High noon in the little Anglo-Spanish town of Queenston, island of St.
Vincent: everything and everybody seem to be dozing quietly in the hot,
drowsy atmosphere.
"Why, all the people must be asleep or dead," mutters Ned Brandon,
discontentedly, as he stands on the corner of the one principal street
of Queenston, under the shade of a neat silk umbrella, and stares about
him. Truth to tell, Ned, who is something of a dandy, had before going
ashore dressed himself with exceeding care in his little state-room on
board the brig _Calypso_, owned by his father, and in which, under the
care of good Captain Hardy, he is making a vacation trip to the West
Indies.
He has on a dazzling suit of pure white linen, a handsome Panama hat, a
white neck-tie, low patent-leather shoes, and striped silk stockings.
"Well, I certainly took a great deal of trouble for nothing in this
matter of dressing," grumbles Ned, looking listlessly up and down the
almost deserted street.
Gayly painted shops, where one may buy anything from a penny roll to a
steam-boiler, alternate with small, one-story "bonnet-roof" houses, with
barred and jail-like windows. Past these an occasional group of
meek-looking yellow coolies, as much alike in appearance as a flock of
sheep, shuffle over the rude pavement. Occasionally the blackest kind of
a negro from some neighboring plantation appears, driving before him
three or four diminutive donkeys laden with sugar-cane or panniers of
ripe fruit.
In the shade of the little stone custom-house, the open door of which is
guarded by a negro, in tattered uniform, bearing a flint-lock musket,
sits a drowsy Creole woman on the edge of the pavement. Before her, on a
brazier of glowing coals, bubbles a pot of odorous soup, to be retailed
to possible customers at a penny per bowl. Whatever may be the remaining
ingredients of the compound, it is plainly evident that garlic
predominates.
The reason why there is no one to admire the elaborately dressed young
fellow on the corner is very simple. Queenston is taking its noonday
siesta.
In every little court-yard and inclosure swing sleeping forms in grass
hammocks, shaded by luxuriant growths of pawpaw, banana, and plantain,
orange, mango, and tamarind, while above all towers the beautiful
cocoa-palm with its clusters of golden green fruit.
"I might as well go down to the landing-steps and signal the _Calypso_
to send the boat ashore," mutters Ned, with a yawn, himself not
unaffected by the drowsy surroundings.
"Oh, I say!" suddenly exclaims a boyish voice behind him. Ned feels a
timid touch on his shoulder, and he wheels sharply round. "I'm Joe
Sampson," continues the new-comer, who is a young fellow a year or two
younger than Ned, speaking in an eager, hurried tone, "and I belong out
to Dedham, Massachusetts. I ran away from a Provincetown whaler. Don't
you think your Cap'n will give a fellow a chance to work his passage
back to the States?" And the gaunt, hollow-eyed, sun-browned face of the
speaker is lit up with eager anticipation as he breathlessly awaits the
other's answer.
Ordinarily Ned would have answered, "Of course he will," with hearty
cordiality. But the thermometer indicates ninety-two degrees in the
shade; he is hot, hungry, and irritable. Besides, Joe Sampson in his
rimless straw hat, coarse blue shirt, tattered trousers, and worn-out
shoes is anything but prepossessing as to outward appearance.
"I don't think Captain Hardy cares to ship a green hand," coldly begins
Ned, and is thoroughly ashamed of his words as soon as he has spoken.
But before he can mend them, Joe, with a mute gesture of despair, turns
the corner, and hurries off.
"Hi, there!" shouts Ned, remorsefully, "hold on a bit." But Joe either
can not or will not hear. He is walking along a narrow street of
picturesque but unclean negro cabins--a street which ascending as it
leaves the town limits, widens into a mountain road, leading upward to
the heights which overhang Queenston on all but the harbor side.
Impulsive Ned stands for a few moments irresolute.
"Hungry no doubt, and homesick of course," he says, half aloud. "What a
wretch I am, to be sure!"
With the words he furls his umbrella, and unmindful of the scorching
rays of the sun, starts in rapid pursuit of the runaway, who is now out
of sight in a bend of the rising road.
Past the dirty suburbs Ned hastens, and now he is climbing the steep
side of Monte Rosa. On either hand are great thickets of tree-ferns,
which as he ascends give place to thickets of the wild-growing banana
festooned through and through with fragrant flowering vines where
humming-birds of gorgeous hue disport themselves. Across the reddish
earth of the roadway dart green and gold lizards with black beady eyes,
land-crabs scuttle hastily away from his hurrying footsteps, and once or
twice the ugly face of a harmless iguana leers at him from a way-side
stump.
Breathless, and dripping with perspiration at every pore, Ned reaches
the summit, but runaway Joe is nowhere in sight. The plateau at the left
is smooth and level, a crumbled stone parapet follows the edge of the
cliff, and the ruins of what was once a small fortress stand further
back. Perhaps Joe is hidden thereabouts.
"This is a pretty go; now isn't it?" exclaims Ned, in a disgusted tone,
as, tearing off his saturated collar and tie, he throws himself at full
length on the greensward under the shade of a cabbage-palm which grows
close to the parapet, to cool off a bit. Yet the wonderful outlook
almost repays him for the exhaustive climb. Before his gaze lies the
far-reaching Caribbean Sea, not sparkling and blue as is its wont,
however, but strangely calm, and of an oily smoothness, unbroken by a
ruffle of wind. There is a curious yellowish haze, too, which has been
creeping up from the distant horizon since morning, and is now tempering
the heat of the sun, which shines through it with a singularly brassy
effect.
"I think," drowsily remarked Ned, "that I'll take a bit of a nap, and
hunt for Joseph the unfortunate later."
So Ned, resigning himself to slumber, dreamed that he was the admiral of
a fleet manned by deserters from whaling vessels. This fleet was
anchored in Queenston Harbor, and was returning the fire from the guns
of the fortress above. The cannonading grew louder and louder, until Ned
awoke with a start.
But what is this?
Above him is a sky blacker than the ink with which the _Calypso_'s log
is written. Great sheets of rose-colored lightning shimmer continually
upward from the distant horizon like the rays of aurora borealis, while
rattling peals of thunder follow each other in quick succession. Then,
as he starts up in a fright, the heavens directly overhead are rent
asunder with one blinding flash, simultaneous with which comes a crash
of thunder that seems to jar his very brain. Then, as though this were a
pre-concerted signal, the sound of a mighty rushing wind, constantly
increasing in intensity, is heard, before which, hurtling through the
thickening gloom, come clouds of dust, branches of trees, and débris of
every sort. The force of the hurricane is not only sufficient to throw
Ned to the ground, but to pin him there as by giant hands, as it goes
roaring seaward with an awfulness of deafening roar which can not be
described in words.
"It is the Day of Judgment!" is the thought which sweeps through Ned's
bewildered mind. And then as suddenly as the storm arose there is a
lull, followed by an ominous silence as terrifying as the roar itself,
for the darkness seems if possible to grow more intense.
"The _Calypso_," thinks Ned; "where is she?" Crawling to the edge of the
parapet, he strains his eyes downward through the darkness. A momentary
flash illumines the gloom, and shows a phantom sail, which he hopes may
be the _Calypso_'s, scudding out of the harbor mouth.
And now the hurricane breaks forth from an almost opposite quarter,
bringing with it torrent upon torrent of driving rain, drenching Ned to
the skin, and fairly blinding him with its force. He is about to fly, he
knows not whither, when some one, dimly seen through the darkness,
clasps his hand.
"This way--quick!" exclaims the voice of Joe; and feeling himself urged
rapidly forward, Ned in a moment or two finds that at last he has
reached a place of shelter.
"I stop here nights," laconically observes Joe, as the two boys drop,
dripping and out of breath, on a pile of dry leaves and grasses in one
corner of what Ned sees by the continuous play of lightning is a low
circular stone cell, and which Joe explains was probably used as a sort
of powder-house before the fort was demolished.
For three long hours the hurricane swept above them, and the sea roared
beneath, while the crash of thunder, almost without cessation, seemed to
jar the stones about them. At last its violence subsided by degrees, and
as Ned and Joe finally emerged from their refuge, it was to see the
clouds rolling away in great rifted masses, through which shone the
beams of sunset.
"And now, if the _Calypso_ is only safe," said Ned, as they made their
way with difficulty down the mountain road, which had become the bed of
a small stream, "you shall have your passage back to the States, Joe,
and not work it either."
"Ah! _if_," returned Joe, soberly. He was wondering how they should live
until the brig arrived, even if she was safe; and what on earth would
become of them if she was lost! For the Queenston people do not take
kindly to penniless wanderers, as poor Ned found to his cost before
another twenty-four hours had passed over his head.
Fortunately for the companions in misfortune, fruit had been dislodged
by the hurricane in such quantities that it was to be had for the
taking. The boys supported life for a fortnight on oranges, ripe
bread-fruit, bananas, guavas, mami apples, and soursops, which are "all
very well for dessert," as Ned afterward remarked, "but for a steady
diet I prefer roast beef; fruit gets monotonous after the forty-fifth or
forty-sixth meal."
Thus for three weary weeks the boys wandered listlessly by day through
the streets of Queenston, and by night suffered innumerable tortures
from mosquitoes.
* * * * *
"Tell those two dirty-looking darkies to sheer off, Mr. Nason," sharply
said Captain Hardy, as with only the stump of her foretopmast standing,
and her bulwarks completely gone, the brig _Calypso_ slowly swung to her
moorings.
There had been a terrible struggle with tempest and storm, and it was
only after a succession of head-winds and exasperating calms of many
days' duration that the _Calypso_ had finally managed to work back to
the anchorage from which the hurricane had driven her so many miles out
to sea.
"Be off there!" gruffly commanded Mr. Nason, in obedience to his
Captain's orders, as a shore boat touched the vessel's side. "We don't
want yams or fruit, and we've got nothing for you to beg or steal."
"If you've only got something to eat, that's all _we_ want," replied a
familiar voice, whose owner sprang lightly over the rail, while his
companion followed more slowly.
"Upon my word!" ejaculated the Captain, in amazement. "Is that you, Ned,
and what do you look like?"
A white linen suit that has been soaked with rain or dew and dried in
the sun several times has a tendency to cling to its possessor's figure
with more closeness than ease; its hue becomes dingy by being slept in
and used to wipe fruit-stained fingers on. Such was the case with Ned's
once brilliant costume. He was also barefooted and nearly bare-headed,
while his face was burned to the color of shoe leather.
"I used to think," said Ned, helping himself to his fifth hot biscuit,
and passing the corned beef to Joe, who sat opposite him at the tea
table in the _Calypso_'s cabin that evening, "that it would be rather
nice to try a touch of vagabond life on some island in the tropics, but
I rather think I prefer my regular meals at a table, and all night in
bed--eh, Joe?"
And Joe, whose heart and mouth were too full for utterance, nodded an
emphatic assent.