THE SECOND DAY
THE woman was stirring early in the morning, and Jack awoke with a
start. Dred was moving uneasily in his sleep, with signs of near waking
as Jack went to the door and looked out. It was still hardly more than
the dawn of day. It had clouded over during the night, and had been
raining, as Dred had predicted. The wind was now blowing swiftly from
the east, sending low, drifting clouds hurrying across the sky. From
where he stood he could see, through the twilight gray, the white caps,
churning every now and then to a sudden flash of foam out across the
dim stretch of the sound, and he thought to himself that their voyage
was likely to prove very rough. Presently Dred stood beside him. He
stood for a while gazing out into the gray daylight, as Jack had done,
looking across the sound; then he went out into the open air. He stared
up into the wet sky above, and then all around him. “’Tis likely we’ll
have a stiffish day of it,” he said, “but we’ll have to make the most
of it, let us get ever so wet. ’Tis lucky I thought of fetching the
overcoats.” He said nothing about the night before, and did not seem
to remember that he had been drinking more than he should have done.
The woman of the house emerged from the outshed, carrying an armful of
sticks. “Hullo, mistress!” Dred called to her, “I wish you’d wake the
young lady and tell her we’ve got to be starting again. Why, it must
be well on toward six o’clock by now, allowing for this here thick day.”
The woman was smoking a short, black pipe. She took it out of her mouth
with one hand. “Won’t you stay and take a bite to eat first?” said she.
“Why, no, we won’t,” said Dred. “We’ll eat what we want aboard the
boat. We’ve got a good rest, and we’re beholden to ye for it.” He
opened his hand, and then Jack saw he had a sixpenny-piece in it. “I
want you to take this here,” he said, “for to pay you for your trouble.”
The woman stretched out her lean, bony hand, took the coin eagerly
enough, and slipped it in her pocket. “I’ll tell her young ladyship
that you be waiting,” said she with a sudden access of deference, and
then went back into the house.
“Did you see anything of that there bottle o’ rum?” said Dred.
“Yes, I did,” said Jack. “I put it away in the overcoat pocket.”
“That’s all well, then. I thought maybe Bill or Ned Gosse had stole it.
Was there anything left in it?”
“A little,” answered Jack.
Beside this Dred made no present reference to the drinking bout of the
night before.
When they went back into the house again the young lady was sitting on
the edge of the bed, smoothing her hair. “’Tis time we was starting
now, mistress,” said Dred, “and the sooner the better.”
They all went down to the boat together, the two Gosse men accompanying
them. This time they helped Jack and Dred unfurl the sail, and set the
boom and the gaff, and they pushed the boat off into the water when all
were aboard. “You’ll have a windy day outside, like enough,” Bill Gosse
said, in his slow, dull voice.
“I reckon we will,” Dred replied briefly.
There was a fine spit of rain-like mist drifting before the wind, and
the water lapped and splashed chilly, beating in little breakers upon
the beach. “You’d better put on this overcoat, mistress,” said Dred,
and he held it for the young lady as he spoke.
She looked steadily at him for a moment, and it seemed to Jack, with
some intuitive knowledge, that she was thinking of the way Dred had
been drinking with the two men the night before. Jack himself took the
coat from Dred and held it for her while she slipped her arms into the
sleeves. Then he helped her settle herself in the stern. “You’d better
put on the other overcoat, Dred,” he said. “I can do very well without
it.”
The boat was already dancing and bobbing with the short, lumpy swell
that came in from the sound around the point, and gave promise of rough
weather outside. The sail flapped and beat noisily in the wind; Jack
hoisted the peak, and Dred, drawing the sheet with one hand and holding
the tiller with the other, brought her around to the wind. The people
on the shore stood watching them as the boat heeled over and then, with
gathering headway, swept swiftly away. There were no farewells spoken.
Jack, looking behind, saw the people still standing upon the shore as
it rapidly fell away astern, dimming in the gray of the misty rain.
“About!” called Dred, sharply, and then the boat, sweeping a curve,
came around upon the other tack. Once more they came about, and then
presently they were out in the open sound. There was a heavy, lumpy sea
running, and the boat began to lift and plunge to the greater swell
with every now and then a loud, thunderous splash of water at the
bow, and a cloud of spray dashed up into the air. A wave sent a sheet
of water into the boat. “I reckon we’ll have to drop the peak a bit,
Jack,” Dred said; “she drives too hard.”
The young lady, in the first roughness of the rolling sea, was holding
tight to the rail. Jack stumbled forward across the thwarts and lowered
the peak. The water was rushing noisily past the boat. “’Tis a head
wind we’ve got for to-day,” said Dred, when he had come back into the
stern again. “I’m glad we’ve had a bit of rest afore we started, for
we’ll hardly make Roanoke afore nine or ten o’clock to-night if the
wind holds as ’tis.”
And it was after nightfall when they ran in back of Roanoke Island. The
wind had ceased blowing from the east, and was rapidly falling away.
Just at sundown, the sun had shot a level glory of light under the gray
clouds, bathing all the world with a crimson glow, and then had set,
the clouds overhead shutting in an early night. The water still heaved,
troubled with the memory of the wind that had been churning it all
day. The young lady had been feeling ill, and she now lay motionless
upon the bench, where Jack had covered her with everything obtainable,
and where she lay with her head upon her bundle of clothes, her face,
resting upon the palm of her hand, just showing beneath the wraps that
covered her. In the afternoon Dred had handed the tiller over to Jack,
who still held it. Now, wrapped in one of the overcoats, he lay upon
the other bench, perhaps sleeping. The night had fallen more and more,
and soon it was really dark. Jack held steadily to the course that
Dred had directed, and by and by he was more and more certain that he
was near the land. At last, he really did see the dim outline of the
shore, and in the lulls of the breeze he could presently hear the loud
splashing of the water upon the beach.
“Dred,” he called, “you’d better come and take the helm.” Dred roused
himself instantly, shuddering with the chill of the night air as he did
so. He looked about him, peering into the darkness.
“Ay,” he said, after a while. “’Tis Roanoke, and that must be Duck
Island over yonder, t’other way. That’s Broad Creek, yonder,” pointing
off through the night. “We might run into it, and maybe find some
shelter; but what I wants to do, is to make Shallowbag Bay. There’s
a lookout tree on the sand-hills there, and I wants to take a sight
behind us, to-morrow. D’ye see, ’tis Roanoke Sound we’re running into.
If the sloop follys us at all, ‘twill run up the ship-channel Croatan
way.”
Jack did not at all understand what Dred meant, but he gave up the
tiller to him very readily. He went across to where the young lady lay.
“How d’ye feel now, mistress?” he said.
“I feel better than I did,” she said, faintly, opening her eyes as she
spoke.
“Would you like to have a bite to eat now?” She shook her head, and
once more Jack took his place in the stern.
“There’s another reason why I wants to make Shallowbag Bay,” said
Dred. “D’ye see, there’s a house there,—or, leastwise, there used to
be,—and I thought if we could get there it might make a shelter for
the young lady, for she’s had a rough day of it to-day, for sartin.”
“How far is it?” Jack asked.
“Why,” said Dred, “no more’n a matter of eight mile, I reckon. Here;
you hold the tiller, lad, while I light my pipe.”
Maybe an hour or more passed, and then Dred began, every now and
then, to take a lookout ahead, standing up and peering away into the
darkness. The clouds had now entirely blown away, and the great vault
of sky sparkled all over with stars. All around them the water spread
out, dim and restless. They were running free close to the shore. A
point of sand jutted out pallidly into the water, and through the
darkness Jack could dimly see the recurrent gleam of breaking waves
upon it. Again Dred was standing up in the boat, looking out ahead.
“We’re all right, now,” he said, after a long time of observation,
finally taking his seat. “I’ve got my bearings now, and know where I
be. The only thing now is, that we sha’n’t run aground, for here and
there there’s not enough water to float a chip.” As he ended speaking
he put down the tiller, and the yawl ran in close around the edge of
the point. He sailed for some little distance before he spoke again.
“We’ll have to take to the oars for the rest of the way,” he said, at
last; and as he spoke he brought the bow of the boat up to the wind.
“We’re done our sailing for to-night. The shanty’s not more’n a mile
furder on from here across the bay. We’d better put up the sail here, I
reckon. ‘Twill be swinging all around in your way when ye row.”
He arose and went forward, Jack following him, and together they
loosened the boom and began reefing the sail still wet with the rain
and spray of the day’s storm. The young lady did not move; perhaps she
was asleep. Then Dred returned to the tiller, and Jack took to the oars.
In somewhat less than half an hour Jack had rowed the heavy boat across
the open water. As he looked over his shoulder, he could see a strip of
beach just ahead, drawing nearer and nearer to them through the night.
A minute more, and the bow of the boat ran grating upon a sandy shoal
and there stuck fast. Dred arose, and he and Jack stepped into the
shallow water. The young lady stirred and roused herself as they did
so. “Sit still, mistress,” said Dred, “and we’ll drag the boat up to
the beach. It seems like there’s a bank made out here since I was here
afore.” They drew the boat across the shoal and up the little strip of
beach. Beyond, a level, sedgy stretch reached away into the night.
“You wait here,” said Dred, “and I’ll go up and see if the shanty be
there yet. I know ‘twas there three year ago.”
He went away, leaving Jack and the young lady sitting in the boat.
“Do you think he’ll take us to such a place as he did last night?” she
presently asked of Jack.
“No, I know he won’t,” Jack said. “’Tis an empty hut he’s going to take
us to this time.”
“I’d rather sleep out in the boat,” she said, “than go to such a house
again. ‘Twas dreadful last night when those three men sat drinking as
they did.”
“Well,” said Jack, “this is no such a place as that. ’Tis an empty hut;
and he only comes here to find shelter for you for the night, and to
take an observation to-morrow.”
She had not said anything before as to what she had felt during the
previous night, and Jack had thought until now that perhaps it had
made little or no impression upon her. “You needn’t be afraid of Dred,
mistress,” he said, presently. “He’s rough, but he’s not a bad man, and
you needn’t be afraid of him.”
She did not reply; and Jack could read in her silence how entirely she
had lost confidence in Dred. Presently he appeared, coming through the
darkness. “’Tis all right,” he said; “I have found the cabin. We’ll
just pull the yawl a trifle furder up on the beach, and then I’ll take
ye up to it. Now, mistress, if you’ll step ashore.”
Jack and Dred helped the young lady out of the boat. She stood upon the
damp beach wrapped in the overcoat she had worn all day as Jack drove
the anchor down into the sandy soil and made fast the bow-line. Dred
opened the locker and brought out the biscuit and the ham.
He led the way for some distance through the darkness, his feet
rustling harshly through the wiry, sedgy grass, and by and by Jack
made out the dim outline of the wooden hut looming blackly against the
starry sky. It was quite deserted, and the doorway gaped darkly. It
stood as though toppling to fall; but the roof was sound, and the floor
within was tolerably dry. At any rate, it was a protection from the
night. As Dred struck the flint and steel, Jack stripped some planks
from the wall, breaking them into shorter pieces with his heel, and
presently a fire blazed and crackled upon the ground before the open
doorway of the hut, lighting up the sedgy, sandy space of the night for
some distance around.
After they had eaten their rude meal, they made the young lady as
comfortable as possible; then they sat down side by side to dry their
damp clothes by the fire. It burned down to a heap of hot, glowing
coals, and Jack threw on another armful of sticks; they blazed up with
renewed brightness, lighting up the interior of the hut with a red glow.
“Like enough this is the last stop we can make,” said Dred, “betwixt
here and the inlet.”
“How far is the inlet from here, d’ye suppose?” Jack asked.
“Perhaps a matter of twenty league or so,” said Dred. “We can’t expect
the wind to favor us as it has done. We’ve got along mightily well so
far, I can tell ye. We’ve got a lead far away ahead of any chase the
captain can make arter us. I do believe we be safe enough now; all the
same I’m going over to the sand-hills to-morrow to take a look astern.
Over in that direction—” and he pointed with his pipe—“there’s a
lookout tree we used to use three or four year ago when we was cruising
around here in the sounds.”
“Do you know, Dred,” said Jack, “I believe you’re vastly the better in
health for coming off with us? You don’t seem near as sick as you did
before we left Bath Town.”
“Ay,” said Dred; “that’s allus the way with a sick body. I hain’t time
now to think how sick I be.”