LOST ON CAPTIVE ISLAND
Charlotte Harbor was so flooded with moonlight that the little wind
ripples shone like frosted silver. The “Gazelle,” lying peacefully at
anchor, floated like a shadow on the placid water. Kenneth lay asleep on
the cabin roof, where he had moved from the more cramped position in the
cockpit. Soundly as a tired man should, he slept; then, disturbed by
dreams of battles with wind and wave, he stirred, working his arms and
legs like a dog who has visions of the chase. At first he moved
uneasily, but still lay in the same position, then, still dead asleep,
began to work over to the yacht’s rail. A long, strong roller came in
from the Gulf and rocked the yawl so that the deck sloped sharply; there
was a sudden great splash, and then all was still, the ripples circling
away from the agitated spot. Suddenly the waters began to show signs of
a struggle below, and an instant later a bedraggled white figure
splashed to the surface and began spouting and spluttering. Kenneth
coughed and wheezed as he got rid of a large quantity of warm, salt
liquid, and between gasps called himself all the names his water-soaked
brain could think of. He finally pulled himself up on deck—rather
weakly—and lay down in the cockpit to rest a minute.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered, if that wasn’t the greatest fool stunt! I am
mighty glad the other fellows were not around. I should never have heard
the last of it.”
He turned to go below, and, as he did so, he heard the far distant crack
of a rifle.
“Must be something doing with the turtles,” he thought.
* * * * *
The rifle shot which Ransom heard was fired by Frank at the great
turtle, which, in spite of the hatchet in its skull and the boy on its
back, was making for the sea, determined to escape. The hatchet, half
buried in the thick bone, had no more apparent effect upon it than the
dropping of an oyster shell on it would have had.
“Shoot him again, Frank!” shouted Arthur from his perch. “We’ve simply
got to stop him.”
The boy took careful aim at the sinister black eye, the only vulnerable
spot visible, and fired. With a heave that threw Arthur from his feet,
the great creature made its last struggle for freedom, throwing the sand
in showers and digging great holes in the coarse sand, then, folding its
legs and tail beneath its roof-like shell, it died.
For a minute, the victor gazed at his victim, and then, wiping away an
imaginary tear of regret, went to search for eggs. In a hollow near the
spot where the hunters had found Mrs. Turtle, her eggs were
unearthed—several dozen of them. The boys put them in a canvas bag which
they carried, and went on to hunt for more shellbacks.
Before long they came again upon the tell-tale tracks in the sand, and
found a turtle at the end of them; smaller, but one even more active
than the other.
It was with great difficulty that they managed to get a long piece of
driftwood under the shell, and by the aid of this leverage “end her
over.” Frank and Arthur immediately rushed forward to end her misery,
and received a shower of sand in their faces that nearly blinded them.
They retired out of range in confusion, and dug the sand out of eyes,
ears, and mouths. With powerful sweep-like strokes, the turtle clawed
the beach in its efforts to right itself, and scooped the sand until it
had dug holes for each of its four legs, so deep that the coarse grains
were beyond its reach, and it lay helplessly sprawling.
With a single hatchet stroke, turtle number two was despatched, and the
victors sat a minute beside their game to rest.
“Gracious! I’d like to have these turtles in Chicago,” remarked Frank,
with speculative instinct. “Just think of the gallons of green turtle
soup they would make; and it cost twenty-five cents a half-pint
plateful! Holy smoke, we would be millionaires in no time.”
“But what are we going to do with them now?” Arthur had a way of coming
down to realities with a sickening thud.
As if in answer to the question, the lighthouse keeper came towards them
out of the fast brightening dawn, and showed them how to dismember the
creatures.
Taking two great hams, the two boys slung them on a pole stretched
between them, and started back to the place where they had left “His
Nibs.” The pieces of turtle meat, the guns, lantern, and bag of eggs
made such a heavy load that they were glad enough when they reached the
spot where the small boat had been left.
Arthur and Frank looked out over the water and saw the “Gazelle”
swinging at anchor, glorified in the warm colors of the sunrise.
“What’s the matter with Ken?” Frank exclaimed, pointing with his gun
barrel at the figure on the yacht’s deck, which waved and gestured
frantically.
“He is pointing at something. What’s the matter with the chump? He is
shouting.” Arthur stopped to listen. The faint sound of a voice came
over the harbor, but they could not make out what it said.
“He is pointing.” Arthur was shading his eyes and looking intently.
“What, in the name of common sense, is—By George, look at ‘His Nibs.’”
Arthur was pointing now at the little boat, which, like a mischievous
youngster, was bobbing airily about a short distance from shore.
“Jove! it’s well we came along when we did; that little tub would have
been out to sea in a minute.”
As it was, Arthur had to swim for it, and only caught the truant after a
long race. “The next time I leave you alone,” he said, as he pulled
himself over the stern, “I am going to make you fast to a ten-ton
anchor.”
It was a merry feast that the reunited three enjoyed that morning.
Turtle steak, which Kenneth declared to be equal to porterhouse and much
like it in flavor, was the _pièce de résistance_; but the talk and chaff
were the garnishings that made the meal worth while.
“You have got to wash dishes, old man,” Kenneth said to his mate, when
every vestige of the breakfast had disappeared, “while Frank and I get
this old house-boat under way.”
“Gazelle, Gazelle,
She’ll run pell-mell
With every stitch a-drawing;
O’er waters smooth,
And waters rough,
The seas her forefoot spurning.”
He sang light-heartedly as he went on deck.
Soon Arthur heard the cheep, cheep of the halliard blocks as the
mainsail was hoisted, then the metallic clink of the ratchet on the
capstan; Frank’s cry, “She’s broke!” was followed by the swift whirr of
the jib halliards hauled taut and the creak of the blocks as the
mainsail was sheeted home. Then the slap, slap of the little waves
against the yacht’s sides as she heeled to the fresh breeze told Arthur
that they were under way again.
“There’s no use talking, this beats farming,” Arthur said to himself.
“But, Je-_ru_salem, we had it hard on the Old Mississippi. I don’t
hanker for any more of that.”
After getting under way, the order was: “All hands and the cook prepare
meat.” There was a large amount of turtle meat left that was too
valuable to be wasted. The flesh was cut up into strips, thoroughly
sprinkled with salt, and hung up in the rigging, where the sun shone
full upon it, to dry. It was not a very appetizing job, nor did the
yacht herself present a very attractive appearance, but the product
turned out all right. Turtle meat and turtle eggs were on the bill of
fare for some time.
Kenneth made the unsavory remark that if the meat-preserving experiment
proved a failure, the “Gazelle” would be about as fragrant as a
sponge-fishing boat.
After a four hours’ run, Frank, who climbed up into the port rigging,
glass in hand, made out Captive Island, a low-lying strip of land that
just showed above the surface of the water.
As they drew nearer, they could see that it was densely wooded—palms
tossed their feathery heads; the great live oaks stretched out their
mighty arms sturdily; and here and there a cedar stood out black in
contrast with the lighter greens.
“I’d like to explore that island,” said Arthur. “What’s the matter with
laying off there for the night?”
“All right; harbor is good and water enough,” Kenneth admitted, after
looking at the charts.
The anchor was let go into three fathoms, off a sort of rude landing,
which they afterward found was built by a man who lived on the island
and raised vegetables for the northern market.
After supper, Frank and Arthur went ashore, but soon returned, driven
away by mosquitoes. Frank declared that he had seen enough of that place
at close quarters, and that if the skipper and Arthur wanted to explore,
he was satisfied to stay and tend ship.
“Why,” said he, “except where the fellow has his vegetable patch, the
whole place is a morass right down to the water’s edge. I guess there is
a beach on the Gulf side, now I think of it.”
“That’s it—that beach! That’s what I want to explore.” Arthur was of an
investigating turn of mind.
It was unnecessary to go through the usual plan of drawing lots to
determine who should go and who should stay; Frank stuck to his previous
statement that he would not go “chasing round in that miserable mud
hole.” After all the morning’s work was done, the skipper and the mate
got into “His Nibs” and rowed off.
The little landing was a primitive affair, hardly strong enough, the two
boys thought, to allow of very heavy shipments being made from it; but
it was sufficiently sturdy to bear their weight without a tremor. From
it led a path through tilled land, green with the young shoots of a
freshly-planted crop. This road Kenneth and Arthur followed for some
distance. Fields crowded it closely on either side, then it branched,
and the boys found themselves walking on a narrow strip of solid ground,
hemmed in on both sides by a morass so deep and uncanny that they
shivered. Tall palmettos grew out of the slimy ground, and vines twisted
and wound in every direction like thin, green serpents; gray moss hung
from the branches everywhere, like veils placed to hide some ghastly
mystery. The path was well trod and firm, and the two boys, feeling that
it must lead somewhere, went on quickly. For an hour, they travelled
through the swamp, the way winding in and out among the trees wherever
the earth was firm.
“I wonder if this is another case of ‘Lost in the Dismal Swamp,’” said
Arthur, whose looks belied his cheerful tone.
“No; this path is perfectly clear. It will be easy enough to get back,
if we want to,” Kenneth replied. “Getting cold feet?”
“No, sure not; but I would like to get out into the open, all the same.”
The thick trees shut out all the breeze there was, and the damp,
currentless air was heavy with the odors of decaying vegetable matter.
Perspiration was running down the boys’ faces, and spots of dampness
began to show on the backs of their white jumpers.
“Hurrah!” shouted Kenneth, “there’s the beach.”
A rift in the trees showed the blue sky, and the invigorating sound of
surf reached their ears. Soon they came upon a stretch of sand that
shone white under the morning sun—smooth and hard and clean as a
newly-swept floor.
In a minute the two were running races up the beach that stretched
before them like a straightaway track. They ran and frolicked from the
pure joy of living. Under the clear sky and shining sun, they forgot the
gloomy forest and the stagnant marsh. Not till they were all out of
breath, did the rollicking skipper and his undignified mate stop to
rest; then they stretched at full length on the clean sand, and gave
themselves up to the joys of doing nothing, when there was no need to
work under the stress of an exacting conscience.
Neither of the boys realized how long they had lain there, supremely
comfortable as they were, until the pang of hunger began to make itself
felt.
“Look at that, Ken,” Arthur exclaimed, pointing to the sun long past the
meridian. “Why, it must be afternoon.”
“My stomach feels like it,” the other admitted. “Better be going back, I
guess.”
They got themselves up, and began walking leisurely along the beach,
stopping now and then to pick up a shell or to dip their bare feet in
the up-running waves.
“This is the place, Ken,” said Arthur, turning to two tall palmettos
growing on the edge of the forest.
“No, that isn’t it,” the other replied. “There was a crooked cedar near
the path where we came out.”
“I bet it’s the place,” Arthur said positively. “Let me prove it to
you.”
When they reached the trees mentioned, they glanced beyond them, and saw
the thick black ooze of the morass. A pale fungus thrust out of the mud
here and there added to the dismal aspect of the place.
“Ugh!” Arthur shivered.
“I told you so,” Kenneth jeered; “not a sign of a path.”
They walked on, looking for the crooked cedar, but not one could be
seen. Everywhere were palmettos, straight and tall, swaying in the
breeze and beckoning like sirens alluring them to the destruction that
lurked just beyond.
Every little opening that looked as if a path might lead from it was
searched eagerly, but the black swamp always stared them in the face
whenever they looked beyond the first line of trees. Hour after hour
they searched, at first hopefully, then doggedly, driven on by the
feeling that they must do something—that if they hunted carefully enough
and persistently the way would surely be found.
The sun sank lower and lower, and the feather-like fronds of the trees
cast longer and longer shadows over the beach; still the boys searched
for that mysterious path. Thirst was added to ravenous hunger that
increased every minute. The long walk through the woods, and later the
almost continuous exposure to the sun, had brought on a longing for
water that was getting well-nigh unbearable.
“What fools we were not to mark the trees where we came out,” Kenneth
wailed, as they dropped down on the sand, worn out. “We were so glad to
get out of the place that we did not think about getting through again.”
“We can’t go around,” Kenneth said, thinking aloud; “the swamp comes
right down to the water on all sides of the island but this. I guess we
have got to stick it out all night, old man.” Kenneth laid his hand on
his friend’s shoulder.
“My, but I’m thirsty!” was the mate’s only comment.
With the suddenness peculiar to the tropics, the sun went down in a
blaze of color, and in its stead came a cloud of mosquitoes,
bloodthirsty and poisonous. Without protection of any kind, the boys
suffered terribly—faces, hands, and feet were soon covered with the
itching little spots, that spread until their whole bodies were covered
with the bites of the pests. Their thirst increased until their mouths
seemed like dry ovens lined with dust and cracked with heat. Hunger,
too, assailed them—the hunger of healthy appetites long unappeased,
gnawing, and weakening.
Kenneth gathered some half-green wood from the edge of the forest, built
a fire, and in the dense smoke they sat as long as they could, or until
they choked.
Then, in order that one, at least, might rest, they took turns in
brushing the invading mosquitoes from each other. While one rested,
the other plied a palm branch; and so they passed the long
night—interminable it seemed.
At length the gray dawn began to steal over the sea, and the boys, weak
with hunger, and almost frantic with parching thirst, thanked God for
it. They knew that with the appearance of the sun the mosquitoes would
go, and with the hope that “springs eternal,” longed to begin the search
for the path again.
Soon the heavens were lighted with the glory of the sunrise, and the
waters, tinged with its colors, heaved and tossed like a great surface
of iridescent molten metal—constantly changing, showing new shades that
ran into one another, dimpled, flamed, and faded.
Arthur and Kenneth could appreciate the beauty of the scene in a dull
sort of way only. They suffered terribly; the pangs of hunger and the
tortures of thirst drove all else from their minds.
A plunge in the cool surf, however, freshened them up greatly, though it
took all their resolution to resist the temptation to drink the
intensely salt water.
As they were about to begin their search anew, they noticed a little
black dog trotting about near the edge of the woods. The boys were very
much pleased to see the little beast. He was frisky and well
fed—evidently the pet of some household—and the lost ones were glad of
even this remote connection with civilization.
Kenneth suddenly made an exclamation; he tried to whistle also, but his
parched lips would not admit of it.
“I’ve got an idea, Art. Listen.”
Arthur stopped trying to make friends with the little visitor.
“That dog got here somehow; he must have come along some path, and he
will know the way back. We have got to make him go home, then we will
follow. See?”
Arthur did see, and changed his tactics accordingly. “Go home!” he
shouted. But the dog suddenly grew very friendly, wagged his tail, and
came trotting across the sand towards them. It was most exasperating.
“Go home!” both shouted at once, and waved their arms menacing. The dog
evidently thought it some kind of a game, and he frolicked about as if
it was the greatest fun imaginable. “It won’t do,” muttered the older
boy, and he stooped as if to pick up a stone. This was an old game that
the dog fully understood. Many a time had he chased a stick into the
water. He danced about and barked joyfully.
“There, you miserable little critter, go home!” Kenneth threw a pebble
that struck just before the dog’s nose, and he stopped in astonishment.
Another well-directed stone changed his doggie joy and confidence to
fear, and, lowering his tail, he began to slink towards the woods and
the swamp.
The boys’ hearts beat high with hope, though they felt ashamed to treat
such a friendly little beast so unkindly. A well-feigned angry shout and
threatening gestures were enough to make their involuntary friend turn
tail and run for home. Once started, he ran in earnest, and fearful that
they would lose sight of him before he showed the path, the boys rushed
after, panting and almost fainting with hunger and thirst. Once they
thought that they had lost their guide, and their hearts sank; but, in a
minute or two, they saw him enter the woods, and they carefully marked
the place, so that they were able to follow without trouble. The
entrance was a most unlikely place, and they had passed it many times,
but soon they saw clearly a well-beaten path leading through the maze of
tree trunks and veiling moss.
With hearts full of thankfulness, they followed along, faint, dizzy, and
well-nigh exhausted, but withal hopeful and happy once more. At no great
distance they came to a comfortable plantation house, and there in the
front yard—blessed sight!—was a well with tin dipper hanging on the pump
box. The water, cool and clear, was the most delicious thing that they
ever tasted, and the remembrance of that draught of plain well water
will always linger with them. As they drank, their canine friend eyed
them from behind the corner of the house, and though they did their best
to show their gratitude, he mistrusted and would have none of them.
After thanking the good people of the house, they went on, and at last
reached the landing. It took nearly all of their remaining strength to
row out to the “Gazelle,” and though Frank plied them with questions
showing the effects of his long night of worry, they could hardly answer
him intelligently, until he had strengthened them with black coffee and
some food.
As soon as the skipper and mate had recovered their strength, they
weighed anchor and sailed away from the island that had so nearly been
the scene of their death.
Down the coast they sped, nearer and nearer the long point that divides
the Gulf of Mexico from the Atlantic Ocean. The boys grew more and more
impatient as they drew gradually nearer to the old ocean. The stops were
as brief as possible; they merely touched to get fresh water and buy
fruit or necessary food. There were no towns of interest to visit—mere
clusters of fishermen’s huts.
Cape Romano, that point around which the waters of the Gulf continually
froth and rage, was passed in safety, though the “Gazelle” tossed about
roughly, and had, for a time, a tussle with the seas that tested her
thoroughly.
Now began the trip through that maze of intricate channels of the Ten
Thousand Islands, where many a good vessel has been lost—a place that
was once the refuge of pirates, and even now retains the flavor of
bloodthirsty tales. On one of these islands, or keys, the boys landed in
search of fresh water. After walking a while, they came to a snug little
cove or inlet, and were surprised to find a graceful sloop anchored
cosily therein. From the cove led a well-beaten path, which, Frank and
Kenneth following, came to a picturesque cottage thatched with palm
branches. It was weatherbeaten, but looked comfortable. A young woman
was standing in front, and in answer to their polite questions about
water and the easiest of the many puzzling channels to follow, suggested
that they ask “John,” and pointed with her thumb over her shoulder to
the open door of the hut. Needing no second invitation, their curiosity
fully aroused by the strange remoteness of this little home, they
stepped on, and looked through the door into the larger of the two rooms
the house contained. There, prone on the floor, stretched on a gray rag
carpet, lay an old man; his complexion was brown, dark, and rich in
color as century-old mahogany; his thick, white hair—bushy and
plentiful—framed a face seamed and lined, but keen and full of vigor.
The old man stirred at the sound of the boys’ step, then rose and went
toward them inquiringly.
“The young lady said that you knew all about the coast, and could tell
us the best way to get through the islands,” Kenneth began.
“Yes, I do know something of the coast,” and the old man smiled, as if
at a joke too private to be told.
He asked the boys about themselves, and was much interested in their
tale of pluck and their plans for the balance of the cruise. After they
had finished their recital, he, in his turn, began an account of the
channels, harbors, shoals, tides, and currents, that showed an
acquaintance with the coast along the Gulf that was indeed marvellous.
His voice was clear and full, and he gestured freely as he talked with
the animation of a young man.
[Illustration:
JOHN GOMEZ’S CABIN.
“A ... COTTAGE THATCHED WITH PALM BRANCHES.”
]
Both of the boys instinctively understood that there was something
extraordinary about him, although they could not tell what it was.
He expressed a wish to see the boat that had been built so far away from
the warm clime she was now visiting, so the youngsters filled their
breaker at a spring near the cottage and led the way to the beach where
they had landed. It was quite a long walk, but the old native tramped it
as sturdily as the young men themselves. The “Gazelle” lay swinging idly
at her anchor; a sight to make her owner’s heart glad.
The old man seemed much pleased with the yacht, and complimented her
builder. Then he talked about boats in general, displaying such a
knowledge of vessels of all kinds that Kenneth’s curiosity finally
overcame him, and he asked if their host would not tell him some
incident that they might put down in the log in remembrance of the
visit—hoping that he might in some way reveal his history.
“Well, boys, how old should you say I am?” He looked quizzically from
one to the other. Frank guessed eighty; Kenneth eighty-five, and he was
afraid he was stretching it.
“Well,” said he, “my name is John Gomez, and if I live till Christmas—as
I hope I shall—I’ll be a hundred and twenty-three.”
Frank and Kenneth could do nothing but gaze at him open-mouthed. “Holy
smoke!” at last ejaculated Frank.
“Now, there’s something to put down in your log,” said John Gomez. “Good
luck to you.”
He shook the boys’ hands with a hearty grip, and went off.
“Well,” said Frank, as he and Kenneth got aboard “His Nibs” and pushed
off, “a hundred and twenty-three, think of it! I bet that old chap has a
history.”
And he had.