For many hours the strong ocean current carried the Black and his small band to the north and west. By mid-afternoon they were joined by hundreds of swarming birds and the scent of land was strong! The Black watched the birds, some peeling off from formations and diving into the sea after fish while others drifted and soared, waiting to steal.
Flying fish streamed by in a procession of silvery bodies. They zipped magically out of the water and glided long distances before dipping their tails into the sea and rising again. When they finally came down, they skittered along the surface before plunging into the depths.
Close to the Black a pelican rested after its plunge into the sea from lofty heights. It threw back its heavy-billed head and swallowed its catch. A floating cormorant beside the pelican stretched its long neck and violently beat the air with its wings, then it dived below in search of food. Busier than any of the other birds were the small terns, fishing endlessly and seemingly without rest. They struck the water again and again and again, emerging immediately always against the wind, a fish in their bills, and seeking to keep and eat it before losing it to a pirate gull.
An hour before sunset the homeward flight of the birds began. Except for the pelicans, who appeared to be content to spend the night at sea, they streaked for roosting places on distant reefs.
The Black made no attempt to break away from the warm current and follow the birds. He let himself be borne along as they and, later, the reefs slipped by. And all the while he kept looking toward the west. His eyes strayed only occasionally, and each time it was to glance skyward at the black bird still flying high above.
Still later, a familiar scent grew strong in his nostrils and a short distance away the cloudy peak of an island rose from the sea. It was bare of vegetation and seemed more foreboding than the tiniest coral atoll he had passed.
Hovering in the wind above this island peak was the man-o’-war bird. Below in an isolated nest was another of its kind, a female with brownish-black feathers and a splotched white breast. Standing erect beside her was a young creature of the same species, completely white except for black wings like its father’s.
The man-o’-war bird suddenly folded its wings and swooped down. For the first time a small pouch of red skin beneath its neck was visible. As the bird neared home this pouch became inflated like a toy balloon.
SAFE HAVEN
5
The Black Stallion’s nostrils quivered as he swam upwind, approaching the island with what seemed to be a strong homing instinct. If what he smelled was frightening, he showed no outward fear. But he kept his ears pointed landward as he listened for sounds carried on the wind. He swam faster, snorting repeatedly.
With strong herd instinct the mares followed him. They had accepted their leader without question and now they listened to his snorts warning them of immediate peril in the waters directly ahead. It was important that they remain close together in times of danger.
Shadows of a coral reef appeared below the surface, some sections of it rising higher than others and breaking the surface. Hoofs and legs could easily be broken on such a barrier. Blue waters churned white as they washed over the rock, becoming black as the sea deepened and waves gained momentum, crashing hard against the island’s formidable walls.
It was a strange island, unlike any other in the Caribbean Sea. There was nothing green or tropical about it, nothing luxurious or colorful. It rose out of the turquoise-blue waters with a bleakness that seemed to forebode evil and death to those who would attempt to approach it. From the sea it looked like a massive, egg-shaped boulder completely devoid of life, its sheer, bare sides looming from the thin veil of gray mist that shrouded its base. The walls towered to a height of a thousand or more feet, rounding off to form a dome-shaped top that gleamed in the setting sun.
The Black Stallion carefully led his band across the reef. He hated the sea and was tempted to swim faster, leaving it behind him forever. He wanted to feel again the earth beneath his hoofs. But he didn’t move his legs faster; instinct told him that the submerged coral lay all about.
Snorting, he changed course again, choosing his way more carefully than before. He continued swimming toward the island, the mares following him almost in single file. His eyes shifted constantly, leaving the waters for the barrier wall that was stopping the sea in its tracks. He scented the air and changed course once more.
When he reached deeper water, the height and momentum of the swells carried him forward at ever-greater speed. He sought to check himself, churning his legs and bringing his strength and weight to bear against the sea. He managed to keep off the crest of some waves by fighting his way through them and sliding into deep troughs. Slowly but ever so surely he neared the great wall of stone.
Snorting shrilly, he sought to keep his head above a giant wave but the furious waters washed over him despite all he could do. When he came to the surface he snorted again and his eyes sought the bobbing heads of the frantic mares. Ahead of them loomed the sheer wall, ceaselessly being struck by the climbing spray of the sea.
The waters swirled about the Black Stallion and poured over his head. Yet his eyes and nostrils were never still and finally he swam eagerly toward a low but wide hole in the wall! It was just high enough to accommodate his body and once through he was able to raise his head high.
The chamber inside, which had a sandy floor, was very large with a canal running through the center. On either side were moss-covered piles of petrified wood centuries old. Only the light coming through from the sea illuminated the chamber but it was enough to disclose that there were manure droppings in the sand.
The Black Stallion climbed out of the canal, whinnying to the mares to follow. His nostrils were dilated, his ears cocked. He stood still for a moment, awaiting his band. The only thing about him that moved was his mane, stirred by the wind that found its way through the hole in gusts.
When all the broodmares and fillies had climbed out of the canal, the Black led them past rock to the far corner of the chamber. There he stopped, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness beyond. It took several minutes before he could see well but he did not shy or appear to be startled by what he saw. Without hesitation he went into one of several long tunnels that opened off the chamber. As he picked his way along, he favored his bruised foot, for the path was stony.
It wasn’t long before he no longer felt the gusts of wind at his back or heard the dull thuds of the waves striking the outer wall. Eventually he emerged from the tunnel and led the mares through a long chasm. Sheer cliffs rose on either side and the open sky of early evening could be seen above.
The chasm opened into a small sliver of a valley with a stream crossing its center. The stallion lengthened his strides, running to the fresh water to drink his fill. And in that valley he and his small band spent the night.
The mares’ need for each other was great and they grazed in a closely knit group as if afraid to wander away alone more than a few feet. But even within the group each mare had her special attachment, pairing off usually with the one who had been stabled closest to her on the plane. They stood head to flank, their tails whisking the night air, their teeth cutting the grass. They could eat in peace, knowing that their leader was on guard and looking out for them. Some of them even lay down and slept in the early hours. Soon others followed suit, and finally only the Black Stallion was left standing to keep his lonely vigil.
The Black made no sound, not even chopping the grass with his sharp teeth. He listened to the night wind racing across jagged rock. He smelled all it carried, his nostrils never still.
A full moon rose in the night sky, its light enhancing the solemn beauty and solitude of the small valley. Finally the stallion relaxed his vigilance and bent his long, graceful neck down to the grass. But a little later he raised his head again, his nostrils quivering. Not a muscle moved beneath his velvet-soft coat. Sensing danger, he remained very still, every sense alert. For many minutes he remained that way. T
hen, as suddenly as the scent had come, it was gone. The Black’s bulging muscles relaxed. Once more he grazed.
Early dawn found him on the move, taking his band to the far end of the narrow valley and down a deep gorge. It was a dry stream bed, strewn with sharp rocks and boulders. The Black went slowly, following the twisting trail and favoring his bruised foot again. Yet even over this rough terrain his action was free and graceful, and his eagerness to run was apparent in every stride.
He emerged from the gorge to enter a low marshland into which the stream must once have emptied. A thin cloud of vapor was rising from the hollow and with it came the added warmth of early morning. The Black Stallion brought his band to an immediate stop, the foul smell of rotting vegetation strong in his nostrils. He whirled and shook his head as if undecided about going on. Pawing the ground, he found it too soft and not to his liking at all.
He snorted to the mares, warning them of their danger. His tail swished angrily and suddenly he swung his hindquarters around, lashing out at a reluctant filly. He snorted to another, lifting his forefeet and stomping the ground repeatedly. Finally he had them all in line and whinnied his command. He led them forward in single file, carefully choosing a path through the swamp.
Their bodies were shrouded by the clinging gray veil of mist. On either side of the narrow green path over which they passed were high reeds and swamp ferns. There, too, lay quicksand, which would have engulfed their bodies within a few minutes’ time and left no trace. A slip, a fall, and horrible death awaited each and every one.
The Black moved at an ever-faster pace through the cloudlike world, his hoofs making soft sucking noises. He was anxious to get clear of the marsh. And to lend wings to his feet were other hoofprints in the path before him!
Suddenly the route led upward, taking him away from the hollow. In his mounting excitement he broke into a hard run and left the mares behind. Reaching the top of the incline, he entered a large field of wild sugar cane. Beyond it, stretching the length of the island, was an open valley. It was like a blue-green jewel set deep amid towering walls that were the color of pure gold.
The morning light found its way into the valley through a long, narrow crack that split the dome of the island. At the upper end of the valley an underground stream wound its way from the blackness of a huge cavern into the open, then dropped in a shimmering sheet of white to a pool two hundred or more feet below.
The Black Stallion came to a stop and screamed his high-pitched clarion call, claiming this new land for his very own. The air rang with his challenge, vibrating from wall to wall. And when his call finally died the morning stillness was broken once more.
Drinking at the pool was a great herd of horses. From it a tall chestnut stallion stepped forth, his head held high, his eyes defiant as he turned downwind. Like the Black Stallion’s, his head was small with prominent, ever-watchful eyes. Great muscles bulged beneath his sleek, battle-scarred coat. He screamed his answer and it was as savage and wild a call as the Black’s!
The valley was no longer peaceful. It had become a walled arena.
SURVIVAL
6
At the time of the stallions’ meeting—one hour after dawn on the second morning at sea—Alec Ramsay awakened. With the others he was huddled on the floor of the raft and covered by a tarpaulin. The night had been cool and the extra canvas felt good. Another tarpaulin was rigged overhead to collect dew and to be used later as a sunshade.
He shifted, straightening the canvas beneath him. It was still dry and warm. To restore circulation he moved his shoulder and back muscles, then leaned forward, flexing his fingers and toes. He shivered slightly and stopped doing the mild exercise to warm his hands beneath his armpits.
There might not be any sun that day, for the morning sky was cloudy. And if it rained, well, at least it would provide drinking water. He raised his feet slightly and held them up for a moment or two. Then he grimaced a couple of times, working his facial muscles, too. That done, he made sure his socks were pulled well up over his trousers and that his sleeves were rolled down as far as they could go. He pulled down the wide-brimmed hat that the captain had given him and put on his sunglasses. Even on cloudy days the sun could give one a severe burn.
He thought only of survival. He couldn’t, wouldn’t think of his horse. Later maybe, but not now.
They might be picked up today—or not for days or weeks. Emergency rations and water were limited. They would be limited to less than a quart of water daily, the captain had told them. And the best foods to eat were those with high carbohydrate content, such as hard candy and fruit bars.
Alec stretched out, resting again as the others were doing. Activity meant they would require more food and water, so the less they did the less nourishment their bodies would need. He moved more of himself under the sunshade, for the sun had just peeped from behind the clouds. Even to look at it made him very thirsty. Water was his most important need. With it alone he’d be able to live ten days, maybe longer, because his will to live was very strong.
Relax and sleep, he told himself. The less you think about water the better. We have a sun-still and a de-salting kit. Besides, it’s going to rain. We’re well off. We’re in good shape.
The motion of the raft made him a little dizzy, even sick to his stomach. He tried to ignore it. He didn’t want to lose what little food he’d eaten. He watched the clouds, waiting and ready for a shower to descend. But the sun kept shining more brightly, piercing the cloud deck more often. It might, after all, be another scorcher like yesterday. He’d have to stay beneath the shade except when he dampened his clothes during the hottest part of the day; that would cut down the amount of water he lost by sweating.
It was the night that was most welcome, when they could move about without fear of the sun and try to catch some fish. Even though the fishing kits had been lost with the plane, they had improvised hooks from the crew’s insignia pins. For cord they’d used threads from their clothes. They had found small fish gathered beneath their raft. Larger fish had been attracted by shining a flashlight onto the water. They’d speared some of them by lashing a knife to an oar. But the best catch of all was a flying fish that had landed in the raft.
They had cleaned and eaten it immediately, giving it no chance to spoil. Alec wondered what his mother and father would have thought of his eating raw fish and wishing for more! He rubbed sunburn cream over his face, a face no longer young but lined and grim. Was his horse already dead? Why did these things have to happen? All he could do was to lie still, to wait, to agonize.…
Henry Dailey still slept, too tired to move, too old to care. But the captain, who had been sleeping alongside Alec, sat up, glanced at the sun and shook his head sadly. So far he’d done all he could, everything according to the rules and the book. He had checked the physical condition of all on board and they were in as good shape as could be expected. Tomorrow and the next day and the one after that might tell another story. But he’d face that when he had to.
He had planned on one good meal daily; two would have been preferable but they didn’t have enough food in their survival kits to last if they were adrift more than a few days. The food in the kits had been carefully chosen to provide proper sustenance in just such cases as this, and if they could catch enough seafood to go along with it they could survive even longer when the food in the kits was gone. Water was even more important for their existence. He had figured they could get by on less than a quart daily. He had set up their sun-still and de-salting kit and he counted on getting more fresh water by collecting some rain and dew.
The compasses, watches, matches and lighters were being kept in dry, waterproof containers. He was keeping his log, indicating time of ditching, winds, weather, direction of swells, time of sunrise and sunset and other navigation data. He had remained calm, setting an example for the others. He’d even laughed and gotten the others to do likewise. He had salvaged from the plane’s debris extra clothing, Thermos jugs and cushion
s.
He had made sure the raft was properly inflated. The air chambers were well rounded but not drum tight. They needed checking constantly. Air expanded on hot days so he must remember to release some during the day and add air at night when the weather cooled. And he must remember to keep that valve tight.
He had improvised a sea anchor, too, by using a drag from a raft case. The closer they remained to the ditching area the better chance they had of being picked up—or so he liked to believe.
He had checked the raft constantly for leaks, examining all valves and seams and underwater surfaces, then wrapping the anchor rope with cloth to make certain it wouldn’t chafe the raft. He made sure all aboard were careful with their fishhooks, knives and ration tins. He never allowed them to put such things on the floor. He kept the raft properly balanced, making the heaviest person sit in the center. He had repair plugs for use if necessary.
He knew Sea-Air Rescue would be looking for them by now. The message to all ships and planes in the South Atlantic would have read something like this: Urgent. All aircraft and ships are requested to be on the alert for survivors and distress frequencies from Bermuda Atlantic Transport 29167 unreported since 2200. Last reported position 11–14 north, 45–10 west.…
He had received similar messages himself in the past and twice had been successful in helping to locate the survivors of ditched planes. He glanced skyward. It was comforting to know that somebody was up there looking for them. He’d have to help in every way he could, for a raft in the open sea could easily be missed if those on it didn’t cooperate with the searchers. When he saw a plane he’d use mirrors and every other possible signal device to let it be known they were down here. Although it was summer, it could be awfully cold sitting on a raft in the open sea. And lonesome. Yes, it was nice to know somebody was up there looking for them … just as he had done for others and would do again providing he lived through this.