authorities, so that they can come down on that place before the
scoundrels get away, or get their plunder away.”
“Yes,” said Tom, who was reluctant to leave the place and give up the
adventure, “I suppose we ought to do that.”
“Ought to? Why, we simply must. Every decent citizen owes it as a duty
to give notice of crime when he discovers it, and to aid the officers
of the law in stopping it. Civilized life would come to an end if
men generally refused to support the authorities in their efforts to
enforce the law. We’ve discovered a den of thieves, engaged in robbing
the Government—that is to say, robbing all of us. So we’ll get away
from here just as early in the morning as we can. Now let’s get some
sleep.”
It was easy to say, “Let’s get some sleep,” but not easy to get it
in the excited condition of mind that had come upon every member of
the little party. But, by keeping silence and lying still, the weary
fellows did manage to sleep a little after awhile, and it was the sun
shining full in their faces that at last aroused them to a busy day.
XIII
CAL’S EXPERIENCE AS THE PRODIGAL SON
BREAKFAST next morning was not a very satisfactory meal. There was
plenty of fish and game, of course, but there was little else. The
coffee supply had been used up, but the boys regarded that as a matter
of no consequence.
“Coffee is a mere luxury anyhow,” Dick said, “and we can go without it
as well as not. It isn’t like being without bread or substitutes for
bread. If we had some sweet potatoes now, or some rice—”
“The which we haven’t,” interrupted Cal. “No more can we get any here.
As for corn meal, we have enough for one more ash cake, but it is full
of weevil and, therefore, when we consume it we shall be eating the
bread of bitterness in an entirely literal sense. For quinine biscuit
would taste like cookies as compared with weevely corn bread. You were
wise in your generation, Dick, when you surreptitiously placed that
tin of ship biscuit on board, but your imagination lacked breadth and
comprehensiveness. It was not commensurate with our appetites, and so
the ship bread is all consumed and would have been if you’d brought
a barrel of it on board instead of that little tin box full. You
neglected that, however, and we must endure the consequences as best we
may.”
“For the present, yes,” said Larry; “but not for long. We must make all
the haste we can till we get to Beaufort and stock up again.”
“I know a trick worth two of that,” Cal said apart to Dick, but he did
not explain himself. Dick had found out, however, that Cal’s knowledge
of the region round about them and of the tortuous waterways that
interlaced the coast in every direction was singularly minute and
accurate. It was not until that morning, however, that Cal explained
to him how he had come to be so well versed in the geography and
hydrography of the region. It had been decided by Captain Larry that
before leaving their present camp that day the company should cook
enough food to last for a day or two, so that they might not have
to waste any time hunting or fishing while making as quick a trip
to Beaufort as they could. As there was very little game left after
breakfast, Cal and Dick set out with their guns to secure a supply
of squirrels and whatever else they could find, while Larry and Tom
should load the boat and catch some fish.
During this little shooting expedition some small manifestation of
Cal’s minute information prompted a question from Dick.
“How on earth, Cal, can you remember every little detail like that? And
how did you learn so much about things around here, anyhow?”
“I got that part of my education,” Cal answered, “partly by being a
very good boy and partly by being a very bad one. I’m inclined to
think the bad-boy influence contributed even more than the good-boy
experience to my store of information. As for remembering things,
that is a habit of mind easily cultivated, though the great majority
of people neglect it. It consists mainly in careful observation. When
people tell you they don’t remember things they have seen, or remember
them only vaguely, it usually means that they did not observe the
things seen. For example, I remembered where that spring of ours was
when we were all parched with thirst, and I knew how to go to it in
the dark. That was simply because when I first saw that spring and
quenched a very lively thirst there, I decided to remember it and its
surroundings in case I should ever have occasion to find it again.
So I looked carefully at everything round about from every point of
view. I observed that the spring lay just beyond the first bend of the
creek and that there was a cluster of big cypress trees very near it.
I noticed that the mouth of the creek lay between a little stretch of
beach on one side and a dense cane thicket on the other. In short, I
carefully observed all the bearings, and having done that, of course I
could never forget how to find the spring.”
“Do you always do that sort of thing when you think you may want to
find a place again?”
“Yes, of course. Indeed, I do it anyhow, whether there is any occasion
or not. For example, when I was visiting you in Boston last year
I noticed that there was a little dent in the silver cap over the
speaking tube in the dining-room, as if somebody had hit it a little
blow. The dent was triangular, I remember.”
“That’s because the thing I hit it with had a triangular face, for I
made that dent when I was a little fellow with a curious-looking tool
that a repairer of old furniture had in use there. It’s curious that
you should have noticed the dent, as it is very small and your back was
toward it as you sat at table.”
“Yes, but not as I entered the room. It was then that I saw it.”
“Then that sort of close observation is a habit of mind with you?”
“Yes. I suppose it is partly natural and partly cultivated. I don’t
know.”
The two had come by this time to that part of the woods that Tom had
named the “squirrel pasture,” and they were soon busy with their
guns. But as they walked back toward the camp, loaded with black and
gray squirrels, Dick came back to the subject, which seemed deeply to
interest him.
“I wonder, Cal,” he said, “if you would mind telling me about those two
epochs in your young life—the good-boy and the bad-boy periods?”
Cal laughed, half under his breath.
“It isn’t much to tell,” he replied; “but if you’re interested I’ll
tell you about it. You see the old families down here are a good
deal mixed up in their relationships, just as the old families in
Massachusetts are, because of frequent intermarriages. The Rutledges
and the Calhouns, and the Hugers, and the Huguenins, and Barnwells, and
Haywards, and the rest, are all more or less related to each other.
Indeed, there is such a tangle of relationships that I long ago gave up
trying to work out the puzzle. It is enough for you to know that the
particular Mr. Hayward who owns all this wild land around here and
half a dozen plantations besides is my kinsman—my mother’s uncle, I
believe. Anyhow, from my earliest childhood there was never anything
that I liked so well as visiting at Uncle Hayward’s. Perfect candor
compels me to say that I was not particularly fond of Uncle Hayward or
of any member of the family, for that matter. Uncle Hayward used to
take me for long rides on a marsh tackey by way of entertaining me in
the way he thought I liked best, and I resented that whenever I wanted
to do something else instead. He is one of the best and kindliest men
alive and I am very fond of him now, but when I was a little fellow
I thought he interfered with my own plans too much, and so I made up
my mind that I didn’t like him. As for the ladies of the family, I
detested them because they were always combing my hair and ‘dressing me
up’ when I didn’t want to be dressed up.
“Nevertheless, nothing delighted me like a prolonged visit at Uncle
Hayward’s. That was because I particularly appreciated an intimate
association with Sam. Sam was a black boy—or young man, rather—who
seemed to me to be the most delightfully accomplished person I had
ever known. He could roll his eyes up until only the white below the
iris was visible. He could stand on his head, walk on his hands, turn
handsprings, and disjoint himself in the most astonishing fashion
imaginable. He could move his scalp and wiggle his ears. His gifts and
accomplishments in such ways as these seemed to me without limit.
“As Uncle Hayward could never keep Sam out of the woods, he made up his
mind to assign him to duty in the woods as a sort of ranger. There was
plenty for Sam to do there, for besides all these vast tracts of wild
land, Uncle Hayward had a deer park consisting of many thousand acres
of woodland under a single fence. To watch for fires, to keep poachers
out, to catch and tame half a dozen marsh tackeys every now and then,
and a score of similar duties were assigned to Sam.
“When I was a little fellow my customary reward for being a
particularly ‘good boy’ for a season was permission to go into the
woods with Sam and live like a wild creature for weeks at a time. In
that way, and under Sam’s tuition, I learned much about these regions
and about the waterways, for Sam seemed always to know where a boat
of some kind lay hidden, and he and I became tireless navigators and
explorers.
“That, in brief, is the history of the ‘good-boy’ epoch. The story of
the other is a trifle more dramatic, perhaps. It occurred three or
four years ago when Larry and I were planning to go to Virginia to
prepare for college. I was fourteen or fifteen years old then and I had
continued to spend a part of every year down here in the woods with
Sam for guide, servant, and hunting factotum. At the time I speak of I
had some rather ‘lame ducks’ in my studies. The fact is, I had idled a
good deal, while Larry had mastered all the tasks set him. Accordingly,
when my father and mother went North that year—they go every summer on
account of mother’s health—Larry went up country to visit some of our
relatives there, while I decided to stay at home and work with a tutor
whom my father had hired for me.
“He and I lived alone in the house with only the servants, and I
found him to be in many ways disagreeable. He was an Englishman,
for one thing, and at that period of my life I had not yet got
over the detestation of Englishmen which the school histories and
revolutionary legends had instilled into my mind. He was brusque and
even unmannerly at times, judged by the standards of courtesy that we
Carolinians accept. More important than all else, he and I entertained
irreconcilable views as to our relations with each other. He thought he
was employed to be my master, while I held that he was hired only as my
tutor. This led to some friction, but we managed to get on together
for a time until I found that the difference of opinion between him
and me extended to other things than our personal relations. He seemed
to think himself not only my master but master of the house also in
my father’s absence. He did not know how to treat the servants. He
gave them orders in a harsh, peremptory way to which house servants in
Carolina are not accustomed. His manner with them was rather that of
an ox-driver toward his cattle than that of a gentleman dealing with
well-mannered and well-meaning servants.
“This grated on me, and I suppose I have a pretty well-defined temper
when occasion arouses it. The Rutledges generally have. At any rate
I one day remonstrated with the tutor on the subject, intending the
remonstrance to be all there was of the incident, but he answered me
in that tone of a master which I more and more resented. High words
followed, from which he learned my opinion of his character and manners
much more definitely than I had cared to express it before.
“At last he threatened me with a flogging, and picked up a cane with
which to administer it. I was mad all over and clear through by that
time. I had never had a flogging and I certainly would not submit to
one at his hands. But my anger had passed beyond expression in words
by that time. I did not feel the flush of it—I felt deathly pale
instead. I was no longer hot; on the contrary I was never cooler in
my life. I did not threaten my antagonist or give him warning as he
advanced toward me with the cane uplifted. I simply selected a certain
plank in the floor which I made up my mind should be his Rubicon. I
stood perfectly still, waiting for him to cross it.
“Presently he stepped across the line I had fixed upon. The instant he
did so I sprang upon him, delivering my blows so fast and furiously
that in two or three seconds he went down in a heap. He claimed to be
an expert boxer, and I suppose he was, but my attack was so sudden and
so unexpected that his science seemed to have no chance. At any rate,
he was so nearly ‘knocked out’ that he had no disposition to renew the
contest. He went to his room, washed himself, packed his trunk, leaving
it to be called for later, and left the house.
“Before leaving he wrote me a curt note, saying that he would
immediately get a warrant for my arrest on a charge of assault and
battery.
“That rather staggered me. I wouldn’t have given one inch in fear of
that man. No power on earth could have made me run away from him or
apologize to him or in any other way flinch from anything he might
do to me. But I had a terrifying misconception of the law and its
processes. I was only a fifteen-year-old boy, you know, and I knew
nothing whatever of legal proceedings; or rather, I knew just enough
about them to mislead my mind. I knew that a warrant meant arrest, and
as I lay abed worrying that night I convinced myself that if I should
be arrested when my father was not in Charleston to furnish bail for
me, I must lie in a loathsome jail until his return, forbidden to
communicate with anybody and compelled to live on a diet of bread and
water.
“I saw no way out except to keep out of reach of that warrant till my
father’s return, and the only secure way of doing that, I thought,
was to run away and live down here in the woods. So after lying awake
all night I got up at daybreak, got one of the servants to give
me breakfast and put up a luncheon for me. Then I took a little,
flat-bottomed skiff that I owned and made my way down here. I had
some money with me, but I did not dare go to any town, or village, or
country store, to buy anything lest the man with the warrant should
find out where I was. I learned where all the little negro settlements
were, however, and there I bought sweet potatoes and the like as I
needed them. I had my shotgun and fish lines with me, of course, and
so I had no difficulty in feeding myself. For amusement I wandered
about in every direction by land and water, and in that way greatly
improved my education in coast country geography.
“After a while I found myself running short of ammunition, and I didn’t
know how to procure a fresh supply. I was afraid to go to Beaufort, or
up to Grahamville, or Coosawhatchie, or anywhere else where there were
stores, and besides that I was in no fit condition to go anywhere. I
had forgotten to bring any clothes with me and what I had on were worn
literally to rags.
“Fortunately I had got acquainted with a negro boy who often brought me
vegetables and fruit and sold them to me for low prices. I suppose now
that he stole them, although that didn’t occur to me then.
“One day I hit upon the plan of sending him to Beaufort for ammunition.
He expressed doubt that anybody there would sell it to him, and I
shared the doubt. But it was my only chance, so I gave him some money
and sent him. He was gone for two days, during which I fired my last
cartridge at a deer and missed him. I had begun to think the negro
boy had simply pocketed the money and disappeared, never to return
again, but I consoled myself with the thought that there were plenty of
fish and oysters to be had, and that I could buy sweet potatoes and
vegetables.
“That night the negro boy returned, bringing me rather more ammunition
than I had sent for, and when I questioned him about the matter his
reply was that that was what the storekeeper had given him for the
money. Later, however, he confessed to me that finding nobody willing
to sell cartridges to him, he had simply stolen them and, being
prepared to bring me the goods I had sent for, he thought the money
he had saved in that way justly belonged to him. He had squandered it
for candy and in satisfaction of such other desires as possessed him.
Of course I paid the merchant afterwards, and equally of course it was
impossible to collect the amount from the boy.
“All that is an episode. One day by some chance I encountered Sam in my
wanderings, and he told me people were looking for me—that my father
had heard of my disappearance and had hurried back to Charleston.
“I went to Beaufort, bought some sort of clothes, and like the other
prodigal son, returned to my father. But he utterly failed to play his
part according to the story. Instead of falling on my neck, he laughed
at the clothes I wore. Instead of killing the fatted calf, he told me
to take a bath and put on something fit to wear. All that evening I
heard him chuckling under his breath as I related my experiences in
answer to his questions. Finally he said to me:
“‘You’ll do, Cal. I’ll never feel uneasy about you again. You know how
to take care of yourself.’
“There, Dick, you’ve heard the whole story, both of my righteousness
and of my wickedness.”
“And a mighty interesting story it has been to me,” Dick replied.
“Thank you for telling it.”
XIV
CAL RELATES A FABLE
THE _Hunkydory_ was completely loaded when Cal and Dick returned, and
there was nothing further to do except cook the fish and game, so that
there might be no need to stop anywhere to get dinner.
There was a fairly stiff breeze blowing when the anchors were weighed,
but sailing was impracticable until the boat should be well out of the
narrow creek, so all hands went to the oars.
When the land was cleared, Larry ordered that the oars be stowed
in their fastenings and the sails raised. Without discussion or
arrangement of any kind, Cal went to the helm. It seemed the proper
thing to do in view of his superior knowledge of the surroundings, but
Cal was not thinking of that. He had a plan and purpose of his own to
carry out, though he said nothing about the matter.
There was quite an hour of sailing necessary before the course could
be laid in the direction of the waterway that led toward Beaufort, and
when the time came for heading in that direction, Cal laid quite a
different course, heading for a shore that lay several miles away.
Larry was dozing in the forepeak and did not at first observe on what
course his brother was sailing. When at last he did notice it, he
assumed that something in the direction of the wind made Cal’s course
desirable, but after a glance at the sails he changed his mind.
“Why are you heading in that direction, Cal?” he asked, looking about
him. “Your course will take us several miles out of our way. Head her
toward the point of land over there where the palmettos are.”
Cal made no change and he waited a full minute before he answered. When
he did so it was in his most languid drawl.
“Larry,” he said, quite as if he had not heard a word that his brother
had uttered, “there was a schooner sailing down the Hudson River one
day. The captain of that craft was a Dutchman of phlegmatic temperament
and extreme obstinacy. The mate was a Yankee, noted for his alert
readiness of resource. The schooner was loaded with brick. The captain
was loaded with beer. The mate wasn’t loaded at all. It was the
captain’s business to steer and manage things in the after half of the
ship. It was the function of the mate to manage things forward. But
when the mate saw that the schooner’s course was carrying her straight
upon the rocks, he went aft and remonstrated with the captain. For
reply the captain said:
“‘Mate, you go forward and run your end of the schooner and leave me to
run my end.’
“The mate went forward and ordered the anchor heaved overboard. Then
going aft again, he said:
“‘Captain, I have anchored my end of the schooner; you can do what you
please with your end.’”
Cal ceased, as if he had finished speaking. The others laughed at the
story, and Larry said:
“What’s the moral of that yarn, Cal?”
“_Haec fabula docet_,” replied Cal, “that _I’m_ sailing the _Hunkydory_
just now; that I know where we are going and why.”
“Would you mind telling us, then?” demanded Larry.
“Not in the least. We are heading for the shore, on our lee; as for
why, there are several reasons: One is that the tide will turn pretty
soon, and when it does it will run out of the creek you want me to
enter as fast as it does out of the Bay of Fundy. Another is, that
the wind is falling and we shall have to take to the oars presently.
Another is, that I am persuaded it will be easier rowing across the
small current out here than against a tide that rushes out of the
creek like a mill tail. There are other and controlling reasons, but
I have already given you as many as your intellectual digestion can
assimilate. The rest will keep till we’re comfortably ashore. There,
that’s the last puff of the wind.”
With that he hauled the boom inboard, let go the halyards and left the
rudder-bar.
“It is now after three o’clock,” he said, while the others were
unstepping the mast, “and the distance is about three miles or a trifle
less. Rowing easily we shall have time after we get there to settle
ourselves comfortably before nightfall.”
“I suppose you’re right, of course,” Larry answered, “but it means
several more meals on meat and fish alone.”
“Better not cross that bridge till you come to it, Larry. You see we
might find manna over there, or some bread-fruit trees newly imported
from Tahiti—who knows?”
The others shared Larry’s regret as to the food prospect, but they all
recognized Cal’s superior knowledge of conditions as a controlling
consideration; so all rowed on in silence.
When at last they reached the neighborhood of the shore, Cal began
scrutinizing it closely as if searching for the landing place he had
selected in his mind. He was in fact looking for the very narrow and
cane-hidden entrance to a land-locked bay that he remembered very well.
Presently he turned into it and shot the boat through a channel that
one might have passed a dozen times without seeing it. It wound about
among the dense growths for a little way and then opened out into a
considerable little bay.
Here Cal directed the landing, but instead of arranging to anchor the
boat a little way from shore he put on all speed with the oars and ran
her hard and fast upon a gently sloping beach.
“What’s that for, Cal?” asked Dick, whose nautical instincts were
offended by the manœuvre.
“To save trouble,” Cal answered. “You see this is a considerable little
bay, and the entrance to it is so very narrow that before much of a
flood tide can run into the broad basin the time comes for it to turn
and run out again, so there is never a rise and fall of more than six
or eight inches in here. The boat will lie comfortably where she is so
long as we choose to stay here. We can reach her without much if any
wading, and we can shove her off into deep water whenever we like.”
“Is there a spring about here?” asked Tom, whose concern about water
supply had become specially active.
“No, but we can make one in fifteen minutes.”
Then selecting a sort of depression in the sandy beach about sixty
yards from the water’s edge, Cal said:
“We have only to scoop out a basin in the sand here—about three feet
deep as I reckon it, and we’ll have all the water we want.”
“But will it be good water?”
“Perfectly good. You see, Tom, this beach is composed of clean white
sand. The water in the bay sipes through it at a uniform level, and
we’ve only to dig down to that level in order to get at it.”
“But won’t it be salt water?”
“Slightly brackish, perhaps, or possibly not at all so. You see before
reaching this point it is filtered through sixty or seventy yards of
closely packed sand, which takes up all the salt and would take up all
other impurities if there were any, as there are not. Suppose you dig
for the water, Tom, while the other fellows make camp and pick up wood.
It’s very easy digging and it won’t take long. I’m going off a little
way to see what there is to see—and to look for the manna I spoke of a
while ago.”