A Hero for Leanda

thought there was a fifty-fifty chance.”
    Kastella was silent for a long while. Finally he said, “Well, in that case I suppose we’d better make for Victoria .”

    The wind freshened a little during the night, and by dawn Thalia had logged thirty miles on a northeasterly course. Kastella merely grunted when Conway told him. He was in a black, shut-in mood, and at breakfast he barely spoke. Conway tried to take his mind off their misfortune by calling him to the tiller and giving him another sailing lesson. Surprisingly, he did better than before—so much so that Conway left him to it for an hour, with Leanda watching over him, and spent the time with the island chart, working out the best line of approach to Victoria and planning a provisional timetable. Then the wind gradually died away, and he had to start the engine. They motored all morning over a quiet sea.
    It was shortly before noon that Leanda, from the coach roof, suddenly called, “Mike, I think I can see another boat!” and pointed over the port bow. Conway looked ahead in surprise. This was about the last place he’d have expected to meet anything. But Leanda was right—there was a tiny black dot on the sea. Presently he gave the helm to Kastella and went below to get his binoculars.
    “She looks like a small fishing boat,” he said after a moment. “I wonder what she’s doing so far from the banks .“
    “We’d better keep clear of her,” Kastella said.
    “Why?—she might be able to let us have some water. Then we wouldn’t need to go to Victoria .”
    Kastella stared at him. Slowly, his face brightened. “That’s a good idea, Conway . I hadn’t thought of it.” He altered course to port, and put on speed.
    As the gap narrowed and the boat grew larger, Conway examined her again through the glasses. “She’s been in trouble,” he said. “Lost her foremast, by the look of it . . He continued to study her. “Do you know, I believe she’s that ketch we saw soon after we left the islands. She must have been blown out here by the gale.”
    They closed her rapidly. Now they could see two people in the bows, waving—two Negroes, an elderly man and a younger one. As Thalia drew nearer, an enormous Negress appeared from below, with two small children—a boy and a girl. They were all waving madly, and it was easy to see why. The ketch had taken a savage beating. The foremast was snapped off short, leaving a jagged stump. A mere shred of tattered sail dropped from the mizzen. The ship was motionless. Conway steered Thalia carefully alongside and passed a line to the elderly Negro, who made it fast. His eyes were bloodshot, and his coal-black face looked gray with tiredness, but his mouth gaped in a huge smile. In a moment he was pouring out a flood of information in an incomprehensible French patois. The only word that Conway could get sounded like “tempête” —and that told him nothing he didn’t know.
    The little boy’s head had a dirty bandage round it, smeared with dried blood. There was blood on his blue cotton shirt, too. Conway said, “What happened to him?” pointing. The Negress said, “Tombé—tempête!” The flow of words started again.
    Leanda said, “Don’t you think I ought to put a proper dressing on, Mike?—we’ve got lots of stuff.” Conway said, “Good idea!” and held out his arms for the boy and lifted him into Thalia. Then he climbed aboard the ketch. The boat was no more than forty feet long, and very ancient. From stem to stem, it was in a state of frightful disorder. Lumps of shark meat were drying in the cockpit, giving off a powerful smell of ammonia. The cabin was piled high with tangled ropes and salvaged gear. The mizzenmast, Conway now saw, was badly split. The mainsail was in
    ribbons . Conway said, “No more sail?” gesturing with his arms. The Negro shook his head. “Fini, massa —fini .“
    “What about your engine? Moteur!”
    “Fini,” the Negro said sadly. “Tout fini.”
    Conway bent to examine it. It was a petrol engine, a very old one. He tried the starting handle, but nothing moved. He took the dip stick from the sump, and found it dry. The engine was seized up solid.
    He got to his feet, frowning, and looked around. “How much water have you got? Water. L’eau.” He pretended to drink.
    The Negro smiled. “Di leau, oui.” He took Conway ’s arm and led him to the stem. There was a largish tank under the transom, once galvanized but now very rusty. Conway