BA, THE BAHAMAN, TALKS AT LAST
“The first thing I discovered,” said Andy, when his flight was over,
“was that it isn’t half as scary as it looks. When I’ve watched
aviators and seen the planes dip, it always seemed I’d feel as if it
was sure goin’ to turn over. But you don’t.”
“It’s because you are moving with the machine,” explained Roy. “A grade
don’t seem as steep when you are on it.”
“I couldn’t get up even a thrill,” declared Andy. “I supposed I’d hang
on――I didn’t. Why, Roy even let me look after the engine.”
“When I began flying,” said Roy, “I went up alone. It was a foolish
thing to do. After that, when I was really learning, I had to follow
Mr. Atkinson’s first rule for new men――if they flew lower than six feet
or higher than twenty-five, he made them descend. Follow that rule, and
you’ll learn all you can find out by going up higher.”
It was agreed that nothing more should be done that day. The aeroplane
was wheeled over near the boathouse and the engine was covered with
a tarpaulin. There would be no risk in leaving it thus exposed, but
Captain Anderson said Ba would likely show up, as it was Saturday
night. The colored man was to act as watchman.
“And how long are you going to keep that up?” asked the thoughtful Mrs.
Anderson. “What use is the thing going to be?”
This was a poser. The captain did not attempt an answer.
“I’d like a few more lessons, if I can get them,” suggested Andy.
“You can operate it now,” put in Roy, “if you do as I said.”
“Why do you want more lessons?” asked Mrs. Leighton in turn. “Are you
thinking of becoming an aviator yourself?”
Roy smiled, and Andy’s jaws set. But the boy made no reply.
When Roy, the aeroplane cared for and the exciting flights having been
discussed in all details, suggested that he might as well board the
night train and proceed to Lake Worth, there was a protest on the part
of all. The young aviator had already endeared himself to his Valkaria
hosts. Finally, he was persuaded to stay over Sunday, with the promise
of a sail on the _Valkaria_ the next day.
Nearly all of Sunday was spent on the _Valkaria_. Saturday night and
Sunday night, Roy and Andy slept in the boatshed, the captain returning
to the house.
By the time the two boys went to sleep Sunday night they had become
fast friends. It was arranged that the model of the bird-tail propeller
was to be sent to Andy’s father in St. Paul that he might consult a
patent lawyer concerning it. The boys were not so clear about the
engine.
Roy had really no power to buy it outright for Mr. Atkinson before
consulting that gentlemen. But he told Andy that he felt sure his
employer would be eager to get the motor. Mr. Atkinson, he felt sure,
would send his motor superintendent down to look at the engine, and
Andy, in turn, assumed the power to give Roy and his friends an option
on the engine, subject to examination. Andy was careful to secure
Captain Anderson’s approval of these negotiations.
“Have it your own way,” Captain Anderson said. “I reckon your father
and I can settle it between us when I see him.”
Four times on Monday did the _Pelican_ make successful ascents. On the
last one, at two o’clock, Andy made his first flight alone. So far as
his anxious observers could see, his operation of the car was in no
way different from that of young Osborne. At least, the moment Andy
alighted, Roy slapped him on the back and said:
“I guess I’m not needed longer. You can teach someone else now.”
And, despite the regrets of his new friends, the young aviator boarded
the night train for Lake Worth, each boy agreeing to write to the
other, and Roy promising to send his latest pupil an aneroid barometer
and an anemometer as soon as he reached Newark.
That night, as on the two previous nights, the strange Ba watched the
new aeroplane. The next morning Captain Anderson suggested that the
rudder, landing skis, and engine be detached and the frame and parts
housed in the shop until the possible arrival of the motor expert from
the north.
Andy entered a protest at once.
“I should say not,” he said; “that is, unless you insist. I want to
make a real flight.”
“That’s why I want to take it apart,” confessed the captain frankly.
“I knew you’d want to keep it up.”
“You’re not afraid of my breaking it, are you?” queried the boy.
“I’m only afraid of your breaking your neck.”
“Were you afraid Osborne would break his neck?”
“That’s different――he’s an expert.”
“‘Expert’,” repeated Andy. “I’ll be an expert when I’ve had the
practice. And how will I get it? Not by readin’ about airships.”
“Settle it with your mother,” exclaimed the captain. “I certainly won’t
object, if she don’t.”
Although Andy’s head was now brimming full of his great, but sleeping,
project, he was not yet ready to consult his mother about it. As
another step in his great plan, however, he obtained permission to go
to his uncle’s house, one of the conditions being that he was to bring
back some fruit. Although Ba had been watchman for three nights, none
knew when he slept. And as soon as Andy got out the _Red Bird’s_ oars,
the negro made ready to accompany him.
Andy’s mind was on other things, but he never neglected an opportunity
to talk to the Bahaman. Usually he approached the subject diplomatically.
That morning on the way to Goat Creek, he was out of sorts. Therefore,
and much to his own surprise, he blurted out:
“Why don’t you tell me about that Timbado place, Ba? What are you
afraid of?”
For a moment the colored man gave no sign in face or gesture that he
heard. Then, as in the past, his lips began to twitch and his narrow
brow grew narrower.
“You ain’t go on dat Timbado?” he repeated, his usual slow-witted
question.
“Sure I am,” answered Andy perversely. “Why not? I’m thinkin’ of goin’
right over there.”
There was no outward change in the black man’s bearing, but the boy
could see that some emotion was affecting him within. They had reached
Goat Creek, and, as the little boat passed into the currentless
channel, Ba ceased rowing.
“Marse Andy,” he began in a husky voice, “Ah done bin on dat
Timbado――white men don’ go dar.”
“_I’m_ thinkin’ of goin’,” exclaimed Andy, hoping to draw out the
colored man.
Ba looked at him long and intently.
“Yo’ ain’t know de big white man in Andros――Cap’n Bassett?”
Andy knew that Andros was one of the Bahama “out islands” and that more
than one white man lived there, plantation owners.
“An Englishman?” asked the boy.
“Cap’n Bassett done took me on de boat when Ah bruk out de jail in
Nassau.”
“And took you to Timbado?” asked Andy eagerly, overjoyed to find at
last some inkling of Ba’s story.
The colored man shook his head.
“Two crops Ah wuk on Andros. Den dey sunt me to it.”
“Captain Bassett sent you to Timbado?”
A gulp came in the colored man’s throat and he simply nodded his head.
“What for?”
“Wid Nickolas an’ Thomas――dey ain’t never git away.”
“Ba,” exclaimed Andy sharply, “why did you go to Timbado?”
“Yo’ ain’t nebber hear ’bout Timbado?”
“I never heard of Timbado――”
“Cap’n Bassett tole us to steal it.”
“Steal what?”
“Yo’ ain’t nebber hear ’bout dat big pearl?”
“You mean that Captain Bassett sent you and two other men to steal a
big pearl?” asked Andy breathlessly.
“Ah done see it, but Nickolas and Thomas dey don’ see it.”
“Saw a big pearl?”
“Like dat,” said Ba suddenly, leaning forward and holding out his heavy
thumb. “An’ like de conch look.”
“A pink pearl as big as your thumb?” questioned Andy, his voice
dropping into a whisper.
“Dat’s fetich,” was the frightened answer. “Ain’t no white man see dat
big pearl.”
“And you stole it for Captain Bassett?” went on the boy excitedly.
The frightened Bahaman shook his head again.
“What happened?” persisted his companion. “Tell me!”
“Ah ain’t nebber see dat Nickolas. Ah ain’t nebber see dat Thomas no
mo’.”
“And you?” insisted Andy. “Did you get the pearl?”
The oarsman’s hands were trembling. It was evident that in his
half-savage way, he was trying to recall what happened or to think of
words to describe it. Again he shook his head, and then suddenly drew
the oars into the boat and shipped them. His mouth twitching and his
eyelids trembling, he caught his loose shirt with both hands and drew
it up to his shoulders. At the same time, he turned on the seat.
His great, muscle-knotted back was seamed with a mass of scars. Long
and deep wounds that had turned white in the healing crossed his flesh
from his neck to his waist.
Andy shrank back. The persistency with which he had forced the African
into this revelation covered him with shame.
“Yo’ ain’t goin’ on dat Timbado Key, is yo’?”
It was Ba’s last appeal.
For answer, Andy could only touch the agitated man sympathetically on
his knee and turn away. It seemed to satisfy the colored man, and from
that moment, ashamed of his idle curiosity, Andy said no more.
But as he watched the stolid face of the black Hercules, his
imagination carried him far from Goat Creek. The ignorant negro became
the center of a wild romance. What did it mean? A fugitive from
justice carried away from Nassau by an Englishman; kept in his service
for a time and then sent with two others to steal a big pink pearl; two
of the men disappear, one of them sees the fetich jewel big as a man’s
thumb and pink “like a conch,” a priceless treasure; then the cruel
wounds that must have meant death to any but a man like Ba.
Little wonder that Andy had small thought for anything else that
morning. Landing at his uncle’s place, he sent Ba to the grove for the
fruit, then sat a long time trying to compose himself. Try as he might,
to put the weird tale out of his mind, he could not. Finally he entered
the house and feverishly sought through the bookshelves until he found
an atlas.
After a long search he closed the book with a sigh of relief. He could
not find Timbado Key.
“I’m glad of it,” he admitted to himself. “It may be only a crazy tale
of Ba’s, but I’ve had enough. Back to the aeroplane for me.”
The real thing that had brought Andy to his uncle’s place that day was
to examine a gasoline barrel which stood behind the shop. The oil used
in all their flights so far had been secured in Melbourne, Captain
Anderson having ordered it by telephone before consulting the boy.
Andy was overjoyed to find the barrel at least half full. There were
no vessels suitable for carrying any of it back, but there were
wood-encased tins at Captain Anderson’s, and, satisfied with his
discovery, the boy made ready to depart. Before he did so, he made a
careful and significant examination of the open space on the gentle
incline in front of the house, nodded his head approvingly, and,
locking the house again, entered the boat.
On the way home the boy was moodily silent, a strange caprice for him.
But he had suddenly reached a point where he was disturbed by doubts.
He had been in Florida two weeks, but seemed to have lived months in
his unexpected and sudden experience, and he was now debating whether
it was to end as suddenly in nothing but a boyish fancy or to be the
turning point in his young life.
He was positive that never again might such a glorious opportunity
present itself to him to make a name for himself. His few days with Roy
Osborne had fired him with an ambition to achieve something out of the
ordinary. The question was――should he give his parents the opportunity
to crush his ambitions (and he knew he would never disobey their
instructions), or should he win their later approval by carrying out
his secret plan without their knowledge?
With scarcely a word to Ba, Andy lay in the stern of the boat and
thought. But the more he thought, the further away seemed the solution
of his problem. Still lost in doubt, the _Red Bird_ touched Captain
Anderson’s pier.
“Cap’n Anderson’s gone off in the de _Valkar’_,” said Ba.
It was true. Hastening to the house, Andy found it deserted. The
boathouse was closed. On the door of the bungalow was a scrap of paper.
It read:
“_Your father is at Melbourne. Telephoned us. We’ve gone for
him. Dinner in the pantry. Back this evening._
“_Anderson._”