Free Wild Jack by John Christopher Page A

by exhaustion or thirst. The former would be kinder; our strenuous bailing had only preserved us for a longer-lasting misery. This morning the wind had dropped and the sea was less rough, churning in a long swell.
    None of us felt much like talking. My own mind was a morass of hopelessness lit by flashes of resentment—against Sunyo for hitting the guard, against Kelly for insisting on this lunatic scheme, against the commandant, the London police, Gary—even against my father for being away on holiday. None of this did me any good; it only made me more miserable. But I couldn’t help it.
    At least I no longer wrangled with Kelly; I think we were both too deadbeat. Minutes, hours drifted by, meaningless in the blankness of sea and sky. I suppose it was roughly in the middle of the day that Sunyo spoke.
    â€œListen.”
    I did so apathetically and heard the slap of waves against the side of the boat, all too familiar.
    Kelly said, “Listen to what?”
    â€œThat noise,” Sunyo said. “It sounds like an airship engine.”
    I listened then. At first I could still hear only the waves. It was Kelly who said, with a lift in his voice, “I think you’re right!”
    I heard it myself almost immediately: a tiny distant drone in the sky. We roused ourselves, our eyes desperately searching. Sunyo was also the first to spot it and point it out: a black speck against the cloud.
    It was so small, and the sky was so big, as was, I realized, the sea in which this little dinghy rocked. Although we could see the airship, that did not mean it was coming anywhere near us. I watched in an agony of anxiety. The speck did not seem to be moving, and I said so.
    â€œThat’s a good sign,” Kelly said. “If it were moving, it would be crossing our field of vision. It must be coming toward us. It looks bigger.”
    Was it? With a leap of joy I realized he was right; it was getting bigger. And I could hear the hum of the motor more clearly.
    I stood up, frantically waving. Kelly shouted, “Careful, you fool, you’ll capsize us,” but I was too happy to mind it.
    Sunyo said, more reasonably, “It is too far offstill. No one could see us. But I think it is on course for us, in a direct line almost.”
    We watched the airship approaching, and I had time to think about what would happen after we were picked up. Back to the island, of course, and perhaps back to the stockade for Sunyo. No, that was certain, and very likely Kelly with him. But first there would be food and drink, baths, sleep in soft beds. And maybe what we had been through had taught Sunyo to be less pigheaded.
    As for me, I was sure that by now the order for my release must have come through. I even had a crazy notion that my father might be in the airship, directing a search for us. That was absurd, I knew, but at least we were going to be rescued. Nothing else mattered.
    The airship, a white civil aircraft, came steadily on, flying at no more than two hundred feet above the sea. Its flight path was taking it just a little to the left of us, and we could see the windows of the dining cabin, with small figures at the tables. We were all standing up and waving now, with the ­dinghy rocking perilously beneath us.
    We shouted as well as waved, even though weknew sound could not carry to the sealed cabins. But they must see us! We could see them so clearly. A waiter was bending over one table, pouring out wine. It was impossible that we could be missed. Even when the airship had passed overhead, I was sure of that. Someone must see us, and the airship would turn back again.
    Then Sunyo said in a cold, dry voice, “They’ve not seen us. And they won’t now.”
    He sat down heavily, and Kelly did the same. I stood and gazed at the airship, diminishing in size with the passing moments. The sound of the motor faded and was lost in the monotonous slap of waves. I sat down myself and huddled in the