# Beyond the Rim/Chapter 20

pp. 61-65.

### CHAPTER XX
#### THE LAST OF MOTUTABU

CHALMERS stood up, holding the lantern at arm's length.
“Why, this is my cave!” he said, surprise in his voice.
“Yes,” she answered. “It was the nearer to where you fell. I couldn't lift you. I had hard work getting you here, out of the sun.”
“Why, then we can get out of this yet,” he said, “unless——”
He began to dig with his hands at the sand.
“Ah!” he cried in a relieved tone, “here they are. I buried them in case they might raid us sometime.”
He brought up the extra cartridges for the rifles and automatics.
“I suppose they took the Winchesters,” he said, “while you were senseless. Sayers wouldn't leave them lying around. He knew we had them, and the automatics. But he didn't find these shells. And there's the rifle I left on top of the ridge. He probably overlooked that.”
While he spoke he worked at the smaller calibered cartridges for the pistols, wrenching at the bullets with his back teeth and twisting feverishly to get them free with his fingers, emptying out the powder on to his neckerchief.
“I can do that,” said Leila, reaching for a shell.
“No, you can't,” he answered. “I'm not going to open all of them. There isn't time. My knife's on the schooner, confound it. It broke off, anyway. Give me that saucepan.”
She handed him the pot in which she had brought his broth. He smashed it against the rocky side of the cave and wrenched off the handle.
“Dig a hole with this where you can find loose earth,” he said. “Near the bottom of the opening, if you can. You can clear it out with that spoon. Make it as deep as possible. I'm going to try and blast a way out! There isn't air enough in here to waste time.”
She set to work diligently, scraping and rasping at the fallen débris. Presently she exclaimed. Her crude tool had broken through into a cavity. She enlarged the hole with the iron spoon and thrust in her arm.
“There's quite a big space here,” she said, “but it's all hard rock beyond.”
“Never mind. That's more than I hoped for,” he replied.
He had moistened half of the powder he had obtained with the soup that remained in the pot and smeared the thick paste heavily upon a long strip torn from the handkerchief. Then he half filled the pot with rifle cartridges and packed sand tightly about them.
“The handle,” he said.
Leila passed it to him. It was hollow. He straightened out as best he could the end flattened by the girl's digging, ran his fuse through it, made a space between the cartridges and set into it the stiff cardboard case that had contained the bullets for the pistols. Into this he poured the rest of his powder, carefully placed the end of the fuse into it, ran the tube of the handle down to the top of the case, repiled cartridges closely about it and filled the pot to the brim with sand, ramming it down hard so that the handle projected from it with the other end of the fuse showing loose.
He attacked the opening she had made until it was large enough to pass the pot through to the space she had found, and packed that as tightly as he could with sand and small fragments of rock. The extreme end of the handle he left clear and trailed the remainder of the fuse through a little trench he scraped and bridged over with the thin wood from the boxes which had held the Winchester shells.
With the sweat streaming from him in the close atmosphere of the cave, he filled in the tunnel compactly. Only the extreme end of the fuse now showed dangling from the opening of the groove, the rest leading back to the pot holding the larger shells.
“It's a poor bomb at the best,” he said, “but it is the best we can do. Come back here, Leila!”
She followed him to the rear of the cave where it turned sharply to the right and ended.
“We'll stand here,” he said. “I don't know which way those bullets may fly. I don't know, Leila, exactly what is going to happen. It may bring down more rock and bury us absolutely, but it's the only chance. I hope the fuse works. I haven't made a spit-devil like that since I was a kid.”
He tried to speak lightly, but his tone carried the tension he felt.
“Stay here,” he told her. “Don't move till I join you. There's no danger.”
She had caught at his arm. He gently but firmly released it and hurried back to the fuse, lighting it with a match.
It sputtered, almost died out, then spat sparks bravely. He bounded back to the cave end and stood in front of her, pressing her back against the rock.
He could feel her quick breath on his neck, her heart pounding against him. He reached back both hands and found hers. She gripped them hard.
So they stood silently for what seemed an hour of tense waiting. Chalmers groaned.
“It's gone out,” he said. “I'll have to try it again.”
The air was hot as well as scant and their lungs burned as they labored. Leila's grasp loosened and her body grew limp against Chalmers.
There was a roar, a concussion of the air that hurled them flat to the back of their rocky alcove and a sound of falling fragments thudding on the sand and against the sides of the cave. The place was full of the salty tang of exploded powder.
CHALMERS leaped out into the main cave. Light poured through a jagged hole at the mouth and fresh air stirred the vapor of the powder-smoke. He tore at the opening, eagerly yet carefully, lest he disturb some key-rock of the pile and close the way to liberty once more. The bomb had done its work well and he was soon able to enlarge the aperture enough for exit.
He crawled through, found another pot and raced to the fall for water. There was only a thread left of the cascade, but he half filled the vessel and hurried back with it to where Leila lay at the end of the cave. The dash of it in her face revived her, and his assurance of the success of their mine roused her to her feet to follow him out to the free world once more.
Even on the beach the air was overwarm. The sky was the color of a tarnished copper bowl, the sun fogged to a tawny blue, rayless and dull. As they stood leaning against the face of the cliff, weak with effort and the foul air of the cave, the ground rocked beneath their feet. A harsh rasping thunder sounded from the hills, the farther headland wavered in its outline and a great mass of it tore apart and fell into the sea.
Leila gasped in terror.
“Come on!” cried Chalmers. “We've got to get out of this!”
He caught her hand, and started to run toward the water when a second shock threw them on their faces. It lasted longer than the first, with a recurrence of the grinding thunder in the hills.
He got to his knees. The seas were mounting beyond the reef, high crestless waves of oily brown that rolled across the coral barrier and sent the lagoon water surging far up the sand. Behind them the cliff had split apart showing a raw wedge where protruding rocks quivered and crashed down upon each other in a cloud of red dust.
Then the tremor ended. Thousands of birds wheeled shrieking and squawking above them. The sullen sea slid greasily over the reef and claimed another fathom of beach.
“Come, Leila,” he called.
She crouched on the sand with her face buried in her hands. He shook her roughly by the shoulder.
“Come on. I can't carry you. We've got to swim round and get to that launch.”
His intentional rudeness roused her. She raised a face blanched with terror, reproach in her eyes.
“The island is sinking,” she said. “We can't escape.”
“Nonsense,” he answered, though his own secret fear matched hers. “Don't be a coward, Leila.”
The words stung her like the blow of a whip and she sprang to her feet.
“What am I to do?” she asked, her eyes resolute.
“Swim round the point. Get the boat back here, load it with what we most need, and make for the open sea.”
She nodded comprehension and splashed into the lagoon ahead of him, loosening her outer skirt as she went. The back of Chalmers's neck was stiff, but his shoulder had ceased to trouble him and the danger called out all his reserves of strength. Leila reached shore first, racing into the mangroves.
“Here it is,” she called, tearing at a thick growth of vines and disclosing the outlines of a twenty-foot whaleboat, stanchly built, covered with canvas. Chalmers, joining her, stripped off the covering.
“Gasoline?” he questioned.
“In drums,” she said. “Four of them, back of you.”
He freed them from the tangled growth and rolled them away from the boat. The keel was set in the sand and he rocked at it until it loosened.
They slid and dragged the boat over the sand to where a stream ran sluggishly among the mangroves, launching it at last. Then they returned for the gasoline, rolling down the drums and tipping the boat to get them inboard.
There was a water breaker in the stern and Chalmers submerged it in the creek to fill it, first scooping up the water to be sure it was fresh. The creek was shallow and they waded beside their craft, dragging it over the little bar where the stream entered the lagoon and tumbling into the boat as they reached the deeper water.
“Can you row? There's no time to fuss with the engine.”
Leila nodded and seized an oar, keeping time to Chalmers's stroke. Well out in the lagoon, rowing furiously back to their own beach, the boat shuddered the length of its keel as if it had struck a shoal, yet kept its momentum. The roar came once more from the interior. The side of a hill wavered, the dense forest glided downward and vanished in a valley, leaving a scar of brown earth where once it had waved in tropical luxuriance. A blind breaker lifted them shoreward, while they tugged to bring the boat bow on, and rolled high up the beach. A second followed and they rode it. The shock was over.
They ran the boat well up the beach, sprang out and hauled it higher for safety from the threatening waves. Already the water was far above the regular boundary of high tide and this should have been the ebb.
They raced up to the caves and swiftly gathered up stores and a few clothes, stowing them away in the boat with frantic speed. Three trips they made, fearful every second of the return of the earthquake.
“That's all,” said Chalmers. “I'll get the chronometer and compass. They are in my cave. Stay by the boat.”
In the cavern the sight of the unused cartridges reminded him of the Winchester in the lookout. He did not know what perils might be ahead of them and determined to secure it. He gathered up the shells and took them along with the instruments.
“I'm going to get the rifle,” he said.
“I'll get it!” cried Leila.
She started to run for the cliff, determinedly forgetful of her fear, bent upon proving to him that she was not a coward.
“Come back!”
As Chalmers called, a wave advanced far beyond its predecessors, clutched at, the boat and threatened to set it adrift. He jumped to steady it and Leila was already clambering up the headland before he had it under control. A minute more and she was down again, climbing with the grace and freedom of a young chamois.
“Here it is,” she said breathlessly, “and the glasses.”
They rowed hard for the reef-opening across the troubled lagoon, indistinguishable now from the outside sea save where the great waves suddenly reared themselves as they reached the wall of the reef. There was nothing to mark the passage, but Chalmers knew the bearings that the earthquake had mercifully spared, and, keeping a tall palm on the first ridge in line with a notch in the farthest hills, they cleared the lagoon and fought their way to the open sea.
A steady wind blew from the land and Chalmers determined to take advantage of it. The engine, installed beneath a roughly built-in but practical and weather-proof hood, needed more time to connect than they had then to spare, so he resolved to set up the mast that lay in the open cockpit by the exposed shaft of the screw, a lugsail rolled about it.
“Can you take both oars and keep our head to the sea?” he asked Leila.
“Easily,” she answered and he passed her his oar, going forward with the mast where he stepped it through the forward thwart and stayed it to the gunwales and hoisted the leg-o'-mutton sail, first reefing it as the wind was appreciably strengthening.
His back was to the girl as he worked, her face, while she tugged at the heavy oars, toward the island.
The breeze caught the sail and filled it. The boat leaped to its impulse and Chalmers prepared to go aft and steer. They were free at last, in a well-built boat that, with careful handling, was well fitted for open sea-work, barring a gale.
Leila uttered a cry and he turned. Above Motutabu a cloud of birds still circled, loath to leave, afraid to stay. Beneath them, as he gazed, the outline of the island changed, the hills crumbled and fell in, the sea seemed to be dashing upon the lower ridges. He sprang aft.
“Ship your oars!” he cried, and as the girl obeyed he seized one of them with which to steer.
The rudder was still unshipped but he knew their danger. Motutabu was sinking into the sea and its disappearance would be inevitably followed by a local storm. Leila covered her eyes.
“It's gone!” she said.
Chalmers knew that her terror was augmented by the memory of her father's grave, once on the hilltop, now beneath the waves. But their peril was too imminent for words.
The waves rose all about them in sudden confusion, tumbling angrily at cross purposes and gradually assuming the circular motion of a whirlpool. A furious wind blew out of where the island had gone down. He blessed the forethought that had made him reef the little sail, striving to prevent the steering oar from being torn from his grasp, and to keep the boat from being drawn into the vortex. They were on the verge of the circle and, aided by the great gusts of wind the little craft fought gallantly up the oily crests, tipped with greasy spume, and down the shifting hollows, where the wind failed for the moment.
At length the mad turmoil of the sea gave place to a regular succession of waves, running strong and high but holding little menace to the buoyant whaleboat. The breeze that had blown them due east from the island gave way to a steady northeast trade and Chalmers hauled their course, sailing as close to the wind as the boat would point.
Giving over the steering oar to Leila for a while, with instructions how to keep it set against the seas, he shipped the rudder and tiller. He had belayed the sail forward; now he ran its sheet aft over the engine housing to where he could handle it from the stem.
“Now we are shipshape,” he announced. “If the sea goes down presently we'll overhaul the engine. I'm afraid I'm not much of an expert at it. Are you, Leila?”
“I know something about it. I've run it,” she answered apathetically.
Her eyes were darkly circled, but she smiled pluckily back at him.
“Thank you for calling me names, when I funked things on the beach,” she said. “I am a coward, you know.”
Chalmers flushed.
“I apologize,” he said. “And I think you are far braver than I am.”
“Then we're even. Where are we going?”
“I think we'd better make the Gilberts. Byron Island, perhaps. That's British. What speed can we make?”
“A little over ten knots.”
“Bully! We'll get there in a little over two days, after we get the engine going, if the gasoline holds out. Meanwhile if you'll take the tiller, I'll stow our grub and stuff.”
He put away the things in shipshape order and arranged the boat canvas covering so as to turn the engine housing into a cabin. There was plenty of space in the double-ended craft, open save for wooden hood built before and above the engine and the voyage of five hundred miles did not seem so formidable. He set up his compass, arranged his sextant chronometer and then unrolled a chart upon the engine hood to confirm their position before dark.
“We've no log but we can get along without that,” he said, as he resumed the tiller. “The Ellice Group is nearer than the Gilberts, perhaps, but I think we'd better tackle the latter. Look at the sunset, Leila. It's like the flare from a volcano. Perhaps it is. There must have been some great disturbance somewhere. Motutabu didn't sink of its own weight.
He talked lightly, hoping to divert her. She smiled faintly at him as she sat drooping on a thwart. It was a frightful position for her, he realized, orphaned, absolutely alone, save for a friend of a few days, racked by her sorrows and the trials they had gone through, dependent upon him for safety and comfort. It was not the moment for love-making nor did he think of it, feeling himself powerless to console her.
“I've fixed up a sort of cabin for you,” he said. “Don't you think you'd better lie down for a while. We'll get something to eat presently.
She started to obey listlessly.
“You'll call me for my turn at the rudder,” she asked.
“As soon as the sea goes down enough,” he said. “It's tricky work in the dark. Try and sleep a little.”
She disappeared behind the canvas curtain. Chalmers sat at the tiller, nodding for sleep and shaking his head fiercely to keep awake, tired in every ounce of him. But he remembered the night that she had put the veronal in his broth and watched for him and shook off his drowsiness.
The flaming sky in the west, metallic in its radiance as fire reflected from copper, died down, the seas lessened and a star or two came out. Behind the canvas he could hear Leila sobbing softly.
In a little while weariness had conquered her grief and Chalmers sat alone by the tiller holding the whale-boat to her course away from sunken Motutabu with its pearl lagoon and the grave of the man who discovered it, his eyelids weighted with sleep but his heart stout within him as becomes one who has faced perils and mastered them, not merely for his own sake, but another's.