BLOWN OFF
The evening was cool and clear. Anthea Merril and Jimmy followed an
Indian path that wound through the primeval bush. On the one hand a
great, smooth-scarped wall of rock ran up far above the trees that clung
about its feet into the wondrous green transparency, but the light was
dying out down in the hollow where towering fir and cedar clustered.
They were great of girth and very old, and beneath them there was
silence and solemnity.
Jimmy, who carried his companion's sketching materials, went first to
clear the dew-wet fern away, and the girl walked behind him silently;
but this was not because there had been any change in her attitude
toward him. Indeed, a certain camaraderie had grown up between them
during the few days they had spent fishing and wandering in the bush,
and there was, after all, nothing astonishing in this, for Jimmy was
guilty of no presumption, and social distinctions, which are, indeed,
not very marked in that country, do not count for much in the
wilderness. Still, that camaraderie had been a revelation to him, and he
was uneasily aware that during the rest of his life he would look back
upon the time when he had been Miss Merril's guide and attendant.
They had been up the bank of a river that afternoon, and the girl, who
had spent an hour or two sketching a peak of the range, had remained
behind with Jimmy when the rest had retraced their steps to the Inlet
lest Miss Austerly should suffer from the chill of the dew. The two were
accordingly coming back alone, which, indeed, had happened several times
before. It was Anthea who spoke at last.
"It will be dark very soon, and it might have been wiser if we had gone
back the way the others did," she said. "Still, this trail looked
nearer. I suppose it must come out at the Inlet?"
"Oh, yes," said Jimmy. "I can hear the river, though it doesn't seem to
be quite where I expected. The others will be on the beach by now."
"I shouldn't like to keep Nellie there," said Anthea. "Still, I scarcely
think they would wait long."
"Of course not," said Jimmy. "Tom is as careful of her as if she were
his sister, and they wouldn't worry about our not turning up to go off
with them. They're probably getting used to it by this time."
He realized next moment that this was, perhaps, not a particularly
tactful observation; but he could not see his companion's face, and, as
had happened before, he had sense enough not to make things worse by any
attempt to explain it, which Anthea Merril, who recognized that he had
spoken unreflectively, of course, noticed. What she thought of him--and
she had, naturally, formed certain opinions--did not appear until some
time later.
In a few minutes he stopped abruptly where the trail wound round a
screen of salmon-berry, for a creek came splashing down across their
way. It appeared to be at least two feet deep, and when his companion
saw it she turned to him with a little exclamation.
"Oh!" she said, "how are we going to get across? We certainly can't go
back."
"I'm afraid not;" and Jimmy glanced dubiously at the sliding water. "It
will be dark in half an hour, and this bush is bad enough to get through
in the daylight. I'll go in anyway, and see how deep it is."
He plodded through rather above his knees in water, which was mostly
freshly melted snow, and then turned and looked at the girl as she stood
regarding him somewhat curiously from the opposite bank. The light had
not quite gone yet, and he could see her standing, tall and supple and
shapely, with her white serge skirt gathered in one hand, and a patch of
crimson wine-berries at her feet. The great brown-and-gray trunk of a
redwood behind her forced up the fine outline of her figure, and made a
fitting background for the delicate coloring of the face that was turned
toward him. Then, as had happened once or twice before, a little thrill
ran through the man, and he glanced down at the sliding water.
"You can't wade through, and there's no use trying to look for a spot
where it's not running quite so fast. I don't think a Siwash could get
through this bush," he said.
He stopped somewhat abruptly, and was glad that the girl met his glance
without wavering, as she said, "Well?"
Jimmy's tone was deprecatory. "There's only one way, Miss Merril. I must
carry you over."
Anthea laughed, though it cost her a slight effort. She was, at least,
glad that he had addressed her unconcernedly, and as a yacht-hand would.
She was also quite aware that young ladies who go rowing in small
dories, or venture into the wilderness, have to submit to being carried
occasionally; but, for all that, she would sooner the suggestion had
been made by another man.
"Do you really think you could?" she asked.
Jimmy's eyes twinkled, which was more reassuring than any sign of
embarrassment.
"Well," he said reflectively, and again she was pleased that he was very
matter-of-fact, and had sense enough to drop back into his role, "I
guess I'm used to carrying three-inch redwood planks."
He came splashing through the water, though he did not look at her, and
in a moment or two she felt his arms about her. She wondered vaguely
whether he had often carried any one else, for it was, at least, evident
that he knew exactly what he meant to do, and she recognized the
strength the sea had given him, as he stepped down easily into the
creek, holding her high above the water, with the loose folds of her
skirt wrapped about her. Anthea was reasonably substantial, as she was,
of course, aware; but, though he twice floundered a little in the depths
of a pool, he set her down safe on the other side and stood before her
with flushed forehead, which was, as she promptly realized, in one
respect a mistake. He said nothing, and did not, indeed, look at her;
but as he drew in a deep breath from the physical effort she glanced at
him, and saw something in his face that suggested restraint. That
spoiled everything.
"It is getting late," she said quietly. "Doesn't the path go on again?"
They turned away, Jimmy walking first, for which she was thankful,
because the moment or two when they had stood silent had been more than
enough. There was nothing for which she could blame the man. His
demeanor had been everything that one could have expected; but she had
seen the momentary light in his eyes and the tightening of his lips, and
knew that their relations could never be exactly what they had been.
Something had come about, for the fact that he had found it necessary to
put a restraint upon himself had made a change. Perhaps he felt that
silence was inadvisable, and once more she appreciated the good sense
that prompted him to talk, much as a seaman would have done, of the
straightness of the shadowy redwoods they passed and their value as
masts, though this was naturally not a subject that greatly interested
her.
When they reached the beach they found that Valentine had left them the
Siwash canoe; and the rest, with the exception of Nellie Austerly, were
sitting in the _Sorata_'s cockpit when Jimmy paddled alongside. Miss
Merril furnished a suitable explanation of their delay, but she
overlooked the fact that Valentine was acquainted with the bush about
that Inlet.
"You must have struck the creek," he said. "I should have remembered to
tell you about it."
He looked at Jimmy, but the latter wisely decided to leave it to Miss
Merril, and turned his attention to the canoe. He felt that she was
competent to handle the matter.
"I was almost waist-deep when I last went through," said Valentine, who
did not display his usual perspicacity. "How did you get across?"
Anthea dismissed the subject with perfect composure. "Then there could
not have been anything like so much water. Jimmy helped me over."
Jimmy went forward, and disappeared through the scuttle into the
forecastle, and some little while later Valentine came down and looked
at him with a dry smile.
"I don't yet understand how Miss Merril got across that creek," he said.
"I fancied she told you;" and Jimmy felt his face grow warm.
Valentine laughed. "Perhaps she did, but it seems to me that she wasn't
remarkably explicit."
Jimmy said nothing, and presently climbed into his berth, where he lay
for a while trying to recall every incident of the journey he and Anthea
Merril had made through the shadowy bush, until it occurred to him that
he was only preparing trouble for himself by doing so, and he went to
sleep.
It was raining when he awoke, and it rained for most of three days as
hard as it often does on that coast, until the crystal depths of the
Inlet grew turbid, and it flowed seaward between its dripping walls of
mountains like a river. At last one afternoon the clouds were rolled
away, and when fierce, glaring sunshine beat down Austerly decided that
he would go ashore to fish. The men went with him, Valentine to pull the
dory into the swollen river, Jimmy and Louis in the Siwash canoe to
gather bark for fuel. When they approached the beach where they usually
landed, Jimmy glanced thoughtfully at the great torn-up pines that went
sliding by.
"If one of those logs drove across her it might start a plank," he said.
"Besides, there's every sign of a vicious breeze, and I think I'll go
off by and by and swing her in behind the next point. She would lie
snugger there out of the stream."
Valentine looked up at the hard blue sky across which ragged cloud-wisps
were driving, and nodded. "It generally does blow quite fresh after rain
like what we have had," he said. "You could break the anchor out
yourself. I want Louis to get a good load of bark."
Jimmy went ashore with Louis, who carried a big axe, but by and by he
left the latter busy, and wandered back to the beach. He did not like
the angry glare of sunlight and the way the wind fell in whirling gusts
down the steep hillside. As it happened, another big log drove by while
he stood among the boulders, and remembering that the two girls were
alone in the yacht, he launched the canoe, and sat still, just dipping
the paddle, while the stream swept him down to the _Sorata_. When he
boarded her she was swinging uneasily in a swirl of muddy current, and
Anthea, who sat in the cockpit, appeared pleased to see him.
"One would almost fancy it was going to blow very hard," she said.
Jimmy laughed. "I believe it is; but we should be snug against anything
in the little cove yonder with a rope or two ashore. I wonder whether
you could sheer her for me while I break out the anchor?"
The girl went to the tiller, and while Jimmy, standing forward, plied
the little winch, the cable slowly rattled in. Then he broke out the
anchor, and the boat slid astern until a cove, where dark fir branches
stretched out over the still, deep water, opened up. Dropping the
anchor, he turned to the girl.
"Starboard!" he said.
Anthea shoved over her tiller; but the _Sorata_ did not swing into the
cove as Jimmy had expected her to do, for a blast that set the pines
roaring fell from the hillside and drove her out from the shore. Jimmy
let more chain run, and stood still looking about him, when he felt the
anchor grip. The sunlight had faded, obscured by ragged clouds, the tall
pines swayed above him, and the _Sorata_ had swung well out athwart the
stream.
"Since I can't kedge her with this breeze, I'll take a line ashore and
warp her in," he said.
It appeared advisable, for there were more pine-logs coming down, and he
pitched a coil of rope into the canoe; but the rest, as he discovered,
was much more difficult. Jimmy had been used to boats in which one could
stand up and row, while a Siwash river canoe is a very different kind of
craft. As a result, he several times almost capsized her, and lost a
good deal of ground when a gust struck her lifted prow; so that some
time had passed when the line brought him up still a few yards from the
beach. He looked around at the _Sorata_ with a shout.
"I want a few more fathoms," he called. "Can you fasten on the other
line, Miss Merril?"
He saw the girl, who moved forward along the deck, stop and clutch at a
shroud, but that was all, for just then the dark firs roared and the
water seethed white about him as he plied the paddle. The canoe turned
around in spite of him, drove out into the stream, and, while he strove
desperately to steer her, struck the _Sorata_ with a crash. The boat
lifted her side a little as he swung himself on board, and there was a
curious harsh grating forward. Anthea, who stepped down into the
cockpit, had lost her hat, and her hair whipped her face.
"I think she has started her anchor," she said.
Jimmy was sure of it when he ran forward and let several fathoms of
chain run without bringing her up, for the bottom was apparently shingle
washed down from the hillside.
"We'll have to get the kedge over," he said.
He dropped unceremoniously into the saloon, where Miss Austerly lay on
the settee, and tore up the floorings, beneath which, as space is
valuable on board a craft of the _Sorata_'s size, the smaller anchor is
sometimes kept. He could not, however, find it anywhere, and when he
swung himself, hot and breathless, out on deck, the yacht was driving
seaward stern foremost, taking her anchor with her, while the whole
Inlet was ridged with lines of white. Anthea Merril looked at him with
suppressed apprehension in her eyes.
"We must get a warp ashore somehow," he said. "I might sheer her in
under the staysail."
The girl went forward with him, and gasped as they hauled together at
the halyard which hoisted the sail; and when half of it was up, she sped
aft to the tiller, and Jimmy made desperate efforts to shorten in the
cable. There was another cove not far astern into which he might work
the boat. The anchor, however, came away before he expected it, and,
though he did not think it was the girl's fault, the half-hoisted sail
swung over, and the _Sorata_, in place of creeping back toward the
beach, drove away toward the opposite shore, where the stream swept over
ragged rock. Jimmy, jumping aft, seized the tiller, and while the Inlet
seethed into little splashing ridges the _Sorata_ swept on seaward with
the breeze astern. He stood still a moment, gasping, and then, while the
girl looked at him with inquiring eyes, signed her to take the helm
again.
"I must get the trysail on her, and try to beat her back. We may be able
to do it--I don't know," he said. "It's deep water along those rocks,
and she'd chafe through and go down; otherwise I'd ram her ashore."
He spent several arduous minutes tearing every spare sail out of the
stern locker before he reached the one he wanted, and it was at least
five minutes more before he had laced it to its gaff, while by then
there were only jagged rocks, over which the sea that washed into the
open entrance to the Inlet seethed whitely, under the _Sorata_'s lee.
Jimmy glanced at them, and quietly lashed the trysail gaff to the boom
before he turned to Anthea Merril.
"I'm sorry," he said. "We couldn't stay her under the trysail with the
puffs twisting all ways flung back by the trees. Besides, she'd probably
drive down upon the reefs before I got it up. It's quite evident we
can't go ashore there."
The girl glanced ahead, and her heart sank a little as she saw the long
Pacific roll heave across the opening in big gray slopes that were
ridged with froth. Then she turned to Jimmy, who stood regarding her
gravely in the steamboat jacket, burst shoes, and man-o'-war cap, and a
look of confidence crept into her eyes. She felt that this man could be
depended on.
"We shall have to run out to sea?" she asked.
Jimmy nodded, and she was glad that he answered frankly, as to one who
was his equal in courage.
"There is no help for it," he said. "Still, she'll go clear of the shore
as she is, and I don't think we need be anxious about her when she's
under trysail in open water."
Anthea looked at him again, with a spot of color in her cheek.
"It may blow for several days," she said. "If I can help in any way----"
"You can," said Jimmy abruptly. "Go down now and fix Miss Austerly and
yourself something to eat. You mightn't be able to do it afterwards.
Then you can bring me up some bread and coffee."
Anthea disappeared into the saloon with her cheeks tingling and a
curious smile in her eyes. She understood what had happened. Now that
they were at close grip with the elements, Jimmy had asserted himself in
primitive fashion, and he could, she felt, be trusted to do his part.