When Kitty turned the bend in the channel and rounded the point on which the hospital stood, she thought she had never faced such a howling gale. She glanced toward the island and saw that the hurricane flag was flying.
Brad ducked his head and clung to the seat. Kitty anchored herself to the wheel, and steered for the landing behind their cottage. Already lights were twinkling along shore, though enough twilight lingered for her to come in to the dock without too much uncertainty.
Never before had she attempted to make her moorings in such a choppy sea. The stormy wind had forced the rising tide up rapidly. She was glad of this for it would spare Brad a climb to the dock. She was afraid the force of the storm would pound the launch against the pilings, so she cut off their motor and with the remaining oar worked toward the lee side of the dock. It took all her skill to make any progress as she had to move straight into the teeth of the rushing wind that swept diagonally across the island. Brad was powerless to help her, for his one hand was needed to hold himself to the seat.
“Don’t try to help!” Kitty called to him, as he started to crawl forward. “I’ll make it. The least little strain will start that place bleeding again.”
In spite of her warning after Kitty got the boat close enough Brad seized their line and tossed it deftly over a hook on the dock. The rope creaked and the boat quivered at the sudden restriction.
“Can you make it up the ladder?” Kitty asked anxiously.
There were only three or four steps to climb, but even that would be a strain on Brad in his weakened condition.
“Maybe you’d better go ahead and give me a hand,” he was forced to admit. “Guess I’m no good.”
She hadn’t realized how weak he was until she tried to help him up that ladder. She had to pull him by his good arm every step of the way. When he reached the dock he collapsed at her feet. Desperately she glanced toward the village, hoping for help, but the storm had evidently driven everyone to shelter. A small boat battled the gale half way between them and the hospital, but the howling wind would drown her call for help.
She was afraid to leave him on the dock while she went for help. The gale might grow strong enough any minute to sweep him into the water. There was danger of opening the wound again if she tried to move him, but she had no choice. Carefully she lifted his head against her knees, locked her hands under his arms and dragged him down the dock to the shelter of a twisted oak that grew on the shell bank.