Complete Works of Howard Pyle

by Howard Pyle

  “Do you know, Dred,” said Jack, “I believe you’re vastly the better in health for coming off with us? You don’t seem near as sick as you did before we left Bath Town.”

  “Ay,” said Dred; “that’s allus the way with a sick body. I hain’t time now to think how sick I be.”

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  THE THIRD DAY

  JACK WAS AWAKENED the next morning by Dred stirring about. The sun had not yet arisen, but the sky, mottled over with drifting clouds, was blue and mild. “Well,” said Dred, “I’m going over to the sand-hills now. You and the young lady can get some breakfast ready ag’in’ I get back.”

  “Don’t you mean to take me along with you, then?” Jack asked.

  “No,” said Dred, “’twould be no use. You can do more by staying here and getting ready a bite to eat, for I want to make as early a start as may be.”

  Jack watched him as he walked across the little sandy hummocks covered with the wiry sedge grass that bent and quivered in the gentle wind. “How long will you be gone, Dred?” he called after the departing figure.

  The other stopped and turned around. “About a half hour,” he called back, and then he turned and went on again.

  Jack got together some wood for the fire, and presently had a good blaze crackling and snapping. The young lady was stirring, and in a little while she came to the door of the hut and stood looking at him. “Where’s Mr. Dred?” she asked.

  “He’s gone across to an observation tree over yonder,” Jack said, pointing in the direction with a bit of wood. “He says he’ll be back within half an hour, and he wants that we should get breakfast ready against that time.”

  The young lady stood looking about her. “‘Twill not storm again to-day, will it?” said she.

  “No,” said Jack, “the weather’s broken now for good.” He felt a curiously breathless constraint in being thus alone with her with no one else near them, but she was clearly altogether unconscious of any such feeling, and her unconsciousness abashed him all the more. He busied himself studiously about his work without speaking, the young lady standing watching him, and the breakfast was cooked and spread out upon a board some time before Dred returned. His impassive face looked more than usually expressionless. “Did you see anything?” Jack asked.

  He did not reply to the question. “We’ll not eat here,” he said; “we’ll just take it aboard the boat and eat it there as we sails along.” And then it flashed upon Jack that he must have seen something. “Ye might ha’ roasted two or three o’ them taties we fetched with us,” Dred continued. “We hain’t touched them yet, and this is like enough to be the last chance we’ll get to do so now, for we ben’t like to go ashore — leastwise this side of the inlet — and arter that we’ve got to make straight to Virginny.” Then he caught Jack’s eye with a meaning glance, and presently led the way around to the other side of the hut. There he leaned with his back against the side of the house, his hands thrust deeply into his breeches pockets. “Well,” he said, in a low voice, “I been and took a lookout astern.”

  “Well,” Jack said breathlessly, “what of it?”

  “Why,” said Dred, “I see a sail off to the south’rd a-making up Croatan way.”

  Jack felt a sudden, quick, shrinking pang about his heart. “Well,” he said, “what of it? Was it the sloop?”

  Dred shook his head. “I don’t know that,” he said, “and I can’t just say as ’twas the sloop — but I can’t say as ‘tweren’t the sloop, neither. It may have been a coaster or summat of the sort; there’s no saying, for ’twas too far away for me to tell just what it was. But I’ll tell you what ’tis, lad, we’ve just got to get away as fast as may be, for the craft I see ben’t more than fourteen or fifteen knot astarn of us, and, give her a stiff breeze, she may overhaul that betwixt here and the inlet if we tarries too long.”

  Jack was looking very fixedly at Dred. “Well, Dred,” he said, “suppose ’tis the sloop, and it does overhaul us, what then?”

  Dred shrugged his shoulders, and there was something in the shrug that spoke more voluminously than words could have done. “’Tis no use axing me what then,” he said, presently. “We just sha’n’t let her overhaul us, and that’s all. We’ll not think on anything else.”

  The sense of overshadowing danger in the possibility of the boat that Dred had seen being the sloop, and the further possibility of its overhauling them, loomed larger and larger in Jack’s mind the more his thoughts dwelt upon it, swelling up almost like a bubble in his bosom. For a time it seemed as though he could not bear the bigness of the apprehension growing so within him. He wondered that Dred could appear so indifferent to it. “Why, Dred,” he cried, “how can a body help thinking about such a thing?”

  Dred looked at him out of his narrow, black, bead-like eyes, and then shrugged his shoulders again. His face was as impassive as that of a sphinx.

  Jack stood thinking and thinking. The growing apprehension brought to him for a moment a feeling almost of physical nausea. He believed that Dred believed that the sloop was really Blackbeard’s, and that it was overhauling them. He heaved an oppressed and labored sigh. “I wish,” he said, “we’d only sailed straight ahead instead of stopping over night — first, down yonder at Gosse’s in the swamp, and now here.”

  Again Dred shrugged his shoulders. “Well,” he said, “you be hale and strong enough to stand sailing four or six days on end in an open boat. But you don’t seem to think as how the young lady can’t stand it — saying naught of myself. If I hadn’t took care of myself, and had ‘a’ been took sick on your hands, you’d be a deal worse off than you are now. And, arter all,” he added, “’tis a blind chance of that there craft being the sloop. She may be a coaster. Well, ’tis no use stopping here to talk about that there now. The best thing for us to do is to make sail as quick as may be. I don’t see how they got track on us anyhow,” he said, almost to himself, “unless they chanced to get some news on us at Gosse’s, or unless they ran across Gosse hisself.” He slapped his thigh suddenly. “’Tis like enough, now I come to think on it, Gosse went off som’ers to buy rum with the sixpence I gave his mistress, and so ran across the captain in the sloop, som’ers, maybe down toward Ocracock way.”

  To all this Jack listened with the heavy oppression of apprehension lying like a leaden weight upon his soul. “Then you do think the sail you saw was the sloop?” said he with anxious insistence, and once more and for the third time Dred shrugged his shoulders, vouchsafing no other reply.

  Never for any moment through all that long day did Jack’s spirit escape from that ever-present, dreadful anxiety. Always it was with him in everything that he saw or did or said, sometimes lying dull and inert behind the vivid things of life, sometimes starting out with a sudden vitality that brought again that sickening nausea, as a sort of outer physical effect of the inner distress of spirit.

  The breeze had grown lighter and lighter as the day advanced, but by noon they had run in back of a small island, and by three or four o’clock were well up into the shoal water of Currituck Sound. During the time they were crossing the lower part of Albemarle Sound Dred would every now and then stand up to look back; then again he would take his place, gazing out ahead. Each time he had thus stood up, Jack had looked at him, but could learn nothing of his thoughts from his expressionless face.

  Suddenly Dred glanced up overhead, the bright sunlight glinting in his narrow black eyes. “The wind be falling mightily light,” he said, and then again he stood up and looked out astern, stretching himself as he did so. This time when he sat down he exchanged one swift glance with Jack, and Jack knew that he had seen something. After that he did not rise again, but he held the tiller motionlessly, looking steadily out across the water that grew ever smoother and smoother as the breeze fell more and more away. By and by he said suddenly: “Ye might as well get out the oars and row a bit, lad; ‘twill help us along a trifle.”

  The cloud of anxiety was hanging very darkly over him as Jac
k went forward and shipped the oars into the rowlocks. The sun had been warm and strong all day, and, without speaking, he laid aside his coat before he began rowing. They were skirting along now well toward the eastern shore of Currituck Sound. There was a narrow strip of beach, a strip of flat, green marsh, and then beyond that a white ridge of sand. Flocks of gulls sat out along the shoals, which, in places, were just covered with a thin sheet of water. Every now and then they would rise as the boat crept nearer and nearer to them, and would circle and hover in clamorous flight. Presently, as Jack sat rowing and looking out astern, he himself saw the sail. The first sight of it struck him as with a sudden shock, and he ceased rowing and resting on his oars looking steadily at it. He felt certain that Dred believed it to be the pirate sloop; he himself felt sure that it must be, for why else would it be following them up into the shoals of Currituck Sound? Then he began rowing again. Suddenly, in the bright, wide silence, the young lady spoke. “Why, that is another boat I see yonder, is it not?”

  “Yes, mistress,” said Dred, briefly. He had not turned his head or looked at her as he spoke, and Jack bowed over the oars as he pulled away at them.

  After that there was nothing more said for a long time. The young lady sat with her elbow resting upon the rail, now looking out at the boat astern, and now down into the water. She was perfectly unconscious of any danger. A long flock of black ducks threaded its flight across the sunny level of the distant marsh, and there was no cessation to the iterated and ceaseless clamor of the gulls. Now and then a quavering whistle from some unseen flock of marsh-birds sounded out from the measureless blue above. Jack never ceased in his rowing; he saw and heard all these things as with the outer part of his consciousness; with the inner part he was thinking, brooding ceaselessly upon the possibility of capture. He looked at Dred’s impassive face, and now and then their eyes met. Jack wondered what he was thinking of; whether he thought they would get away, or whether he thought they would not, for the other gave no sign either of anxiety or of hope.

  The sail was hanging almost flat now. Only every now and then it swelled out sluggishly, and the boat drew forward a little with a noisier ripple of water under the bows. Jack pulled steadily away at the oars without ceasing. It seemed to him that the sail of the boat in the distance stood higher from the water than it had. At last he could not forbear to speak. “She’s coming nigher, ain’t she, Dred?” he asked.

  “I reckon not,” said Dred, without turning his head. “I reckon ’tis just looming to the south’rd, and that makes her appear to stand higher. Maybe she may have a trifle more wind than we, but not much.”

  The young lady roused herself, turned, and looked out astern. “What boat is that?” she said. “It has been following us all afternoon.”

  Dred leaned over and spat into the water; then he turned toward her with a swift look. “Why, mistress,” he said, “I don’t see no use in keeping it from ye; ’tis like that be Blackbeard’s boat — the sloop.”

  The young lady looked steadily at him and then at Jack. “Are they going to catch us,” she asked, “and take us back to Bath Town again?”

  “Why, no,” said Dred, “I reckon not; we’ve got too much of a start on ’em. It be n’t more than thirty knot to the inlet, and they’ve got maybe six knot to overhaul us yet.” He turned his head and looked out astern. “D’ye see,” said he, “ye can’t tell as to how far they be away. It be looming up yonder to the south’rd. ’Tis like they be as much as seven knot away rather than six knot.” Again he stood up and looked out astern. “They’ve got a puff of air down there yet,” he said, “and they have got out the sweeps.”

  Jack wondered how he could see so far to know what they were doing.

  The breeze had died away now to cat’s-paws that just ruffled the smooth, bright surface of the water. Dred, as he stood up, stretched first one arm and then the other. He stood for a while, resting his hand upon the boom, looking out at the other vessel. Then he began to whistle shrilly a monotonous tune through his teeth. Jack knew he was whistling for a wind. Presently he took out his clasp-knife and opened it as he stepped across the thwarts. Jack moved aside to make way for him. He stuck the knife into the mast and then went aft again. The young lady watched him curiously. “What did you do that for?” she asked.

  “To fetch up a breeze, mistress,” said Dred, shortly.

  All this time Jack was pulling steadily at the oars without ceasing. The sun sloped lower and lower toward the west. “They ain’t gaining on us now,” said Dred; but Jack could see that the sail had grown larger and higher over the edge of the horizon.

  The yellow light of the afternoon changed to orange and then to red as the sun set in a perfectly cloudless sky. Suddenly, Jack felt his strength crumbling away from him like slacked lime. “I can’t row any more, Dred,” he said. “I’m dead tired, and my hands are all flayed with rowing.” He had not noticed his weariness before; it seemed as though it came suddenly upon him, its leaden weight seeming to crush out that dreadful anxiety to a mere dull discomfort of spirit.

  The palms of his hands were burning like fire. He looked at the red, blistered surface; they had not hurt him so much until he stretched them, trying to open them. His hands and arms were trembling with weariness.

  “You’d better take a drink of rum,” said Dred; “‘twill freshen you up a bit. You’d better take a bite, too.”

  “I don’t feel hungry,” he said hoarsely.

  “Like enough not,” said Dred. “But ‘twill do you good to eat a bite, all the same. The biscuits are aft here. By blood! we didn’t leave much in the bottle down at Gosse’s, did we?” and he shook the bottle at his ear. “Here, mistress, eat that,” and he handed a biscuit to the young lady.

  The sail in the distance burned like fire in the setting sun. The three looked at it. “D’ye say your prayers, mistress?” said Dred.

  She looked at him as though startled at the question. “Why, yes, I do,” she said. “What do you mean?”

  “Why, if you do say your prayers,” said Dred, “when you say ’em to-night just ax for a wind, won’t ye? We wants to make the inlet to-night, as much as we wants salwation.”

  The sun set; the gray of twilight melted into night; the ceaseless clamor of the gulls had long since subsided, and the cool, starry sky looked down silently and breathlessly upon them as they lay drifting upon the surface of the water. “I’ll take a try at the oars myself,” said Dred, “but I can’t do much. You go to sleep, lad, I’ll wake you arter a while.”

  Jack lay down upon the bench opposite the young lady. He shut his eyes, and almost instantly he seemed to see the bright level of the water and the green level of the marsh, as he had seen them all that afternoon; he seemed to hear the clamor of the gulls ringing in his ears, and his tired and tingling body felt almost actually the motion of rowing. At last his thoughts became tangled; they blurred and ran together, and before he knew it he was fast asleep — the dead sleep of weariness — and all care and fear of danger were forgotten.

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  THE FOURTH DAY

  JACK FELT SOME one shaking him. He tried not to awaken; he tried to hold fast to his sleep, but he felt that he was growing wider and wider awake. Dred was shaking him. Then he sat up, at first dull and stupefied with sleep. He did not, in the moment of new awakening, know where he was — his mind did not fit immediately into the circumstances around him — the narrow, hard space of the boat, the starry vault of sky, and the dark water — then instantly and suddenly he remembered everything with vivid distinctness. He looked around in the blank darkness almost as though he expected to see the pursuing boat.

  “Come,” said Dred. “I’ve let you have a good long sleep, but I can’t let you have no more. We’ve got to take to the oars again, and that’s all there is about it. I tried to row, but I couldn’t do it. And so ever since you’ve been sleeping the boat’s been drifting. I’ll lend a hand with one of the oars for a while. ‘Twill not be so hard on you as if you had
to pull both. But I couldn’t row by myself, and that’s all there is of it.”

  “How long have I been asleep?” asked Jack.

  “A matter of four or five hours,” said Dred.

  “Four or five hours!” exclaimed Jack. It seemed to him that he had not been asleep an hour. He stood up, and stretched his cramped limbs. There was not a breath of air stirring. The young lady lay dark and silent in the stern, covered over with the overcoats and wraps, and evidently asleep. She stirred just a little at the sound of their talking, but did not arouse herself.

  “Have you seen or heard aught of the sloop?” said Jack.

  “No,” said Dred. “Go and take your place, and we’ll pull a bit. I’ll take this seat here; you take the one amidships.”

  Jack climbed over the thwarts to his place. He was still drunk and half inert with the fumes of sleep. He took up his oar, and settled it quietly into the rowlock so as not to disturb the young lady. “Do you know what time ’tis, Dred?” he asked.

  “I make it about two o’clock,” said Dred, “judging by the looks of the stars.” He was leaning over his oar, opening the bag of biscuit. He handed one back to Jack. “We’ll take a bite to eat and a drop to drink afore we begin rowing,” said he. “Where’s the bottle? Oh, yes; here ’tis,” and again the young lady stirred at the sound of his voice near her.

  Jack’s hands were still sore and blistered from the rowing of the day before. At first the oar hurt him cruelly, but his hands presently got used to the dragging jerk, and he dipped and pulled in time with the moving of Dred’s body, which he could dimly see in the darkness. They rowed on in perfect silence. Now and then Jack’s consciousness blurred, and he felt himself falling asleep, but he never ceased his rowing. Then again he would awaken, looking out, as he dipped his oar, at the whirling eddy it made in the water. Every stroke of the oar drew the heavy boat perhaps a yard and a half onward. “A thousand strokes,” said Jack to himself, “will make a mile.” And then he began counting each stroke as he rowed. Again his mind blurred, and he forgot what he was counting. “’Twas three hundred and twenty I left off with,” he thought, as he wakened again. “Maybe there’s been twenty since then. That would make three hundred and forty. Three hundred and forty-one — three hundred and forty-two — three hundred and forty-three — there was a splash — that was a fish jumped then — three hundred and forty-four — three hundred and forty-five.”