THE EBBING OF THE TIDE
Since the destroyer had other orders, Billy and Captain Saulsby were
transferred to a ship that was to put in toward Appledore Island and
pick up the two officers who had been left there for shore observations.
Billy observed the captains of the two vessels talking very earnestly
together, and that afterwards they strolled down the deck to have what
seemed a casual chat with Captain Saulsby. He, himself, however, was too
busy seeing and hearing new things to pay much attention to what was
going forward. He was taken down to see the ship’s engines, and stood
gazing at them in dumb awe, feeling much as though he were an ant
staring at the shining mechanism of a repeater watch.
They went ashore, finally, in the ship’s motor launch and were landed in
the little harbour below the old mill. Billy had thought that the place
had been chosen as the best spot to leave Captain Saulsby, since it was
nearest his house; he was somewhat surprised, therefore, to see two of
the bluejackets disembark with them, and send the launch back to the
ship.
“We were to meet the two officers here,” one of them explained, “and I
had written orders to give them from the Captain. We saw them signal
from here that they would be waiting: I can’t understand why we don’t
find them. I will just have to go around to the hotel with the orders, I
suppose, and see if I can find them there.”
“Come with us, then,” said Billy, “and I will show you the short way. It
is only a few minutes’ walk to Captain Saulsby’s, and won’t take you any
time to go on to the hotel.”
He proved to be wrong, however, in more than one particular. It was a
good half hour before they were able to get Captain Saulsby even the
short distance down to the edge of the mill-stream. Although protesting
loudly that he had suffered no harm from yesterday’s mishap and that
such an adventure was nothing to an old sailor like himself, the Captain
was, nevertheless, unable to hide the fact that he was thoroughly spent
and ill. Even with a strong arm to help him on each side, he was hardly
able to struggle along the path. His protests that there was nothing
wrong, nothing wrong at all, became ever louder and more incoherent
until it was plain to all three of his companions that he was rapidly
growing lightheaded.
When they came to the causeway, moreover, they discovered a fact that
Billy, in his ignorance of the ocean’s ways, had failed to count upon.
The tide was at the wrong stage, and the water too deep over the
stepping stones to permit of a safe passage across.
“What a nuisance,” exclaimed Billy, utterly exasperated both with the
forces of nature and with himself, “how could I have been so stupid as
to forget!”
“If we only hadn’t sent the launch back!” remarked the sailor. “But our
orders were she was not to wait at all. I don’t understand myself what
the whole thing is about, but I suppose the captain does.”
“We’ll have to go around by the road,” the other said, “but there’s one
thing sure, the old man can’t make it that far.”
It was very plain that Captain Saulsby had dragged himself as far as he
could, for he stood swaying and would have fallen. Between them the two
sturdy bluejackets carried him up the beach and laid him down under a
tree. He seemed to be only vaguely conscious of where he was, and lay
there muttering and talking to himself.
“It was the feel of the blue water under me that kept me going,” he
explained pathetically in a moment of being more himself; “once I get on
land you find out what I am, a battered old derelict good for nothing
but to make trouble.”
“Is there somewhere near where we can leave him?” one of the sailors
asked. “It looks as though it might rain and he ought to be under cover.
We can send you back some one to drive him home, but we had better not
wait now; our orders were to hurry. Isn’t there a house near?”
“There’s the old mill,” Billy recollected suddenly; “that will keep us
dry at least and we can wait there for some one to come for us. I don’t
think it is too far to carry him.” Only the iron muscles trained in
Uncle Sam’s navy could have managed such a huge, awkward burden as
Captain Saulsby proved to be. He objected loudly and even struggled
against being carried, so that all three of his friends were well worn
out by the time they had deposited him in the big, cool, shadowy room
that formed the first story of the mill. Billy went out on the steps to
thank the men and to give them directions as to how to find the hotel.
“You follow the wood road until you come to the main highway,” he told
them, “and then go straight down that until you come to the bridge. It’s
pretty far, but you can’t lose the way.”
“We’ll make time by walking,” returned the sailor; “the water won’t be
down off that causeway until after two and it would be no good trying to
cross it with such a tide running. We’ll be sure to send you help.”
“There’s a better way than that,” exclaimed Billy; “I can go up the lane
to the Shutes’ and get them to help me. That will be quicker than
waiting for you to send some one. I should have thought of that before.”
The two men walked off down the sun-flecked road, and Billy stood for a
minute watching them go. It was a warm and pleasant day, with birds
singing, and big white clouds blowing across such patches of sky as he
could see above the trees. It was nearly noon; everything was very still
and peaceful; there might be a little threat of rain in some of those
bigger clouds, but certainly nothing more than a passing shower. Why
should he have such a feeling of vague uneasiness, of danger; a queer
unrest as though he must get ready for something that was about to
happen? Why should he feel such regret that the two men were getting
farther and farther away? Why must he try hard to stifle the impulse to
run after and call them back? He did not know.
He turned at last and went into the mill, and over to where the sailors
had laid the old captain down. He remembered that wide bench under the
little window; he and Sally had sat upon it, but certainly he did not
recollect that it had been covered with a blanket. There were some
papers lying on the dusty table too; he might have not seen them, but a
puff of wind came through the broken windowpane and scattered them
across the floor. He gathered them up, but found that nearly all were
blank; only the three uppermost ones had any lines of writing. They were
penned in an odd hand, very small and with innumerable curves and
flourishes; the words, even the letters belonged to a foreign language.
Billy felt that he ought to recognize it, but in the half-light of the
big room could not make it out. The dust was thick upon the pages, so
they must have been there some time; most probably he had merely failed
to notice them when he had been there before.
Captain Saulsby was less restless now than he had been, and seemed to be
growing quieter and more contented, even drowsy. Billy thought that he
had better wait a little before he set out for the Shutes’, that it
would be better to let the old man fall asleep so that he might not know
he was being left alone. He sat down upon the floor to wait until the
Captain should drop off.
It did not seem at all unpleasant to be resting a little for, oh,
Heavens, how tired he was! He was still sore and aching from his hours
in the water; he had not slept so very long during the night; the very
excitement and novelty that had kept him up so far, had worn him out and
made his present exhaustion more complete. He thought it would do no
harm if he just lay down, with his coat rolled up for a pillow, perhaps
it might make the captain feel more like going to sleep. He was not
going to shut his eyes; oh, no; he was just going to take the time at
last to think over all the things that had happened in twenty-four
hours. Only think, yesterday at this time he and Captain Saulsby had sat
at the door putting the finishing touches to the _Josephine_. No, it
could not have been yesterday; it must have been last week. A wasp was
buzzing in the window; it seemed very loud, but finally became fainter
as though it were moving away—very—far—away.
A dead boy could not have slept more heavily than did Billy on the hard
floor of the old mill. The wind rose and rain struck, pattering, against
the windows, a door closed somewhere, perhaps not merely by the force of
the wind. Captain Saulsby stirred in his sleep and groaned out loud, but
still the weary boy slept on. The far-off rumble of some warship at
target practice came faintly on the wind—it had no power to waken him.
It was not until hours had gone by, not until one shower had passed and
then another, and even the second one had cleared away; not until the
boisterous wind had caught one of the heavy shutters and slammed it to
with a crash, that Billy sat up with a start and rubbed his eyes.
The sunlight had been showing in a sharp bar across the sill of the
eastern window when he fell asleep; it was slanting almost level through
the western one when he awoke. The shadows on the floor were long and
black, the whole place was beginning to be grey and dim. He could not
believe that he had slept so long, but everything about him gave
undoubted proof. He ran out and down the path to the edge of the creek,
and saw, alas, just what he had feared. While he had been sleeping, the
precious moment had passed, the tide had gone out and come in again, the
causeway was covered and would offer no chance of safe passage until
morning.
“Oh, how could I, how could I?” he kept saying over and over to himself,
although it was easy enough to see how he could. After his long sleep
upon the hard floor every inch of him seemed to have its separate pain;
he felt as though each move must make him cry aloud. He could hardly
make his way back up the path to the mill, but make it he must for there
was now much to be done, and in haste.
Captain Saulsby was still asleep when he came back, a most alarming
sleep, he thought, never having seen such a dead, heavy stupor before.
Wrong as it seemed to leave the old man alone, it seemed worse to wait
longer without doing anything, so Billy decided to set off for the
Shutes’ at once. Sally’s father or mother would certainly come back with
him and would arrange for some way of taking the Captain to his own
house. He put on his coat and went out hurriedly. He was glad to get out
into the last of the sunshine; he somehow did not like the feeling of
that place inside.
The way to Sally Shute’s had seemed pleasant enough the day he had
walked it with her two weeks ago. But now it was quite different; the
tall pine-trunks looked stiff and forbidding, the slender white Indian
pipes, pale and ghostly in the dense shadows. Very little sunshine
filtered down through the heavy branches, and presently even that was
gone. He walked quickly; then, he hardly knew why, began to run.
It was a most breathless, tired boy that arrived finally at the end of
the lane and ran across the Shutes’ garden. He stepped on some of Mrs.
Shute’s precious purple geraniums but he could not stop to go around
them. The house had a silent, shut-up air that made his heart go down
the moment he looked at it. Suppose they were all away; suppose there
was no help to be had! He jangled loudly at the big bell, then, almost
before it had stopped vibrating, jangled loudly and impatiently again.
There was absolute silence inside at first; then, oh, what a relief;
footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs, along the hall; there
was an irritating pause as some one fumbled at the lock. The door opened
and Billy made no attempt to restrain a shout of delight, for there
stood Sally.
Sally Shute with her round cheeks and her fat yellow braids and her pink
gingham dress looked a very real and wholesome person after all the
half-seen terrors and half-felt dangers that had seemed to be around
him. Still standing on the doorstep he began hastily to tell her all
about what had happened and had got nearly half-way through his tale
before she interrupted him.
“Come in,” she ordered, “and begin again and tell me that all over. I
have not understood one word of what you are talking about.”
She took him out into the kitchen, such a warm, bright, cheerful place
that he felt his spirits reviving at once.
“Sit down there,” she said, pointing to the red-covered table, “and now
tell me how long it is since you had anything to eat.”
Billy had breakfasted on the ship, but that had been exceedingly early,
and he had eaten nothing since. That, he thought, must be part of what
made him feel so queer. Sally flatly refused to let him talk any more
until he had begun his supper.
“You can tell me about it while you are eating, even if you have to
speak with your mouth full,” she said. “It seems as though Captain
Saulsby was sick and you want me to go somewhere with you, so I’ll have
to be getting things together anyway. There won’t be any time wasted.”
“Aren’t your father and mother here?” asked Billy anxiously.
“No; they took Jacky and went over to the mainland on the afternoon
boat, and won’t be back tonight. There’s no one here but my grandmother,
and she is lame and deaf, so she can’t go with us. Don’t worry though;
I’ll know what to do.”
It was queer about Sally, how calm she always was. Perhaps she had less
imagination than other children and so was not apt to be aroused by the
thought of dangerous possibilities. The thing directly before her was
always the one thing that Sally saw, saw it clearly and fully and knew
just what she was going to do about it.
By the time Billy had finished eating, she was not only in full
possession of his story, but had put on her coat, had got ready a large
bundle and a basket and had explained as much of the situation to her
grandmother as spasmodic shouting could accomplish.
“Eh, eh,” said the old lady, “I understand,” although it was very
doubtful if she did.
They set out together down the lane, Billy feeling much cheered now that
he had some notion of what they were to do. Capable Sally’s experience
evidently included just such a situation as this, for people had been
ship-wrecked before off Appledore Island, and she had helped to care for
them afterward. She chattered gaily as she trotted by his side, and made
many matter-of-fact comments on the adventures through which he had
passed.
“I thought your clothes looked as though you had been doing something
dreadful to them,” she said; “I am afraid they will never be good for
anything again.”
Billy did cut rather a sorry figure for he had been wet and dried and
wet and dried again, before his long nap on the dusty floor. He thought
little of that, however, but hurried Sally forward through the gathering
twilight until they reached the old mill.
It was almost completely dark inside, and felt damp and chilly. Sally
had had the forethought to bring candles and matches and, under her
instructions, Billy soon had a fire burning in the old fireplace. She
bent over Captain Saulsby, who was still lying in the same
deep-breathing stupor, and frowned and shook her head.
“He’s too old for such adventures,” was her comment. “I don’t like it.”
They heated some water at the fire and mixed a hot drink for the old man
which he roused himself enough to swallow. They covered him with warm
blankets and rubbed at his cold hands.
“Now try to lift him up a little,” she ordered, “while I get this pillow
under his head. That is right, now—Billy, what is that?”
For the absolute silence of the empty mill had been broken by a sound.
Above their heads was heard the creak of a board, then the muffled noise
of a quiet footfall and the scraping of rusty hinges as a door was
stealthily opened.