Part 7 (1/2)

Bob glared at him. ”I never wrote a poem!” he said defensively.

The Captain looked contrite. ”It must have been Hal,” he said. ”I beg your pardon. Go on with your story. Where does the poetry come in?”

”I was going to tell you, before you interrupted, so rudely, that there's somebody who's written a poem-a lot of poetry, to music-a cantata I think they call it. It's about Lindy's flight, and it tells the story of the flight across the Atlantic. I guess it's pretty thrilling. Maybe that's the only way the story can be told-in poetry and music, because it always sounds pretty flat when you just say Lindy flew across the Atlantic in a monoplane. It needs music, with a lot of trumpets-”

”Go on, go on, my lad. More words, less music.” Pat seemed to be getting impatient. The sun was pretty high over their heads now, and bees were buzzing drowsily in the tall gra.s.s all around them. Hal had stretched out on his stomach, facing the little group, which was seated now in a semi-circle. ”I'll be falling asleep if you don't get on.”

Bob laughed embarra.s.sedly. ”All right, you just stop me if I get to rambling. You keep me straight, Irish.”

Captain Bill leaned back on a hummock of earth, his arms folded behind his head. ”I'm so comfortable, I could listen to anything, even to Bob telling a story. Go on, Bob.”

”One more crack, and you don't hear anything,” said Bob. ”Remember the rules, no interruptions from the gallery.”

”We stand corrected. Go on.”

Bob settled himself once again into the gra.s.s. ”Well, we've got Lindy into the air. No sooner had he set out when people began reporting that they'd seen him. Some of them had. A lot of them were just excited individuals who'd heard a motorcycle back-firing. But somebody actually did see him flying over Rhode Island, and about two hours, nearly, after he had set out, they flashed back that he'd been seen at Halifax, Ma.s.sachusetts. Then he dropped out of sight. n.o.body reported seeing him.

That was because he took an over-water route, and was out some distance, flying along the coast of New England.

”They saw him next over Nova Scotia, running along nicely, and then Springfield, Nova Scotia saw him. It was about one o'clock, and he was going strong. But he was getting into a dangerous region, cold and foggy. They had watchers looking for him everywhere. Lindy left Nova Scotia at Cape Breton, headed for Newfoundland. It was pretty stiff going, about 200 miles without sight of land, and over a pretty treacherous sea. But at 7:15 they saw him flying low over St. John's, in Newfoundland. They could see the number on the wings, and sent back word to the world that he had pa.s.sed there. And that was the last word that anybody received that Friday.

”The going had been pretty good until then. The weather was clear, and the ceiling pretty high. But as soon as it got dark, Lindy and his plane hit some pretty bad weather. It grew mighty cold, and a thick swirling fog came up and swallowed up the plane. This was mighty tough, because if he flew low, he was bound to run into one of the icebergs that were floating in the icy sea. So he climbed up to about 10,000 feet, and stayed there. Flying high was all right, but it added another danger.

Ice was forming on the wings of the Spirit of St. Louis, and if it got thick enough, it would break off a wing of the plane, and send the plane and Lindy into the sea.

”Lindy could have turned back, but he didn't. He kept right on, through fog and sleet and rain. His motor never missed. It was a good pal, and no wonder he included it in his feat, and said later that 'we crossed the Atlantic.'

”When morning came, a whole flock of cables came, too. It seems a whole lot of s.h.i.+ps had sighted Lindy's plane, or somebody's plane, anywhere from 500 to 100 miles off the coast of Ireland, where he was headed.

n.o.body knew who to believe, but at 10:00 o'clock came the real news, that he was over a place called Valencia, Ireland.

”Lindy wondered where he was, himself. Flying blind as he had, he didn't know just where he had come out. So he decided to ask the first person he met. Now you can imagine the air roads weren't full of planes flying to Ireland, and Lindy had to wait until he sighted a fis.h.i.+ng schooner.

He swooped low and shouted out, 'Am I headed for Ireland?' The fishermen were so astounded that they couldn't answer, so Lindy flew on his course, depending as he had all night, on his compa.s.s. Pretty soon he came in sight of land, and knew that it was Ireland.”

”Because it was so beautiful,” said Pat.

”No, because it was rocky, and his maps indicated that the land would be rocky,” said Bob.

”Oh, no doubt he could tell it was Ireland,” insisted Pat. ”His mother was Irish, you know, and it needs mighty little Irish blood to make a man long for the ould sod.”

”Well, anyway, there he was over Ireland,” put in Bob, pointedly. ”And from Ireland, on to England, and from England, on to France. Along the Seine, and then Paris. They were waiting for him at Le Bourget, and sent up flares and rockets, long before he got there. Maybe they weren't excited when he flew into range! It was about 8:30, that is, French time, but about 5:30 New York time, when Lindy and the Spirit of St.

Louis circled around the landing field at Le Bourget and landed. Golly, I wish I'd been there. The first man in the world to fly the Atlantic, landing before my very eyes! He'd gone 3,640 miles, and had made it in 33 hours. Some going!

”Well, he was there. And he got out of the plane. And you all know what he said when he got out. I-”

”I am Charles Lindbergh,” said Captain Bill and Pat, not quite in unison.

”Yup,” said Bob, ”'I am Charles Lindbergh.' He thought that they wouldn't know who he was. He'd been flying pretty low over Ireland and England, and so far as he could see, n.o.body had paid much attention to him. So he introduced himself, just as though every man, woman and child in every civilized country wasn't saying that very name all through the day. Remember when we heard the news over the radio, Hal? We were so excited we nearly upset the furniture. Golly, that was a day.

”Well, that was Slim Lindbergh's flight, and now about Slim himself. He was born in Detroit, Michigan, on February 2, 1902, and that means that he was only twenty-five years old when he made his greatest flight, which is pretty young to become the most famous man in the world.

”His dad was Charles A. Lindbergh, and he died in 1924, when he was running for governor of Minnesota on the Farmer-Labor ticket. He'd been a Representative in Congress before. Lindy and he were great pals, and played around together a lot. Lindy's mother was Irish, and taught school in Detroit.