Persis knew, with a growing fear, that she could not hope to support Crewe in any climb out of the water. She simply did not have the strength. Guiding his good hand to the edge, she could feel the tension of the grip as his fingers closed upon the slippery stone there.
“Now if you can turn over the dugout,” he ordered. His tone was as even as if he had asked her to draw a curtain or light a candle. Persis knelt, her hands running along the side of the rough native craft. It was hardly above water now. Obediently she jerked and exerted what strength she might from such a cramped position. The wood of the side she held was slippery so she could not get a good continuing hold on it, but still she tugged almost wildly.
The splashing her efforts caused sounded very loud to her. She could only hope that Ralph was well enough away not to hear them.
“He won’t trust entirely to this little trap,” Crewe spoke out of the dark in that same meditative fashion, as if he were an onlooker and not the victim of this attempt at long-distance murder. “He can’t be sure he has succeeded until he knows I am dead.”
Persis felt a rising anger, not at Ralph Grillon, not yet, nor at Crewe, but at the unwieldy craft which stubbornly resisted her efforts to master it. She gave a last fierce tug, unmindful of her own precarious perch, and, by some miracle, the edge of the waterlogged craft she pulled moved at last. There was a great splash. At the price of two torn nails and a hand scraped raw she had made the dugout turn bottom up. Her fingers touched two holes in the wet surface bobbing there.
“It’s over,” she said, with a catch of her breath. “But won’t it sink now anyway? There are two holes—at least—cut in it.”
“Perhaps.” Crewe Leverett did not sound alarmed. “But I think it will support me to the turtle pen. There are the stakes set upright there, a better chance to wedge somehow with my head above water—unless the tide-”
Persis nursed her scraped hand against her breast. “The tide!” She had not thought of that. And the very mention of the turtle pen made her flesh crawl.
“Why can’t you hold on to the dugout and let me pull that back to the house pool? Then I can get the men-”
Again Crewe laughed until she hated the hollow echo of that sound.
“Do not underrate Grillon,” he returned. “He will have the house watched. Do you think that you would be allowed to reach the quarters?”
“Askra is there—in the kitchen. She was the one who told me they were doing this thing—”
“Askra will not lift a hand to help. Why should she? To her all our race are interlopers and murderers. She lives in a past which is hers alone and will not be dragged out of it. And I cannot climb that ladder with one hand.”
“Then how did you get down?” Persis was reluctant to surrender what she believed was the most sensible solution to their difficulties.
“Oh, they lowered me by ropes, I think. I’m not too clear-minded about that. Seems that Lydia was very busy today. Concocting a potion which reduced everyone to a state in which they could be easily handled if the need arose. The little fool! I ought to let her go, she’ll discover soon enough that Grillon is not the hero she dreams of. He’s filled her with his own version of affairs and promised her the moon, with all the nearer stars thrown in. And she’s weakminded enough to believe him!” That was bitter.
“She would not let him hurt you,” Persis protested. “I heard her—”
“Just showing a trace of squeamishness when it is too late to matter,” Crewe returned. “But now—if you can edge the canoe nearer—”
“It’s slippery, you can’t hold on to it! Wait—”
Before she had time to fear what she knew must be done Persis lowered her own body from the ridge, throwing her left arm across the upturned canoe. The dugout bobbed and sank, spattering water into her face. But it did not go entirely to the bottom, and she found that it did offer support enough so that her head and the top of her shoulders were above water.
“What are you doing?” Crewe Leverett demanded harshly.
“Hold on.” She began to kick her feet slowly, edge the damaged craft along so she could hear it grate against the side of the wall. Then, to her surprise and growing confidence, she discovered her clumsy efforts did work! She could force the nearly waterlogged boat closer to where she knew the Captain clung.
“I’m moving the canoe toward you,” she explained. “And you’re right, it will support us—”
“Us!” The word broke from him with the urgency of a pistol shot.
“Us,” she repeated firmly. “You cannot manage with one arm—it is foolish to even think of trying so. Now—tell me when—”
Then came a bump and a bitten-off exclamation. Either the bow or the stern of the dugout had struck him.
“Can you get your good arm across it now?”
She heard splashing, mutters, and then the dugout sank deeper into the water, so that wavelets washed about her neck. But at least her head was still above water.
“Are you all right?” she cried out with foreboding.
“Well enough. But you—get out of this!”
“No.” All Persis’ stubborn determination built into that one-word denial. “You can’t manage alone and you know it. How far is the turtle pen?”
“Not too far.” He at least made no more open protests. They advanced at a snail’s pace. By a slightly swifter motion of the unwieldly support under them Persis judged that the Captain was also using his feet to help propel the half-sunken craft along the way. Suddenly Persis felt a self-confidence she had seldom tasted in her life. She had done this—she was succeeding. She spat out water which washed unexpectedly into her face, concentrated on keeping their support moving, nudging its way along the wall of the tunnel.
Then she felt a difference in the obstruction which had been their guide so far. Daring to loose one hand from a desperate hold across the dugout, she felt out, to discover that there were stakes here, between which the water flowed in and out.
The pen! She tried not to think of those creatures moving sluggishly beyond that barrier. A moment later Crewe spoke.
“You’ve found it.”
But Persis, exploring farther by touch, was afraid. The stakes, stout as they were, were also slimed. Certainly Crewe could not hold on here for any length of time and the openings between were too narrow to allow him, she was certain, to squeeze himself amongst them for support. Not with his broken shoulder.
“You can’t hold on here,” she said flatly. “Any more than you could back there.”
“I don’t intend to,” he answered coolly. “We shall have to go through the pen—”
“Through it!” She felt like shuddering, but feared that even such a slight reaction would jeopardize their frail support.
“If Ralph has left any guards, and I do not think he is stupid enough to overlook that, they will expect us in the canal where the escape route comes out. Our only chance is to go through the pen and hope to reach the mound to the north.”
Persis set her teeth. She had no idea of what one of the giant turtles she had seen might do to a soft-skinned invader of their prison. But if this was their only chance—
“Feel along the stake wall. It has been over a year since that was renewed,” Crewe continued. “There ought to be at least one stake which is rotting. I have had to replace two or three such every season since this was built.”
Persis moved very cautiously, keeping one hand on the dugout. The fingers of the other she ran around the stakes at a little below water level. To her they all seemed iron fast and completely firm. One—two-three—four—five—at the sixth she could not be sure. Had her now-broken nails scraped wood which was a little spongy? She tried to keep her mind entirely off what lay beyond. If Crewe said this was the only way, then it was. At that moment she was not even aware that she was accepting his pronouncement without question.
“Find one?” He did not even sound impatient, yet there was a note in his voice which bothered her. She began to wonder if he was tiring—she must find the way out! If Crewe collapsed here—with all her strength and determination she could not help him then.
Persis felt for the fan dagger. Using only the one hand she drove it point deep, gouging again and again at the stake which had seemed the least resistant. And, after an initial resistance, the wood was giving!