an hour before he returned and the dusk was falling. But to the
astonishment of the others a string of young negroes followed close
upon his heels, all carrying burdens of some sort, mostly poised upon
their heads.
XV
CAL GATHERS THE MANNA
WHEN Cal appeared at the head of his dusky little caravan the others
advanced to meet him and bombard him with a rapid fire of questions
as to where he had been, and what the negro boys were carrying, and
where he had discovered the source of supply, and whatever else their
curiosity suggested.
Instead of replying at once he asked.
“Did you find the water, Tom?”
“Yes, easily, and it isn’t brackish at all.”
“That’s excellent, and now let us eat, drink and be merry. I couldn’t
give you that injunction till I learned that we had the water for the
drinking part.”
Without waiting for him to finish his sentence the others busied
themselves in examining what the negroes had brought. As they did so,
Cal catalogued the supplies orally with comments:
“That bag contains a half bushel of rice—enough to serve us as
a breadstuff for a long time to come, as we require only three
teacupfuls—measured by guess—for a meal; the bag by the side of it is
badly out at elbows and knees, but it holds a fine supply of new sweet
potatoes which will help the endurance of the rice. What’s that? Oh,
that’s a little okra, and the red-turbaned old darky woman who sold
it to me carefully explained how to cook the mucilaginous vegetable.
As she delivered her instructions in the language of the Upper Congo,
I cannot say that my conception of the way in which okra should be
prepared for the table is especially clear, but we’ll find some way out
of that difficulty. Yes, the big bag on the right contains a few dozen
ears of green corn, and the one next to it is full of well-ripened
tomatoes, smooth of surface, shapely of contour and tempting to
the appetite. Finally, we have here half a dozen cantaloupes, or
‘mush millions,’ as the colored youth who supplied them called his
merchandise. Now scamper, you little vagabonds. I’ve paid you once for
toting the things and it is a matter of principle with me never to pay
twice for a single service.”
“Where on earth, Cal, did you find all these things?” asked Larry, the
others looking the same question out of their eyes as it were.
“I found them in the garden patches where they were grown,” he replied.
“That’s what I went out to do. They are the ‘manna,’ the finding of
which somewhere in this neighborhood I foreshadowed in answer to your
querulous predictions of an exclusively meat diet for some days to
come.”
As he spoke, Cal was throwing sweet potatoes into the fire and covering
them with red-hot ashes with glowing coals on top.
“You’re a most unsatisfactory fellow, Cal,” said Dick. “Why don’t you
tell us where you got the provender and how you happened to find so
rich a source of supply. Anybody else would be eager to talk about such
an exploit.”
“I’ll tell you,” Cal answered, “as soon as I get the potato roast
properly going. I’m hungry. Suppose you cut some cantaloupes for us to
eat while the potatoes are cooking.”
Not until he had half a melon in hand did Cal begin.
“There’s one of the finest rice plantations on all this coast about
a mile above here. Or rather, the plantation house is there. As for
the plantation itself, we’re sitting on it now. It belongs to Colonel
Huguenin, and of course the house is closed in summer.”
“Why?” interrupted Dick, whose thirst for information concerning
southern customs was insatiable.
“Do you really want me to interrupt my story of ‘How Cal Went Foraging’
in order to answer your interjected inquiry? If I must talk it’s all
one to me what I talk about. So make your choice.”
“Go on and tell us of the foraging. The other thing can wait.”
“Well, then; I happened to know of this plantation. I’ve bivouacked
on the shores of this bay before, and when I turned the _Hunkydory’s_
nose in this direction I was impelled by an intelligent purpose. I had
alluring visions of the things I could buy from the negroes up there at
the quarters.”
“Why didn’t you tell us then instead of getting off all that rigmarole
about rowing against the tide and the rest of it?” asked Larry, not
with irritation, but with a laugh, for the cantaloupe he was eating and
the smell of the sweet potatoes roasting in the ashes had put him and
the others into an entirely peaceful and contented frame of mind.
“I never like to raise hopes,” answered Cal, “that I cannot certainly
fulfill. Performance is better than promises—as much better as the
supper we are about to eat is better than a printed bill of fare.
Wonder how the potatoes are coming on?”
With that he dug one of the yams out of the ashes, examined it, and put
it back, saying:
“Five or six minutes more will do the business. I picked out the
smallest ones on purpose to hurry supper. Let’s set the table. Tom, if
your kettle of water is boiling, suppose you shuck some corn and plunge
it in it. It must boil from five to six minutes—just long enough to
get it thoroughly hot through. If it boils longer the sweetness all
goes out of it. Dick, won’t you wash some of the tomatoes while Larry
and I arrange the dishes?”
Arranging the dishes consisted in cutting a number of broad palmete
leaves, some to hold the supplies of food and others to serve as plates.
“I’m sorry I cannot offer you young gentlemen some fresh butter for
your corn and potatoes,” said Cal, as they sat down to supper, “but to
be perfectly candid with you, our cows seem to have deserted us and we
haven’t churned for several days past. After all, the corn and potatoes
will be very palatable with a little salt sprinkled upon them, and we
have plenty of salt. Don’t hesitate to help yourselves freely to it.”
“To my mind,” said Dick, “this is as good a supper as I ever ate.”
“That’s because of our sharp appetites,” answered Larry. “We’re hungry
enough to relish anything.”
“Appetite helps, of course,” said Dick, thoughtfully; “but so does
contrast. An hour ago we had all made up our minds to content ourselves
for many meals to come with the exclusive diet of fish and game, which
has been our lot for many meals past. To find ourselves eating a supper
like this instead is like waking from a bad dream and finding it only a
nightmare.”
“It would be better still not to have the nightmare,” answered Cal,
speaking more seriously than he usually did. “When you have a nightmare
it is usually your own fault, and pessimism is always so. You fellows
were pessimistic over the prospect of a supper you could not enjoy. As
you have a supper that you can enjoy, the suffering you inflicted upon
yourselves was wholly needless.”
“Yes, I know,” interposed Tom; “but we couldn’t know that you were
going to get all these good things for us.”
“No, of course not. But if you hadn’t allowed your pessimistic
forebodings to make you unhappy, you needn’t have been unhappy at
all. If things had turned out as you expected you’d have been unhappy
twice—once in lamenting your lot and once in suffering it. As it
is, you’ve been needlessly unhappy once and unexpectedly happy once,
instead of being happy all the while. I tell you optimism is the only
true philosophy.”
“I suppose it is,” Dick admitted, “but it leads to disappointment very
often.”
“Of course. But in that case you suffer the ill, whatever it is, only
once; while the pessimist suffers it both before it befalls and when it
comes. That involves a sheer waste of the power of endurance.”
Larry had forgotten to eat while his brother delivered this little
discourse, for he had never heard Cal talk in so serious a fashion.
Indeed, he had come to think of his brother as a trifler who could
never be persuaded to seriousness.
“Where on earth did you get that thought, Cal?” he asked, when Cal
ceased to speak.
“It is perfectly sound, isn’t it?” was the boy’s reply.
“I think it is. But where did you get it?”
“If it is sound, it doesn’t matter where I got it, or how. But to
satisfy your curiosity, I’ll tell you that I thought it out down here
in the woods when I was a runaway. I was so often in trouble as to what
was going to happen, and it so often happened that it didn’t happen
after all, that I got to wondering one day what was the use of worrying
about things that might never happen. I was alone in the woods, you
know, and I had plenty of time to think. So little by little I thought
out the optimistic philosophy and adopted it as the rule of my life.
Of course I could not formulate it then as I do now. I didn’t know
what the words ‘optimism’ and ‘pessimism’ meant, but my mind got a
good grasp upon the ideas underlying them. There! My sermon is done.
I have only to announce that there will be no more preaching at this
camp-meeting. I’m going to take a look at your well, Tom, and if the
water is as good as you say, I’m going to empty the rain water out of
the kegs and refill them. Rain water, you know, goes bad a good deal
sooner than other water—especially sand-filtered water.”
“I reckon Cal is right, Dick,” said Tom, when their companion was out
of earshot.
“Yes, of course he is, but did you ever stub your toe? It’s a little
bit hard to be optimistic on occasions like that.”
“I reckon that’s hardly what Cal meant—”
“Of course it isn’t. I was jesting.”
XVI
FOG BOUND
THE boys were not tired that evening, and after their abundant supper
they sat late talking and telling stories and “just being happy,” Dick
said. The day had been a torrid one, but in the evening there was a
chill in the air which made a crackling camp-fire welcome. When at last
they grew sleepy they simply rolled themselves in their blankets and
lay down upon the sand and under the stars. They had built no shelter,
as it was not their purpose to remain where they were except for a
single night.
It was not long after daylight when Tom, shivering, sprang up, saying:
“I’m cold—hello! What’s this? Fog?”
“Yes,” said Larry, “a visitor from the gulf stream. And it is almost
thick enough to cut, too. What shall we do?”
“Do? Why, make the best of it and be happy, of course,” answered Cal,
piling wood upon the embers to set the camp-fire going again. “The
first step in that direction is to get your blood circulating. Stir
around. Bring a bucket of water and set the kettle to boil—that is
to say, if you can open a trail through this fog and find the water
hole without falling into it. Whew! but this is a marrow-searching
atmosphere.”
The fog was indeed so dense that nothing could be seen at more than
twenty paces away, while the damp, penetrating chill set all teeth
chattering and kept them at it until rapid exercise set pulses going
again. Then came breakfast to “confirm the cure,” Dick suggested, and
the little company was comfortable again. That is to say, all of them
but Larry. He was obviously uneasy in his mind, so much so that he had
little relish for his breakfast.
“What’s the matter, Larry,” asked Tom, presently; “aren’t you warm yet?”
“Oh, yes, I’m warm enough, but there isn’t a breath of air stirring,
and this fog may last all day. What do you think, Cal?”
“I think that very likely. I’ve seen fogs like this that lasted two or
three days.”
“How on earth are we to get to Beaufort while it lasts?”
The question revealed the nature of Larry’s trouble.
“Why, of course we can’t do anything of the kind,” Cal answered. “We
should get lost in the fog and go butting into mud banks and unexpected
shoals. No. Till this fog clears away we can’t think of leaving the
altogether agreeable shore upon which a kindly fate has cast us. But
we can be happy while we stay, unless we make ourselves unhappy by
worrying. I know what is troubling you, Larry, and it’s nonsense to
worry about it. I often think I wouldn’t carry your conscience about
with me for thirty cents a month.”
“But, Cal, you see it is our duty to notify the revenue officers of our
discovery before those smugglers get away.”
“It may relieve your mind,” Cal answered in his usual roundabout
fashion, “to reflect that they can’t get away. If they were still
there when this fog came in from the sea, they will stay there till it
clears away again. So we are really losing no time. In addition to that
consolation, you should take comfort to yourself in the thought that
even if the revenue officers were in possession of the information we
have, they could do nothing till the fog lifts. So far as I know, at
least, they can see no farther through fog than other people can, and
shoals and mud banks are unlikely to respect their authority by keeping
out of the way of such craft as they may navigate.”
Suddenly Cal put aside his playful manner of speech, and became
thoroughly earnest.
“Think a minute, Larry. We have absolutely no official duty to do in
this matter. We are doing our best as good citizens to notify the
authorities. At present we can’t do it. There’s an end of that. We
have a pleasant bivouac here, with plenty of food and more where it
came from. Why shouldn’t we make the best of things and be happy? Why
should you go brooding around, making the rest of us miserable? I tell
you it’s nonsense. Cheer up, and give the rest of us a chance to enjoy
ourselves.”
“You are right, Cal,” Larry answered; “and I won’t spoil sport. I
didn’t mean to, and my worrying was foolish. By the way, what shall we
do to pass the time to-day?”
“Well, for one thing, we ought to put up a shelter. A fog like this is
very apt to end in soaking rain, and if it does that to-night, we’ll
sleep more comfortably under a roof of palmete leaves than out in the
open. However, there’s no hurry about that, and you can let Dick wallop
you at chess for an hour or so while Tom and I go foraging. You see
I’ve thought of a good many things that I ought to have bought last
night, but didn’t. Do you want to go along, Tom?”
Tom did, and as they started away, Cal called back:
“I say, Larry, suppose you put on a kettle of rice to boil for dinner
when the time comes. I think I’ll bring back something to eat with it.”
Then walking on with Tom by his side, he fell into his customary
drawling, half-frivolous mode of speech. Tom had expressed his pleasure
in the prospect of rice for dinner—rice cooked in the Carolina way, a
dish he had never tasted before his present visit began.
“Yes,” answered Cal, “I was tenderly and affectionately thinking of you
when I suggested the dish. And I had it in mind to make the occasion
memorable in another way. I remember very vividly how greatly—I will
not say greedily—you enjoyed the combination of rice and broiled
spring chicken while we were in Charleston. I remember that at first
you seemed disposed to scorn the rice under the mistaken impression
that rice must always be the pasty, mush-like mess that they made of it
at school. I remember how when I insisted upon filling your plate with
it you contemplated it with surprise, and, contemplating, tasted the
dainty result of proper cooking. After that all was plain sailing. I
had only to place half a broiled chicken upon the rice foundation in
your plate—half a chicken at a time I mean—and observe the gustatory
delight with which you devoted yourself to our favorite Carolina dish.”
“Oh, well, your Carolina way of cooking it makes rice good even when
you have no chicken to go with it. If the fog would thin itself down a
bit—”
“Which it won’t do in time for you to kill the squirrels you were
thinking of as a possible substitute for chicken. Perish the thought.
It is utterly unworthy. You and I are out after spring chickens, Tom.”
“Good! Do you think we can find any?”
“With the aid of the currency of our country as an excitant of the
negro imagination, we can.”
“You saw chickens at the negro quarters last night, then?”
“No, I did not. But I observed a large pan on a shelf in front of one
of the cabins, and with more curiosity than politeness I stood up on my
tiptoes and looked into it. Tom, that pan was more than half full of
chicken feed, and it was fresh at that. Knowing the habits of persons
of the colored persuasion, I am entirely certain that no one of them
would have taken the trouble to prepare that chicken feed unless he
was the happy possessor of chickens. I’m going to call upon the dusky
proprietor of that pan this morning.”
“That’s another case of noticing, Cal, and another proof of its value.
We are likely to have broiled spring chickens for dinner to-day just
because you observed that pan of chicken feed. What else did you notice
up there? I ask solely out of curiosity.”
“There wasn’t much else to observe. I saw some fig bushes but they’ve
been stripped. Otherwise we should have had some figs for breakfast
this morning. Just now I observe that the fog is manifesting a decided
tendency to resolve itself into rain, and if it does, that we must
satisfy Larry’s conscience by getting away from our present camp this
afternoon—or as soon as the fog is sufficiently cleared away. So you
and I must hurry on if we’re to have those broiled chickens.”
As results proved, Cal was mistaken in his reckoning of the time
necessary to dissipate the fog. It was merely taking the form of what
is known as a “Scotch mist,” which does not form itself into rain drops
and fall, but collects in drops upon whatever it touches, saturating
clothing even more speedily than actual rain does and making all but
the sunniest dispositions uncomfortable.
But even a Scotch mist condition served to thin the fog a little,
though by no means enough to make navigation possible. Larry watched
conditions anxiously, as Cal expected him to do, and his first question
when Cal and Tom returned with their chickens revealed his state of
mind.
“What do you think of it, Cal?” he asked.
“Of what? If you refer to the moon, I am satisfied in my own mind—”
“Pshaw! You know what I mean. Do be serious for once and tell me what
you think of the prospect?”
“Conscience bothering you again?”
“Yes. We must get away from here to-day if possible—and as soon as
possible.”
“Can’t you give us time to have dinner and cook some extra food for
consumption when we get hopelessly lost out there in the fog banks that
are still rolling in from the sea?”
“Oh, of course we can’t leave here till the fog clears away. But do you
think it ever will clear away?”
“It always has,” answered Cal, determined to laugh his brother out of
his brooding if he could not reason him out of it. “In such experience
as I have had with fogs I never yet encountered one that didn’t
ultimately disappear, did you?”
“But what do you think of the prospect?” persisted Larry.
“I can see so little of it through the fog,” Cal provokingly replied,
“that I am really unable to form an intelligent opinion of it. What I
do see is that you haven’t begun to make our shelter yet. In my opinion
it would be well to do so, if only to keep the chess board dry while
a game is in progress. Moreover, I have an interesting book or two
wrapped up in my oilskins, and if we are doomed to remain here over
night—”
“You don’t think then that—”
“Frankly, Larry, I don’t know anything about it. Neither do you, and
neither does anybody else. We’re in a very wet fog bank. We’ve got
to stay where we are till the weather changes. Don’t you think our
wisest course is to make ourselves as comfortable and keep ourselves as
cheerful as we can while it lasts.”
“Yes, of course, but it’s pretty hard you know to—”
“Not half as hard as chopping wood and ‘toting’ it in from the woods
over there, and that is what Tom and I are going to do after dinner as
our contribution to the general comfort. You’ll find yourself feeling
a great deal better if you busy yourself making a really comfortable
shelter while we’re at the other job. It may come on to rain torrents
this afternoon, and of course we won’t leave here in the boat if it
does.”
“That will do, Cal. I’m convinced, and I’m a trifle ashamed of myself
besides. I promise not to worry any more. I decree that we shall not
leave port in a rain storm, and unless the weather conditions become
favorable before four o’clock this afternoon we’ll not leave here any
how until to-morrow.”
XVII
THE OBLIGATION OF A GENTLEMAN
THE fog held throughout the day, changing to a deluge of rain about
nightfall, but Cal and Tom had provided an abundance of firewood, the
palmete shelter was waterproof, the long gray moss with which it was
carpeted was soft to loll upon, and the book from which they read
aloud by turns proved to be an amusing one. Larry kept his promise and
indulged in no further impatience.
When morning came the rain was still coming down in torrents, and it
was unanimously agreed that no attempt should be made to quit the place
until it should cease.
“An open rowboat in a heavy rain is about the wettest place
imaginable,” Dick said, and the experience of the rest had been such as
to confirm the judgment.
When at last a brisk westerly wind began to tear the clouds to pieces,
all agreed that Larry’s patience had fairly earned its reward, and all
hands worked hard to get as early a start as possible. It was two
o’clock in fact when they finally set sail, with Cal again at the helm
because he knew of a narrow but navigable passage which would enable
them to avoid the heavy ebb tide of the channel that Larry had selected
two days before. The tide would not begin to ebb for two or three hours
to come, and by taking this short cut Cal hoped to reach broad waters
before that time.
He did so in fact, but upon running out of the little creek he was
disappointed to find that a shift had given him a headwind to contend
with. There was nothing for it but to beat to windward, and the breeze
was so light that their progress was slow. Cal made the best of
conditions as he found them, according to his custom, but about sunset
the tide turned against him, and worse than that, the wind went down
with the sun, leaving not a breath to fill the sails.
Then Cal asked for orders.
“What is your wish, Captain Larry?” he asked. “Shall we take to the
oars and push on against the tide, or land for the night? Without a
favoring wind we can’t possibly make Beaufort to-night.”
“What do the rest of you say?” asked Larry, in some perplexity.
“Never mind what anybody else says,” broke in Cal, before the others
could answer. “This isn’t a debating club or an advisory council of
ancients, or anything else of the kind. We’re a ship’s company and you
are the captain; so give your orders.”
“Very well, we’ll run ashore. Do you know of a suitable place, Cal?”
“No, not from personal experience in these parts, but I’ve been
watching the coast-line over there to starboard, and I think I make out
the mouth of a small creek or inlet. The chart doesn’t show it very
distinctly, but it roughly indicates a number of small indentations in
the land, and the soundings given for all that shore seem satisfactory.”
“To the oars then,” said Larry, “and we’ll look for a landing place
somewhere over there. The whole shore seems to be heavily wooded. Pull
away.”
It was fully dark when Cal’s keen eyes found what he was looking
for, namely, the sheltered mouth of a small creek or inlet, heavily
overshadowed by woods and a tangled undergrowth.
Running into it the company landed on a small bluff-like bit of shore
and made things snug for the night. The heavy dew, so prevalent on
that coast, was already dripping from the trees, and the air was very
chill. To avoid the dew drippings the camp-fire was built close to the
margin of the inlet at a point where a little patch of star-studded sky
showed clear overhead.
The little company sat with their backs against a large fallen tree as
they ate their supper and planned an early start for the morrow. All
were eager to make the visit to Beaufort and have it over with as soon
as possible, for a reason which Dick put into words:
“I’m anxious to go to Quasi. The very name of the place appeals to my
imagination; the story of it fascinates me. How long will it take us to
get there, Cal, after we finish what we have to do at Beaufort?”
“The wind bloweth where it listeth, you know,” Cal answered; “and worse
still, it doesn’t blow at all unless it is doing a little ‘listing’;
the tides are subservient to the will of the sun and moon, and we must
reckon upon them as a frequently opposing force; then too, there are
fogs sometimes, as recent experience has taught us, to say nothing of
possible encounters with smugglers, from which we may not escape so
easily next time as we did before. How, then, shall I presume to set a
time for our arrival at Quasi, particularly when I do not know how long
we shall be detained at Beaufort.”