“Ruiz told me they threw them overboard,” Ingram
said. “He could have been lying, of course, but I’m
not so sure. They wouldn’t have let you wander
around on here so freely if there’d been any chance
of getting this thing operating again.”
“That’s right, too. But at least we can try.”
He nodded. “And another thing. While you’re
searching, keep an eye open for a diving mask. I
could use one, and most boats have a few kicking
around somewhere. You start up in the crew’s
quarters and work back through the galley. I’ll start
here and go forward. But first I’d better check
Morrison.”
There was a pair of big 7-X-50 glasses in a bracket
above the navigator’s table on the starboard side. He
grabbed these and went on deck. Crouching in the
cockpit, he focused them on the sand spit. At first he
couldn’t see the man, and began to feel uneasy.
Then he swept the area around the piled boxes again
and caught a momentary glimpse of the broad back
just behind them. He was bent over, working on
something on the ground. Ingram nodded. Trying to
chew his way into those boxes, he thought; he’s got
six hundred rifles over there and enough
ammunition for two or three small wars. He’ll try his
best to keep us pinned down here till he can make it
back aboard.
He returned below and began the search for the
tubes. He went over every inch of the after cabin,
moving the crated guns around to get at things. He
searched the drawers under the bunks, and the
spaces beneath the drawers, the chart stowage,
medicine locker, inside the RDF and the all-wave
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