A GIRL WHO LAUGHED
It was towards nightfall of the day on which Dickory had escaped from
the pirates at the spring that he found himself on a piece of high
ground in an open place in the forest, and here he determined to spend
the night. With his dirk he cut a quantity of palmetto leaves and made
himself a very comfortable bed, on which he was soon asleep, fearing no
pirates.
In the morning he rose early from his green couch, ate the few biscuits
which were left in his pockets, and, putting on his shoes and stockings,
started forth upon, what might have been supposed to be, an aimless
tramp.
But it was not aimless. Dickory had a most wholesome dread of that
indomitable apostle of cruelty and wickedness, the pirate Blackbeard. He
believed that it would be quite possible for that savage being to tie up
his beard in tails, to blacken his face with powder, to hang more
pistols from his belt and around his neck, and swear that the Revenge
should never leave her anchorage until her first lieutenant had been
captured and brought back to her. So he had an aim, and that was to get
away as far as possible from the spot where he had landed on the island.
He did not believe that his pursuers, if there were any upon his track,
could have travelled in the night, for it had been pitchy black; and, as
he now had a good start of them, he thought he might go so far that they
would give up the search. Then he hoped to be able to keep himself alive
until he was reasonably sure that the Revenge had hoisted anchor and
sailed away, when it was his purpose to make his way back to the spring
and wait for some other vessel which would take him away.
With his shoes on he travelled more easily, although not so swiftly, and
after an hour of very rough walking he heard a sound which made him stop
instantly and listen. At first he thought it might be the wind in the
trees, but soon his practised ear told him that it was the sound of the
surf upon the beach. Without the slightest hesitation, he made his way
as quickly as possible towards the sound of the sea.
In less than half an hour he found himself upon a stretch of sand which
extended from the forest to the sea, and upon which the waves were
throwing themselves in long, crested lines. With a cry of joy he ran out
upon the beach, and with outstretched arms he welcomed the sea as if it
had been an old and well-tried friend.
But Dickory's gratitude and joy had nothing to found itself upon. The
sea might far better have been his enemy than his friend, for if he had
thought about it, the sandy beach would have been the road by which a
portion of the pirate's men would have marched to cut off his flight, or
they would have accomplished the same end in boats.
But Dickory thought of no enemy and his heart was cheered. He pressed on
along the beach. The walking was so much better now that he made good
progress, and the sun had not reached its zenith when he found himself
on the shore of a small stream which came down from some higher land in
the interior and here poured itself into the sea. He walked some
distance by this stream, in order to get some water which might be free
from brackishness, and then, with very little trouble, he crossed it.
Before him was a knoll of moderate height, and covered with low foliage.
Mounting this, he found that he had an extended view over the interior
of the island. In the background there stretched a wide savanna, and at
the distance of about half a mile he saw, very near a little cluster of
trees, a thin column of smoke. His eyes rounded and he stared and
stared. He now perceived, from behind the leaves, the end of a thatched
roof.
"People!" Dickory exclaimed, and his heart beat fast with joy. Why his
heart should be joyful he could not have told himself except that there
was no earthly reason to believe that the persons who were making that
fire near that thatched-roof house were pirates. To go to this house,
whatever it might be, to take his chances there instead of remaining
alone in the wide forest, was our young man's instant determination. But
before he started there was something else he thought of. He took off
his coat, and with a bunch of leaves he brushed it. Then he arranged the
plumes of his hat and brushed some mud from them, gave himself a general
shake, and was ready to make a start. All this by a fugitive pursued by
savage pirates on a desert island! But Dickory was a young man, and he
wore the uniform of a naval officer.
After a brisk walk, which was somewhat longer than he had supposed it
would be, Dickory reached the house behind the trees. At a short
distance burned the fire whose smoke he had seen. Over the fire hung an
iron pot. Oh, blessed pot! A gentle breeze blew from the fire towards
Dickory, and from the heavenly odour which was borne upon it he knew
that something good to eat was cooking in that pot.
A man came quickly from behind the house. He was tall, with a beard a
little gray, and his scanty attire was of the most nondescript fashion.
With amazement upon his face, he spoke to Dickory in English.
"What, sir," he cried, "has a man-of-war touched at this island?"
Dickory could not help smiling, for the man's countenance told him how
he had been utterly astounded, and even stupefied, by the sight of a
gentleman in naval uniform in the interior of that island, an almost
desert region.
"No man-of-war has touched here," said Dickory, "and I don't belong to
one. I wear these clothes because I am compelled to do so, having no
others. Yesterday afternoon I escaped from some pirates who stopped for
water, and since leaving them I have made my way to this spot."
The man stepped forth quickly and stretched out his hand.
"Bless you! Bless you!" he cried. "You are the first human being, other
than my family, that I have seen for two years."
A little girl now came from behind the house, and when her eyes fell
upon Dickory and his cocked hat she screamed with terror and ran
indoors. A woman appeared at the door, evidently the man's wife. She had
a pleasant face, but her clothes riveted Dickory's attention. It would
be impossible to describe them even if one were gazing upon them. It
will be enough to say that they covered her. Her amazement more than
equalled that of her husband; she stood and stared, but could not speak.
"From the spring at the end of the island," cried the man, "to this
house since yesterday afternoon! I have always supposed that no one
could get here from the spring by land. I call that way impassable. You
are safe here, sir, I am sure. Pirates would not follow very far through
those forests and morasses; they would be afraid they would never get
back to their ship. But I will find out for certain if you have reason,
sir, to fear pursuit by boat or otherwise."
And then, stepping around to the other end of the house, he called,
"Lucilla!"
"You are hungry, sir," said the woman; "presently you shall share our
meal, which is almost cooked."
Now the man returned.
"This is not a time for questions, sir," he said, "either from you or
from us. You must eat and you must rest, then we can talk. We shall not
any of us apologize for our appearance, and you will not expect it when
you have heard our story. But I can assure you, sir, that we do not look
nearly so strange to you as you appear to us. Never before, sir, did I
see in this climate, and on shore, a man attired in such fashion."
Dickory smiled. "I will tell you the tale of it," he said, "when we have
eaten; I admit that I am famished."
The man was now called away, and when he returned he said to Dickory:
"Fear nothing, sir; your ship is no longer at the anchorage by the
spring. She has sailed away, wisely concluding, I suppose, that pursuit
of you would be folly, and even madness."
The dinner was an exceedingly plain one, spread upon a rude table under
a tree. The little girl, who had overcome her fear of "the soldier" as
she considered him, made one of the party.
During the meal Dickory briefly told his story, confining it to a mere
statement of his escape from the pirates.
"Blackbeard!" exclaimed the man. "Truly you did well to get away from
him, no matter into what forests you plunged or upon what desert island
you lost yourself. At any moment he might have turned upon you and cut
you to pieces to amuse himself. I have heard the most horrible stories
of Blackbeard."
"He treated me very well," said Dickory, "but I know from his own words
that he reserved me for a most horrible fate."
"What!" exclaimed the man, "and he told you? He is indeed a demon!"
"Yes," said Dickory, "he said over and over again that he was going to
take me to England to marry me to his daughter."
At this the wife could not refrain from a smile. "Matrimony is not
generally considered a horrible fate," said she; "perhaps his daughter
may be a most comely and estimable young person. Girls do not always
resemble their fathers."
"Do not mention it," exclaimed Dickory, with a shudder; "that was one
reason that I ran away; I preferred any danger from man or beast to that
he was taking me to."
"He is engaged to be married," thought the woman; "it is easy enough to
see that."
"Now tell me your story, I pray you," said Dickory. "But first, I would
like very much to know how you found out that Blackbeard's ship was not
at her anchorage?"
"That's a simple thing," said the man. "Of course you did not observe,
for you could not, that from its eastern point where lies the spring,
this island stretches in a long curve to the south, reaching northward
again about this spot. Consequently, there is a little bay to the east
of us, across which we can see the anchoring ground of such ships as may
stop here for water. Your way around the land curve of the island was a
long one, but the distance straight across the bay is but a few miles.
Upon a hill not far from here there is a very tall tree, which overtops
all the other trees, and to the upper branches of this tree my daughter,
who is a great climber, frequently ascends with a small glass, and is
thus able to report if there is a vessel at the anchorage."
"What!" exclaimed Dickory, "that little girl?"
"Oh, no!" said the man; "it is my other daughter, who is a grown young
woman."
"She is not here now," said the mother. And this piece of unnecessary
information was given in tones which might indicate that the young lady
had stepped around to visit a neighbour.
"It is important," said the man, "that I should know if vessels have
anchored here, for if they be merchantmen I sometimes do business with
them."
"Business!" said Dickory. "That sounds extremely odd. Pray tell me how
you came to be here."
"My name is Mander," said the other, "and about two years ago I was on
my way from England to Barbadoes, where, with my wife and two girls, I
expected to settle. We were captured by a pirate ship and marooned upon
this island. I will say, to the pirate captain's credit, that he was a
good sort of man considering his profession. He sailed across the bay on
purpose to find a suitable place to land us, and he left with us some
necessary articles, such as axes and tools, kitchen utensils, and a gun
with some ammunition. Then he sailed away, leaving us here, and here we
have since lived. Under the circumstances, we have no right to complain,
for had we been taken by an ordinary pirate it is likely that our bones
would now be lying at the bottom of the ocean.
"Here I have worked hard and have made myself a home, such as it is.
There are wild cattle upon the distant savannas, and I trap game and
birds, cultivate the soil to a certain extent, and if we had clothes I
might say we would be in better circumstances than many a respectable
family in England. Sometimes when a merchantman anchors here and I have
hides or anything else which we can barter for things we need, I row
over the bay in a canoe which I have made, and have thus very much
bettered our condition. But in no case have I been able to provide my
family with suitable clothes."
"Why did you not get some of these merchant ships to carry you away?"
asked Dickory.
The man shook his head. "There is no place," he said sadly, "to which I
can in reason ask a ship to carry me and my family. We have no money, no
property whatever. In any other place I would be far poorer than I am
here. My children are not uneducated; my wife and I have done our best
for them in that respect, and we have some books with us. So, as you
see, it would be rash in me to leave a home which, rude as it is,
shelters and supports my family, to go as paupers and strangers to some
other land."
The wife heaved a sigh. "But poor Lucilla!" she said. "It is dreadful
that she should be forced to grow up here."
"Lucilla?" asked Dickory.
"Yes, sir," she said, "my eldest daughter. But she is not here now."
Dickory thought that it was somewhat odd that he should be again
informed of a fact which he knew very well, but he made no remarks upon
the subject.
Still wearing his cocked hat--for he had nothing else with which to
shield his head from the sun--and with his uniform coat on, for he had
not yet an opportunity of ripping from it the letter he carried, and
this he would not part from--Dickory roamed about the little settlement.
Mander was an industrious and thrifty man. His garden, his buildings,
and his surroundings showed that.
Walking past a clump of low bushes, Dickory was startled by a laugh--a
hearty laugh--the laugh of a girl. Looking quickly around, he saw,
peering above the tops of the bushes, the face of the girl who had
laughed.
"It is too funny!" she said, as his eyes fell upon her. "I never saw
anything so funny in all my life. A man in regimentals in this weather
and upon a desert island. You look as if you had marched faster than
your army, and that you had lost it in the forest."
Dickory smiled. "You ought not to laugh at me," he said, "for these
clothes are really a great misfortune. If I could change them for
something cool I should be more than delighted."
"You might take off your heavy coat," said she; "you need not be on
parade here. And instead of that awful hat, I can make you one of long
grass. Do you see the one I have on? Isn't that a good hat? I have one
nearly finished which I am making for my father; you may have that."
Dickory would most gladly have taken off his coat if, without
observation, he could have transferred his sacred letter to some other
part of his clothes, but he must wait for that. He accepted instantly,
however, the offer of the hat.
"You seem to know all about me," he said; "did you hear me tell my
story?"
"Every word of it," said she, "and it is the queerest story I ever
heard. Think of a pirate carrying a man away to marry him to his
daughter!"
"But why don't you come from behind that bush and talk to me?"
"I can't do it," said she, "I am dressed funnier than you are. Now I am
going to make your hat." And in an instant she had departed.
Dickory now strolled on, and when he returned he seated himself in the
shade near the house. The letter of Captain Vince was taken from his
coat-lining and secured in one of his breeches pockets; his heavy coat
and waistcoat lay upon the ground beside him, with the cocked hat placed
upon them. As he leaned back against the tree and inhaled the fragrant
breeze which came to him from the forest, Dickory was a more cheerful
young man than he had been for many, many days. He thought of this
himself, and wondered how a man, carrying with him his sentence of
lifelong misery, could lean against a tree and take pleasure in
anything, be it a hospitable welcome, a sense of freedom from danger, a
fragrant breeze, or the face of a pretty girl behind a bush. But these
things did please him; he could not help it. And when presently came
Mrs. Mander, bringing him a light grass hat fresh from the
manufacturer's hands, he took it and put it on with more evident
pleasure than the occasion seemed to demand.
"Your daughter is truly an artist," said Dickory.
"She does many things well," said the mother, "because necessity compels
her and all of us to learn to work in various ways."
"Can I not thank her?" said Dickory.
"No," the mother answered, "she is not here now."
Dickory had begun to hate that self-evident statement.
"She's looking out for ships; her pride is a little touched that she
missed Blackbeard's vessel yesterday."
"Perhaps," said Dickory, with a movement as if he would like to make a
step in the direction of some tall tree upon a hill.
"No," said Mrs. Mander, "I cannot ask you to join my daughter. I am
compelled to state that her dress is not a suitable one in which to
appear before a stranger."
"Excuse me," said Dickory; "and I beg, madam, that you will convey to
her my thanks for making me such an excellent hat."
A little later Mander joined Dickory. "I am sorry, sir," said he, "that
I am not able to present you to my daughter Lucilla. It is a great grief
to us that her attire compels her to deny herself other company than
that of her family. I really believe, sir, that it is Lucilla's
deprivations on this island which form at present my principal
discontent with my situation. But we all enjoy good health, we have
enough to eat, and shelter over us, and should not complain."
As soon as he was at liberty to do so, Dickory walked by the hedge of
low bushes, and there, above it, was the bright face, with the pretty
grass hat.
"I was waiting for you," said she. "I wanted to see how that hat fitted,
and I think it does nicely. And I wanted to tell you that I have been
looking out for ships, but have not seen one. I don't mean by that that
I want you to go away almost as soon as you have come, but of course, if
a merchant ship should anchor here, it would be dreadful for you not to
know."
"I am not sure," said Dickory gallantly, "that I am in a hurry for a
ship. It is truly very pleasant here."
"What makes it pleasant?" said the girl.
Dickory hesitated for a moment. "The breeze from the forest," said he.
She laughed. "It is charming," she said, "but there are so many places
where there is just as good a breeze, or perhaps better. How I would
like to go to some one of them! To me this island is lonely and doleful.
Every time I look over the sea for a ship I hope that one will come that
can carry us away."
"Then," said Dickory, "I wish a ship would come to-morrow and take us
all away together."
She shook her head. "As my father told you," said she, "we have no place
to go to."
Dickory thought a good deal about the sad condition of the family of
this worthy marooner. He thought of it even after he had stretched
himself for the night upon the bed of palmetto leaves beneath the tree
against which he had leaned when he wondered how he could be so cheerful
under the shadow of the sad fate which was before him.