CHAPTER XXVI.
THE CASTAWAYS.
Their walk was not a long one. Forcing themselves through a thicket of young cottonwoods, that scarce reached above Ben's head, a few rods brought them to water on the opposite side.
"It must be a point," said Ben; "a neck of land jutting out into the river. Let us follow it up."
So hand in hand, like two full grown babes in the woods, they walked down the sand that skirted the cottonwood brake. In less than half a mile they came to the end of the brake, and a rod farther brought them again to water. Ben stood speechless. Slowly he turned to his companion, whose wistful, confiding gaze nearly unmanned him.
"Bertha," at last he said, huskily, "we are on an island."
Bertha hid her face in her hands and bowed down in grief at this dire information.
"Don't cry," said Ben simply and soothingly, and, it must be confessed, wrapping his arms about her drooping form, and soothing her head on his bosom as gently as a mother could have caressed it. "Don't cry. The Hand that brought us here can take us off again. The river has spared us; fear not but we will get off of the island safely."
And with many gentle endearments and soothing speeches he restored her.
"You are shivering with the cold, Miss Bertha," he said.
"I am cold, very cold, dear friend," she replied; "but so are you. Think of yourself. Put on your coat again. Morning cannot be far off, and then the sun will dry and warm us."
But Ben refused the coat, and knew that morning was some hours distant, and that the coldest portion of the night was yet to come upon them, before the sun arose and warmed all nature back to life. So he drew Bertha into the centre of the cottonwood brake, that protected them from the night breeze now keenly felt sweeping down the river. Then he prepared a bed out of twigs and leaves, and bidding her lie down he spread his coat over her and piled leaves and boughs high up around her. Ere long his labors were rewarded by hearing her draw the deep, regular breath of slumber. Then he laid down beside her, and exhausted nature courted sleep, despite the shiverings of his cold wet body.
When our hero awoke the sun was shining down upon him from a cloudless sky. There were also shining upon him two great, glorious, grey eyes, as Bertha sat a short distance away, contemplating him sadly. He noticed with a thrill of pleasure that she had carefully covered him with the coat, and heaped the twigs and boughs, that had formed her own bed, about him. The young lady must have been awake some time, for with the instinct predominant in her sex, she had made some futile attempts at a toilet. Her dishevelled and sand-ladened hair was coiled in a mass of not unpleasing snarls, and over it she had tied her dainty lace handkerchief, having had no hat on her head at the time of the catastrophe. The drapery of her rich dress was sadly creased and wrinkled, and she wore all the appearance of a young lady that had taken an involuntary bath, and then been only partially wrung out. A memory of the array of good taste, wealth and fashion that passed him on Olive Street, in St. Louis, flitted through Ben's mind, and in spite of himself he smiled at the contrast. She evidently understood what was upper-most in his mind, for returning smile for smile, she said:
"My experience on the river has not been conducive to good appearances. You must be gentle in your criticisms."
But Ben vowed she never had looked so lovely in all her life. Which, indeed, she had not; for there was a touching grace in the way she bore her distress that enhanced the charms of a naturally beautiful woman.
"Your clothes are not dry," said Ben.
"Not quite," she replied, "but I think they soon will be." A look of misery crossed her face as she said so, however, plainly indicating that the wet sand-ladened garments she had slept in, and which were now clinging to her person were anything but congenial to physical comfort.
"Remain here for a few moments while I take a look at our island and discover some means of escape from it, if possible," said Ben.
It did not take him long to become familiar with the topography of his new location. It was simply a sand bar half a mile long, and from four to five rods broad, standing in the middle of an old channel. The centre of the bar was but two or three feet above the river's surface, but was already covered with that dense and rapid cottonwood growth peculiar to the river country of the south. Off to the west, half a mile away, was another, but a much longer island, also covered with small trees. On the east a deep, swift channel separated the castaways from a wide expanse of the everlasting cottonwood brakes that stretched a mile inland and appeared joined in the back ground to a heavy forest. To the north and south two points of land, heavily timbered, ran far out into the river and closed up the horizon.
Ignorant as Ben was of the shifting nature of the Mississippi, he could easily surmise that in no distant past the river had swept around the point above him and formed the bay in which his island, and the other stretches of sand flats, lay.
It was notthena bay, but a bend. Then there had come a change. Perhaps it was a "wash-out" miles up the river, or a caving of bank nearer at hand. Or perchance a farmer in scouring his plow ran it through some narrow neck of sand, miles away, and the river had made its bed in the furrow, leaving whole townships inland, and putting other whole townships to soak. Whatever the cause of it, the current had evidently at a comparatively recent date been shot straight out from the point, instead of circling around it. The deep bay had filled with sand and cottonwood timber sprouted upon it. Left to itself a century and the cottonwoods on the sandbar would have grown to great trees, and been thrown to earth by the stronger arms and more powerful growth of oak, ash, and sycamore. Another century and the oak, ash, and sycamore would have bowed to the woodman's axe. The plow would have turned up their foothold. Broad acres, rich with cotton and corn, would have flourished on the captured domain. A "corner" grocery would have started. Then another, and another, and another. First a hamlet, then a borough, then a city. Then the iron horse would make his way in the young metropolis, and it would grow with a wondrous growth. Mayors, and churches, and rings, and subsidies, and aldermen, and defaulters, and debts, and boards-of-trade, and societies, and "bosses," and—all the paraphernalia that goes to make up a great city, would be grown on that sandbar where Ben stood.
But these things were not to be. There had been another "wash-out," another cave-in, or another plow furrow, somewhere else, and the river was slowly coming back to its first love, and if no "wash-outs" or furrows intervened the island Ben stood upon would in a few years again be the river's channel.
Although all of this was not surmised by him he saw enough to fill his mind with dark forebodings. He knew no boats would come that way, for even as he looked a steamer's smoke curled over the point of woodland, miles to the north of him, and disappeared without ever once allowing him to catch a glimpse of the vessel it issued from. The land side was evidently as uninhabited as the long island on the west, and both separated him in their lonely barrenness from succor. Had they then been rescued from the river only to die a lingering death of starvation and exposures! Not a match to light a fire with. Not a stranded log to float from their island prison upon. Their rescuing plank drifted off. Not strength enough to breast three yards of the swift current that swept by them. Nothing but to face fate, and—die! The position was horrible. Had he been by himself he thought he could have borne its terrors composedly. Nay, he was no coward, and when the worst came to the worst and he was no longer able to bear the pangs of hunger and the miseries of loneliness, he could have consigned his body to the river without a shudder. But to see her, the idol of his existence, the woman he adored, perish inch by inch, moment by moment, and not be able to extend a single aid—thatmade his heart tremble. Slowly and with down cast eyes he made his way back to where Bertha sat.
"Well," she said, greeting him with a smile, "is this Crusoe land?"
For a moment he thought of hiding the real facts of the case, but on reflecting that she must shortly discover them herself, he made known their deplorable position to her. Before the recital was over she was weeping bitterly.
"Don't, don't, please don't, Miss Bertha," said Ben, piteously. "You quite unman me. It may not be so bad after all. Some boat might come this way, or we may be able to make our presence known to those who can rescue us. While there is life there is hope. The Hand that drew us hither, will not leave us here to perish, be assured."
Bertha arose and placing both hands on his breast looked him mournfully in the face, as she controlled her feelings, and said:
"I have confidence in Him, my good friend, and if I give way to weakness you must remember the dreadful trials we have passed through; nay, that we arenowpassing through, and that have made me physically weak, and oh!—" and the lips quivered and the grey eyes again filled with tears; "I—I feelso wretched!"
Now by all authorities—that is, written authorities,—Benjamin Cleveland should have drawn himself apart from the innocent being fate had cast him alone upon this island sand bar with, and been too high-minded to take advantage of circumstances. He should have occupied a high moral plane, in which even a platonic passion would have found no existence, and consoled her with dull platitudes and stilted phraseology. They all do it that way—in the novels. Alas, Ben did nothing of the sort. He acted on impulse. He wound his arms about the fair form and pressed it close to his breast, and as she pillowed her head on his shoulder he kissed her hair, her forehead, her cheeks times innumerable. And she liked it; she felt better!!
He said not a word, for he had nothing to say, but he petted her like a mother would her child, until her drooping spirits revived and she smiled at his endeavors in her behalf. From his own condition he readily appreciated the feelings of his companion. There was a growling, discontented vacuum loud in its demands to be filled; that sick, weak feeling of hunger that succeeds exertion and exposure. They were both hungry—very hungry; for hunger makes louder demands at the commencement of privations than it does after time has allowed the muscles of the system to contract and close with a tight grip upon starvation's emptiness. Added to their unappeased appetites, was the miserable, creeping, disgusting feeling occasioned by wet clothes filled with irritating sand. These are humble details, we will admit; but they were the gigantic realities of the moment to the castaways. Ben realized the facts and actively engaged his mind in search of a remedy.
"Miss Bertha," he said, "let us at least make ourselves as comfortable as circumstances will permit. These wet and stiffening clothes, filled with river sand, are unbearable. Listen to me. I will go to the other end of the island and wash the sand out of mine, and do you remain here on the sunny end and do the same. Hang them on the cottonwood bushes until they are thoroughly dry, and keep yourself in the warm sunshine. Exercise too—run, jump, or do what you please so as to keep the blood in circulation; it is positively necessary for us to do all in our power to court health and comfort, or we will sink down under exposure. I will not be back for two hours."
In her loneliness she was loth to part with him at all, but he said reassuringly:
"I will be within hail, and as there is not a living thing on the island, you need not fear intrusion," and then kissing her tenderly, (for he had got into that pleasant fashion and his caresses had never yet so much as brought the faintest blush to her cheek—or his) Ben walked to the upper end of the sand bar, behind the cottonwoods, and there disrobed.
While seated on the sand, his wardrobe adorning the neighboring bushes, he reflected on the gravity of their position.