The Lady and the Pirate by Emerson Hough (ebook reader library TXT) 📖

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 the Belle 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 each other 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.

CHAPTER XXXIII IN WHICH WE ARE CASTAWAYS

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 the Belle 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 the Belle Helène made 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 yards back 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 the Belle Helène still 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 and cast 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 the Belle Helène once 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 the Belle 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’s human. 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 the Belle Helène, for, in the lessening seaway, she rolled not so evilly. Peterson sprang to the deck as the bow of our boat