Next morning the third cargo went; they had to row, for the New Sea was
calm. It consisted of arms. Bevis’s favourite bow, of course, was
taken, and two sheaves of arrows; Mark’s spears and harpoon; the
crossbow, throw-sticks, the boomerang and darts; so that the armoury was
almost denuded.
Besides these there were fish-hooks (which were put in the box),
fishing-rods, and kettles; an old horn-lantern, the old telescope, the
astrolabe, scissors and thread (which shipwrecked people always have); a
bag full of old coins, which were to be found in the sand on the shore,
where a Spanish galleon had been wrecked (one of those the sunken galley
had been convoying when the tornado overtook them); a small
looking-glass, a piece of iron rod, six bottles of lemonade, a
cribbage-board and pack of cards, and a bezique pack; a basket of
apples, and a bag of potatoes. The afternoon cargo was clothes, for
they thought they might want a change if it was wet; so they each took
one suit, carefully selecting old things that had been disused, and
would not be missed.
Then there were the great-coats for the bed; these were very awkward to
get up to the boat, and caused many journeys, for they could only take
one coat each at a time.
“What a lot of rubbish you are taking to your boat,” said mamma once.
“Mind you don’t sink it: you will fill your boat with rubbish till you
can’t move about.”
“Rubbish!” said Bevis indignantly. “Rubbish, indeed!”
They so often took the rugs that there was no need to conceal them.
Mark hit on a good idea and rolled up the barrel of the matchlock in one
of the rugs, and with it the ramrod. In the other they hid the stock
and powder-horn, and so got them to the boat; chuckling over Mark’s
device, by which they removed the matchlock in broad daylight.
“If Val’s watching,” said Bevis, as they came up the bank with the rugs,
the last part of the load, “he’ll have to be smashed.”
“People who spy about ought to be killed,” said Mark. “Everything ought
to be done openly,” carefully depositing the concealed barrel in the
stern-sheets. This was the most important thing of all. When they had
got the matchlock safe in the cave, they felt that the greatest
difficulty was surmounted.
John Young had brought their anvil, the 28 pound weight, for them to the
bank, and it was shipped. He bought a small pot for boiling, the
smallest size made, for them in Latten, also a saucepan, a tin kettle,
and teapot. One of the wooden bottles, like tiny barrels, used to send
ale out to the men in the fields, was filled with strong ale. Mark drew
it in the cellar which had once been his prison, carefully filling it to
the utmost, and this John got away for them rolled up in his jacket.
The all-potent wand of the enchanter Barleycorn was held over him; what
was there he would not have done for them?
He was all the more ready to oblige them because since Mark’s
imprisonment in the cellar, Bevis and Mark had rather taken his part
against the Bailiff, and got him out of scrapes. Feeling that he had
powerful friends at court, John did not trouble to work so hard. They
called at the cottage for the pot and the other things, which were in a
sack ready for them. Loo fetched the sack, and Bevis threw it over his
shoulder.
“I scoured them well,” said Loo. “They be all clean.”
“Did you?” said Bevis. “Here,” searching his pocket. “O! I’ve only a
fourpenny piece left.” He gave it to her.
“I can cook,” said Loo wistfully, “and make tea.” This was a hint to
them to take her with them; but away they strode unheeding. The tin
kettle and teapot clashed in the sack.
“I believe I saw Val behind that tree,” said Bevis.
“He can’t see through a sack though,” said Mark.
The wind was still very light, and all the morning was occupied in
delivering this cargo. The cave or store-room was now crammed full, and
they could not put any more without shelves.
“That’s the last,” said Mark, dragging the heavy anvil in. “Except
Pan.”
“And my books,” said Bevis, “and ink and paper. We must keep a journal
of course.”
“So we must,” said Mark. “I forgot that. It will make a book.”
“‘Adventures in New Formosa,’” said Bevis.
“We’ll write it every evening after we’ve done work, don’t you see.”
When they got home he put his books together--the Odyssey, Don Quixote,
the grey and battered volume of ballads, a tiny little book of
Shakespeare’s poems, of which he had lately become very fond, and
Filmore’s rhymed translation of Faust. He found two manuscript books
for the journal; these and the pens and ink-bottle could all go together
in the final cargo with Pan.
All the while these voyages were proceeding they had been thinking over
how they should get away from home without being searched for, and had
concluded that almost the only excuse they could make would be that they
were going to spend a week or two with Jack. This they now began to
spread about, and pretended to prepare for the visit. As they expected,
it caused no comment. All that was said was that they were not to stop
too long. Mamma, did not much like the idea of being left by herself,
but then it was quite different to their being away in disgrace.
But she insisted upon Bevis writing home. Bevis shrugged his shoulders,
foreseeing that it would be difficult to do this as there was no
post-office on New Formosa; but it was of no use, she said he should not
go unless he promised to write.
“Very well,” said Bevis. “Letters are the stupidest stupidity stupes
ever invented.”
But now there arose a new difficulty, which seemed as if it could not be
got over. How were they to tell while they were away on the island, and
cut off from all communication with the mainland, what was going on at
home; whether it was all right and they were supposed to be at Jack’s,
or whether they were missed? For though so intent on deceiving the home
authorities, and so ingenious in devising the means, they stopped at
this.
They did not like to think that perhaps Bevis’s governor and mamma, who
were so kind, would be miserable with anxiety on finding that they had
disappeared. Mark, too, was anxious about his Jolly Old Moke. With the
usual contradiction of the mind they earnestly set about to deceive
their friends, and were equally anxious not to give them any pain.
After all their trouble, it really seemed as if this would prevent the
realisation of their plans. A whole day they walked about and wondered
what they could do, and got quite angry with each other from simple
irritation.
At last they settled that they must arrange with some one so as to know,
for if there was any trouble about them they meant to return
immediately. Both agreed that little Charlie was the best they could
choose; he was as quick as lightning, and as true as steel.
“Just remember,” said Bevis, “how he fetched up Cecil in the battle.”
“That just made all the difference,” said Mark. “Now I’ll manage it
with him; don’t you come, you leave him to me; you’re so soft--”
“Soft!--Well, I like that.”
“No; I don’t mean stupid--so easy. There, don’t look like that. You
tell me--you think what Charlie must do--and I’ll manage him.”
Bevis thought and considered that Charlie must give them a signal--wave
a handkerchief. Charlie must stand on some conspicuous place visible
from New Formosa; by the quarry would be the very place, at a certain
fixed time every day, and wave a white handkerchief, and they could look
through the telescope and see him. If anything was wrong, he could take
his hat off and wave that instead. Mark thought it would do very well,
and set out to find and arrange with Charlie.
Being very much offended because he had not been taken for a sail,
Charlie was at first very off-hand, and not at all disposed to do
anything. But when shrewd Mark let out as a great secret that he and
Bevis were going to live in the wood at the end of the New Sea for a
while like savages, Charlie began to relent, for all his sympathies went
with the idea.
Mark promised him faithfully that when he and Bevis had done it first,
he should come too if he would help them. Charlie gave in and agreed,
but on condition that he should be taken for a sail first. Eager as
Mark was for the island, it was no good trying to persuade Charlie, he
adhered to his stipulation, and Mark had to yield. However, he
reflected that if they took Charlie for a sail he would be certain to do
as he promised, and besides that it would make Val jealous, and he and
Charlie would quarrel, and so they would not be always watching.
So it was settled--Charlie to have a sail, and then every afternoon at
four o’clock he was to stand just above the quarry and wave a white
handkerchief if all was right. If Bevis and Mark were missed he was to
take off his hat, and wave that. As he had no watch, Charlie was to
judge the time by the calling of the cows to be milked--the milkers make
a great hullabaloo and shouting, which can be heard a long distance off.
“I said we were going to live in the wood,” Mark told Bevis when he came
back. “Then he won’t think we’re on the island. If he plays us any
trick he’ll go and try and find us in the wood.”
While Mark was gone about the signal, Bevis, thinking everything over,
remembered the letter he had promised to write home. To post the letter
one or other of them must go on the mainland, if by day some one would
very likely see them and mention it, and then the question would arise
why they came near without going home? Bevis went up to the cottage,
and told Loo to listen every evening at ten o’clock out of her window,
which looked over the field at the back, and if she heard anybody
whistle three notes, “Foo-tootle-too,” to slip out, as it would be them.
“That I will,” said Loo, delighted. “I’ll come in a minute.”
Charlie had his sail next morning, but they took care not to go near the
island. Knowing how sharp his eyes were, they tacked to and fro in
Mozambique and Fir-Tree Gulf. Charlie learned to manage the foresail in
five minutes, then the tiller, and to please him the more they let him
act as captain for a while. He promised most faithfully to make the
signal every day, and they knew he would do it.
In the afternoon they thought and thought to see if there was anything
they had forgotten, and to try and call things to mind, wandered all
over the house, but only recollected one thing--the gridiron. There
were several in the kitchen. They took an old one, much burnt, which
was not used. With this and Bevis’s books they visited New Formosa,
rowing up towards evening, and upon their return unshipped the mast, and
took it and the sails home, else perhaps Val or some one would launch
the Pinta and try to sail in their absence. They meant to padlock the
boat with a chain, but if the sails were in her it would be a temptation
to break the lock. There was now nothing to take but Pan, and they were
so eager for the morning that it was past midnight before they could go
to sleep.
The morning of the 3rd of August--the very day Columbus sailed--the long
desired day, was beautifully fine, calm, and cloudless. They were in
such haste to start they could hardly say “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” said Polly the dairymaid.
“Don’t want to see you,” said Bevis. Polly was not yet forgiven for the
part she had taken in hustling Mark into the cellar. They had got out
into the meadow with Pan, when Bevis’s mother came running after.
“Have you any money?” she asked, with her purse in her hand.
They laughed, for the thought instantly struck them that they could not
spend money on New Formosa, but they did not say they did not want any.
She gave them five shillings each, and kissed them again. She watched
them till they went through the gateway with Pan, and were hidden from
sight.
Pan leaped on board after them, and they rowed to the island. It was so
still, the surface was like glass. The spaniel ran about inside the
stockade, and sniffed knowingly at the coats on the bedstead, but he did
not wag his tail or look so happy when Bevis suddenly drew his collar
three holes tighter and buckled it. Bevis knew very well if his collar
was not as tight as possible Pan would work his head out. They fastened
him securely to the post at the gateway in the palisade, and hastened
away.
When Pan realised that they were really gone, and heard the sound of the
oars, he went quite frantic. He tugged, he whined, he choked, he rolled
over, he scratched, and bit, and shook, and whimpered; the tears ran
down his eyes, his ears were pulled over his head by the collar, against
which he strained. But he strained in vain. They heard his dismal
howls almost down to the Mozambique.
“Poor Pan!” said Bevis. “He shall have a feast the first thing we
shoot.”
They had left their stockings on the island, and everything else they
could take off so as not to have very large bundles on their backs while
paddling, and took their pocket-knives out of their trouser’s pockets
and left them, knowing things are apt to drop out of the pockets. The
Pinta was drawn up as far as she would come on the shore at the harbour,
and then fastened with a chain, which they had ready, to a staple and
padlocked. Mark had thought of this, so that no one could go rowing
round, and he had a piece of string on the key with which he fastened it
to a button-hole of his waistcoat that it might not be lost.
This done, they got through the hedge, and retraced the way they had
come home on the night of the battle, through the meadows, the
cornfields, and lastly across the wild waste pasture or common. From
there they scrambled through the hedges and the immense bramble
thickets, and regained the shore opposite their island.
They went down the marshy level to the bank, and along it to the beds of
sedges, where, on the verge of the sea, they had hidden the catamarans.
There they undressed, and made their clothes and boots into bundles, and
slung them over their shoulders with cord. Then they hauled their
catamarans down to the water.
Volume Two, Chapter XIV.