AT THE HELM
Mr. Oliver did not come back until nightfall. He said nothing about his
visit to the settlement and several days passed before the boys heard
anything further of the matter. In the meanwhile they went on with the
drain they were cutting across a swampy strip of clearing, and one
afternoon they stood in the bottom of the four-foot trench. Harry was
then busy with a grubhoe, cutting through the roots and breaking up the
wet soil, which his companion flung out with a long-handled shovel. It
was unpleasantly hot, and the flies were troublesome. Frank's hands were
too muddy to brush them away and they crawled about his face and into
his ears. He had already decided that draining was about the last
occupation he would have chosen for a scorching afternoon, had the
choice been open to him.
He stood, stripped to shirt and trousers, in about a foot of water, and
because he had not learned the trick of pitching out the soil, part of
every shovelful fell back upon him. His shirt was spattered all over,
and patches of sticky mire glued it to his skin. There was no doubt that
ranching was considerably less romantic than he had supposed it to be,
and logging and ditching struck him as particularly uninteresting and
somewhat barbarous work, but he was beginning to realize that all the
agricultural prosperity of his country was founded on toil of a very
similar kind. The wheat and the fruit trees would not grow until man
with patient labor had prepared the soil for them, and, what was more
significant, Mr. Oliver had made it plain that their yield varied in
direct proportion with the work bestowed on them. Nature's alchemy, it
seemed, could transmute the effort of straining muscle into golden
sheaves, glowing-tinted apples, and velvet-skinned peaches and prunes.
It was clear to Frank that if he meant to become a rancher he must make
up his mind to face a good many unpleasant tasks, and he swung up the
mire shovelful by shovelful, though his back and limbs were aching and
he had to work in a horribly cramped position. He was young, and though
there were times when the work seemed almost too much for him, it was
consoling to feel when he laid down his tools at night that he was
growing harder and tougher with every day's toil, for his muscles were
now beginning to obey instead of mastering him. He could go on for
several hours after they commenced to ache, without its costing him any
great effort.
By and by, however, there was an interruption, and Frank was by no means
sorry when Mr. Oliver came up with a stranger and called them out of the
trench.
"This is Mr. Barclay whose business is connected with the collection of
the United States revenue," he said. "I believe he would like a little
talk with you."
He walked away and left them with the stranger, who sat down on a log
and took out a cigar. He was a little man and rather stout, dressed
carelessly in store clothes, with a big soft hat and a white shirt which
bulged up above the opening in his half-buttoned vest. It occurred to
Frank that he looked like a country doctor. From out rather bushy
eyebrows shone a pair of whimsical, twinkling eyes. When he had lighted
his cigar he indicated the trench with a large, plump hand.
"Been making all that hole yourselves?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," replied Harry.
"Interesting work?"
"That depends on how you look at it," said Harry flippantly. "Would you
like to try?"
Mr. Barclay waved his hand. "It isn't necessary. Did something of the
same kind years ago--only, if I remember, it was rather wetter."
"Where was that?" Harry inquired with an air of languid politeness, at
which Frank felt inclined to chuckle.
"Place called Forks Butte Creek. It was a twenty-foot trench."
Harry seemed astonished and his manner suddenly changed.
"You were with the boys at Forks Butte when they swung the creek?"
"Sure," assented Mr. Barclay with a laugh. "I didn't expect you'd have
heard of it. You certainly weren't ranching then."
"I've heard of it lots of times," declared Harry, turning excitedly to
Frank. "It was one of the biggest things ever done by a few men this
side of the Cascades. The old-timers talk about it yet. A mining
row--there were about a dozen of them working some alluvial claims on a
disputed location. I don't know the whole of it, but the thing turned
upon the frontage, and they stood off a swarm of jumpers while they
shifted the creek."
"Something like that," said Mr. Barclay. "In those days they interpreted
the mining laws with a certain amount of sentiment, which--and in some
respects it's a pity--they don't do now." He paused and flicked the ash
from his cigar. "I understand you have been seeing a mysterious
schooner."
His tone was sufficiently ironical to put Harry on his mettle, and he
furnished a full and particular account of the vessel. When he had
finished Mr. Barclay glanced at him with amusement in his eyes.
"You have an idea there might be smugglers on board of her?" he
suggested.
"It's more than an idea. I'm sure."
"I wonder if you could tell me why?"
It was rather difficult to answer, but Harry made the attempt,
furnishing his questioner with half a dozen reasons which did not seem
to have much effect on him.
"Well," he persisted, "you're convinced she had opium and Chinamen on
board her?"
"Aren't you?"
Mr. Barclay looked up with a smile. "At the present moment I can't form
an opinion. After all, it's possible."
He rose, and as he was strolling away toward the house Harry's face
contracted into an indignant frown.
"That man must have been cooking, or something of the kind, at Forks
Butte," he broke out contemptuously. "Anyway, it was the last time he
ever did anything worth talking about. Did you ever run up against such
a stuffed image?"
Frank was far from certain that this description was altogether
applicable to the stranger, but Harry seemed so much annoyed that he did
not express his opinion, and they got down into the trench again. When
they went back to the ranch an hour later they heard that Mr. Oliver and
Mr. Barclay had gone to a neighboring ranch and intended to make a
journey into the bush if they could borrow horses. When the boys were
eating breakfast the next morning Miss Oliver turned to Harry.
"We have run out of pork, and the flour is almost gone," she said. "I
meant to ask your father to bring some when he went up to the
settlement, but I forgot it, and Jake must bring in those steers
to-day."
"We'll go," broke in Harry quickly. "There's a nice sailing breeze."
His aunt looked doubtful. "You have never been so far with the sloop
unless Jake was with you; and isn't there a nasty tide-rip somewhere?
Still, I don't know what I shall do unless I get the flour."
She yielded when Harry insisted; and shortly afterward the boys paddled
off to the sloop and made the canoe fast astern. They set the big gaff
mainsail and Harry sculled her out of the cove before he hoisted the
jib. Then he made Frank take the helm.
"It's a head wind until we're round the point yonder, but you'll have to
learn to sail her sometime," he said. "The first thing to remember is
that she'll only lie up at an angle to the wind and if you make it too
small she won't go through the water. You want to feel a slight strain
on the tiller."
He hauled the sheets in until the boom hung just over the boat's
quarter, and while Frank grasped the tiller she slid out into open
water. Bright sunshine smote the little tumbling green ridges that had
here and there crests of snowy foam, and she bounded over them with a
spray cloud flying at her bows. She seemed to be making an excellent
pace, but Harry shook his head.
"No," he objected, "you're letting her fall off. That is, the angle
you're sailing her at is too big. She'll go faster that way, but she
won't go so far to windward. Don't pull so much on your tiller and
she'll come up closer."
Frank tried it, but the boat sailed more slowly, and presently her
mainsail flapped.
"Now you're too close," warned Harry. "You're trying to head her right
into the wind. Pull your helm up again."
Frank did so, and when the boat gathered speed he ventured a question.
"If you keep her too close to the wind she won't sail, and if you let
her fall off she's not going where you want. How do you find out the
exact angle she ought to make?"
Harry laughed. "It depends on the boat, the cut of her sails, and how
smart you are at the helm. One man would shove her to windward a point
closer than another could and keep her sailing faster, too. It's a
thing that takes time to learn, and there are men you couldn't teach to
sail a boat at all."
Frank found that it became easier by degrees, though his companion did
not appear altogether satisfied. The sloop had dipped her lee rail just
level with the water now, and she rushed along, bounding with a lurch
and splash over the small froth-tipped seas. He began to understand how
one arrived at the proper angle by the slant at which the wind struck
his face as well as by watching the direction of the seas which came
charging down to meet her in regular formation. Then Harry said that as
they had stretched out far enough to clear the point they would go about
upon the other tack.
"Shove your helm down--that's to lee--not too hard!" he ordered, and as
Frank obeyed him there was a sharp banging of sail cloth and the boat,
swinging around, swayed upright.
In another moment the wind was on her opposite side, and she was heading
off at an angle to her previous course, while Harry with one foot braced
against the lee coaming struggled to flatten in the sheet on the jib.
The big mainboom had swung over of its own accord amidst a great clatter
of blocks. By and by when the point slid away to lee of them Harry told
Frank to pull his helm up, and then he pointed to a confused mass of
gray rocks and trees rising above the glistening water several miles
away.
"Now," he said, "she'll go there straight, and all you have to do is to
keep her bowsprit on yonder head. It's a fair wind, and when you've got
that you want to slack out the sheets until the sails are as far
outboard as they'll go and still keep full. If your sheets are too
tight, you'll know it by the weight on the tiller."
He let a couple of ropes run out through the clattering blocks, and the
sloop, slanting over a little farther, seemed to leap forward. The
sparkling green ridges which came tumbling up on one side of her swung
her aloft with the foam boiling along the edge of her lee deck, and
then surged away in turn and let her drop while another came rolling up.
Instead of being a mere thing of wood and canvas she seemed to become
animate, charged with vitality. The springy way she rushed along was
strangely exhilarating. Frank became fascinated watching her bows go up
and the snowy, straining sail sweep across the dazzling blue at every
lurch, while he became conscious of a sense of control and mastery as he
gripped the tiller. He felt that he could do what he wanted with this
wonderful rushing thing.
For she was certainly wonderful. There was no doubt of that, because
among all of man's works and inventions there is none that more nearly
approaches the simplicity of perfection and adaptability to its purpose
than the modern sailboat. It has taken centuries to evolve her, each
builder adding a little to the work of those who went before, and
balancing in her making, often without knowing it, the great natural
forces one against another, until at last science justified what man
did, so that with this frail creation one may brave the untrammeled
winds of heaven and the onslaught of the seas.
By and by the headland they had been nearing thrust them off their
course, and outside it lay a nest of islets, with a strong stream
running up between. As it ran to windward it broke up the regular,
breeze-driven waves into short, foaming combers with hollowed breasts
and tumbling tops which flung up wisps of spray. Frank glanced at this
tumult with some anxiety, and it was a relief to him when his companion
offered to take the tiller.
"You had better let me have her," Harry said. "She wants handling in a
jump like that. I'd heave a reef down to reduce the sail, only that it
would take us some time to tie it in and there'll be smoother water once
we're past the islands. As we'll have to beat through, you can get the
sheets in."
Frank found this no easy task, for he had no idea that the sails could
pull so hard, and Harry had to help him with one hand. Then the latter's
face became intent as they plunged into the turmoil. The seas looked big
and angry now. In fact, as usually happens, they looked a good deal
bigger than they really were, but they were breaking in a threatening
manner and came on to meet the sloop in white-topped phalanxes. She went
over some with a disconcerting plunge and swoop, but she rammed a few of
the rest, driving her jib and bows in and flinging the brine all over
her when she swung them up. Her deck was sluicing, and every now and
then a green and white cascade came frothing over the coaming into the
well. Frank, however, noticed that, instead of letting the boat meet the
combers, his companion occasionally pulled his tiller up, so that,
swinging round a little, she brought the ridge of frothing water farther
on her side as she plunged over it.
"I thought you had to face a nasty sea head-on," he said.
"Did you?" Harry responded. "Then watch that smaller one."
A slope of water came tumbling on some yards ahead, and as the boy eased
his helm down an inch or two the bows came up to meet the sea. They
struck it full in its hollowed breast, and the next moment there was a
shock and half the deck was lost in a rush of foam.
"Like me to plug another?" laughed Harry.
Frank begged him not to do it. The result of the experiment was rather
alarming, and Harry let her fall off a little to dodge the onslaught of
the succeeding combers, until at last they grew smaller as the stream
spread itself out in open water. Then he gave Frank some further
instruction.
"If you were pulling or paddling a small craft it would be safer to
bring her head-on, because you have to remember that she'd be going
mighty slow, but when you're sailing a boat that's carrying her speed
it's evident that you don't want to ram her right at a comber. If you
do, she's bound to go bang into it. When you see one that looks
threatening you let her fall off slightly and she goes over slanting."
He broke off for a moment with a laugh. "Seems to me I'm always on the
'teach.' You come here and take the tiller while I get some of the water
out of her. You can head for that point to starboard."
He busied himself with the bucket while Frank steered the boat, and an
hour or so later they ran into a little sheltered inlet where they
brought her head to wind and pitched the anchor over. After that they
bailed out the half-swamped canoe, and, dropping into her, paddled
ashore.