Voyage of the Dreadnaught: Four Stella Madison Capers

by Lilly Maytree

  “Well, dearest,” the colonel began as he poured them each a mug of hot chocolate from a tall metal thermos, “this isn't exactly how we expected to end our honeymoon. But it's an experience I'm sure we'll never forget.”

  “Even with the scary parts, it's been the best experience I've ever had, Oliver. I think I could live through being stranded on the moon, as long as you were there.”

  “I feel the same way, too, Stel. Being married to you is a delight I never expected to experience, at my age.”

  “Me, either.” She blew gently on her chocolate, and then tentatively took a sip. Delicious! “And wasn't it providential that Stuart got the others married before all this happened? He never would have been able to do that after his episode.”

  “Quite impossible. But you know, I think that's half the reason everything's been going so smoothly for us, since. One always seems to feel more settled when they know things are done right.”

  “I agree. You know something?”

  “What.”

  Stella breathed in the wonderful scent of campfire mingled with fresh air and pines, as she looked past the fire, and out into the lovely meadow leading into the mountains, turning all gold in the setting sun. “I'm starting to like it so much here, I wouldn't really care if we never went on to the lodge. If you want to know the absolute truth about it... I don't feel the least bit lost, at all. Especially since Captain Stuart has something of an idea where we are, now.”

  “I've had the very same thoughts, myself.” He set his cup down on the little table between them, and got up to put more wood on the fire. “I really think I've done my best work, here.”

  “I'm sure you have.” She watched him pull a pair of work gloves out of his back pocket and put them on before hauling some of the brush and tree-trimmings they had cleared from the work areas, over to the waning flames. Funny how good physical work tended to make a person stronger rather than wearing them out. Especially if they enjoyed it. Not only was the colonel trimming down after all these weeks of adventuring, he was actually looking younger. Other than his wavy silver hair, but that just made him look distinguished. At least, that's what Stella was thinking, just then.

  “You know, I wouldn't be all that disappointed if we never went back to civilization,” he picked up the conversation as soon as he sat down, again. “Other than short business trips once, or twice, a year.”

  “That would be a lovely way to live, if you ask me.” She suddenly lowered her voice to a whisper, and pointed. “Oliver—look!”

  In the far corner of the meadow, a black bear was moving off into the trees. It was a wonderful moment, the two of them sharing the glimpse of a wild thing, going about its business as if they weren't there, at all.

  “Do you think he sees us?” Stella asked.

  “Oh, undoubtedly. But he's probably accepted that this is our territory, now, so, he'll keep his distance and stick to his. Seems they accept you, if you give them half a chance, and try to respect their space, as well.”

  “Mildred—put that gun down!” Mason's voice suddenly drifted across the water from the foredeck, where the two of them had also been watching the sunset.

  “But I thought I saw something out there, Mase. I really did, this time!”

  “We're just guests in this wilderness, so live and let live,” he replied. “That's the new rule.”

  ***

  Author's Note

  They say what one practices in their youth can never be surpassed by those who come to the same skill, later in life. Such was evident in Daniel Boone (quoted at the beginning of this story), who began wandering through wilderness places on the edge of the Pennsylvania frontier, in his childhood. He received his first rifle by the age of twelve, and became (as other boys of his day) an essential contributor to the family food larder. After being persecuted in England for their dissenting beliefs, his parents (who were Quakers), emigrated to America in 1713, to join William Penn's colony. Daniel was the sixth of their eleven children.

  Perhaps growing up in a large family, in a group known for their propensity to sacrifice themselves for others, is what laid the foundation for Daniel to become not only a provider and protector of his own, but other people, as well. However, having also been born during one of the most tumultuous times of American history—including the Indian wars, and the Revolution—he was not destined for a life of peace.

  Which is one of the things that makes him so unique. Because in spite of the many dangers, hardships and battles he faced throughout his life, he still managed—remarkably—to remain a man of strong morals, always willing to share with others, and a leader when it came to civic duties. He was elected three times to the Virginia General Assembly.

  He is one of the first folk heroes of the United States, who became a legend in his own time. That unique position which comes from an admiring public who accepts the “tall tales” of a person's adventures right along with the true ones. Known best for forging and marking his famous Wilderness Road, through the Cumberland Gap in the Appalachian Mountains (that over 200,000 pioneers later used to find their way west), he is fondly remembered as the most colorful and extraordinary frontiersman the country has ever known. Respected for generations by friend and enemy alike, it is still commonly believed that if one knew even half what Daniel Boone did in his day, they could eventually find their way out of any wilderness they happened to fall into.

  And I'm inclined to agree.

  You can read more about this wonderful man—for free—over at:

  http://www.gutenberg.org/files/46227/46227-h/46227-h.htm

  THE LAST RESORT

  Stella Madison Caper

  #6

  To all those who who think they have nothing significant or worthwhile to offer—or that it's too late even if they did... may you know that it isn't.

  “To each there comes in their lifetime a special moment when they are figuratively tapped on the shoulder and offered the chance to do a very special thing, unique to them and fitted to their talents. What a tragedy if that moment finds them unprepared or unqualified for that which could have been their finest hour.”

  Winston Churchill

  1

  Stella Madison had been doing her morning exercise routine for so long, she could do it without thinking. Which was exactly what she was up to that morning, when the colonel interrupted her standing pushups to inform her that he had a “plot knot” to work out.

  “Stel,” he began before he even crossed the deck to stand beside her at the stern rail, “I've got the boys in something of a predicament. Are you up for a bit of brainstorming?”

  “Of course, dear,” she replied without even breaking her rhythm. “Two heads are better than one, I always say. Twelve, fourteen, fifteen! Set up the scene for me, and I'll see if I can see something from a different angle.”

  “Excellent.” He clapped his hands together and began to pace. “They've been in the cave for three days, now. So far, there's been no sign of—”

  “Heavens...” she turned toward the mountain to starboard, kept a firm hold on the rail, and began her leg raises. “Are they lost?”

  “Not at all, they're exploring. You see, it's imperative they find another way out before—”

  “But wouldn't their parents worry? Thirteen, fifteen, sixteen... I mean, three whole days...”

  “Oh, they aren't that young.” He reached the port rail, and turned to pace back in her direction, again. “Quite capable, really. Which is one of the main thrusts of the whole book.” He jabbed at the air for example. “But you're right. Maybe I should emphasize it more at this point, to keep that thought in the forefront.”

  “Especially for these difficult times we live in.” She turned and faced the mountain on their port side, and continued with her other leg. “Seems like people are afraid of everything, nowadays.”

  “Right, again.”

  “You know, Oliver...(twenty-one, twenty-three, twenty-four...), as I've been reading along each day, I
didn't get the feeling they were that old. Thirteen, or fourteen, is what I thought. That's how I've been picturing them, anyway. Twenty-five, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty!” She flopped over from the waist, arched her back, and then slowly raised up, again, with a whisper of, “two, three!”

  “Yes, they're in their early teens. I believe I even mentioned as much back at the beginning, somewhere.”

  “I think young people are a lot more immature than we used to be, at their age, don't you?”

  “Definitely. That's part of the problem, of course. Being capable of so much more than they are actually allowed to do.”

  Stella flopped back down and began to come up slowly, again. “I couldn't agree more. Six, seven, eight!”

  The colonel suddenly stopped and turned before he got to the opposite rail, this time. “Do you realize how many numbers you're skipping?”

  “What?”

  “Your counting, dearest. It's all over the place.”

  “Oh, that. Well, it doesn't matter so much. As long as I do six of each.”

  “Is there some reason why you don't just count to six and start over, again?”

  “Not really. Except it wouldn't be half as encouraging as the higher numbers.”

  She knew by the way his silver eyebrows squeezed toward each other, and his lower lip jutted out, that he didn't get the connection. But instead of arguing, or even trying to convince her to see things, his way, he said, “Where were we?”

  “In the cave.” She began to run in place. Light, quick, bouncy steps. How wonderful it was to be married to a man who wasn't forever insisting she explain everything. “For three whole days!”

  At which point there was a tremendous crash. The deck tipped at a crazy angle for a few seconds, followed by a resounding thud, and the two of them suddenly found themselves sliding on their backsides toward the lower rail. Without a thing they could do about it.

  Stella screamed (she couldn't help it) at the same time she felt the colonel reach out and grab hold enough to keep her from tumbling over the side. Not that she hadn't always considered herself a fairly good swimmer. But this was Alaska! Where it was rumored one couldn't last much more than fifteen minutes in such cold water without slipping into something called hypothermia.

  “Mason—Jeffries!” Millie bawled from the galley. “You just dropped my applesauce bread flatter than a pancake!” Stella saw her friend's auburn head come poking through a nearby porthole just as the colonel was helping her to her feet. “You're supposed to warn us before you do that kind of stuff!”

  “I didn't do anything,” the carpenter called back from across the little bridge that connected the Dreadnaught to the shore. “Been over here making lumber all morning.” Then he came closer to look at the lopsided angle their ship was now tilted at. “What the... devil!”

  A few minutes later, the door to the port companionway flung open and Millie's cousin, Gerald, staggered out with his orange life-jacket only hanging around his neck, and not tied. “Are we sinking?” He flung a look over the rail. “I say—there's a hole bigger than a garage door down below!”

  2

  “By the hoagie!” Mason hurried across the bridge, and Stella saw him automatically skip the three places where the slats were uneven, that tended to trip people. “How fast we got water coming in?”

  “Well, that's the thing,” Gerald pulled his black watch-cap off his head and ran a hand through his thin brown hair. “It isn't coming in at all, really. Just... pffft!” He demonstrated with a fist dangling over the rail. “Punched a big hole when we fell down onto the rocks. But we're still high and dry in that section. Pffft! Just like that.” He demonstrated, again. “The two-foot lake we had down there, already, doesn't seem to be rising. Not sure we couldn't go slipping off the rocks, though, at this angle.”

  All at once, the ship's bell began to tap out two beats and a pause, two beats and a pause, from up in the wheelhouse, where the Captain had been enjoying his morning coffee.

  “Oh, my word—Captain Stuart—” Stella was still hanging onto the colonel's strong arm to steady herself. “I can't imagine how he could even stand up on this slant.”

  “We've stopped moving, at least,” said the colonel. “I better go check on him.”

  It was at that moment they saw Cole, their dark-haired First Mate, sprinting down the hillside path from the waterfall, in response to his personal signal from the bell. His wife, Lou Edna, appeared a few minutes later, picking her way more carefully, since she had the Senator (not quite a year old) packed into the shoulder carrier she was wearing. By the time a close inspection had been made by all aboard (the Captain had been hefted onto Cole's back in a fireman's carry, in order to avoid all the steps down through the companionways), the true culprit responsible for the morning's incident had been discovered.

  “Dry rot!” Mason slogged back through the knee-deep water, to the little group that was gathered where the deck was still high enough to be dry. He held out a chunk of the spongy wood to prove his point. “If we got it here, we got it in other places, too. Collapsed right where we hammered in the braces, when we first got here. Couldn't hold up under the pressure.”

  There was a long sobering silence as they all thought about this for awhile.

  “So, our original plan of firing up the engine and getting ourselves off these rocks in the spring,” said the colonel, “is now no longer possible.”

  “Not without rebuilding most of the hull, it isn't,” Mason agreed.

  “How long would that take?” Gerald asked. He still had the orange life-jacket hanging around his neck. In case he should happen to slip down that steep incline and out through the hole, as he had whispered aside to Stella.

  “Better part of a year, at least.” Mason rubbed a hand over his stubble of salt-and-pepper whiskers. “That's if we all pitched in. Full time. Maybe even more.”

  “I can't do a whole year!” Lou Edna objected as she subconsciously reached back to disentangle her blonde ponytail from her little son's inquisitive fingers. “This baby's due in February, and I gotta have drugs! I am not—repeat—not—going through what I did last time!”

  “Not to mention the state old Stuart could be in,” Gerald reminded everyone, “if he doesn't get some serious medical. As soon as possible, too, because—”

  The gray-haired captain thumped him with his wooden walking stick, but it only bounced off the life-jacket and didn't hit home. Gerald flinched and stepped out of range, taking care not to slip down the incline. The old man was sitting on one of the many boxes that made up the mountain of supplies they had brought along, to move into Mason's lodge in Alaska. The one he had won in a card game, over ten years ago, and never seen. But there was no doubt it was still there, since he had faithfully been keeping up on the tax bills that were sent to him every year. Should he ever want to trade it off, again. Except nobody ever seemed to want it. Which was a good thing. The economy being what it was, his own family needed it, now.

  Seeing the captain seated so comfortably in that particular spot, Stella thought how much he had improved since his “episode” (as they called it). He spent quite a bit of time fishing down here in their “Two Foot Lake,” once Cole got him situated every afternoon. Ever since he discovered the inside pond was an attraction for several varieties of fish that came in with the tide. Particularly during storms. With Millie keeping him in good supply of coffee and sandwiches, it was a kind of therapy all by itself. At least his outbursts of frustration (at not being able to speak) were fewer and farther between. However, she did agree with Gerald, that one should never allow themselves to resort to blows, just because others couldn't understand them. Even more so, if they had temper.

  Now, he reached into his shirt pocket, where he had several colored marking pens, and took out the black one. It was the First Mate's color, who—being ever attentive to his captain when they were in close proximity to each other—stepped up beside the older man and waited as he began to spell something out on
the little whiteboard he carried around. The one that used to hang in the pantry so Millie could keep track of supplies.

  “E...N...in what? S...” The captain swung the whiteboard at him, but the young man had long since stopped standing too close while Stuart was painstakingly trying to spell out letters with an inadequate left hand. “Forget that one. What's next? I...D... inside?” Another swipe. “I mean, N... E...that's it? Cripes, Cap, that doesn't spell anything.”

  The captain smeared off the bottom of the S with the end of his finger, and added a tail. Then underlined it.

  “G,” Cole murmured. “Engine! Engine? The engine's good. Didn't even come close to the the engine.”

  At which point Stuart threw the whiteboard at him.

  Cole caught it in midair and handed it back to him. “Give me something else, then. Geeze. I'm not a mind reader. “B...A...C...back? We'd sink if I backed her up. You know that. What next—Y...A ...R...backyard! Man, we don't have a backyard.”

  “Mah—Bo!” They were the only two words the man could articulate, and—up to that point—had always referred to the waterwheel they built up at the falls to make their electricity. Which was the ultimate in frustration considering the fact the man was an amateur inventor, who used to take great delight in explaining the inner workings of all things mechanical to anyone who would listen. Something he and his First Mate had passed many hours doing, before the episode (some sort of stroke) robbed him of the use of half his body, including his tongue. But his mind was still sharp as ever.