THE CASTAWAYS.
Their walk was not a long one. Forcing themselves through a thicket of
young cottonwoods, that scarce reached above Ben's head, a few rods
brought them to water on the opposite side.
"It must be a point," said Ben; "a neck of land jutting out into the
river. Let us follow it up."
So hand in hand, like two full grown babes in the woods, they walked
down the sand that skirted the cottonwood brake. In less than half
a mile they came to the end of the brake, and a rod farther brought
them again to water. Ben stood speechless. Slowly he turned to his
companion, whose wistful, confiding gaze nearly unmanned him.
"Bertha," at last he said, huskily, "we are on an island."
Bertha hid her face in her hands and bowed down in grief at this dire
information.
"Don't cry," said Ben simply and soothingly, and, it must be confessed,
wrapping his arms about her drooping form, and soothing her head on his
bosom as gently as a mother could have caressed it. "Don't cry. The
Hand that brought us here can take us off again. The river has spared
us; fear not but we will get off of the island safely."
And with many gentle endearments and soothing speeches he restored her.
"You are shivering with the cold, Miss Bertha," he said.
"I am cold, very cold, dear friend," she replied; "but so are you.
Think of yourself. Put on your coat again. Morning cannot be far off,
and then the sun will dry and warm us."
But Ben refused the coat, and knew that morning was some hours distant,
and that the coldest portion of the night was yet to come upon them,
before the sun arose and warmed all nature back to life. So he drew
Bertha into the centre of the cottonwood brake, that protected them
from the night breeze now keenly felt sweeping down the river. Then he
prepared a bed out of twigs and leaves, and bidding her lie down he
spread his coat over her and piled leaves and boughs high up around
her. Ere long his labors were rewarded by hearing her draw the deep,
regular breath of slumber. Then he laid down beside her, and exhausted
nature courted sleep, despite the shiverings of his cold wet body.
When our hero awoke the sun was shining down upon him from a cloudless
sky. There were also shining upon him two great, glorious, grey eyes,
as Bertha sat a short distance away, contemplating him sadly. He
noticed with a thrill of pleasure that she had carefully covered him
with the coat, and heaped the twigs and boughs, that had formed her
own bed, about him. The young lady must have been awake some time,
for with the instinct predominant in her sex, she had made some futile
attempts at a toilet. Her dishevelled and sand-ladened hair was coiled
in a mass of not unpleasing snarls, and over it she had tied her
dainty lace handkerchief, having had no hat on her head at the time
of the catastrophe. The drapery of her rich dress was sadly creased
and wrinkled, and she wore all the appearance of a young lady that had
taken an involuntary bath, and then been only partially wrung out. A
memory of the array of good taste, wealth and fashion that passed him
on Olive Street, in St. Louis, flitted through Ben's mind, and in spite
of himself he smiled at the contrast. She evidently understood what was
upper-most in his mind, for returning smile for smile, she said:
"My experience on the river has not been conducive to good appearances.
You must be gentle in your criticisms."
But Ben vowed she never had looked so lovely in all her life. Which,
indeed, she had not; for there was a touching grace in the way she bore
her distress that enhanced the charms of a naturally beautiful woman.
"Your clothes are not dry," said Ben.
"Not quite," she replied, "but I think they soon will be." A look of
misery crossed her face as she said so, however, plainly indicating
that the wet sand-ladened garments she had slept in, and which were now
clinging to her person were anything but congenial to physical comfort.
"Remain here for a few moments while I take a look at our island and
discover some means of escape from it, if possible," said Ben.
It did not take him long to become familiar with the topography of
his new location. It was simply a sand bar half a mile long, and from
four to five rods broad, standing in the middle of an old channel. The
centre of the bar was but two or three feet above the river's surface,
but was already covered with that dense and rapid cottonwood growth
peculiar to the river country of the south. Off to the west, half a
mile away, was another, but a much longer island, also covered with
small trees. On the east a deep, swift channel separated the castaways
from a wide expanse of the everlasting cottonwood brakes that stretched
a mile inland and appeared joined in the back ground to a heavy forest.
To the north and south two points of land, heavily timbered, ran far
out into the river and closed up the horizon.
Ignorant as Ben was of the shifting nature of the Mississippi, he could
easily surmise that in no distant past the river had swept around the
point above him and formed the bay in which his island, and the other
stretches of sand flats, lay.
It was not _then_ a bay, but a bend. Then there had come a change.
Perhaps it was a "wash-out" miles up the river, or a caving of bank
nearer at hand. Or perchance a farmer in scouring his plow ran it
through some narrow neck of sand, miles away, and the river had made
its bed in the furrow, leaving whole townships inland, and putting
other whole townships to soak. Whatever the cause of it, the current
had evidently at a comparatively recent date been shot straight out
from the point, instead of circling around it. The deep bay had filled
with sand and cottonwood timber sprouted upon it. Left to itself a
century and the cottonwoods on the sandbar would have grown to great
trees, and been thrown to earth by the stronger arms and more powerful
growth of oak, ash, and sycamore. Another century and the oak, ash, and
sycamore would have bowed to the woodman's axe. The plow would have
turned up their foothold. Broad acres, rich with cotton and corn, would
have flourished on the captured domain. A "corner" grocery would have
started. Then another, and another, and another. First a hamlet, then
a borough, then a city. Then the iron horse would make his way in the
young metropolis, and it would grow with a wondrous growth. Mayors, and
churches, and rings, and subsidies, and aldermen, and defaulters, and
debts, and boards-of-trade, and societies, and "bosses," and--all the
paraphernalia that goes to make up a great city, would be grown on that
sandbar where Ben stood.
But these things were not to be. There had been another "wash-out,"
another cave-in, or another plow furrow, somewhere else, and the river
was slowly coming back to its first love, and if no "wash-outs" or
furrows intervened the island Ben stood upon would in a few years again
be the river's channel.
Although all of this was not surmised by him he saw enough to fill his
mind with dark forebodings. He knew no boats would come that way, for
even as he looked a steamer's smoke curled over the point of woodland,
miles to the north of him, and disappeared without ever once allowing
him to catch a glimpse of the vessel it issued from. The land side
was evidently as uninhabited as the long island on the west, and both
separated him in their lonely barrenness from succor. Had they then
been rescued from the river only to die a lingering death of starvation
and exposures! Not a match to light a fire with. Not a stranded log to
float from their island prison upon. Their rescuing plank drifted off.
Not strength enough to breast three yards of the swift current that
swept by them. Nothing but to face fate, and--_die_! The position was
horrible. Had he been by himself he thought he could have borne its
terrors composedly. Nay, he was no coward, and when the worst came to
the worst and he was no longer able to bear the pangs of hunger and the
miseries of loneliness, he could have consigned his body to the river
without a shudder. But to see her, the idol of his existence, the woman
he adored, perish inch by inch, moment by moment, and not be able to
extend a single aid--_that_ made his heart tremble. Slowly and with
down cast eyes he made his way back to where Bertha sat.
"Well," she said, greeting him with a smile, "is this Crusoe land?"
For a moment he thought of hiding the real facts of the case, but on
reflecting that she must shortly discover them herself, he made known
their deplorable position to her. Before the recital was over she was
weeping bitterly.
"Don't, don't, please don't, Miss Bertha," said Ben, piteously. "You
quite unman me. It may not be so bad after all. Some boat might come
this way, or we may be able to make our presence known to those who can
rescue us. While there is life there is hope. The Hand that drew us
hither, will not leave us here to perish, be assured."
Bertha arose and placing both hands on his breast looked him mournfully
in the face, as she controlled her feelings, and said:
"I have confidence in Him, my good friend, and if I give way to
weakness you must remember the dreadful trials we have passed through;
nay, that we are _now_ passing through, and that have made me
physically weak, and oh!--" and the lips quivered and the grey eyes
again filled with tears; "I--I feel _so wretched_!"
Now by all authorities--that is, written authorities,--Benjamin
Cleveland should have drawn himself apart from the innocent being
fate had cast him alone upon this island sand bar with, and been too
high-minded to take advantage of circumstances. He should have occupied
a high moral plane, in which even a platonic passion would have found
no existence, and consoled her with dull platitudes and stilted
phraseology. They all do it that way--in the novels. Alas, Ben did
nothing of the sort. He acted on impulse. He wound his arms about the
fair form and pressed it close to his breast, and as she pillowed her
head on his shoulder he kissed her hair, her forehead, her cheeks times
innumerable. And she liked it; she felt better!!
He said not a word, for he had nothing to say, but he petted her like
a mother would her child, until her drooping spirits revived and
she smiled at his endeavors in her behalf. From his own condition
he readily appreciated the feelings of his companion. There was a
growling, discontented vacuum loud in its demands to be filled; that
sick, weak feeling of hunger that succeeds exertion and exposure. They
were both hungry--very hungry; for hunger makes louder demands at the
commencement of privations than it does after time has allowed the
muscles of the system to contract and close with a tight grip upon
starvation's emptiness. Added to their unappeased appetites, was the
miserable, creeping, disgusting feeling occasioned by wet clothes
filled with irritating sand. These are humble details, we will admit;
but they were the gigantic realities of the moment to the castaways.
Ben realized the facts and actively engaged his mind in search of a
remedy.
"Miss Bertha," he said, "let us at least make ourselves as comfortable
as circumstances will permit. These wet and stiffening clothes, filled
with river sand, are unbearable. Listen to me. I will go to the other
end of the island and wash the sand out of mine, and do you remain here
on the sunny end and do the same. Hang them on the cottonwood bushes
until they are thoroughly dry, and keep yourself in the warm sunshine.
Exercise too--run, jump, or do what you please so as to keep the blood
in circulation; it is positively necessary for us to do all in our
power to court health and comfort, or we will sink down under exposure.
I will not be back for two hours."
In her loneliness she was loth to part with him at all, but he said
reassuringly:
"I will be within hail, and as there is not a living thing on the
island, you need not fear intrusion," and then kissing her tenderly,
(for he had got into that pleasant fashion and his caresses had never
yet so much as brought the faintest blush to her cheek--or his) Ben
walked to the upper end of the sand bar, behind the cottonwoods, and
there disrobed.
While seated on the sand, his wardrobe adorning the neighboring bushes,
he reflected on the gravity of their position.