After breakfast they got afloat, and when away from the trees the boat
began to sail fast, and every now and then the bubbles rushed from under
the bow. Mark sat on the ballast, or rather reclined, and Bevis
steered. The anchor was upon the forecastle, as they called it, with
twenty-five feet of cable. Sailing by the bluff covered with furze, by
the oak where the council was held, past the muddy shore lined with
weeds where the cattle came down to drink, past the hollow oak and the
battlefield, they saw the quarry and Fir-Tree Gulf, but did not enter
it. As they reached the broader water the wind came fresher over the
wide surface, and the boat careening a little hastened on. They were
now a long way from either shore in the centre of the widest part.
“This is the best sail we’ve had,” said Mark, putting his legs out as
far as he could, leaning his back against the seat and his head against
the mast. “It’s jolly.”
Bevis got off the stern-sheets and sat down on the bottom so that he too
could recline, he had nothing to do but just keep the tiller steady and
watch the mainsail, the wind set the course for them. They could feel
the breeze pulling at the sails, and the boat drawn along.
“Is it rough?” said Mark.
“Shall we take in a reef?” said Bevis.
“No,” said Mark. “Let’s capsize.”
“Right,” said Bevis. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Not a bit. Isn’t she slipping along?”
“Gurgling and guggling.”
“Bubbling and smacking. That was spray.”
“There’s a puff. How many knots are we going?”
“Ten.”
“Pooh! twenty. No chance of a pirate catching us.”
“In these unknown seas,” said Mark, “you can’t tell what proas are
waiting behind the islands, nor how many Malays with creeses.”
“They’re crooked the wrong way,” said Bevis. “The most curious knives I
ever saw.”
“Or junks,” went on Mark. “Are these the Chinese Seas?”
“Jingalls,” said Bevis, “they shoot big bullets, almost cannon-balls, as
big as walnuts. I wish we had one in the forecastle.”
“We ought to have a cannon.”
“Of course we did.”
“As if we couldn’t manage a cannon!”
“As if!”
“Or a double-barrel gun.”
“Or anything.”
“Anything.”
“People _are_ stupid.”
“Idiotic.”
“We must have a gun.”
“We must.”
They listened again to the gurgling and “guggling,” the bubbles, and
kiss, kiss of the wavelets.
“We’re a long way now,” said Mark presently. “Can we see land?”
“See land! We lost sight of land months ago. I should think not. Look
up there.”
Bevis was watching the top of the mast, tracing its line along the sky,
where white filmy clouds were floating slowly. Mark opened his drowsy
eyes and looked up too.
“No land in sight,” said he. “Nothing but sky and clouds,” said Bevis.
“How far are we from shore?”
“Six thousand miles.”
“It’s the first time anybody has ever sailed out of sight of land in our
time,” said Mark. “It’s very wonderful, and we shall be made a great
deal of when we get home.”
“Yes, and put in prison afterwards. That’s the proper way.”
“We shall bring home sandal-wood, and diamonds as big as--as apples--”
“And see unknown creatures in the sea, and butterflies as huge as
umbrellas--”
“Catch fevers and get well again--”
“We must make notes of the language, and coax the people to give us some
of their ancient books.”
“O! I say,” said Mark, “when you were on the Unknown Island did you see
the magician with long white robes, and the serpent a hundred feet long
he keeps in a cave under the bushes?”
“No,” said Bevis, “I forgot him.” So he had. His imagination ran so
rapidly, one thing took the place of the other as the particles of water
take each other’s place in a running brook. “We shall find him, I dare
say.”
“Let’s land and see.”
“So we will.”
“Are you sure you’re steering right?”
“O! yes; it’s nothing to do, you only have to keep the wind in the
sails.”
“I wonder what bird that is?” said Mark, as a dove flew over. He knew a
dove well enough on land.
“It’s a sort of parrot, no doubt.”
“I wonder how deep it is here.”
“About a million fathoms.”
“No use trying to anchor.”
“Not the least.”
“It’s very warm.”
“In these places ships get burnt by the sun sometimes.”
Another short silence. “Is it time to take a look-out, captain?”
“Yes, I think so,” said the captain. Mark crept up in the bow.
“You’re steering too much to the right--that way,” he cried, holding out
his right arm.
“Is that better?”
“More over.”
“There.”
“Right.”
As the boat fell off a little from the wind obeying the tiller, Bevis,
now the foresail was out of his line of sight could see the Unknown
Island. They were closer than they had thought.
“Shall we land on Serendib?”
“O! no--on your island,” said Mark. “Steer as close to the cliff as you
can.”
Bevis did so, and the boat approached the low sandy cliff against which
the waves had once beat with such fury. The wavelets now washed
sideways past it with a gentle splashing, they were not large enough to
make the boat dance, and if they had liked they could have gone up and
touched it.
“It looks very deep under it,” said Mark, as Bevis steered into the
channel, keeping two or three yards from shore.
“Ready,” he said; “get ready to furl the mainsail.”
Mark partly unfastened the halyard, and held it in his hand. Almost
directly they had passed the cliff they were in the lee of the island
which kept off the wind. The boat moved, carried on by its impetus
through the still water, but the sails did not draw. In a minute Bevis
told Mark to let the mainsail down, and as it dropped Mark hauled the
sail in or the folds would have fallen in the water. At the same moment
Bevis altered the course, and ran her ashore some way below where he had
leaped off the punt, and where it was low and shelving. Mark was out
the instant she touched with the painter, and tugged her up on the
strand. Bevis came forward and let down the foresail, then he got out.
“Captain,” said Mark, “may I go round the island?”
“Yes,” said the captain, and Mark stepped in among the bushes to
explore. Bevis went a little way and sat down under a beech. The hull
of the boat was hidden by the undergrowth, but he could see the slender
mast and some of the rigging over the boughs. The sunshine touched the
top of the smooth mast, which seemed to shine above the green leaves.
There was the vessel; his comrade was exploring the unknown depths of
the wood; they were far from the old world and the known countries. He
sat and gloated over the voyage, till by-and-by he remembered the
tacking.
They could not do it, even yet they were only half mariners, and were
obliged to wait for a fair wind. If it changed while they were on the
island they would have to row back. He was no longer satisfied; he went
down to the boat, stepped on board, and hoisted the sails. The trees
and the island itself so kept off the wind that it was perfectly calm,
and the sails did not even flutter. He stepped on shore, and went a few
yards where he could look back and get a good view of the vessel, trying
to think what it could be they did not do, or what it could be that was
wrong.
He looked at her all over, from the top of the mast to the tiller, and
he could not discover anything. Bevis walked up and down, he worked
himself quite into a fidget. He went into the wood a little way, half
inclined to go after Mark as he felt so restless. All at once he took
out his pocket-book and pencil and sat down on the ground just where he
was, and drew a sailing-boat such as he had seen. Then he went back to
the shore, and sketched their boat on the other leaf. His idea was to
compare the sailing-boats he had seen with theirs.
When he had finished his outline drawing he saw directly that there were
several differences. The mast in the boat sketched from memory was much
higher than the mast in the other. Both sails, too, were larger than
those he had had made. The bowsprit projected farther, but the foresail
was not so much less in proportion as the mainsail. The foresail looked
almost large enough, but the mainsail in the boat was not only smaller,
it was not of the same shape.
In his sketch from memory the gaff or rod at the top of the sail rose up
at a sharper angle, and the sail came right back to the tiller. In the
actual boat before him the gaff was but little more than horizontal to
the mast, and the sail only came back three-fourths of the distance it
ought to have done.
“It must be made bigger,” Bevis thought. “The mainsail must be made
ever so much larger, and it must reach to where I sit. That’s the
mistake--you can see it in a minute. Mark! Mark!” He shouted and
whistled.
Mark came presently running. “I’ve been all round,” he said panting,
“and I’ve--”
“This is it,” said Bevis, holding up his pocket-book.
“I’ve seen a huge jack--a regular shark. I believe it was a shark--and
three young wild ducks, and some more of those parrots up in the trees.”
“The mainsail--”
“And something under the water that made a wave, and went along--”
“Look, you see it ought to come--”
“What could it have been that made the wave and went along?”
“O! nothing--only a porpoise, or a seal, or a walrus--nothing! Look
here--”
“But,” said Mark, “the wave moved along, and I could not tell what made
it.”
“Magic,” said Bevis. “Very likely the magician. Did you see him?”
“No; but I believe there’s something very curious about this island--”
“It’s enchanted, of course,” said Bevis. “There’s lots of things you
know are there, and you can’t find,” said Mark; “there’s a tiger, I
believe, in the bushes and reeds at the other end. If I had had my
spear I should have gone and looked, and there’s boa-constrictors and a
hippopotamus was here last night, and heaps of jolly things, and I’ve
found a place to make a cave. Come and see,” (pulling Bevis).
“I’ll come,” said Bevis, “in a minute. But just look, I’ve found out
what was wrong--”
“And how to tack?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s do it, and tack and get shipwrecked, and live here. If we
only had Jack’s rifle.”
“But we must sail properly first,” said Bevis. “I shan’t do anything
till we can sail properly: now this is it. Look.”
He showed Mark the two sketches, and how their mainsail did not reach
back far enough towards the stern.
“Frances must make it larger,” said Mark. “Of course that’s it--it’s as
different as possible. And the mast ought to be higher--it would crack
better, and go overboard--whop!”
“I don’t know,” said Bevis; “about the mast; yes, I think I will. We
will make one a foot or eighteen inches higher--”
“Bigger sails will go faster, and smash the ship splendidly against the
rocks,” said Mark. “There’ll be a crash and a grinding, and the decks
will blow up, and there’ll be an awful yell as everybody is gulped up
but you and me.”
“While we’re doing it, we’ll make another bowsprit, too--longer,” said
Bevis.
“Why didn’t we think of it before,” said Mark. “How stupid! Now you
look at it, you can see it in a minute. And we had to sail half round
the world to find it.”
“That’s just it,” said Bevis. “You sail forty thousand miles to find a
thing, and when you get there you can see you left it at home.”
“We have been stupes,” said Mark. “Let’s do it directly. I’ll shave
the new mast, and you take the sails to Frances. And now come and see
the place for the cave.”
Bevis went with him, and Mark took him to the bank or bluff inside the
island which Bevis had passed when he explored it the evening of the
battle. The sandy bank rose steeply for some ten or fifteen feet, and
then it was covered with brambles and fern. There was a space at the
foot clear of bushes and trees, and only overgrown with rough grasses.
Beyond this there were great bramble thickets, and the trees began again
about fifty yards away, encircling the open space. The spot was almost
in the centre of the island, but rather nearer the side where there was
a channel through the weeds than the other.
“The sand’s soft and hard,” said Mark. “I tried it with my knife; you
can cut it, but it won’t crumble.”
“We should not have to prop the roof,” said Bevis.
“No, and it’s as dry as chips; it’s the most splendid place for a cave
that ever was.”
“So it is,” said Bevis. “Nobody could see us.”
He looked round. The high bank shut them in behind, the trees in front
and each side. “Besides, there’s nobody to look. It’s capital.”
“Will you do it,” said Mark.
“Of course I will--directly we can sail properly.”
“Hurrah!” shouted Mark, hitting up his heels, having caught that trick
from Bevis. “Let’s go home and begin the sails. Come on.”
“But I know one thing,” said Bevis, as they returned to the boat; “if
we’re going to have a cave, we must have a gun.”
“That’s just what I say. Can’t we borrow one? I know, you put up
Frances to make Jack lend us his rifle. She’s fond of you--she hates
me.”
“I’ll try,” said Bevis. “How ought you to get a girl to do anything?”
“Stare at her,” said Mark. “That’s what Jack does, like a donk at a
thistle when he can’t eat any more.”
“Does Frances like the staring?”
“She pretends she doesn’t, but she does. You stare at her, and act
stupid.”
“Is Jack stupid?”
“When he’s at our house,” said Mark. “He’s as stupid as an owl. Now
she kisses you, and you just whisper and squeeze her hand, and say it’s
very tiny. You don’t know how conceited she is about her hand--can’t
you see--she’s always got it somewhere where you can see it; and she
sticks her foot out so,” (Mark put one foot out); “and don’t you move an
inch, but stick close to her, and get her into a corner or in the
arbour. Mind, though, if you don’t keep on telling her how pretty she
is, she’ll box your ears. That’s why she hates me--”
“Because you don’t tell her she’s pretty. But she is pretty.”
“But I’m not going to be always telling her so--I don’t see that she’s
anything very beautiful either--you and I should look nice if we were
all the afternoon doing our hair, and if we walked like that and stuck
our noses up in the air; and kept grinning, and smacked ourselves with
powder, and scent, and all such beastly stuff. Now Jack’s rifle--”
“We could make it shoot,” said Bevis, “if we had it all to ourselves,
and put bullets through apples stuck up on a stick, or smash an egg--”
“And knock over the parrots up in these trees.”
“I _will_ have a gun,” said Bevis, kicking a stone with all his might.
“Are you sure Frances could get Jack--”
“Frances get Jack to do it! Why, I’ve seen him kiss her foot.”
They got on board laughing and set the sails, but as the island kept the
wind off, Mark had to row till they were beyond the cliff. Then the
sails filled and away they went.
“Thessaly,” said Mark presently. “See! we’re getting to places where
people live again. I say, shall we try the anchor?”
“Yes. Let down the mainsail first.”
Mark let it down, and then put the anchor over. It sank rapidly,
drawing the cable after it. The flat stone in the shaft endeavoured as
it sank to lie flat on the bottom, and this brought one of the flukes or
points against the ground, and the motion of the boat dragging at it
caused it to stick in a few inches. The cable tightened, and the boat
brought up and swung with her stem to the wind. Mark found that they
did not want all the cable; he hauled it in till there was only about
ten feet out; so that, allowing for the angle, the water was not much
more than five or six feet deep. They were off the muddy shore, lined
with weeds. Rude as the anchor was, it answered perfectly. In a minute
or two they hauled it up, set the mainsail, and sailed almost to the
harbour, having to row the last few yards because the trees kept much of
the breeze off. They unshipped the mast, and carried it and the sails
home.
In the evening Mark set to work to shave another and somewhat longer
pole for the new mast, and Bevis took the sails and some more canvas to
Frances. He was not long gone, and when he returned said that Frances
had promised to do the work immediately.
“Did you do the cat and mouse?” said Mark. “Did you stare?”
“I stared,” said Bevis, “but there were some visitors there--”
“Stupes?”
“Stupes, so I couldn’t get on very well. She asked me what I was
looking at, and if she wasn’t all right--”
“She meant her flounces; she thinks of nothing but her flounces. Some
of the things are called gores.”
“But I began about the rifle, and she said perhaps, but she really had
no influence with Jack.”
“O!” said Mark with a snort. “Another buster.”
“And she couldn’t think why you didn’t come home. She had forgiven you
a long time, and you were always unkind to her, and she was always
forgiving you.”
“Busters,” said Mark. “She’s on telling stories from morning to night.”
“I don’t see why you should be afraid of her; she can’t hurt you.”
“Not hurt me! Why if you’ve done anything--it’s niggle-niggle,
niggle-naggle, and she’ll play you every nasty trick, and set the Old
Moke on to look cross; and then when Jack comes, it’s ‘Mark, dear Mark,’
and wouldn’t you think she was a sweet darling who loved her brother!”
Mark tore off a shaving.
“One thing though,” he added. “Won’t she serve Jack out when he’s got
her and obliged to have her. As if I didn’t know why she wants me to
come home. All she wants is to send some letters to him.”
“Postman. I see,” said Bevis.
“But I’ll go,” said Mark. “I’ll go and fetch the sails to-morrow. I
should like to see the jolly Old Moke; and don’t you see? if I take the
letters she’ll be pleased and get the rifle for us.”
It was exceedingly disrespectful of Mark to speak of his governor as the
Old Moke; his actual behaviour was very different to his speech, for in
truth he was most attached to his father. The following afternoon Mark
walked over and got the sails, and as he had guessed Frances gave him a
note for Jack, which he had to deliver that evening. They surprised the
donkey; Mark mounted and rode off.
Bevis went on with the mast and the new gaff and bowsprit, and when Mark
got back about sunset he had the new mast and rigging fitted up in the
shed to see how it looked. The first time they made a mast it took them
a long while, but now, having learned exactly how to do it, the second
had soon been prepared. The top rose above the beam of the shed, and
the mainsail stretched out under the eave.
“Hoist the peak up higher,” said the governor. Being so busy they had
not heard him come. “Hoist it up well, Mark.”
Mark gave another pull at the halyard, and drew the peak, or point of
the gaff, up till it stood at a sharp angle.
“The more peak you can get,” said the governor, “the more leverage the
wind has, and the better she will answer the rudder.”
He was almost as interested in their sailing as they were themselves,
and had watched them from the bank of the New Sea concealed behind the
trees. But he considered it best that they should teach themselves, and
find out little by little where they were wrong. Besides which he knew
that the greatest pleasure is always obtained from inferior and
incomplete instruments. Present a perfect yacht, a beautiful horse, a
fine gun, or anything complete to a beginner, and the edge of his
enjoyment is dulled with too speedy possession. The best way to learn
to ride is on a rough pony, to sail in an open ill-built boat, because
by encountering difficulties the learner comes to understand and
appreciate the perfect instrument, and to wield or direct it with fifty
times more power than if he had been born to the purple.
From the shore the governor had watched them vainly striving to tack,
and could but just refrain from pointing out the reason. When he saw
them fitting up the enlarged sails and the new mast, he exulted almost
as much as they did themselves. “They will do it,” he said to himself,
“they will do it this time.”
Then to Bevis, “Pull the mainsail back as far as you can, and don’t let
it hollow out, not hollow and loose. Keep it taut. It ought be as flat
as a board. There--” He turned away abruptly, fearing he had told them
too much.
“As flat as a board,” repeated Bevis. “So I will. But we thought it
was best hollow, didn’t we?” There was still enough light left to see
to step the mast, so they carried the sails and rigging up to the boat,
and fitted them the same evening.
Volume Two, Chapter IX.