Revolt of Brud Bascomb - Chap. 11

Please illustrate the scene where the gang of boys take a raft on the river in a storm and pretend that they're the crew of the ship in Moby Dick:

He use to take turns reading about The Three Musketeers and David Copperfield and “Moby Dick before sharing his cracklin’ bread or gingerbread cake with us. Moby Dick was his favorite—a fetching story about Captain Ahab trying to track down a huge white whale that bit off his leg. So between booming thunderclaps and lightning bolts we turned the raft into an ocean boat. After nailing a stripped sapling to the lean-to for a mast pole, we hung the bed sheet on it for a sail.
Stripped to our waists we romped around the lean-to in the pouring rain playing games. Then satisfied the raft wouldn’t sink we used the fishing poles for pitchpoles and pushed off into deep water. To play Moby Dick everybody had a chance to be either Daggoo, the African savage; or Tashtego the wild Indian; or Queequeg the cannibal headhunter or Ishmael. I took the part of Captain Ahab.
“Eevast, you lubbers and sea rogues!” I hollered out. “Up anchor and turn to on the fo’castle decks!”
“And they all jumped to it. Tadpole and Booker T tested the deep water with the pitchpoles. When the raft hit the strong current it went swooping off down creek. Big waves rippled the creek water, making the raft dip and roll and slosh ever which way. The sheet sail bellied out and flapped in the wind. Whopping gushes of water went splashing over the raft floor, drenching our feet and legs before draining off through cracks in the plank floor.
A piece of tree limb nearly hit us head on and swung the raft around, almost pitching me and Tadpole overboard. Squeench Eyes’ pitchpole fell into the creek and disappeared amongst a bunch of dry leaves and brush riding the gurgling current. I scrambled to my feet and told the Gang to push hard and get out of the strong current. So steering hard with our pitchpoles, we got a little anxious over the way the raft was pitching and rolling.
By and by we steadied it and angled out of the current into calmer water that had spilled over somebody’s cotton field. A lightning bolt lit up the creek and thunderclap shook the raft. Rolling black clouds nearly scraped the tops of the strapping trees along’ the banks. With the rain streaming down Booker T and Squeench Eyes scooted back into the lean-to. June Bug was still watching the snake’s tail wriggle. Me and Big Boy and Tadpole kept steering the raft down stream with our pitchpoles.
By now you could scarce see the banks it had got so dark. Sometimes the blinding rain nearly drowned us, with the raft dipping and rolling until we tumbled onto the plank floor. Scrambling to our feet we fell out laughing at Squeench Eyes holding on to a lean-to two-by-four. The slanting rain lashed us in drenching squalls and splashed all over the raft. Thunderclaps boomed like cannon guns. Every time a lightning bolt crackled and shot through the black clouds Booker T and Squeench Eyes scampered back into the shed. But all and all we was having a fetching time.