IT must be understood that our party on theBelle Helènewas divided into two, or rather, indeed, three camps, each somewhat sharply defined and each somewhat ignorant of the other’s doings in detail. The combination of either two against the other, in organized mutiny, might very well prove successful, wherefore it was my task to keep all apart by virtue of the authority which I had myself usurped. The midship’s cabin suite, of three rooms, was occupied by myself and my two bold young mates—when the latter were not elsewhere engaged. We made what might be called the ruling classes. Forward of our cabin, and accessible only from the deck, was the engine-room where Williams worked, and off this were two bunks, well ventilated and very comfortable, occupied by Williams and Peterson. Forward of this, and also accessible only from the deck, lay the dining saloon, with its fixed table, its cupboards, dish racks and wine-room. In her bows and below the saloon was the cook’s gallery, a dumb-waiter runningbetween; and the sleeping quarters of John, the cook, and Willy, the deck-hand, were in the forecastle below. This left the two captives all the after part of the ship pretty much to themselves, and as the after-suite of cabins was roomy and fitted with every modern nautical luxury, they lacked neither freedom nor comfort, so far as these may obtain on shipboard. Obviously, I said little to the ship’s crew, except to Peterson, and my two mates had orders to keep to their own part of the ship, under my eye.
Thus, like ancient Gaul, divided into three parts, we sailed on our wholly indefinite voyage; and all I could do was to live from day to day, or hour to hour. I was content, for Helena was there. Indeed, I question if, these last three years, her image had not been always present in my consciousness; such are the fevers of our unreasoning blood, such the power of that madness known as love.
But, thus divided as was our company, I had none such excellent opportunity for often seeing Helena, as might at first be supposed. She and her aunt refused to join us at any meal in the dining saloon; although, now and then, they came for breakfast to what Auntie Lucinda with scorn called the “second table”. Itwas not feasible for me, often, to do more than call of a morning to inquire if all was well with them; and conversation through a lead-glass transom is not what one would call intimate. Helena could bar her door if she liked in more ways than one; and against the fences that she raised against me one way or another, what with headaches, whims or Aunt Lucinda, I had now no chance to meet her alone save as she herself might dictate. So that, after all, though now I stood as commander of theBelle Helènein place of yon varlet, Cal Davidson, although I ate his ship’s stores, wore, indeed, his waistcoats and his neckties when that was humanly possible, I was his successor only and not his equal. He could—nay, had done so—meet Helena as he liked, at meals, on deck, on a thousand errands, whereas I was helpless to do so. He could talk with her all over the ship, take her alone on deck of a moonlit night, listen to her sing, gaze—oh, curse him!—on the little curls on Helena’s neck—but no! I could not endure that thought. The round white neck, the white shoulders, the soft curves beneath the peignoir’s careless irreverences—why, it was an intolerable thought that any man should raise eye or heart or thought to Helena, save myself. So, this morning, afterthat rare and unconventional meeting on the after deck, one easily may see how much I wished all Gaul were divided into but two parts, and that the occupants of the reserved after cabin would come to lunch in the saloon with their captors, Black Bart, Jean Lafitte and Henri L’Olonnois.
Now, ’tis an odd thing, but one of my superstitions, that when we wish much and fervently and cleanly for any certain thing, one day that thing is ours. Some day, some time, some hour or instant, our dear desire, our coveted thing, our wish, comes and flutters and alights at our side; if really we have deserved it and have wished long and deeply and honestly and purposefully. You ask proof? Well, then, hardly had we three, Black Bart, Jean Lafitte and Henri L’Olonnois, seated ourselves at table for luncheon that day before I became sensible of a faint shadow at the saloon stair. I saw a trim boot and a substantial ankle which I knew belonged to Aunt Lucinda; and then I looked up and saw on the deck Helena also, stooped, her clean-cut head, with its blown dark hair, visible against the blue sky.
“May I come in?” she asked gaily enough. And I reached up next to her to hand her down, and smooth down her skirt for her at the rather awkward narrow stair.
“You are always invited,” said I, and perhaps I flushed in my pleasure. “John,” I called down the tube, “two more—the ladies.” And I heard his calm “All lite.”
My young gentlemen had risen, politely, but Helena gently pushed them down into their places. “Be seated here, ladies,” said I. “These places are, as you see, always spread for you. Your covers wait. And all the ship’s silver shall see duty now. L’Olonnois, my hearty, you and I shall serve, eh? I am, indeed, delighted—greatly delighted—I shall not inquire, I shall only hope.”
“Well,” boomed the deep voice of Auntie Lucinda, “we came because we did not like the look of things.”
“To be sure, things are not looking bully,” I assented vaguely.
“I mean the weather. It’s getting black, and it’s colder. And after what you told me about the storms, and that lighthouse being blown down——”
“My dear Mrs. Daniver,” said I, helping her to her chair while L’Olonnois served his Auntie Helena in like fashion, “you really must not take one too seriously. That lighthouse fell over of its own weight—the contractor’s work was done shamefully.”
“But you said it blew,” ventured Helena.
“It blows, a little, now and then, to be sure, but never very much, only enough to enable the oyster boats and shrimpers to get in. How could we have oysters without a sailing breeze?”
“It’s more than a breeze,” said Aunt Lucinda. “My neuralgia tells me——”
“It is fortunate that you honored us, my dear Mrs. Daniver,” said I, “for I have here in the cooler a bottle of ninety-three. I had an inspiration. I knew you would come, for nothing in the world could have pleased me so much.”
I was looking at Helena, whose eyes were cast down. I observed now that she was in somewhat elegant morning costume, her bridge coat of Vienna lace, caught with a wide bar of plain gold, covering some soft and shimmering under-bodice which fitted closely enough to be formal. And I saw she had on many rings, and that her throat sparkled under a circlet of gems.
She must have caught my glance of surprise, for she said nervously, “You think we are overplaying our return call? Well, the truth is, we’re afraid.”
“So then?”—and I bowed.
“So then I fished out all my jewelry.”
“We are honored.”
“Well, I didn’t know what might happen. If one should be shipwrecked——” I caught her frightened gaze out an open port, perfectly aware myself of the swift weather change.
“There is nothing like dressing the part of the shipwrecked,” said I. “For myself, these same flannels will do.”
“Pshaw!” said young L’Olonnois, “suppose she does pitch a little—it ain’t any worse’n on theMauretaniawhen we went across. I ain’t scared, are you, John?”
“No,” replied Jean Lafitte shyly. He was almost overawed with the ladies. But I liked the look of his eye now.
“She’s not as big as theMauretania,” said Helena, fixing L’Olonnois’ collar for him.
“I’m sure she’s going to roll horribly,” added Aunt Lucinda. “And if I should be seasick, with my neuralgia, I’m sure I don’t know what I should do.”
“Iknow!” remarked L’Olonnois; and Helena promptly dropped her hand over his mouth.
“Let us not think of storm and shipwreck,” said I, “at least until they come. I want to ask your attention to John’s imitation of Luigi’s oystersà la marinière. The oysters are of our own catching this morning. For, you must know, the water hereabout is very shallow, and is full of oysters.”
“You said full of sharks,” corrected Aunt Lucinda.
“Did I? I meant oysters.” And I helped her to some from the dumb-waiter and uncorked the very last bottle of the ninety-three left in the case. “And as for this storm of which you speak, ladies,” I added as I poured, “I would there might come every day as ill a wind if it would blow me as great a good as yourselves for luncheon.”
“Yes,” said L’Olonnois brightly, “you might blow in once in a while an’ see us fellers. I told Black Bart that captives——” but here I kicked Jimmy under the table. Poor chap, what with his Auntie Helena’s hand at one extremity and my boot at the other, he was strained in his conversation, and in disgust, joined Jean Lafitte in complete silence and oysters.
“Really,” and Helena raised her eyes, “isn’t it growing colder?”
“Jean, close the port behind Miss Emory,” said I. It was plain enough to my mind that a blue norther was breaking, with its swift drop in temperature and its possibly high wind.
“The table’s actin’ funny,” commented Jean Lafitte presently. He had never been at sea before.
“Yes,” said Aunt Lucinda, with very much—toomuch—dignity. “If you all will please excuse me, I think I shall go back to the cabin. Helena!”
“Go with Mrs. Daniver at once, Jimmy,” said I to L’Olonnois.
“Aye, aye, Sir!” saluted he joyously; and added aside as he passed me, “Hope the old girl’s going to be good an’ sick!”
I could see Peterson standing near the saloon’s door, and bethought me to send Jean Lafitte up to aid him in making all shipshape. We were beginning to roll; and I missed the smooth thrust of both our propellors, although now the engines were purring smoothly enough. Thus by mere chance, I found myself alone with Helena. I put out a hand to steady her as she rose.
“Is it really going to be bad?” she inquired anxiously. “Auntie getssosick.”
“It will be rough, for three hours yet,” I admitted. “She’s not so big as theMauretania, but as well built for her tonnage. You couldn’t pound her apart, no matter what came—she’s oak and cedar, through and through, and every point——”
“You’ve studied her well, since you—since you came aboard?”
—“Yes, yes, to be sure I have. And she’sworth her name. Don’t you think it was mighty fine of—of Mr. Davidson to name her after you—theBelle Helène?”
“He never did. If he had, why?”
“Don’t ask such questions, with the glass falling as it is,” I said, pulling up the racks to restrain the dancing tumblers.
“Oh, don’t joke!” she said. “Harry!”
“Yes, Helena,” said I.
“I’m afraid!”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But we seem so little and the sea so big. And it’s getting black, and the fog is coming. Look—you can’t see the shore-line any more now.”
It was as she said. The swift bank of vapor had blotted out the low-lying shores entirely. We sailed now in a narrowing circle of mist. I saw thin points of moisture on the port lights. And now I began to close the ports.
“Thereisdanger!” she reiterated.
“All horses can run away, all auto cars can blow up, all boats can sink. But we have as good charts and compasses as theMauretania, and in three hours——”
“But much can happen in three hours.”
“Much has happened in less time. It did not take me so long as that to love you, Helena,and that I have not forgotten in more than five years. Five years, Helena. And as to shipwreck, what does one more matter? It is you who have made shipwreck of a man’s life. Take shame for that.”
“Take shame yourself, to talk in this way to me, when I am helpless, when I can’t get away, when I’m troubled and frightened half to death? Ah, fine of you to persecute a girl!” She sobbed, choking a little, but her head high. “Let me out, I’m going to Auntie Lucinda. I hate you more and more. If I were to drown, I’d not take aid from you.”
“Do you mean that, Helena?” I asked, more than the chill of the norther in my blood.
“Yes, I mean it. You are acoward!”
I stood for quite a time between her and the companion stair, my hand still offering aid as she swayed in the boat’s roll now. I was thinking, and I was very sad.
“Helena,” said I, “perhaps you have won. That’s a hard word to take from man or woman. If it is in any way true, you have won and I have lost, and deserved to lose. But now, since little else remains, let me arrange matters as simply as I can. I’ll admit there’s an element of risk in our situation—one screw is out of commission, and one engine might bebetter. If we missed the channel west of the shoals, we might go aground—I hope not. Whether we do or not, I want to tell you—over yonder, forty or fifty miles, is the channel running inland, which was my objective point all along. I know this coast in the dark, like a book. Now, I promise you, I’ll take you in there to friends of mine, people of your own class, and no one shall suspect one jot of all this, other than that we were driven out of our course. And once there, you are free. You never will see my face again. I will do this, as a ship’s man, for you, and if need comes, will give my life to keep you safe. It’s about all a coward can do for you. Now go, and if any time of need comes for me to call you, you will be called. And you will be cared for by the ship’s men. And because I am head of the ship’s men, you will do as I say. But I hope no need for this will come. Yonder is our course, where she heads now, and soon you will be free from me. You have wrecked me. Now I am derelict, from this time on. Good-by.”
I heard footfalls above. “Mrs. Daniver’s compliments to Captain Black Bart,” saluted L’Olonnois, “an’ would he send my Auntie Helena back, because she’s offle sick.”
“Take good care of your Auntie Helena, Jimmy,” said I, “and help her aft along the rail.”
I followed up the companionway, and saw her going slowly, head down, her coat of lace blown wide; her hand at her throat, and sobbing in what Jimmy and I both knew was fear of the storm.
“Have they got everything they need there, Jimmy?” I asked, as he returned.
“Sure. And the old girl’s going to have a peach of a one this time—she can’t hardly rock in a rockin’ chair ’thout gettin’ seasick. I think it’s great, don’t you? Look at her buck into ’em!”
Jimmy and his friend shared this immunity frommal de mer. I could see Jean now helping haul down our burgee, and the deck boy, Willy, in his hurried work about the boat. Williams, I could not see. But Peterson was now calm and much in his element, for a better skipper than he never sailed a craft on the Great Lakes.
“I think she’s going to blow great guns,” said he, “and like enough the other engine’ll pop any minute.”
“Yes?” I answered, stepping to the wheel. “In which case we go to Davy Jones about when, Peterson?”
“We don’t go!” he rejoined. “She’s the grandest little ship afloat, and not a thing’s the matter with her.”
“Can we make the channel and run inside the long key below the Côte Blanche Bayou?”
“Sure we can. You’d better get the covers off the boats, and see the bottom plugs in and some water and supplies shipped aboard—but there’s not the slightest danger in the world forthisboat, let me tell you that, sir. I’ve seen her perform before now, and there’s not a storm can blow on this coast she won’t ride through.”
AFTER the fashion of these gulf storms, this one tarried not in its coming, nor offered any clemency when it had arrived. Where but a half-hour since the heavens had been fair, the sea rippling, suave and kind, now the sky was not visible at all and the tumbling waves about us rolled savagely as in a nature wholly changed. The wind sang ominously overhead, as with lift and plunge we drove on into a bank of mist. A chill as of doom swiftly had replaced the balm of the southern sky; and forsooth, all the mercy of the world seemed lost and gone.
And as our craft, laboring, thrust forward blindly into this reek, with naught of comfort on any hand, nor even the dimmest ray of hope visible from any fixed thing on ahead, in like travail of going, in like groaning to the very soul, the bark of my life now lay in the welter, helpless, reft of storm and strife, blind, counseled by no fixed ray ahead. I know not what purpose remained in me, that, like the ship which bore us, I still, dumbly and withoutconscious purpose, forged onward to some point fixed by reason or desire before reason and desire had been engulfed by this final unkindness of the world. For myself, I cared little or none at all. The plunge of the boat, the shriek of the wind, the wild magic and mystery of it, would have comported not ill with a strong man’s tastes even in hours more happy, and now, especially, they jumped with the wild protest of a soul eager for some outlet of action or excitement. But for these others, these women—this woman—these boys, all brought into this danger by my own mad folly, ah! when the thought of these arose, a swift remorse caught me; and though for myself I feared not at all, for these I feared.
Needs must, therefore, use every cool skilled resource that lay at hand. No time now for broken hearts to ask attention, the ship must be sailed. Crippled or not, what she had of help for us must be got out of her, used, fostered, nourished. All the art of the navigator must be charged with this duty. We must win through. And, as many a man who has seen danger will testify, the great need brought to us all a great calm and a steady precision in that which needed doing.
I saw Peterson at the wheel, wet to the skin,as now and again a seventh wave, slow, portentous, deadly-deliberate, showed ahead of us, advanced, reared and pounded down on us with its tons of might. But he only shook the brine from his eyes and held her up, waiting for the slow pulse of our crippled engine to come on.
“Can’t keep my pipe lit!” he called to me, as I stood beside him; and at last, Peterson, in a real time of danger, seemed altogether happy and altogether free of apprehension beyond that regarding his pipe.
At the first breaking of the storm I had, of course, ordered all ports closed, and had sent both my young companions to the ladies’ cabin aft, as the driest part of the boat. Even there, the water that sometimes fell upon our decks as the great waves broke, poured aft and even broke about the cabin, drenching everything above deck. It was man’s work that was to be done now, yet none could bear a hand in it save the engineer and the steersman. I was, therefore, ready sternly to reprove Jean Lafitte when, presently, I saw him making the perilous passage forward, clinging to the rail and wet to the skin before he could reach the forward deck. But he protested so earnestly and seemed withal so fit and keen, that Irelented and allowed him to take his place by us at the wheel, showing him as well as I could, on the chart, the course we were trying to hold—the mouth of a long channel, six miles or more, dredged by the government across a foot of the bay and making through to deeper and more sheltered waters beyond.
“S’posin’ we don’t hit her, in this fog!” asked Jean Lafitte.
“It is our business to do that,” was my reply. “In an hour or so more we shall know. How did you leave the ladies, Jean?”
“Jimmy, he’s sicker’n anything,” was his reply, “except the old lady, and she’s sicker’n Jimmy! The young lady, Miss Emory, she’s all right, an’ she’s holdin’ their heads. She says she don’t get sick. Neither do I—ain’t that funny? But gee, this is rougher’n any waves ever was on our lake. What’re you goin’ to do?”
“Hold straight ahead, Jean,” I answered. “Now, wouldn’t you better go back to the others?”
“Naw, I ain’t scared—much. I told Jimmy, I did, any pirate ought to be ashamed to get sick. But they’re all scared. So’m I, some,” he added frankly.
I might have made some confession of myown, had I liked, for I did not, in the least, fancy the look of things; but after a time, I compromised with sturdy Jean by sending him below into the dining saloon, whence he could look out through the glass front and see the tumbling sea ahead. Through the glazed housing I could see him standing, hands in pockets, legs wide, gazing out in the simple confidence that all was well, and enjoying the tumult and excitement of it all in his boyish ignorance.
“He don’t know!” grinned Peterson to me, and I only nodded in silence.
“Where are we, Peterson?” I asked, putting a finger on the wet chart before us.
“I don’t know,” replied the old man. “It depends on the drift, which we can’t calculate. Soundings mean nothing, for she’s shallow for miles. If the fog would break, so we could see the light—there ain’t any fog-buoy on that channel mouth, and it’s murder that there ain’t. It’s this d——d fog that makes it bad.”
I looked at my watch. It was now going on five o’clock, and in this light, it soon would be night for us. Peterson caught the time, and frowned. “Wish’t we was in,” said he. “No use trying to anchor unless we must, anyhow—she’ll ride mighty wet out here. Better buck on into it.”
So we bucked on in, till five, till five-thirty, till six, and all the boat’s lights revealed was a yellow circle of fog that traveled with us. Wet and chilled, we two stood at the wheel together, in such hard conditions that no navigator and no pilot could have done much more than grope.
“We must have missed her!” admitted the old skipper at last. “I don’t fancy the open gulf, and I don’t fancy piling her up on some shore in here. What do you think we should do, Mr. Harry?”
“Listen!” said I, raising a hand.
“There’s no bell-buoy,” said he.
“No, but hark. Don’t you hear the birds—there’s a million geese and swans and ducks calling over yonder.”
“Right, by George!” said he. “But where?”
“They’d not be at sea, Peterson. They must be in some fresh-water lake inside some key or island. On the Long Key there’s such an inland lake.”
“It’s beyond the channel, maybe?” said he. But he signaled Williams to go slow, and that faithful unseen Cyclops, on whose precious engines so much depended, obeyed and presently put out a head at his hatch, quickly withdrawing it as a white sea came inboard.
“We’ll crawl on in,” said Peterson. “The light can’t be a thousand miles from here. If only there was a nigger man and a dinner bell beside the light—that’s the trouble. And now—good God!There she goes!”
With a jar which shook the good boat to the core, we felt the bottom come up from the depths and smite us. Our headway ceased, save for a sickening crunching crawl. The waves piled clear across our port bow as we swung. And so we hung, the gulf piling in on us in our yellow rimmed world. And at the lift and hollow of the sea we rose and pounded sullenly down, in such fashion as would have broken the back of any boat less stanch than ours.
Here, in an eye’s flash, was danger tangible and real. I heard a shriek from the cabin aft, and called out for them all to keep below and keep the ports closed. Peterson had the power off in an instant, and swung her head as best he could with the dying headway; but it only put her farther on the shoal.
“It’s the Timbalier Shoals!” he screamed. “Oh, d—— it all! We’ll lose her, now.” I recalled that his concern seemed rather for his boat than the lives she carried.
Jean Lafitte came bounding up thecompanionway, his face pale, but ready for ship’s discipline. “Come,” said I quickly, “help me with the anchor.” A moment later, we sprung the capstan clutch, and I heard the brief growl of the anchor chain as the big hook ran free. Glad enough I was to think of the extra size it had. We eased her down and made fast under Peterson’s orders now, and so swung into the head of the sea, which mercilessly lifted us and flung us down like a monkey seeking to crack a cocoanut shell. Williams joined us now, and Willie and John, pale as Jean Lafitte, came up from the forecastle, all shouting and jabbering. I ran aft as soon as might be, and only pulled up at the cabin door to summon such air of calm as I might. I rapped, but followed in, not waiting. Helena met me, pale, her eyes wide, her hair disheveled, but none the less mistress of herself.
“What is it?” she demanded. “What makes it jolt?”
“We’ve gone aground,” said I. “She does pound a little, doesn’t she?”
She looked out into the wild night, across which the voices of the confused wild fowl came like souls in torment.
“This is terrible!” said she simply. “Are we lost?”
“No,” said I. “Let us hear no such talk. Go below, now, and keep quiet. We may pass the night here, or we may conclude after a little to go on ahead a little farther. We’ve just dropped the anchor. The island’s just over there a way.” I did not care to be too specific.
“What is it, oh, what is it?” I heard the faint voice of Mrs. Daniver. “Oh, this is awful. I—am—going—to—die, going todie!” The agony ofmal de merwas hers now of full license, for the choppy sea was sustained on the bosom of a long ground swell, coming we knew not whence.
“Jimmy!” I called down. “Are you there?”
“Yes, Sir,” answered L’Olonnois bravely, from his place on the floor. “I’m feeling pretty funny, but I’ll be all right—maybe.”
“Stay right where you are—and you also, Miss Emory. I must go forward now, and just came to tell you it’s all right. If there should be any need, we’ll let you know. Now keep down, and keep the door shut.”
“I’m—going—to—die!” moaned Mrs. Daniver as I left. Helena made no outcry, but that horror possessed her I knew very well, for every reason told us that our case was desperate. The boat might start her seams or break her back, any instant, now.
I found the men trying to make soundings all about us as best they could with boat hooks and a spare spar. But it came to little.
“Peterson,” said I, “you’re ship’s master. What are your orders?”
“Unlash the boat covers,” said he. “Get even the dingey ready. Williams, close your hatch and bear a hand to swing the big boat out in her davits. Set the bottom plugs in well. And Mr. Harry, you and John, the Chink, had better get some stores and a case or so of bottled water aboard the long boat. Have you got the slickers and rugs ready, and plenty of clothes? We’ll just be ready if it happens. I don’t know where that damned light or the damned channel is, but the damned ducks maybe know where some damned thing is. We’ll run for them, if we can’t ride her out.”
We all hurried now, Jean Lafitte at my heels, silent and faithful as a dog, aiding me as I piled blankets and coats and rugs from our cabin into the ship’s boat, which swayed and swung perilously at the davits. What with the aid of John, the China boy, and Willy, the deck-hand, we also got supplies aboard her, I scarce knew what, except that there seemed abundance. And then we stood waiting for what might happen, helpless in the hands of theoffended elements, and silent all. I held Jean’s hand in my own. He was loyal to his mate, even now. “Jimmy’d be here,” he said. “’Course he would, only he’s so awful sick. I ain’t sick—yet, but I feel funny, someway.”
Peterson stood looking ahead, but was anxious. “She’s coming up stronger,” said he, “and two points on the port quarter. We’re going on harder all the time. Anchor’s dragging. Afraid we’re going to lose her, Mr. Harry.”
“Hush!” said I, nodding to the boy. “And turn on the search-light. It seems to me I hear breakers in there.”
“That’s so,” said the old man. “Hook on the light’s battery, Williams, and let’s see what we can see.”
The strong beam, wavering from side to side, plowed a furry path into the fog. It disclosed at first only the succession of angry incoming waves, each, as it passed, thudding us down on the bar of shell and mud and slime. But at last, off to starboard and well astern in our new position, riding at anchor, we raised a faint white line of broken water which seemed a constant feature; and now and then caught the low boom of the surf.
“She ain’t a half mile, over yonder,” I heardWilly, the deck-hand, say. “An’ we could almost walk it if it wasn’t for the sea.”
“Yes, sir,” said Williams, “we’d do fine in there now, with them boats. When we hit that white water——”
“Shut up!” ordered Peterson. “Safe as a church, here or there, you lubbers. Stand by your tackle, and keep your chin. Mr. Harry, tell the ladies just to wrap up a bit, because—well, maybe, because——”
“Call me when it is time, Peterson,” said I; and moved aft, holding Jean Lafitte by the arm.
“Gee!” said he, as he dropped, wet and out of breath, into the cabin; and “Gee!” remarked a very pale L’Olonnois in return, gamely as he could. And Mrs. Daniver’s moans went rhythmic with the pound of the keel on the shoal.
“What shall we do?” asked Helena at last calmly. “Auntie is very sick. I am beginning to fear for her, it is such a bad attack. This is as rough as I ever saw it on the Channel.”
“There is no danger,” said I, “but Peterson and I just thought that if she kept on pounding in this way, it might be better to go ashore.”
I spoke lightly, but well enough I knew the risk of trying to launch a boat in such a sea; and what the surf might be, none could say.Ah, how I wished that my empty assurance might be the truth. For I knew that, anyway we looked, only danger stared back at us now, on every hand.
ILOOKED at the woman I loved, and self-reproach was in my soul, as I saw a shudder go across her form. She was pale, but beyond a swift look at me made no sign connecting me, either with the wreck or the rescue. I think she had even then abandoned all hope of safety; and in my own heart, such, also, was the rising conviction which I concealed. Under the inborn habit of self-preservation, under the cultivated habit of the well born, to show no fear and to use the resources of a calm mind to the last in time of danger, we stood now, at least, in some human equality. And again I lied and said, “There is no danger,” though I could see the white rollers and could hear their roar on the shore.
The night grew wilder. The great gulf storm had not yet reached its climax, and none could tell what pitch of fury that might mean. The dull jar of the boat as she time and again was flung down by the waves, the shiver and creak and groan of the sturdy craft, told us that the end might come at any instant, thoughnow the anchor held firm and our crawl on to the shoal had ceased. All around us was water only four or five feet deep, but water whose waves were twice as high. Once the final crash came, and it would be too late to launch a boat, and all of us, overboard in that welter, were gone.
Silently, I stepped on deck once more, and motioned to Willy, the deck-hand, to bring me the life preservers. “Put them on,” I said to Helena.
“Oh, I can’t. I can’t!” moaned the older woman. “I’m dying—let me alone.”
“Stop this nonsense, madam,” said I sternly—knowing that was the only way—“put it on at once. You too, Miss Emory, and you, my boys. Quick. Then throw on loose wraps—all you can. It will be cold.”
In spite of all my efforts to seem calm, the air of panic ran swiftly. Mrs. Daniver awoke to swift action as she tremblingly fastened the belt about her. Pushing past me, she reached the deck, and so mad was she that in all likelihood she would have sprung overboard. I caught at her, and though my clutch brought away little more than a handful of false hair, it seemed to restore her reason though it destroyed her coiffure. “Enough of this!” Icried to her. “Take your place by the boat, and do as you are told.” And I saw Helena pass forward, also, as we all reached the deck, herself pale as a wraith, but with no outcry and no spoken word. So, at last, I ranged them all near the boat that swung ready at the davits.
“We can’t all get in that,” said Jean Lafitte.
“No,” said I: and I did not like to look at the tiny dingey which lay on the cabin-top, squat and tub-like, or the small ducking skiff that here on deck was half full of water from the breaking seas.
“Peterson,” said I, “take charge of the big boat here. Take Williams to run her motor for you. And the ladies will go with you.”
I turned to the two boys, and my heart leaped in pride for them both; for when I motioned to Jimmy to make ready for the large boat, with the ladies, he stepped back, pale as he was. “Not unless John goes, too,” said he. And they stood side by side, simply and with no outcry, their young faces grave.
“He must go with us—Jimmy,” broke out Helena yearningly: “and so must you.”
“Shut up, Auntie,” exclaimed Jimmy most irreverently. “Who’s a-runnin’ this boat, like to know?” Which abashed his auntie very much.
“We’ll take this one,” said Jean Lafitte, and already was tipping the duck boat. “It’ll carry us three if it has to.” And I allowed him and his mate to stand by, not daring to look at its inadequate shell and again at the breaking seas.
That left the dingey for Willy and the cook. I glanced at Willy. “Which would you rather chance?” I asked him, “the dingey or the duck boat?”
“The dingey,” said he quickly,—and we both knew the cork-like quality of this stubby craft.
“Very well,” said I. “Call John, when the word comes to go.”
“Aren’t you going with us?” asked Helena now, suddenly, approaching me. I took one long look into her eyes, then, “Obey orders,” was all I said, and pointed to the larger boat. I said good-by to her then. And, in the swift intuitive justice that comes to us in moments of extremity, I passed sentence upon these young boys and myself. Though they had sinned in innocence, though I had sinned in love, it had been our folly that had brought these others into this peril, and our chance must be the least. Peterson and Williams would be a better team in the big boat than any other we could afford. I saw Peterson step toward us,and divined what was in his mind. “I’m owner of this boat, my man,” said I. “Go to your duty. You’re needed in the big boat.”
“I’m last to leave her,” whispered the old man. “She’s my boat, and I’ve run her.”
“Peterson,” said I, taking him aside, “I’ll buy us another boat. But there is no woman on earth, nor ever will be, like that one yonder. Save her. It is your first duty. I wanted that for myself, but she thinks I’m a coward, and I would be, if I arranged our crews any other way than just as we are. Take your boat through. We others will do the best we can. And give the word for the boats when you’re sure we can’t ride it out.”
Silently, the old man touched his cap, and giving me one look, he went to the bows of his boat. TheBelle Helène, lashed by the storm, rolled and pulled at her cable, rose, fell thuddingly. And at last, came a giant swell that almost submerged us. I caught Helena to the cabin-top to keep her drier from it, and the two boys also sprang to a point of safety. Mrs. Daniver, less agile, was caught by Peterson and Williams and held to the rail, wetted thoroughly. And by some freak of the wind, at that instant came fully the roar of the surf. We of theBelle Helèneseemed very small.
I looked now at Peterson. He raised his little megaphone, which hung at his belt, and shouted loud and clear, as though we could not have heard him at this distance of ten feet. “Get ready to lower away!” Williams and the deck-hand sprang to the falls. “Get the women in the boat, you, Williams,” called the skipper, “and go in with them to steady her when she floats. Take his place there, Mr. Harry. Lively now!” And how we got the two women into the swinging boat I hardly knew.
The old skipper cast one eye ahead as a big wave rolled astern. “Now!” he shouted. “Lower away, there!”
The boat dropped into the cup of a sea, rose level with the rail the next instant, and tossed perilously. I saw the two women huddled in the bottom of her, their eyes covered, saw Williams climbing over them and easing her at the bowline. Then, as we seized the next instant of the rhythm, and hauled her alongside, Peterson made a leap and went aboard her, and Williams scrambled back, once more, across the two huddled forms. I saw him wrench at the engine crank, and heard the spitting chug of the little motor. They fell off in the seaway, Peterson holding her with an oar as hecould till the screws caught. Then I saw her answer the helm and they staggered off, passing out of the beam of our search-light, so that it seemed to me I had said good-by to Helena forever.
We who remained had no davits to aid us, and must launch by hand. For a moment I stood and made my plans. First, I called to Willy, our deck-hand, who had the dingey now astern, some fashion. “Are you ready?” I demanded: but the next moment I heard his call astern and knew that, monkey-like, he had got her over and was aboard her somehow.
“Now, boys,” said I, “come here and shake hands with Black Bart.” They came, their serious eyes turned up to me. And never has deeper emotion seized me than as I felt their young hands in mine. We said nothing.
“Now, bear a hand there, you, Jean!” I pulled open the gate of the rail, and ran out the landing stage, on which the flat-bottomed skiff sat. With an oar I pushed it across at right angles as nearly as possible when she cleared. “Quick! Get in, both of you,” I called. I was holding the inboard end of the plank under a wedged oar shaft, thrust below the sill of the forward cabin door. They scrambled out and in, Jean grasping the bight of thepainter that I handed him, and passing it over the rail.
“Now, look out,” I called, and dropped the landing stage to meet the swell of the next wave. They slid, tilted, righted, rose high—and held. The next moment I sprang, fell into the sea, was caught by the collar as my hand grasped the cockpit coaming, and so I slid in, somehow, over the end deck, and caught the end of the painter from John’s hand and cast her free.
The drift carried us off at once, and the next wave almost hid the hull of theBelle Helène. I knew at once we were powerless, and that our one hope lay in drifting ashore. There is no worse sea boat than a low, flat ducking boat, decked though she be, and of good coaming, for she butts into and does not rise to a sea. But now, I thanked my star, one thing only was in our favor. We rolled like a log, already half full of water, but we floated, because in each end of our skiff was a big empty tin air tank, put there in spite of the laughing protest of the builder, who said no room was left for decoys under the decks. Just now, those tin cans were worth more than many duck decoys.
“Keep down!” I ordered. “And hold on!”The boys obeyed me. I could see their gaze bent on me, as the source of their hope, their reliance. Jimmy was now free from the first violence of the seasickness, but I saw Jean’s hand on his arm.
“Gee!” I heard the latter mutter as the first sea crossed under us. “Dat was a peach.” I took heart myself, for we lived that one through. “Bail!” I ordered, and they took their cups to it, while I did all I could with the long punt paddle to make some sort of course. Now and then the blazing trail of theBelle Helène’ssearch-light swung across as we rolled, to leave us, the next instant, in blackness. As the seas permitted, we could see her, riding and rocking, sometimes, alight from stern to stern and making a gallant fight for her life, as were we all.
So long as the rollers came in oily and black, we did well, but where the top of one broke under us, we sank deep into the white foam that had no carrying power, and our cockpit filled so that we all sat in water. Only the tanks held us, log-like, and we bailed and paddled: and after they saw we did not sink, my hardy bullies, perhaps in the ignorance of youth and boy’s confidence that a boy and water are friends, began to shout aloud. We wallowed on.
No sound came to us from either of the other boats; and now, very quickly it seemed, we came at the edge of the surf.
“I’m touching bottom, boys,” I called, and cast the long punt pole adrift as I took up the short paddle I had held under my leg.
Now we had under us two feet of water or ten, as the waves might say, and any moment we might roll over; but we wallowed in, rolling, till I knew the supreme moment had come. I waited, holding her head in well as I could so unruly a hulk, and as a big roller came after us, paddled as hard as I could. The wave chased us, caught us, pushed us, carried us in. There was a lift of our loggish bows, a blinding crash of white water about us. Our boat was overturned, but in some way, since the beach was all sand and very gentle, the wave flattened so that the back-tow did not pull us down. In some way, I do not know how, I found myself standing, and dragging Jimmy by the hand. Jean already was ahead, and I heard his shout and saw his hand as he stood, knee-deep but safe. So we all made it ashore, and our boat also, which now we hauled out of the spume. And the long white row of breakers, less dangerous than I had feared, came in, white maned and bellowing.
I could still see the rocking lights of the yacht, and the shifting stroke of the search-light on the sea, but I did not hear and see aught else, at the time, and my heart sank.
It was Jimmy whose ear first got the sound which came in—the feverish phut-phut of the motor skiff. Then the ray of the great light swung and I saw the boat still outside the breakers—nor could I tell then why we had beaten her in. It seemed Peterson was hunting for us others.
“Stay back, boys!” I called to my companions. “You might get thrown down by the waves—keep back.” But now I was ready to rush in to meet the long boat, whose keel I knew would leave her to overturn if she caught bottom.
But Peterson knew about the keel as well as any, and he caught what he thought was water enough before he yelled to Williams to drive her in. She sped in like an arrow; and again the white wave reared high and broke upon its prey. By then, I was in water to my waist. I caught Helena out with one reach of my arms, just as I saw Williams and Peterson stagger in with Mrs. Daniver between them. In some miraculous way we got beyond danger, and met my pirates, dancing and shouting a welcome to our desert isle. Their advent,thereon, gave the two womenfolk a fervent wish to embrace, sob and weep extraordinarily. I had said nothing to Helena and said nothing now.
“Where’s the dingey, Peterson?” I called, as he came up, grinning.
“Coming in,” said he; and forsooth that water-rat, Willy, made a better landing of it than any of us, and calmly helped us now to haul the heavy motor skiff up the beach, a few feet at a time as the waves thrust it forward.
“Thank God!” I heard Helena exclaim. “Oh, thank God! We’re safe, we’re all safe, after all.”
I looked at my little group for a time, all soaked to the skin, all huddled now close together. Peterson, Williams, Willy—all the crew, yes. Auntie Lucinda and the woman who had called me a coward—the two captives, yes, Jean Lafitte and Henri L’Olonnois and myself, Black Bart—all the ship’s owners. What lacked? For a moment I could not tell why I had the vague feeling that something or some one was missing.
“Willy,” said I at last, “where’s John, the cook?”
“Why, I don’t know,” said Willy. “Didn’t he come with you?”
“WHAT’S that?” said Peterson sharply—“you didn’t obey orders?”
“Well, I thought he was in the other boat,” explained Willy, hanging his head.
“You’ll get your time,” said the old man quietly, “soon as we get to the railroad—and you’ll go home by rail.”
“What are you trying to do, Mr. Harry?” he demanded of me, a moment later. I was looking at the long boat.
“Well, he’s part of the boat’s company,” said I, “and we’ve got to save him, Peterson.”
“What’s that?” asked Helena now coming up—and then, “Why, John, our cook, isn’t here, is he?” She, too, looked at the long boat and at the sea. “How horrible!” she said. “Horrible!”
“What does he mean to do?” she demanded now of Peterson in turn. The old man only looked at her.
“Surely, you don’t mean to go out there again,” she said.
I turned to them both, half cold with anger. “Do you think I’d leave him out there to die,perhaps? It was my own fault, not to see him in the boat.”
“It wasn’t,” reiterated Peterson. “It was Willy’s fault—or mine.”
“In either case it’s likely to be equally serious for him. We can’t leave the poor devil helpless, that way.”
“Mr. Harry,” began Peterson again, “he’s only a Chinaman.”
“Take shame to yourself for that, Peterson,” said I. “He’s a part of the boat’s company—a good cook—yes, but more than a good cook——”
“Well, why didn’t he come up with the rest of us?”
“Because he was at his place of duty, below, until ordered up,” said I.
Peterson pondered for a moment. “That’s right,” said he at length; “I’ll go out with you.”
I felt Helena’s hand on my arm. “It’s awful out there,” said she. But I only turned to look at her in the half-darkness and shook off her hand.
“You can’t launch the big boat,” said Peterson. “You’d only swamp her, if you tried.”
“That may be,” said I, “but the real thing is to try.”
“We might wait till the wind lulls,” he argued.
“Yes, and if the wind should change she might drag her anchor and go out to sea. Which boat is best to take, Peterson?”
A strange feeling of calm came over me, an odd feeling not easy to explain, that I was not a young man of leisure, but some one else, one of my ancestors of earlier days, used to encounters with adversity or risk. Calmly and much to my own surprise, I stood and estimated the chances as though I had been used to such things all my life.
“Which is the best boat, Peterson?” I repeated. “Hardly the duck boat, I think—and you say not the big boat.”
“The dingey is the safest,” replied Peterson. “That little tub would ride better; but no man could handle her out there.”
“Very well,” said I; “she’ll get her second wetting, anyhow. Lend a hand.”
“She’ll carry us both,” commented the old man, stepping to the side of the stubby little craft.
“But she’ll be lighter and ride easier with but one,” was my reply. “A chip is dry on top only as long as it’s a chip.”
“Let me go along,” said Jean Lafitte, stepping up at this time.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort, my son,” saidI. “Go back to the ladies and make a fire, and make a shelter,” said I. “I’ll be here again before long.”
The news of the new adventure now spread among our little party. Mrs. Daniver began sniffling. “Helena,” I heard her say, “this is terrible.” But meantime I was pulling off my sweater and fastening on a life belt. Nodding to Peterson, we both picked up the dingey, and when the next sea favored, made a swift run in the endeavor to break through the surf.
“Let go!” I cried to him, as the water swirled about our waist. “Go back!” And so I sprang in alone and left him.
For the time I could make small headway, indeed, had not time to get at the oars, but pushing as I might with the first thing that came to hand, I felt the bottom under me, felt again the lift of the sea carry me out of touch. Then an incoming wave carried me back almost to the point whence I had started. In such way as I could not explain, none the less at length the little boat won through, no more than half filled by the breaking comber. I worked first as best I might, paddling, and so keeping her off the best I could. Then when I got the oars, the stubby yawing little tub at first seemed scarce more than to hold herown. I pulled hard—hard as I could. Slowly, the line of white breakers passed astern. After that, saving my strength a trifle, I edged out, now angling into the wind, now pulling full into the teeth of the gale. Even my purpose was almost forgotten in the intensity of the task of merely keeping away from the surf. Dully I pulled, reasoning no more than that that was the thing for me to do.
It had seemed a mile, that short half-mile between the yacht and the beach. It seemed a hundred miles now going back to the boat. I did not dare ask myself how I could go aboard if even I won across so far as the yacht. It was enough that I did not slip backward to the beach once more. Yawing and jibbing in the wind which caught her stubby freeboard, the little boat, none the less, held up under me, and once she was bailed of the surf, rode fairly dry in spite of all, being far more buoyant than either of the other craft. Once in the dark, I saw something thrust up beside me and fancied it to be a stake, marking the channel which pierced the key hereabout. This was confirmed in my mind when, presently, as rain began to fall and the fog lessened for the time, I saw the blurred yellow lighthouse eye answering the wavering search-light of theBelleHelène, which swept from side to side across the bay as she rolled heavily at her anchor. In spite of the hard fight it had given me, I was glad the wind still held inshore. I knew the point of the little island lay not far beyond the light. Once adrift beyond that, not theBelle Helèneherself would be safe, in this offshore wind, but must be carried out into the gulf beyond.
Not reasoning much about this, however, and content with mere pulling, I kept on until at length I saw the nodding lights of theBelle Helènelighting the gloom more definitely about me. Presently, I made under her lee, so that the dingey was more manageable, and at last, I edged up almost to her rail, planning how, perhaps, I might cast a line and so make fast. But, first, I tried calling.
“Ahoy, there below, John!” I called through the dark. At first there came no answer, and again I shouted. At this I saw the door of the dining saloon pushed open, and John himself thrust out his hand.
“All litee,” said he, merely greeting me casually. “You come?”
“Yes,” said I, with equal sang-froid. “You makee quick jump now, John, s’pose I come in.”
“All litee,” said he once more. I saw now that he stood there, a book and a bundle in his arm. Perhaps he had been reading to pass the time!
Be that as it may, I cautiously pulled the dingey under the lee of theBelle Helène. Timing his leap with a sagacity and agility combined which I had not suspected of him, my China boy made a leap, stumbled, righted himself, got his balance and so placed his bundle on the bottom of the boat and his book upon the seat, where he covered it carefully against the spray.
“All litee,” said he once more. “I makee pull now. You come this place.”
I endeavored to emulate his Oriental calm. “John,” said I, “I catchee plenty wind this time.”
“Yes, plenty wind,” said he.
“You suppose we leave China boy?” I demanded.
“Oh, no, no!” he exclaimed with emphasis. “I know you come back allee time bimeby, one time.”
“What were you doing, John?”
“I leed plenty ’Melican book,” said he calmly. “Now I makee pull.” To oblige him I made way for him, and we crawled past eachother on the floor of the heaving dingey. He took the oars and began pulling with an odd chopping sort of a stroke, perhaps learned in his youth on some sampan that rode the waters of his native land; but for my own part, since Fate seemed to be kind to me after all, I trusted his skill, such as it was, and was willing to rest for a time.
“No velly bad,” said John judicially, after a time. “Pretty soon come in.” No doubt he saw the little fire, now beginning to light the beach. At any rate, he headed straight in, the seas following, reeling after us. They have their own ways, these people of the East. I fancy John had run surf before. At any rate, I knew the water now was shallow and that, perhaps, one could swim ashore if we were overset. I trusted him to make the landing, however, and he did it like a veteran. One plunge through the ultimate white crest, and we were carried up high on the beach, to meet the shouts of my men and to feel their hands grasp the gunwales of the sturdy little craft.
“All litee,” remarked John amiably, and started for the fire, such being his instinct, not with the purpose of getting warm, but of cooking something. And in half an hour he had a cup of hot bouillon all around.
“It’s a commendable thing,” remarked Mrs. Daniver, “that you, sir, should go to the rescue of even a humble Chinaman. I find this bouillon delicious.”
“Have you quite recovered from your seasickness by this time, Mrs. Daniver?” I asked politely.
“Seasickness?” She raised an eyebrow in protest. “I never was seasick in my life—not even in the roughest crossings of the Channel, where others were quite helpless.”
“It is fortunate to be immune,” said I. “People tell me it is a terrible feeling—they even think they are going to die.”
Jean Lafitte, I found, had made quite a serviceable shelter, throwing a tarpaulin over one of the long boat’s oars. We pushed our fire to the front of this, and after a time induced the ladies to make themselves more comfortable. Only with some protest did my hearty pirates agree to share this shelter which made our sole protection against the storm.
THE rain came down dismally, and the chill of the night was very considerable, as I learned soon after ceasing my own exertions. The men made some sort of shelter for themselves by turning up the long boat and the dingey on edge, crawling into the lee, and thus finding a little protection. All but John, my cook. That calm personage, every time I turned, was at my elbow in the dark, standing silent, waiting for I knew not what. For the first time, I realized the virtue of his waterproof silk shirt. He seemed not to mind the rain, although he asked my consent to put his bundle and his book under the shelter. I stooped down at the firelight, curious to see the title of his book. It was familiar—The Pirate’s Own Book!
“Where you catchee book, John?” I asked him.
“Litlee boy he give me; him ’Melican book. I lead him some. Plenty good book.”
“Yes,” said I; “I see. That boy’ll make pirates of us all, if we aren’t careful.”
“That book, him tellee what do, sposee bad storm,” said John proudly. “I know.”
I walked over to where Peterson lay, his pipe now lighted by some magic all his own. We now could see more plainly the furred and yellow gleam of the lighthouse lamp. Peterson’s concern, however, was all for theBelle Helène.
“I hate to think of her out there all by herself,” said he.
“So do I, Peterson. I hate also to think of all that ninety-three we left out there.”
We were standing near the edge of the ladies’ shelter, and I heard Mrs. Daniver’s voice as she put out her head at the edge of the tarpaulin.
“I thought you said all the ninety-three was gone,” said she with some interest, as it appeared to me.
“No, we only had the last bottle of that case at luncheon, Mrs. Daniver,” said I. “There are yet other cases out yonder.”
“It’s a bad night for neuralgia,” said she complainingly.
“It is, madam. But I don’t think I’ll pull out again. And I am rejoiced that you are not troubled now with seasickness,—that you never are.” Which last resulted in her dignified silence.
Through the night, there came continually the clamoring of the wild fowl in the lagoon back of us, and this seemed to make the boys restless. It was Jean Lafitte, next, who poked his head out from under the tarpaulin.
“I’ve got the gun all right,” said he, “and a lot of shells. In the morning we’ll go out and get some of those ducks that are squawking.”
“Yes, Jean,” said I; “we’re in one of the best ducking countries on this whole coast.”
“That’s fine—we can live chiefly by huntin’ and fishin’, like it says in the g’ographies.”
“If the wind should shift,” said I, “we may have to do that for quite a time. I don’t know whether the lighthouse keeper has a boat or not, and the channel lies between us and the light—it makes out here straight to the Gulf. But now, be quiet, my sons, and see if we can’t all get some sleep. I’ll take care of the fire.”
I passed a little apart to hunt for some driftwood, my shadow, John, following close at hand. When I returned I found a muffled figure standing at the feeble blaze. Helena raised her eyes, grave and serious.
“It was splendid,” said she in a low tone of voice, addressing not so much myself as all the world, it seemed to me.
“Get back in there and go to sleep,” said I. And, quietly she obeyed, so far as I might tell.
For my own part, I did not seek the shelter of the other boat, but, wrapped in sweater and slicker, stood in the rain, John at my side. Once in a while we set out in the dark to find more wood for the little fire. In some way the long night wore on. Toward morning the rain ceased. It seemed to me that the rocking search-light of theBelle Helènemade scarce so wide an arc across the bay. The lighthouse ray shone less furry and yellow through the night. The wind began to lull, coming in gusts, at times after some moments of calm. The roll of the sea still came in, but sometimes I almost fancied that the surf was bellowing not so loud. And so at length, the dawn came, softening the gloom, and I could hear the roar of the great bodies of wild fowl rising as they always do at dawn, the tumult of their wings rivaling the heavy rhythm of the surf itself.
The advancing calm of nature seemed to quiet the senses of the sleepers, even in their sleep. Gently making up the fire for the last time, as the gray light began to come across the beach, I wandered inland a little way in search of the fresh water lagoon. Its edge lay not more than two or three hundred yardsback of our bivouac. So, as best I might, I bathed my face and hands, and regretted that such things as soap and towels had been forgotten with many other things. Not irremediable, our plight; for now I could see theBelle Helènestill rolling at her anchor, uneasy, but still afloat; and in the daylight, and with a lessening sea, there would be no great difficulty in boarding her as we liked.
Presently the others of the party were all afoot, standing stiffly, sluggishly, in the chill of dawn; and such was the breakfast which my boy John presently prepared for us, that I confess I began to make comparisons not wholly to his discredit. Now, for instance, said I to myself, had it been Mrs. Daniver who had been forgotten on board ship—but, of course, that line of reasoning might not be followed out. And as for Mrs. Daniver herself, it was only just to say that she made a fair attempt at comradeship, considering that she had retired without any aid whatever for her neuralgia. Helena seemed reticent. The men, as usual, ate apart. I did not find myself loquacious. Only my two young ruffians seemed full of the enjoyment possible in such a situation.
“Gee! ain’t this fine?” said L’Olonnois. “I never did think we’d be really shipwrecked andcast away on a desert island. This is just like it is in the books.”
“Can we go huntin’ now?” demanded Jean Lafitte, his mouth still full of bacon. “And will you come along? There must be millions of them ducks and geese. I didn’t know there was so many in all the world.”
“You may go, both of you, Jean Lafitte,” said I, “if you’ll be careful not to shoot yourselves. As for me, I must go back once more to the boat, I fancy.”
Peterson and I now held a brief conference, and presently, leaving the ladies in charge of Willy and the cook, we two, with Williams to run the motor, with some difficulty launched the long boat and made off through a sea none too amiable, to go aboard theBelle Helèneonce more—which so short a time before I had thought we never might do again.
“This is easier than pulling out in the dingey,” grinned Peterson, as we approached theBelle Helène. “Confound that deck-hand, he might have got you drowned! I’ll fire him, sure!”
“No,” said I; “I’ve been thinking that over. There was a great deal of confusion, and after all, he may have thought that we had John with us. Besides, he’s only young, and he’shuman. I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Peterson—I’ll dock him a month’s wages, and I’ll send his wages to his mother. Meantime, let him carry the wood and water for a week.”
We found it not difficult now to go aboard theBelle Helène, for, in the lessening seaway, she rolled not so evilly. Peterson sprang to the deck as the bow of our boat rose alongside on a wave, and made fast our line. When Williams and I had followed, we took a general inventory of theBelle Helène. All the deck gear was gone, spare oars and spars, a canvas or so, and some coils of rope. Beyond that, there seemed no serious damage, unless the hull had been injured by its pounding during the night.
“It’s a mud-bank here, I think, Mr. Harry,” said Peterson. “She may have ripped some of her copper on the oyster reefs, but she seems to bed full length and maybe she’s not strained, after all.”
“There’s the line of channel guides,” said I, pointing to a row of sticks driven into the mud a couple of miles in length.
“Yes,” said the old man, “the channel’s not more than a biscuit toss from here. We came right across it—if it hadn’t been in the dark, we’d have gone through into the lee of theisland and been all right. Now as it is, we’re all wrong.”