Silver Shoal Light/Chapter 23
CHAPTER XXIII
"WE BE TWO POORE MARINERS"
THE wind had dropped suddenly, though the sea continued heavy, and the faint air that stirred was very soft and warm, with now and then a sweet, inland smell. The Ailouros still lay safely at anchor, but Joan pulled the skiff farther up the sand, for the tide was rising. She collected the supper-things and carried them back to the place where the treasure had been discovered. The sun hung low in the haze above the mainland, a great flat disk of copper.
"Like a big doubloon," Garth said, looking up at it from the fire he was laying. He balanced another chip on the crumpled paper, and Joan struck a match. The little flames licked up the paper in one burst, and a thin line of smoke wavered up against the yellow sky.
"It'll go, now," Garth said; "it's started among the wood. Don't put on such a big piece yet."
He built the wind-break higher, and the flames leaped merrily through the driftwood, crackling as they twisted and flung themselves upward.
Garth brought out the pan, and Joan filled it from the brown jug.
"A pannikin of rum, mate," he murmured, as the water chugged out.
"Ay, to be sure, sir," said Joan, thrusting the pan into the fire.
She intended to make some soup from bouillon cubes, an innovation at Pemberley picnics. Holding the pan over the flames without cooking the hand which held it proved to be a difficult matter. The mariners took very short shifts at it, crouching to windward and propping the handle on a stone. The water boiled with the surprising suddenness of bonfire cookery, and Joan withdrew her toasted fingers, balanced the pan on a rock, and triumphantly made the soup. It was the hottest soup that either of them had ever tried to taste, and they were obliged to eat sandwiches and look at the sunset, while it cooled.
"It's nice being out here at such a queer time," said Garth. "I never was before. We always have to go home, because of the Light. We've had a rare exciting adventure, haven't we, Ben?" he added, stirring the soup hopefully.
"The first part of it was a little too exciting," Joan said. "I didn't enjoy it. How's your head, by the way?"
Garth felt it carefully.
"There's rather a bump," he said, "but it feels all right. It was exciting about the sword. Really and truly, didn't you know it was there?"
"Absolutely, I did not," she testified.
"Think of it's being just where I started to dig," Garth mused. "It's wonderful. How do you suppose it got there?"
"That I don't know," Joan replied. "It's evidently been under ground for a long time, and it's an old sword, too. Some explorer or adventurer must have dropped it, though I can't see why he'd want to explore Trasket Rock."
"Like enough it belonged to one o' the Cardiff's crew," Garth proposed.
"Like enough!" Joan agreed.
Twilight began to fall as they finished supper, and here and there lamps shone out on shore from scattered farms. Down the coast a Light seemed to rise quietly from the water. It bloomed palely out of the dusk, like a moonflower opening with the first night-dews.
"I never saw it from far away, like this, before," said Garth. "I think it's watching us."
He leaned back against Joan's shoulder.
"Do you know," he said, "sometimes I get to thinking about it in the middle of the night. That is, I did when I was little, because I used to wake up and not be able to go to sleep again. It's such a kind, lonely sort of thing. Just shining and shining up there, all alone, all night long."
"Long ago," he said, after a little pause, "I used to think that the moon must be angry, because the Light was so much brighter, and I remember perfickly well that I cried about it one night, because I didn't want anything to be angry with our Light. It was awfully silly of me, I think. Mudder heard me, and she came in and told me that the moon was so far away she couldn't even see the Light, and that all the little stars thought it was one of them. So I didn't mind any more. But I was silly."
"I don't think you were," Joan said. "I shouldn't want anything to be angry with such a nice Light, either. Oh, how lovely it is here!"
They sat gazing at the deepening twilight and the gathering of the stars, until Joan unwillingly consulted her watch. She sprang to her feet, crying:
"'Tis six bells in the second dog-watch! We must be stirring, if we're to fetch port at eight bells. There's little wind and a middling great sea; we 'll be bobbing like a pease-cod and no headway to speak of."
"Oh, dear!" sighed the Captain. "I'd like to stay and stay. Oh, it's nice! Look at the red light around the point,—that's another lighthouse,—and the stars beginning to shine."
He stood looking up at them for a moment, and then followed Joan.
"Leave your cutlass ready to your hand, Ben," he advised, "and keep an eye out. The night's going to be as black as—as a pot."
Joan flourished the hilt of the broad-sword.
"'Tis naked in my fist, sir!" she cried. "There's naught can take me by surprise." But she did not know what lay in store for her.
They walked toward the cove where the boat was moored. Garth stumbled a good deal in the half-light, for Joan, straining to catch a glimpse of the Ailouros, walked faster than she realized.
"I know she's anchored just off that big rock that juts out," Joan said. "Why, it's ridiculous that we can't see her yet; she ought to show plainly, she's so white. I can see the skiff, but—"
She peered and frowned; then broke into a run. Garth, coming up, found her standing motionless, gazing dumbly at the empty cove.
"She's gone," Joan said faintly; "dragged her anchor and gone! Oh, why didn't I give her more cable? Good Heavens, the tide was rising, too! I suppose she simply went without any trouble."
"Then we'll have to spend the night here!" Garth said, in joyous anticipation.
"You stay here, Garth," Joan said queerly; "stay by the skiff. I'm going all around Trasket to see if she's anywhere in sight."
She set off at a run over the sand. A tour of the island gave no sign of the strayed boat, and she returned slowly to Garth. She shook her head in response to his question.
"Then we'll have to stay!" he cried. "Hurrah! Unless you want to row down in the Cymba?"
"No!" said Joan, decidedly. "It's a long way; we've no lantern now; it will soon be totally dark; the waves are still high; the skiff is very small; and you can't swim. No!"
She sat down gloomily upon the sand.
"I've lost the Ailouros," she said dully, "your father's beautiful boat. Do you realize that? I've not distinguished myself to-day. I went on beyond Trasket when I saw that the wind was freshening. I jibed and nearly killed you. I lost the rudder. I have—lost—the Ailouros."
She put her hands to her forehead in bitter self-accusation. Garth flung his arms about her neck.
"Oh, don't, Joan!" he begged. "Don't be silly. None of it was your fault. Lots of people jibe when they don't mean to. And the Ailouros isn't lost, either. Look at the tide; she couldn't possibly go out. Somebody'll pick her up, or her anchor will stick. Come on back to the fire. Now it is a real adventure! Don't feel so badly, Joan."
They went slowly back to the fire and piled more wood on the embers.
"What a lark!" Garth observed, nearly exploding with gleeful excitement.
"You incorrigible optimist!" Joan said, shaking her head.
"I'm not!" Garth protested hotly. "Look, it's a good thing we did bring that rug that Fogger laughed at so."
"Fortunately, it's a very warm night," Joan said thankfully; "and we've our sweaters, too. Don't you think your father will come for us?" she asked, feeding the new flames.
"Of course he won't," Garth replied cheerfully. "He's not allowed to leave the Light. He'd never let Mudder row out alone, I'm sure. Oh, he'll know perfickly well we just decided to stay, or something."
"I'm sure I hope so. I suppose if he thought we'd capsized in that squall, he'd have come to find out."
"Goodness, yes! That was ages ago," Garth said. "Joan, I'm not going to bed for hours and hours."
"It's past your bedtime now," Joan reminded him. "I'll tell you what we'll do. You can curl up in the steamer-rug, and we'll talk for a while. Then I'll stand the first night-watch. Just take off your shoes and you'll be all ready to go to sleep."
"What fun!" Garth said. "Sleeping in our clothes, just like shipwrecked seamen. Please untie this for me, Joan."
He was struggling with a knot in the lacing which fastened his brace.
"Why do things get in such knots?" he wondered, as Joan set about untangling it. "It always starts out by being a perfickly plain bow, and just look at it now! Salt-watery knots always stick so tight, too. Thank you awfully. You needn't bother with the strap; I can do that myself."
She did it, however, and helped him off with the brace, which was a good deal heavier than she had imagined. She tucked him up in the big rug and mended the fire. As she poked it, the embers sent up a little swarm of orange sparks against the pallid stars.
"I wish you'd say that poem again,—the one about the poor merman," Garth suggested. "I liked that."
So Joan said it from beginning to end, while the sea murmured along the beach and a soft land-breeze made the fire sway and waver.
When soft the winds blow,
When clear falls the moonlight,
When spring-tides are low;
When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starr'd with broom,
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanch'd sands a gloom;
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie,
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white, sleeping town;
At the church on the hill-side—
And then come back down.
Singing: "There dwells a loved one,
But cruel is she!
She left lonely forever
The kings of the sea."
"It's like that now," Garth said. "I wonder if they're doing it to-night, standing on the dunes and looking at the town."
"Perhaps they are," said Joan, "though I think that it happened a long time ago."
"I wish we had Fogger's green book here," Garth said; "though it's too dark to read, even by the firelight."
"I think that I could say one of those poems," said Joan rather diffidently. "I learned some of them. Your father writes such splendid ones."
"Oh, do say them, then! You're so nice, Joan; you don't need to carry books around with you all the time."
"Here's one that you like," said Joan.
And none that could say her nay;
With her truck in the clouds,
And the wind in her shrouds,
And her fore-foot smothered in spray.
She has seen Dorado rise;
And sailed all night
In the throbbing light
Of the star-shot Southern skies.
With her wind-worn canvas furled;
But she's faint for a breeze
From the purple seas
On the other side of the world.
But there's none that can bid her stay;
And you'll wake in the dawn
To find her gone,
With the sea-wind leading the way!
The fire glowed and waned and shot up again fitfully. It flecked the creeping foam at the edge of the sand with a faint rosy gleam which melted beyond into the infinite darkness of unseen water. Garth looked out over the murmuring spaces to where the steady glimmer of Silver Shoal made a tiny nimbus in the night.
"It will watch us all the time," he whispered, "While—we're—"
"While we're asleep," said Joan; "which you are now."
She tucked the rug around him.
"Rouse me up for—my watch,—Ben—" he said drowsily.
"Ay, ay!" she smiled, bending to kiss him. “Good-night, dear person."
But he was asleep.