CONTENTS
PART ONE: BEFORE MISTY
1. Live Cargo!
2. The Island of the Wild Things
PART TWO: MISTY OF CHINCOTEAGUE
3. The Phantom
4. Sacred Bones
5. A Piece of Wind and Sky
6. Pony Penning Day
7. She Can’t Turn Back
8. Caught in the Whirlpool
9. On to the Pony Penning Grounds
10. Colts Have Got To Grow Up
11. Storm-Shy
12. The Sold Rope
13. A Pony Changes Hands
14. The Wickie
15. The Fire Chief Pays a Call
16. The Pully Bone
17. Wings on Her Feet
18. A Wild Bugle
To
Paul and Maureen Beebe
Grandpa and Grandma Beebe
Eba Jones, Fire Chief
Wyle Maddox, Leader of Roundup Men
L. Quillen, Roundup Man
Wilbur Wimbrow, Roundup Man
Howard Rodgers, Roundup Man
Harvey Beebe, Roundup Man
Harold Beebe, father of Paul and Maureen
Ralph Beebe, uncle of Paul and Maureen
Delbert Daisey, Bronc Buster
Victoria and William Pruitt
all of whom really live on Chincoteague Island and who appear as characters in this book
and a special dedication to Three Chincoteague Ponies
Phantom
Pied Piper
Misty
All the incidents in this story are real. They did not happen in just the order they are recorded, but they all happened at one time or another on the little island of Chincoteague.
PART ONE
BEFORE MISTY
Chapter 1
LIVE CARGO!
A WILD, ringing neigh shrilled up from the hold of the Spanish galleon. It was not the cry of an animal in hunger. It was a terrifying bugle. An alarm call.
The captain of the Santo Cristo strode the poop deck. “Cursed be that stallion!” he muttered under his breath as he stamped forward and back, forward and back.
Suddenly he stopped short. The wind! It was dying with the sun. It was spilling out of the sails, causing them to quiver and shake. He could feel his flesh creep with the sails. Without wind he could not get to Panama. And if he did not get there, and get there soon, he was headed for trouble. The Moor ponies to be delivered to the Viceroy of Peru could not be kept alive much longer. Their hay had grown musty. The water casks were almost empty. And now this sudden calm, this heavy warning of a storm.
He plucked nervously at his rusty black beard as if that would help him think. “We lie in the latitude of white squalls,” he said, a look of vexation on his face. “When the wind does strike, it will strike with fury.” His steps quickened. “We must shorten sail,” he made up his mind.
Cupping his hands to his mouth, he bellowed orders: “Furl the topgallant sail! Furl the coursers and the maintopsail! Shorten the fore-topsail!”
The ship burst into action. From forward and aft all hands came running. They fell to work furiously, carrying out orders.
The captain’s eyes were fixed on his men, but his thoughts raced ahead to the rich land where he was bound. In his mind’s eye he could see the mule train coming to meet him when he reached land. He could see it snaking its way along the Gold Road from Panama to the seaport of Puerto Bello. He could almost feel the smooth, hard gold in the packs on the donkeys’ backs.
His eyes narrowed greedily. “Gold!” he mumbled. “Think of trading twenty ponies for their weight in gold!” He clasped his hands behind him and resumed his pacing and muttering. “The Viceroy of Peru sets great store by the ponies, and well he may. Without the ponies to work the mines, there will be no more gold.” Then he clenched his fists. “We must keep the ponies alive!”
His thoughts were brought up sharply. That shrill horse call! Again it filled the air about him with a wild ring. His beady eyes darted to the lookout man in the crow’s-nest, then to the men on deck. He saw fear spread among the crew.
Meanwhile, in the dark hold of the ship, a small bay stallion was pawing the floor of his stall. His iron shoes with their sharp rims and turned-down heels threw a shower of sparks, and he felt strong charges of electricity. His nostrils flared. The moisture in the air! The charges of electricity! These were storm warnings—things he knew. Some inner urge told him he must get his mares to high land before the storm broke. He tried to escape, charging against the chest board of his stall again and again. He threw his head back and bugled.
From stalls beside him and from stalls opposite him, nineteen heads with small pointed ears peered out. Nineteen pairs of brown eyes whited. Nineteen young mares caught his anxiety. They, too, tried to escape, rearing and plunging, rearing and plunging.
But presently the animals were no longer hurling themselves. They were being hurled. The ship was pitching and tossing to the rising swell of the sea, flinging the ponies forward against their chest boards, backward against the ship’s sides.
A cold wind spiraled down the hatch. It whistled and screamed above the rough voice of the captain. It gave way only to the deep flump-flump of the thunder.
The sea became a wildcat now, and the galleon her prey. She stalked the ship and drove her off her course. She slapped at her, rolling her victim from side to side. She knocked the spars out of her and used them to ram holes in her sides. She clawed the rudder from its sternpost and threw it into the sea. She cracked the ship’s ribs as if they were brittle bones. Then she hissed and spat through the seams.
The pressure of the sea swept everything before it. Huge baskets filled with gravel for ballast plummeted down the passageway between the ponies, breaking up stalls as they went by.
Suddenly the galleon shuddered. From bow to stern came an endless rasping sound! The ship had struck a shoal. And with a ripping and crashing of timber the hull cracked open. In that split second the captain, his men, and his live cargo were washed into the boiling foam.
The wildcat sea yawned. She swallowed the men. Only the captain and fifteen ponies managed to come up again. The captain bobbed alongside the stallion and made a wild grasp for his tail, but a great wave swept him out of reach.
The stallion neighed encouragement to his mares, who were struggling to keep afloat, fighting the wreckage and the sea. For long minutes they thrashed about helplessly, and just when their strength was nearly spent, the storm died as suddenly as it had risen. The wind calmed.
The sea was no longer a wildcat. She became a kitten, fawning and lapping about the ponies’ legs. Now their hooves touched land. They were able to stand! They were scrambling up the beach, up on Assateague Beach, that long, sandy island which shelters the tidewater country of Virginia and Maryland. They were far from the mines of Peru.
Chapter 2
THE ISLAND OF THE WILD THINGS
THE PONIES were exhausted and their coats were heavy with water, but they were free, free, free! They raised their heads and snuffed the wind. The smell was unlike that of the lowland moors of Spain, but it was good! They sucked in the sharp, sweet pungence of pine woods, and somewhere mixed in with the piney smell came the enticing scent of salt grass.
Their stomachs were pinched with hunger, but the ponies did not seek the grass at once. They shook the water from their coats. Then they rolled back and forth in the sand, enjoying the solid feel of the land.
At last the stallion’s hunger stirred him to action. He rounded up his mares, and with only a watery moon to light the way, he drove them through the needle-carpeted woods. The mares stopped to eat the leaves of some myrtle bushes, but the stallion jostled them into line. Then he took the
lead. So direct was his progress it seemed almost as if he had trodden here before. Through bramble and thicket, through brackish pools of water, he led the way.
The moon was high overhead when the little band came out on grassy marshland. They stopped a moment to listen to the wide blades of grass whisper and squeak in the wind; to sniff the tickling smell of salt grass.
This was it! This was the exciting smell that had urged them on. With wild snorts of happiness they buried their noses in the long grass. They bit and tore great mouthfuls—frantically, as if they were afraid it might not last. Oh, the salty goodness of it! Not bitter at all, but juicy-sweet with rain. It was different from any grass they knew. It billowed and shimmered like the sea. They could not get enough of it. That delicious salty taste! Never had they known anything like it. Never. And sometimes they came upon tender patches of lespedeza, a kind of clover that grew among the grasses.
The ponies forgot the forty days and forty nights in the dark hold of the Spanish galleon. They forgot the musty hay. They forgot the smell of bilge water, of oil and fishy odors from the cooking galley.
When they could eat no more, they pawed shallow wells with their hooves for drinking water. Then they rolled in the wiry grass, letting out great whinnies of happiness. They seemed unable to believe that the island was all their own. Not a human being anywhere. Only grass. And sea. And sky. And the wind.
At last they slept.
The seasons came and went, and the ponies adopted the New World as their own. They learned how to take care of themselves. When summer came and with it the greenhead flies by day and the mosquitoes by night, they plunged into the sea, up to their necks in the cool surf. The sea was their friend. Once it had set them free. Now it protected them from their fiercest enemies.
Winter came and the grass yellowed and dried, but the ponies discovered that close to the roots it was still green and good to eat.
Even when a solid film of ice sealed the land, they did not go hungry. They broke through the ice with their hooves or went off to the woods to eat the myrtle leaves that stayed green all winter.
Snow was a new experience, too. They blew at it, making little snow flurries of their own. They tasted it. It melted on their tongues. Snow was good to drink!
If the Spaniards could have seen their ponies now, they would have been startled at their changed appearance. No longer were their coats sleek. They were as thick and shaggy as the coat of any sheep dog. This was a good thing. On bitter days, when they stood close-huddled for comfort, each pony could enjoy the added warmth of his neighbor’s coat as well as his own.
There were no wolves or wildcats on the island, but there was deep, miry mud to trap creatures and suck them down. After a few desperate struggles, the ponies learned how to fall to their knees, then sidle and wriggle along like crabs until they were well out of it.
With each season the ponies grew wiser. And with each season they became tougher and more hardy. Horse colts and fillies were born to them. As the horse colts grew big, they rounded up mares of their own and started new herds that ranged wild—wild as the wind and the sea that had brought them there long ago.
Years went by. And more years. Changes came to Assateague. The red men came. The white men came. The white men built a lighthouse to warn ships of dangerous reefs. They built a handful of houses and a white church. But soon the houses stood empty. The people moved their homes and their church to nearby Chincoteague Island, for Assateague belonged to the wild things—to the wild birds that nested on it, and the wild ponies whose ancestors had lived on it since the days of the Spanish galleon.
PART TWO
MISTY OF CHINCOTEAGUE
Chapter 3
THE PHANTOM
SPRING TIDES had come once more to Assateague Island. They were washing and salting the earth, coaxing new green spears to replace the old dried grasses.
On a windy Saturday morning, half-past March, a boy and his sister were toiling up the White Hills of Assateague Beach. The boy was taller than the girl and led the way. Their progress was slow. The heavy beach sand seemed to pull them back, as if it felt that human beings had no right to be there.
In the early morning light the two figures were scarcely visible. Their faded play clothes were the color of sand and their hair was bleached pale by the sun. The boy’s hair had a way of falling down over his brow like the forelock of a stallion. The girl’s streamed out behind her, a creamy golden mane with the wind blowing through it.
Suddenly the boy bent over and picked up a whitened, bow-shaped object. The girl was at his side in an instant.
“What is it, Paul?”
The boy did not answer. He kept feeling the object, running his fingers over it, testing the weight of it. Then he squinted his eyes against the sun and looked out upon the thin line of blue where the sky and the sea met.
“Is it the bone of a horse?”
Paul looked down his nose in disgust. “Maureen,” he shook his head, “aren’t you ever going to grow up?”
“Is it an Indian bow washed white by the sea?” the girl persisted.
Paul hardly heard. His eyes were scanning the horizon.
“See a ship?” Maureen asked.
“Hmm,” he nodded.
“I don’t see anything. Where, Paul? What kind of ship?”
“A Spanish galleon,” he said. “She’s caught in a northeaster. Look at her pitch!”
“Oh, Paul,” fretted the girl. “You are always play-acting.” Then she added wistfully, “I hanker to see the things you see. Tell me what the ship’s like. Make it a whopper.”
“Can’t see her now. She’s lost in the swell.”
He pushed the hair out of his eyes. “There she is!” he gasped, enjoying his own make-believe. “Her sails painted gold and there’s a gold horse with wings at her prow. She’s heading toward the shoals. She’s going to crack up!”
“Oh, Paul!”
“What’s more, she’s carrying live cargo! Horses! And they’re feared of the storm. I can hear ’em crying and screeching above the wind.” He turned abruptly to his sister. “Now can you guess what I just found?”
“No. What?”
“Why, a rib bone, you goose. A rib bone of the Spanish galleon that was wrecked.” Paul braced his legs in the sand and watched his sister’s face. The result pleased him. Her eyes and mouth flew open.
“This is part of her hull. Fact is, it’s her bones that caused the sands to drift higher and higher ’til they formed the White Hills we’re standing on.”
The girl looked around and about her. Everything was still and quiet on little Assateague Island. Their grandfather had brought the game warden to the island in his boat, and she and Paul had asked to come along. But now she wondered if they should have come. The men were seeing how the wild birds had weathered the winter. They were far to the north. No other creatures were in sight. Suddenly she felt a little chill of fear.
“Paul,” she asked in a hushed voice, “do you feel like we’re trespassing?”
Paul nodded. “If you look close,” he whispered, “you can see that the wild critters have ‘No Trespassing’ signs tacked up on every pine tree.”
“I wasn’t thinking about the wild things,” Maureen replied. She shielded her eyes against the sun and looked off in the direction of Tom’s Cove. “Wish Grandpa’d come to take us back home to Chincoteague. It seems spooky-like to be exploring a ship’s graveyard.”
“I like exploring. I don’t care if . . .”
Suddenly, from the pine thicket behind them came the sharp crackling of underbrush. Paul wheeled around, his eyes darting to an open glade.
“Watch the open place, Maureen! It’s the Pied Piper and his band!”
With manes and tails flying, a band of wild ponies swept into the natural grazing ground. A pinto stallion was in command. He bunched his mares, then tossed his head high, searching the wind.
Paul and Maureen fell to the sand. They did not want the wind to carry their s
cent. They watched as the stallion herded his family like a nervous parent on a picnic. When he made certain that no one was missing, he began browsing. It was like a signal. His mares lowered their heads and settled down to the business of grazing.
Paul’s eyes were fixed on the wild horses. They were cropping grass peacefully. But he knew that one strange sound would send them rocketing off into the woods. He and Maureen spoke softly, and scarcely moved.
“Do y’see the Phantom?” asked Maureen.
The very mention of the name “Phantom” set Paul’s heart thumping against the walls of his chest. That mysterious wild mare about whom so many stories were told!
“No,” he answered. “They’re bunched too close.”
“Do you reckon the Phantom’s real? Or do you reckon it was some sea monster upset that boat last roundup?”
Paul gave no answer. Was the Phantom real? Sometimes he wondered. She had never been captured, and the roundup men did sometimes tell tall tales. Some had said she was a dark creature, dark and mysterious, like the pine trees. And some said she was the color of copper, with splashes of silver in her mane and tail. And some spoke of a strange white marking that began at her withers and spread out like a white map of the United States.
“Maybe,” whispered Maureen, “maybe she got poor and died off during the winter.”
“Her?” scoffed Paul, his eyes never leaving the herd. “Not her! Any pony that can outsmart Grandpa and all the roundup men for two years running can rustle her feed, all right. Recommember how Uncle Jed said his horse broke a leg trying to follow the Phantom at the roundup last Pony Penning Day?”
“Wish girls could go along on the roundup; maybe she wouldn’t bolt away from another girl.”
Paul snorted. “She’d leap into the waves and swim out to sea just like she did last year and the year before that.” Then suddenly his face lighted as if an idea had just struck him. “But this year it’s going to be different.”
Misty of Chincoteague Page 1
