“DEAD MEN’S INLET”
Both the Carreaus were very much interested in our plans for making a
real business of the orange grove, and shipping to the States as often
as we could arrange for vessels to stop and load a cargo at the Island.
During their ownership of Sunset Island, they had been content to sell
the fruit at Martinique, and occasionally make a shipment to Cuba or
Jamaica, when opportunity offered. Their market hadn’t been big, and
neither had their profits, but they had had few real expenses, and
until the death of Raoul, which had taken the heart out of them both,
they had evidently been satisfied to drift along getting what they
could for their crops.
But Uncle Joe and Uncle Charles were planning to ship on a really
big scale. Uncle Joe had brought back a little group of workers with
him--all hands who had been used to the work in Florida groves--and
the first labor he had set them at was building a row of neat little
cabins down at the other end of the garden, to serve as quarters.
Monsieur Carreau, in spite of his rather indolent management of the
grove originally, possessed a good deal of valuable knowledge of
orange-growing, and spurred on by our enthusiasm, he offered his
services as advisor and instructor, and pretty soon had worked out
a number of very helpful plans that Uncle Joe and Uncle Charles
immediately acted on.
The Carreaus had been living on the Island about two weeks, and the
_Myra_ was preparing to sail north again (she had been chartered months
beforehand to carry lumber from Savannah to Boston at this time), when
Madame Carreau came to Andy and me with a new proposition.
“I am so amazed and delighted, children, with all this businesslike
activity on the Island,” she began in her pretty, fluttering voice.
“But thinking it over--oh, so very hard--it has occurred to me that you
two _enfants_ and your good Aunt, and I might organize ourselves as
business women, and build up what your _oncle_ would call a--I have it!
a little _side line_ business.”
“Let’s go down to the beach and talk it over,” I suggested eagerly,
for when Madame proposed anything, we had learned already it was only
after much careful consideration, and would be sure to be interesting.
So we each took a big sunshade and started down the Planter’s Road. The
sun had dropped behind the Sugar Loaf plateau, and there was a nice
long strip of shade at our favorite end of the lagoon beach. Andy and I
had brought several pillows for us all to tuck ourselves up on cosily,
while we discussed plans.
From a deep pocket in her grey linen dress--I guess Madame’s the one
woman left today who has that kind of pockets in her gowns--she drew a
little book, about the size of Rosemary’s diary, and bound like it, in
yellowish-white silk.
“You missed this, Andrée, when you found the diary in Rosemary’s
chest,” she said, smiling at our exclamations. “This was Rosemary’s
cook book, and each housekeeper of each succeeding generation of the
Carreaus, has added new recipes. There are several of my own in it.”
She laid it on Andy’s lap, and leaning over, I helped her turn the
yellowed, neatly written pages, curiously.
“I was sure it had been packed away in the old chest before we left the
Island, so this morning I made a search, and fortunately it was still
there.” She took the little book back, and turning over the leaves
hurriedly, found what she was looking for.
It was headed, in the same old-fashioned, curly-cue lettering of
the diary: “Candied Orange Peel _à la Josephine_,” and there were
two closely written pages of explicit directions that it would take
too long to set down here. Besides, as Madame reminded me, it’s our
business secret now, so we can’t give it away for outsiders to read.
“It is supposed, by family tradition,” Madame informed us, “to have
been a sweet of which Josephine--afterward Empress of the French--was
inordinately fond. It has come down in our family through all the
generations since. This afternoon, if you agree, _chéries_, we will
gather some suitable oranges, and prepare everything to commence the
preserving and candying tomorrow morning. Ah--but wait only, until you
have tasted this delicious confection!”
“I love candied peel,” I sighed, my mouth watering. “I suppose though,
this is something specially wonderful.”
She laughed, and made a little face expressive of just _how_ wonderful
it was going to be.
“Wait until you taste--that is all,” she said very impressively. “Then
we hold, perhaps, a family council--just the feminine members--and
decide whether we might not build up our own little business for
shipping sweets, _à la_ Empress Josephine, to your big New York and
Chicago and Philadelphia. We must make charming little boxes to hold
the sweets, and imagine some pretty sentiment for a--what do you call
it--trade mark, _n’est-ce pas_? We shall become immensely wealthy--oh,
but immediately!”
We laughed, but Andy and I were at once as fired with enthusiasm for
the new project as she was. And I couldn’t see any reason either, if
the recipe was really as wonderful as Madame declared, why we shouldn’t
find a market for it.
It was pretty to see how pleased she was because we were pleased. She
insisted on reading the recipe over to us, and explaining with great
care and detail every stage of the candying process, although as I’m
not much of a cook myself, it didn’t all make as much sense to me as
she thought it did. I can’t speak for Andy.
We decided not to tell the rest of the family what we were planning; we
just told them we were candying some orange peel by an old recipe of
Madame’s and everyone’s mouths watered in anticipation, just as mine
had--we’re a family with an awfully sweet tooth, all of us.
Later that day, when it grew cooler, Madame, Andy and I went down to
the grove, and Madame selected the oranges herself, to be used for
the experiment, so there shouldn’t be any chances of a slip the next
morning.
There’s a sort of large alcove to the kitchen at Planter’s
House--almost a second kitchen in itself, for it has a big table,
cabinets, and everything complete except a stove. So we took possession
of this, and made it our work shop.
Here on the big center table, Madame spread the oranges, after first
carefully washing them, and drying them with a soft, clean towel. Then
all the ingredients for the recipe were checked up, and measured out in
cups and jars and set out on the table--covered of course--all ready
for us to start work the first thing in the morning.
I’d watched candied peel made before, but I certainly had never seen so
many spices and different kinds of sugar, and other fruits included in
the recipe. But it sounded _scr-r-rumptious_, I can tell you! I went to
bed that night so excited, and anxious for the morning to come, that it
seemed as if the night would never be over.
However, I did fall asleep at last, and then the next thing I knew was
Madame knocking on my door, and whispering that it was time to get up.
I tumbled out of bed, snatched a towel, and pulled on my Annette in a
hurry--for of course we weren’t going to miss our morning dip because
we were starting in business that day.
Andy had been waked too, and was just coming out of her room in her
bathing suit and kimono, and we all stole down the stairs softly,
letting ourselves out into the beautiful early morning. Every day was
beautiful on Sunset Island at this season, but most beautiful at this
hour of the day, and later, at sunset.
We didn’t linger over our swim; just took several plunges, swam a
hundred yards or so, and then hurried back to the house to dress. We
were out in the kitchen within half an hour from the time Madame had
waked us, and had the great work started before anyone else in the
family had thought of getting up.
Madame showed me just how the rind must be cut, and after a few clumsy
attempts I caught the idea, and got under way fairly fast, while
Andy and she mixed spices, and measured and weighed. My land! it was
a complicated performance, that candying, yet Madame went at it so
easily and as if she knew each motion by heart--as she undoubtedly
did--that after a while I began to look on it too, as simply part of a
familiar routine.
After about three-quarters of an hour, Aunt Mollie came into the
kitchen to start the breakfast, and was astonished not only to find us
already at work, but that we had the breakfast half cooked as well.
It took three days--of course working only a few hours at a time--to
complete the job, but the results, when we tasted them, certainly
justified _any_ amount of time it might have required. Don’t ask me
to describe the taste; it’s beyond me. But if you want to try it for
yourselves, go into almost any big candy shop or fancy grocery in the
larger cities and ask for “Orange Peel _à la_ Josephine.”
The only thing I can think of to compare it with is that spicy little
Island breeze I love. The Orange Peel tastes, to me, exactly the way
that smells. If you have any imagination you’ll get an idea of it; and
if you haven’t, then no words will help you anyhow.
The boys were wild about it, and that first batch we’d made didn’t last
long. The evening the last crumb of it disappeared, Madame called the
whole family to a council, in the big hall by the fountain, and in her
pretty half-French English, laid our plan before them and asked for
volunteers to help us see it through.
Well, when she finished, it seemed as if everybody present had
something to say--all of them excited and pleased and anxious to do
anything they could. Syd suggested that Dan and he should make the
boxes, just as we’d hoped they would, and they went off in a corner and
had a sort of council-within-a-council about the materials they meant
to use--what would prove most durable and air-tight.
Finally they came back, very enthusiastic, with broad grins on their
faces, and announced that they had a real inspiration. To keep the peel
fresh for the long trip, they said it ought to be packed in air-tight
tins first, and for this they could use small round baking powder
boxes--we had an enormous supply of these in the house, and when the
_Myra_ went north again she could order us as many empty tins as we’d
need, of course.
They were going to paint the tins green outside, and then use strips of
palmetto to weave cunning basket-work around them. They even offered to
make several samples so we could choose the most effective design, and
promised to begin work at once.
On the _Myra’s_ return from New York, she had brought us, along with
the new supplies, a lovely birch-bark canoe, painted a dull green,
which the boys had been crazy to have for fishing in the lagoon.
I had been out in it several times with both Syd and Uncle Joe but I
had never paddled it alone. It takes quite a lot of skill to propel and
steer a canoe with one paddle, and though I’d been wanting to try it,
so far the opportunity hadn’t happened to come. That night, when our
exciting conference about the candied-peel business was over, I ran
down the Planter’s Road to the lagoon beach for a last breath of sea
air, to cool off before turning in.
I didn’t think to stop and tell anyone where I was bound, as I’d done
this, either alone or with the others, so often before. But I had no
sooner reached the beach on that particular evening, and seen the
green canoe pulled up above high tide mark on the sand, with the big,
tropical golden moon shining down enticingly on it, than I was seized
with a perfectly irresistible temptation to launch it, and paddle about
the lagoon alone for ten minutes or so before going back to the house.
Even if I didn’t manage specially brilliantly at paddling by myself,
I couldn’t come to harm in the quiet, reef-enclosed lagoon, I argued
with an exasperating little doubt that pricked me. Why, even if I
contrived to upset myself, which wasn’t likely, I could swim across the
lagoon and back several times without tiring--I’d done it too, in my
morning swims.
And if I were going to make a joke of myself upsetting, I’d much rather
have no witnesses about to jeer at me afterwards.
The canoe was quite deeply bedded in the sand, but I’m a pretty strong
girl, and after a lot of heaving and pulling, I got it down to the edge
of the water and was just about to climb aboard when somebody called me
and I nearly jumped out of my skin, with the start I gave. But it was
only little Reddy, who had evidently seen me slip out of the house and
followed me.
As he was there, there wasn’t anything to do but take him along. He was
so excited when I told him he could come, that I felt selfish at having
tried to steal such a gorgeous night all for myself.
We kept the paddles in the canoe, since there was no chance of thieves
on the Island, but foolishly I tossed the second one back on the sand
as I got in and then, seating myself on the stern seat, and with Reddy
on the floor facing me, we pushed off.
It gave me a real thrill of adventure being out there in the bright
moonlight, with the black shadows making the shore look unfamiliar and
sort of dangerous. I hadn’t seen the Island from the lagoon before at
night, except from the _Myra’s_ deck, which was quite different again.
It was so lovely and cool, with that spicy little land breeze I loved,
blowing across my hot face, and filling my nose with its delicious tang
of spices and moist warm earth, and tropical gardens, and all the rest
of it.
Reddy sat on the canoe floor as quiet as a little mouse, letting one
fat hand trail over the side in the warm water.
For a few minutes we just drifted lazily. I dipped the paddle in a
little half stroke that kept the canoe barely moving, and after a while
I noticed that we had got into the current that sets seaward through
the opening in the reef. However, it was always such a gentle little
current, except in storms, that that didn’t worry me.
Swimming in the lagoon as much as we did, we’d discovered that there
were quite a number of little cross currents always moving the
water--sometimes seaward, sometimes north or south along the inner line
of the reef. This one that had caught Reddy and me was the strongest,
but I knew it wouldn’t mean exerting hardly any effort when I got as
near the reef-opening as I wished, to paddle across the current, and so
back to shore outside its influence. I’d seen the boys do it hundreds
of times.
At last I decided that it was time to turn back, and dipped my paddle
deeper, putting more strength into my strokes. Just as I’d expected,
I won free of the current’s pull easily enough, but to my surprise,
beyond it, the bow of the canoe was snatched sharply round by a new
current, much, much stronger than the old one. The suddenness of it
jerked the paddle from my fingers, and before I could reach for it, it
was swirling away, tantalizingly, just ahead of us, bound northward at
a sort of right angle to the reef, inside the shadow of the shore-line.
And close after it, bobbing gaily in its wake, went the canoe with
Reddy and me as helpless and astonished passengers.
I knew I could have gone overboard and swum to the paddle, but while
I was doing that the canoe might be hurried on by the current beyond
my swimming speed--which is slow. And I daren’t risk that with Reddy
in it. I’ll confess I was a tiny bit scared, just for a minute; then
I decided, as long as this new current appeared to be carrying us
shoreward anyway, my best course was to sit tight and see what would
happen.
This north end of the lagoon we seemed bound for, was the part we
hadn’t really explored from the shore, for the jungle grew very close
to the water here, and was impenetrable without machetes. The time we’d
all made the circuit of the Island on our three-days’ walking trip
of exploration, we had skirted the water’s edge at this part of the
journey. The tide had happened to be low too, so we’d had no trouble
passing over this stretch.
For that reason I wasn’t over-keen about landing at this end of
the lagoon, unless I could find the paddle somewhere along the
edge of the water when we grounded, and paddle back. But just as
I was thinking this might be possible, the moon that was lighting
the way so splendidly went under a big black cloud, and instantly
everything--lagoon, shore, and the dark outline of Sugar Loaf above me,
all melted into a solid wall of inky blackness. At the same moment I
felt a little grating jar under me, and knew the canoe had run its nose
aground on the beach.
Reddy, who--after one anxious glance at me when the paddle went
overboard--had sat perfectly still, offering no comments or advice, now
burst into a relieved little crow of delight.
“There’s the beach, Gay,” he shouted triumphantly. “Let’s get out an’
see if we can find the ol’ paddle.”
I thought that might be good advice, and got to my feet, carefully
feeling my way forward, and climbed over the bow down on the wet sand.
A long ripple, like a miniature wave, washed up over my feet, wetting
my white canvas pumps and splashing up my legs. But a wetting was the
least of my worries just then, and clutching the painter with one hand
firmly, cautioning Reddy to sit tight, I continued to walk up the
shelving beach, dragging the canoe and its small passenger after me.
A hanging vine, with a long, scented flower at the end, swished across
my face after I’d gone five steps, so I knew I was approaching the
jungle. Instinctively I swerved to the right, still pulling the canoe,
and found the way clearer before me. I took five more steps, and at the
fifth plunged into water up to my waist.
It surprised me so that I lost my balance, and as I went under I heard
a frightened little squeak from Reddy when he saw me disappear; I
had no trouble picking myself up, spluttering and drenched from head
to toes. I remember my first amazed realization was that the water I
wiped from my face and my lips was _fresh_--or at most had a faintly
brackish taste instead of the salt water of the lagoon.
And then, just when I needed it most, the moon came out from the
clouds, and flooded down through the interlaced branches of the jungle
that made a sort of open-work roof above us. By its light I saw that
what I’d thought was the beach was a narrow sand bar across the mouth
of what looked like a small stream, flowing out from the blackness of
the jungle, toward us.
But in the darkness, and with the responsibility of Reddy on my hands,
this was emphatically no time for exploring. So, holding by the
painter, I scrambled back to the sand and pushed the canoe backward
into the lagoon. Reddy, who hadn’t been out of it at all, was still
perfectly dry, and to my delight, right beside me the lost paddle was
drifting on the little ripples. I held the canoe steady, while Reddy
leaned over and rescued it, and in another minute we were paddling
south along the shore to our familiar landing place.
There hadn’t been any real danger in our little adventure, but even if
there had I’m sure I’d have forgotten it in the mad excitement that was
filling me at the discovery I’d made that night.
That brackish stream, slipping so quietly out of the jungle, and
sinking into the sand of the bar across its mouth, was--_must_ be the
“Dead Men’s Inlet” of Morgan’s map, that we’d been so certain wasn’t on
our Sunset Island. Not finding the inlet had been the principal proof
to Uncle Joe and the rest of them that a mistake had been made by the
old buccaneer who copied the map, and that Sunset Island wasn’t really
the famous treasure island at all.
It was simple enough to reason out now how the inlet had escaped
us, and how even the Carreaus, who had lived on the Island so long
before us, had missed it too. The silting up of the sand across the
inlet mouth, and the heavy jungle growth on the shore, had proved as
effective a screen for his secret as even Morgan himself could have
desired.
I paddled with frantic haste, on fire with impatience to get back to
Planter’s House and spring my wonderful find on the assembled company,
who must by this time be a little uneasy as to our whereabouts.