Bevis lit the match, and they went quietly into the wood. Pan had to he
hammered now and then to restrain him from rushing into the brambles.
They knew the way now very well, having often walked round while
building the hut looking for poles, and had trampled out a rough path
winding about the thorns. The shooting at the teak-tree and the noise
of Pan’s barking had alarmed all the parrots; and though they looked out
over the water in several places, no wild-fowl were to be seen.
As they came round under the group of cedars to the other side of the
island Mark remembered the great jack or pike which he had seen there,
almost as big as a shark. They went very softly, and peering round a
blue gum bush, saw the jack basking in the sun, but a good way from
shore, just at the edge of some weeds. The sunshine illumined the still
water, and they could see him perfectly, his long cruel jaws, his
greenish back and white belly, and powerful tail.
Drawing back behind the blue gum, Bevis prepared the matchlock, blow the
match so that the fire might be ready on it, opened the pan, and pushed
the priming up to the touch-hole, from which it had been shaken as he
walked, and then advanced the staff or rest to the edge of the bush. He
put the heavy barrel on it, and knelt down. The muzzle of the long
matchlock protruded through the leafy boughs.
“Ball cartridge,” whispered Mark, holding Pan by the collar. “Steady.”
“All right.”
Bevis aimed up the barrel, the strands of wire rather interfered with
his aim, and the glance passed from one of these to the other, rather
than along the level of the barrel. The last strand hid the end of the
barrel altogether. It wanted a sight. He looked along, and got the gun
straight for the fish, aiming at the broadest part of the side; then he
remembered that a fish is really lower in the water than it appears, and
depressed the muzzle till it pointed beneath the under-line of the jack.
Double-barrel guns with their hammers which fall in the fiftieth of a
second, driven by a strong spring directly the finger touches the
trigger, translate the will into instant action. The gunner snatches
the second when his gun is absolutely straight, and the shot flies to
its destination before the barrel can deviate the thirty-second part of
an inch. When Bevis’s finger first pressed the trigger of the matchlock
he had the barrel of his gun accurately pointed. But while he pulled
the match down to the pan an appreciable moment of time intervened; and
his mind too--so swift is its operation--left the fish, his mark and
object, and became expectant of the explosion. The match touched the
priming. Puff!
So infinitely rapid is the mind, so far does it outstrip gunpowder, that
the flash from the pan and its tiny smoke seemed to Bevis to occur quite
a little time before the great discharge, and in that little time his
mind left the barrel, and came to look at the tiny puff of smoke.
Bang! the ball rushed forth, but not now in the course it would have
taken had a hair-trigger and a spring instantly translated his original
will into action. In these momentary divisions of time which had
elapsed since he settled his aim, the long barrel, resting on the staff
and moving easily on its pivot, had imperceptibly drooped a trifle at
the breech and risen as much at the muzzle.
The ball flew high, hit the water six inches beyond the fish, and fired
at so low an angle ricochetted, and went skipping along the surface,
cutting out pieces of weed till the friction dragged it under, and it
sank. The fish swished his tail like a scull at the stern of a boat or
the screw of a steamer, but swift as was his spring forward, he would
not have escaped had not the ball gone high. He left an undulation on
the surface as he dived unhurt.
Bevis stamped his foot to think he had missed again.
“It was the water,” said Mark. “The bullet went duck and drake; I saw
it.”
He was too just to recall the fact of his having hit the teak-tree, the
tree was so much larger than the fish. As he did not recall his success
at the tree, Bevis’s irritation went no farther.
“We must have a top-sight,” he said.
“We won’t use bullets again till we have a sight.”
“No, we won’t. But I’m sure I had the gun straight.”
“So we had the rifle straight, but it did not hit.”
“No, no more did it. There’s something peculiar in bullets--we will
find out. I wanted that jack for supper.”
As they had not brought the powder-horn with them, they walked back to
the hut.
“It’s not the gun’s fault, I’m sure,” said Mark. “It shoots beautiful;
it’s my turn next.”
“Yes; you shall shoot. O! no, it’s not the gun. They can shoot
sparrows in India with a single ball,” said Bevis; “and matchlocks kill
tigers better than rifles. Matchlocks are splendid things.”
“Splendid things,” said Mark, stroking the stock of the gun, which he
now carried on his shoulder, as if it had been a breathing pet that
could appreciate his affection.
“This is a curious groove,” said Bevis, looking at the score in the bark
of the teak where Mark’s bullet had struck it. “Look, it goes a little
round; the bullet stuck to the tree and went a little way round, instead
of just coming straight, so.”
“So it did,” said Mark. “It curved round the tree.”
“My arrow would have glanced off just the other way,” said Bevis, “if it
had hit here.”
“The ball goes one way and the arrow the other.”
“One sticks to the tree as long as it can and the other shoots aside
directly.”
Bullets have been known in like manner to strike a man’s head in the
front part and score a track half round it, and even then not do much
injury.
“We ought to keep the gun loaded,” said Mark, as they reached the hut.
“Yes; but it ought to be slung up, and not put anywhere where it might
be knocked over.”
“Let’s make some slings for it.”
After loading the gun this time with a charge of shot, and ramming it
home with the brass ramrod--Mark enjoyed using the ramrod too much to
hurry over it--they set to work and drove two stout nails into the
uprights on the opposite side to the bed. To one of these nails a loop
of cord was fastened; to the other a similar piece was tied at one end,
the other had a lesser loop, so as to take on or off the nail. When off
it hung down, when on it made a loop like the other. The barrel of the
gun was put through the first loop, and the stock then held up while the
other piece of cord was hitched to its nail, when the long gun hung
suspended.
“It looks like a hunter’s hut now,” said Bevis, contemplating the
matchlock. “I’ll put my bow in the corner.” He leaned his bow in the
corner, and put a sheaf of arrows by it.
“My spear will go here,” said Mark.
“No,” said Bevis. “Put the spear by the bed-head.”
“Ready for use in the night?”
“Yes; put a knobstick too. That’s it. Now look.”
“Doesn’t it look nice?”
“Just doesn’t it!”
“Real hunting.”
“Real as real.”
“If Val, and Cecil, and Ted could see!”
“And Charlie.”
“They would go wild.”
“The store-room _is_ a muddle.”
“Shall we put it straight?”
“And get things ship-shape?”
“Yes.”
They began to assort the heaped-up mass of things in the cave, putting
tools on one side, provisions on the other, and odd things in the
centre. After awhile Mark looked up at his watch.
“Why, it’s past five! Tea time at home.”
“I don’t know,” said Bevis. “I expect the time’s different--it’s
longitude.”
“We are hours later, then?”
“While it’s tea time here, it’s breakfast there.”
“When we go to bed, they get up. Here’s the astrolabe. Take the
observation.”
“So I will.”
The sun was lower now, just over the tops of the trees. Bevis hung the
circle to the gate-post of the stockade and moved the tube till he could
see the sun through it. It read 20 degrees on the graduated disc.
“Twenty degrees north latitude,” he said. “It’s not on the equator.”
“But it’s in the tropics.”
“O, yes!--it’s in Cancer, right enough. It’s better than the Equator:
they are obliged to lie still there all day long; and it’s all swamps
and steaming moisture and fevers and malaria.”
“Much nicer here.”
“O! Much nicer.”
“How lucky! This island is put just right.”
“The very spot!”
“There ought to be a ditch outside the palisade,” said Mark. “Like they
have outside tents to run the water away when it rains. I’ve seen them
round tents.”
“So there ought. We’ll dig it.”
They fetched the spades and shovelled away half an hour, but it was very
warm, and they sat down presently inside the fence, which began to cast
a shadow.
“We ought to have some blacks to do this sort of work,” said Mark.
“White people can’t slave in the tropics,” said Bevis. “Let’s do
nothing now for a while.”
“Lemonade,” said Mark. Bevis nodded; and Mark fetched and opened a
bottle, then another.
“There are only four left,” he said.
“A ship ought to come every year with these kind of things,” said Bevis.
“It ought to be wrecked, and then we could get the best things from the
wreck. Shall we do some more shooting?”
“Practising. We ought to practise with ball; but we said we would not
till we had a sight.”
“But it’s loaded with shot, and it’s my turn; and there’s nothing for
supper, or dinner to-morrow.”
“No more there is. One thing, though, if we practise shooting, we shall
frighten all the birds away.”
“Ducks,” said Mark, “flappers and coots, and moorhens, they’re all about
in the evening. The sun’s going down: let’s shoot one.”
“Very well.”
Mark got down the matchlock, and lit the match. He went first, and
Bevis followed, two or three yards behind, with Pan. They walked as
quietly as possible along the path they had made round the island,
glancing out over the water at intervals. As they approached the other
end of the island, where the ground was low and thick with reed-grass
and sedges, they moved still more gently. They saw two young ducks, but
they were too far; and whether they heard or suspected something swam in
among a bed of rushes on a shoal. Mark stooped, and went down to the
water’s edge. Bevis stooped and followed, and there they set up the gun
on the rest, hidden behind the fringe of sedges and reed-grass they had
left when cutting them for the roof.
The muzzle almost, but not quite, protruded through the sedges, and they
sat down to wait on some of the dry grasses they had reaped, but did not
carry, not requiring all they had cut. The ground so near the edge was
soft and yielding, and this dry hay of sedge and flag better to sit on.
Bevis held Pan by the collar, and they waited a long time while the sun
sank to the north-westwards, almost in front, of them.
“No twilight in the tropics,” whispered Mark.
“But there’s the moon,” said Bevis. The moon being about half full, was
already high in the sky, and her light continued the glow of the sunset.
Restless as they were, they sat still, and took the greatest care in
slightly changing their positions for ease not to rustle the dry sedges.
Pan did not like it, but he reconciled himself after awhile. Presently
Mark, who was nearest the standing sedges, leaned forward and moved the
gun, Bevis glanced over his shoulder and saw a young wild duck among the
weeds by the shoal. “Too far,” he whispered. It looked a long way.
Mark did not answer; he was aiming. Puff--bang! Bow-wow! Pan was in
the water, dashing through the smoke before they could tell whether the
shot had taken effect or not. The next moment they saw the duck
struggling and splashing unable to dive. “Lu--lu!”
“Go on, Pan!”
“Catch him!”
“Fetch him!”
“He’s got him!”
“He’s in the weeds.”
“Look--he can’t get back--the duck drags in the weeds.”
“Pan! Pan! Here--here!”
“He can’t do it.”
“He’s caught.”
“He’ll sink.”
“Not he.”
“But he will.”
“No.”
After striving his hardest to bring the duck back through the thick
weeds, Pan suddenly turned and swam to the shoal where the rushes grew.
There he landed and stood a moment with the duck’s neck in his mouth:
the bird still flapped and struggled.
“Here--here!” shouted Bevis, running along to attract the spaniel to a
place where the weeds looked thinner. Mark whistled: Pan plunged in
again; and this time, having learned the strength of the weeds, he swam
out round them and laid the bird at their feet.
“It’s a beauty.”
“Look at his webbed feet!”
“But he’s not very big!”
“But he’s a young one.”
“Of course: the feathers are very pretty.”
“He kicks still.”
“Kill him. There; now we must pluck him this evening. Some of the
feathers will do for Frances.”
“O! Frances! She’s no use,” said Mark, carrying his bird by the legs.
The head hung down, and Pan licked it. Plucking they found a tedious
business. Each tried in turn till they were tired, and still there
seemed no end to the feathers.
“There are thousands of them,” said Bevis.
“Just as if they could not have a skin.”
“But the feathers are prettier.”
“Well, you try now.”
Bevis plucked awhile. Then Mark tried again. This was in the courtyard
of the hut. The moonlight had now quite succeeded to the day. By the
watch it was past nine. Out of doors it was light, but in the hut Bevis
had to strike a match to see the time.
“It’s supper-time,” he said.
“Now they are having breakfast at home, I suppose.”
“I dare say we’re quite forgotten,” said Bevis. “People always are.
Seven thousand miles away they’re sure to forget us.”
“Altogether,” said Mark. “Of course they will. Then some day they’ll
see two strange men with very long beards and bronzed faces.”
“Broad-brimmed Panama hats.”
“And odd digger-looking dresses.”
“And revolvers in their pockets out of sight, come strolling up to the
door and ask for--”
“Glasses of milk, as they’re thirsty, and while they’re sipping--as they
don’t really like such stuff--just ask quietly if the governor’s alive
and kicking--”
“And the Jolly Old Moke asleep in his armchair--”
“And if mamma’s put up the new red curtains.”
“Then they’ll stare--and shriek--”
“Recognise and rumpus.”
“Huge jollification!”
“Everybody tipsy and happy.”
“John Young tumbling in the pond.”
“Bells ringing.”
“I say, ought we to forgive the Bailiff and Polly?”
“Hum! I suppose so. But that’s a very long time yet?”
“O! a very long time. This duck will never be done.”
“We forgot to have tea,” said Mark.
“So we did; and tea would be very nice. With dampers like the diggers,”
said Bevis. “Let’s have tea now.”
“Finish the horrid duck to-morrow,” said Mark. “I’ll hang him up.”
“Fire’s gone out,” said Bevis, looking from the gateway. “Can’t see any
sparks.”
“Gone out long ago,” said Mark. “Pot put it out.”
They had left the pot on the ashes.
“It would be a good plan to light a fire inside the stockade now,” said
Bevis. “It will do to make the tea, and keep things away in the night.”
“Lions and tigers,” said Mark. “If they want to jump the fence they
won’t dare face the fire. But it’s very warm; we must not make it by
the hut.”
“Put it on one side,” said Bevis, “in the corner under the cliff. Bring
the sticks.”
They had plenty of wood in the stockade, piled up, from the chips and
branches and ends of the poles with which they had made the roof and
fence. The fire was soon lit. Bevis got out the iron rod to swing the
kettle. Mark went down and dipped the zinc bucket full of water.
“Are there any things about over the New Sea?” he said when he came
back. “It’s dark as you go through the wood, and the water looks all
strange by moonlight.”
“Very curious things are about I dare say,” said Bevis, who had lit the
lantern, and was shaking tea into the tin teapot in the hut. “Curious
magic things.”
“Floating round; all misty, and you can’t see them.”
“But you know they’re there.”
“Genii.”
“Ghouls.”
“Vampires. Look, there’s a big bat--and another; they’re coming back
again.”
“That’s nothing; everything’s magic. Mice are magic, especially if
they’re red. I’ll show you in Faust. If they’re only dun they’re not
half so much magic.”
“More mousey.”
“Yes. Besides, if you were in the wood you would see things behind the
trees; you might think they were shadows, but they’re not: and lights
moving about--sparks--”
“Magic?”
“Magic. Stars are magic. There’s one up there. And there are things
in trees, and satyrs in the fern, and those that come out of the trees
and out of the water are ladies--very beautiful, like Frances--”
“Frances is very plain.”
“That she’s not.”
“She’s so short.”
“Well, the tree-ladies are not very large. If I had a book of secret
lore, that’s the right name--”
“A magic book?”
“I’d make them come and dance and sing to us.”
“But are there no monsters?” said Mark, stirring the fire.
Volume Two, Chapter XVI.