THE SLOOP OF WAR
Robert ate a light breakfast and went out to look at his domain, now
unsullied. What a fine, trim, clean island it was! And how desirable to
be alone on it, when the Gulf and the Caribbean produced only such
visitors as those who had come two nights before! He looked toward the
little bay, fearing to see the topmast of the schooner showing its tip
over the trees, but the sky there, an unbroken blue, was fouled by no
such presence. He was rid of the pirates--and forever he hoped.
It seemed to him that he had passed through an epic time, one of the
great periods of his life. He wondered now how he had been able to carry
out such a plan, how he had managed to summon up courage and resources
enough, and he felt that the good spirits of earth and air and water
must have been on his side. They had fought for him and they had won for
him the victory.
He shouldered his rifle and strolled through the woods toward the beach.
He had never noticed before what a fine forest it was. The trees were
not as magnificent as those of the northern wilderness, but they had a
beauty very peculiarly their own, and they were his. There was not a
single other claimant to them anywhere in the world.
It was a noble beach too, smooth, sloping, piled with white sand,
gleaming now in the sun, and the little frothy waves that ran up it and
lapped at his feet, like puppies nibbling, were just the friendliest
frothy little waves in the world. But there were the remains of the fire
left by the ruffians to defile it, and broken bottles and broken food
were scattered about. The litter hurt his eyes so much that he gathered
up every fragment, one by one, and threw them into the sea. When the
last vestige of the foul invasion was cleared away he felt that he had
his lonely, clean island back again, and he was happy.
He strolled up and down the glistening beach, feeling a great content.
After a while, he threw off his clothes and swam in the invigorating
sea, keeping well inside the white line of the breakers, in those waters
into which the sharks did not come. When he had sunned himself again on
the sand he went to the creek, took his dinghy from the bushes, where it
had been so well hidden, and rowed out to sea, partly to feel the spring
of the muscles in his arms, and partly to sit off at a distance and look
at his island. Surely if one had to be cast away that was the very
island on which he would choose to be cast! Not too big! Not too hot!
And not too cold! Without savage man or savage beasts, but with plenty
of wild cattle for the taking, and good fish in the lakes, and in the
seas about it. Plenty of stores of all kinds from the slaver's schooner,
even books to read. So far from being unfortunate he was one of the
lucky. A period of retirement from the companionship of his own kind
might be trying on the spirit, but it also meant meditation and mental
growth.
His joy over the departure of the pirates was so great and his
temperament was such that he felt a mighty revulsion of the spirits. He
had a period of extravagant elation. He took off his cap and saluted his
island. He made little speeches of glowing compliment to it, he called
it the pearl of its kind, the choicest gem of the Gulf or the Caribbean,
and, if pirates came again while he was there, he would drive them away
once more with the aid of the good spirits.
He rowed back, hid his boat in the old covert among the bushes at the
edge of the creek, and, rifle on shoulder, started through the forest
toward his peak of observation. On the way, he passed the lake and saw
the herd of wild cattle grazing there, the old bull at its head. The big
fellow, assured now by use and long immunity, cocked his head on one
side and regarded him with a friendly eye. But the bull had a terrible
surprise. He heard the sharp ping of a rifle and a fearful yell. Then he
saw a figure capering in wild gyrations, and thinking that this human
being whom he had learned to trust must have gone mad, he forgot to be
angry, but was very much frightened. Enemies he could fight, but mad
creatures he dreaded, and, bellowing hoarsely to his convoy, as a
signal, he took flight, all of them following him, their tails streaming
straight out behind them, so fast they ran.
Robert leaped and danced as long as one of them was in sight. When the
last streaming tail had disappeared in the bushes he sobered down. He
realized that he had given his friend, the bull, a great shock. In a
way, he had been guilty of a breach of faith, and he resolved to
apologize to him in some fashion the next time they met. Yet he had been
so exultant that it was impossible not to show it, and he was only a lad
in years.
When he reached the crest of his peak he scanned the sea on all sides.
Eagerly as he had looked before for a sail he now looked to see that
there was none. Around and around the circle of the horizon his eyes
traveled, and when he assured himself that no blur broke the bright line
of sea and sky his heart swelled with relief.
In a day or so, his mind became calm and his thoughts grew sober. Then
he settled down to his studies. The battle of life occupied only a small
portion of his time, and he resolved to put the hours to the best use.
He pored much over Shakespeare, the other Elizabethans and the King
James Bible, a copy of which was among the books. It was his intention
to become a lawyer, an orator, and if possible a statesman. He knew that
he had the gift of speech. His mind was full of thoughts and words
always crowded to his lips. It was easy enough for him to speak, but he
must speak right. The thoughts he wished to utter must be clothed in the
right kind of words arranged in the right way, and he resolved that it
should be so.
The way in which men thought and the way in which their thoughts were
put in the Bible and the great Elizabethans fascinated him. That was the
way in which he would try to think, and the way in which he would try to
put his thoughts. So he recited the noble passages over and over again,
he memorized many of them, and he listened carefully to himself as he
spoke them, alike for the sense and the music and power of the words.
It was then perhaps that he formed the great style for which he was so
famous in after years. His vocabulary became remarkable for its range,
flexibility and power, and he developed the art of selection. His rivals
even were used to say of him that he always chose the best word. He
learned there on the island that language was not given to man merely
that he might make a noise, but that he might use it as a great marksman
uses a rifle.
Work and study together filled his days. They kept far from him also any
feeling of despair. He had an abiding faith that a ship of the right
kind would come in time and take him away. He must not worry about it.
It was his task now to fit himself for the return, to prove to his
friends when he saw them once more that all the splendid opportunities
offered to him on the island had not been wasted.
Almost unconsciously, he began to reason more deeply, to look further
into the causes of things, and his mind turned particularly to the
present war. The more he thought about it the greater became his
conviction that England and the colonies were bound to win. Courage and
numbers, resources and tenacity must prevail even over great initial
mistakes. Duquesne and Ticonderoga would be brushed away as mere events
that had no control over destiny.
He remembered Bigot's ball in Quebec that Willet and Tayoga and he had
attended. It came before him again almost as vivid as reality. He
realized now in the light of greater age and experience how it typified
decadence. A power that was rotten at the top, where the brain should
be, could never defeat one that was full of youthful ardor and strength,
sound through and through, awkward and ill directed though that strength
might be. The young French leaders and their soldiers were valiant,
skillful and enduring--they had proved it again and again on sanguinary
fields--but they could not prevail when they had to receive orders from
a corrupt and reckless court at Versailles, and, above all when they had
to look to that court for help that never came.
His reading of the books in the slaver's chest told him that folly and
crime invariably paid the penalty, if not in one way then in another,
and he remembered too some of the ancient Greek plays, over which he had
toiled under the stern guidance of Master Alexander McLean. Their burden
was the certainty of fate. You could never escape, no matter how you
writhed, from what you did, and those old writers must have told the
truth, else men would not be reading and studying them two thousand
years after they were dead. Only truth could last twenty centuries.
Bigot, Cadet, Péan, and the others, stealing from France and Canada and
spending the money in debauchery, could not be victorious, despite all
the valor of Montcalm and St. Luc and De Levis and their comrades.
He remembered, too, the great contrast between Quebec and New York that
had struck him when he arrived at the port at the mouth of the Hudson
with the hunter and the Onondaga. The French capital in Canada was all
of the state; it was its creature. If the state declined, it declined,
there was little strength at the roots, little that sprang from the
soil, but in New York, which men already forecast as the metropolis of
the New World, there was strength everywhere. It might be a sprawling
town. There might be no courtliness to equal the courtliness at the
heart of Quebec, but there was vigor, vigor everywhere. The people were
eager, restless, curious, always they worked and looked ahead.
He saw all these things very clearly. Silence, loneliness and distance
gave a magnificent perspective. Facts that were obscured when he was
near at hand, now stood out sharp and true. His thoughts in this period
were often those of a man double his age. His iron health too remained.
His was most emphatically the sound mind in the sound body, each helping
the other, each stimulating the other to greater growth.
It was a fact, however, that the Onondaga belief, peopling the air and
all sorts of inanimate objects with spirits, grew upon him; perhaps it
is better to say that it was a feeling rather than a belief. According
to Tayoga the good spirits fought with the bad, and on his island the
good had prevailed. They had told him that a ship was coming, and then
they had warned him that it would be a ship of pirates. They had shown
him how to drive away the ruffians. His inspiration had not been his
own, it had come from them and he thankfully acknowledged it.
He told himself now as he went about his island that he heard the good
spirits singing among the leaves and he told it to himself so often that
he ended by believing it. It was such a pleasant and consoling belief
too. He listened to hear them say that he would leave the island when
the time was ripe and his imagination was now so extraordinarily vivid
that what he expected to hear he heard. The spirits assured him that
when the time came to go he would go. They did not tell him exactly when
he would go, but that could not be asked. No one must anticipate a
complete unveiling of the future. It was sufficient that intimations
came out of it now and then.
It was this feeling, amounting to a conviction, that bore him up on a
shield of steel. It soothed the natural impatience of his youth and
temperament. Why grieve over not going when he knew that he would go?
Yet, a long time passed and there was no sail upon the sea, though the
fact failed to shake his faith. Often he climbed his peak of observation
and studied the circling horizon through the glasses, only to find
nothing, but he was never discouraged. There was never any fall of the
spirits. No ship showed, but the ship that was coming might even then be
on the way. She had left some port, probably one in England, not
dreaming that it was a most important destiny and duty of hers to pick
up a lone lad cast away on an island in the Gulf or the Caribbean--at
least it was most important to him.
Now came a time of storms that seemed to him to portend a change in the
seasons. The island was swept by wind and rain, but he liked to be
lashed by both. He even went out in the dinghy in storms, though he kept
inside the reefs, and fought with wave and undertow and swell, until,
pleasantly exhausted, he retreated to the beach, drawing his little boat
after him, where he watched the sea, vainly struggling to reach the one
who had defied it. It was after such contests that he felt strongest of
the spirit, ready to challenge anything.
He plunged deeper and deeper into his studies, striving to understand
everything. The intensity of his application was possible only because
he was alone. Forced to probe, to examine and to ponder, his mind
acquired new strength. Many things which otherwise would have been
obscure to him became plain. Looking back upon his own eventful life
since that meeting with St. Luc and Tandakora in the forest, he was
better able to read motives and to understand men. The reason why Adrian
Van Zoon wished him to vanish must be money, because only money could be
powerful enough to make such a man risk a terrible crime. Well, he would
have a great score to settle with Van Zoon. He did not yet know just how
he would settle it, but he did not doubt that the day of reckoning would
come.
A cask of oil and several lanterns were among his treasures from the
ship, and, making use of them, he frequently read late at night, often
with the rain beating hard on walls and roof. Then it seemed to him that
his mind was clearest, and he resolved again and again that when he
returned to his own he would make full use of what he learned on the
island. It seemed to him sometimes that his being cast away was a piece
of luck and not a misfortune.
A clear day came, and, taking his rifle, he strolled toward his peak of
observation, passing on the way the herd of wild cattle with the old
bull at its head. The big fellow looked at him suspiciously, as if
fearing that his friend might be suffering from one of his mad spells
again. But Robert's conduct was quite correct. He walked by in a quiet
and dignified manner, and, reassured, the bull went back to his task of
reducing the visible grass supply.
He saw nothing from the peak except the green island and the blue sea
all about it, but there was a singing wind among the leaves and it was
easy for him to sit down on a rock and fall into a dreaming state. The
good spirits were abroad, and it was their voices that he heard among
the leaves. Their chant too was full of courage, hope and promise, and
his spirits lifted as he listened. They were watching over him, guarding
him from evil, and he felt, at last, that they were telling him
something.
It is not always easy to know the exact burden of a song, even if it is
uplifting, and Robert listened a long time, trying to decipher exactly
what the good spirits were saying to him. It was just such a song as
they sang to him before the pirate ship came, saving one strain and that
was most important. There was no underlying note of warning. Hunt for it
as he would, with his fullest power of hearing, he could detect no trace
of it. Then he became convinced. Another ship was coming, and this time
it was no pirate craft.
He roused himself from his dreaming state and shook his head, but the
vision did not depart. The ship was coming and it was for him to receive
it. The news of it had been written too deeply upon the sensitive plate
of his brain to be effaced, and, as he walked back toward the house, it
seemed to grow more vivid. He was too much excited to study that day,
and he spent the time building a great heap of wood upon the beach. Even
if one were helped by good spirits he must do his own part. They might
bring the ship to the horizon's rim, but it was for him to summon it
from there, and he would have a great bonfire ready.
The brilliance of the day departed in the afternoon, and it became
apparent that the season of rain and storm was not yet over. Clouds
marched up in grim battalions from the south and west, rain came in
swift puffs and then in long, heavy showers, the sea heaved, breaking
into great waves and the surf dashed fiercely on the sharp teeth of the
rocks.
Robert's spirits fell. This was not the way in which a rescuing ship
should come, under a somber sky and before driving winds. Perhaps he had
read the voices of the spirits wrong, or at least the ship, instead of
coming now, was coming at some later time, a month or two months away
maybe. He watched through the rest of the afternoon, hoping that the
clouds would leave, but they only thickened, and, long before the time
of sunset, it was almost as dark as night. He was compelled to remain in
the shelter of the house, and, in a state of deep depression, he ate his
supper without appetite.
The storm was one of the fiercest he had seen while on the island. The
rain drove in sheets, beating upon the walls and roof of the house like
hail, and the wind kept up a continuous whistling and screaming. All the
while the house trembled over him. Nor was there any human voice in the
wind. The good spirits, if such existed, would not dare the storm, but
had retreated to cover. All the illusion was gone, he was just a lonely
boy on a lonely island, listening to the wrath of a hurricane, a ship
might or might not come, most probably never, or if it did it would be
another pirate.
The storm did not seem to abate as the evening went on, perhaps it was
the climax of the season. Tired of hearing its noise he lay down on his
couch and at last fell asleep. He was awakened from slumber by an impact
upon the drum of his ear like a light blow, but, sitting up, he realized
that it was a sound. The storm had not abated. He heard the beat of wind
and rain as before, but he knew it was something else that had aroused
him. The noise of the storm was regular, it was going on when he fell
asleep, and it had never ceased while he slept. This was something
irregular, something out of tune with it, and rising above it. He
listened intently, every nerve and pulse alive, body and mind at the
high pitch of excitement, and then the sound came again, low but
distinct, and rising above the steady crash of the storm.
He knew the note. He had heard it often, too often on that terrible day
at Ticonderoga. It could be but one thing. It was the boom of a cannon,
and it could come only from a ship, a ship in danger, a ship driven by
the storm, knowing nothing of either sea or island, sending forth her
signal of distress which was also a cry for help.
It was his ship! The ship of rescue! But he must first rescue _it_! Now
he heard the voices of the good spirits, the voices that had been silent
all through the afternoon and evening, singing through the storm,
calling to him, summoning him to action. He had not taken off his
clothes and he leaped from the couch, snatched up a lighted lantern,
stuffed flint and steel in his pocket, and ran out into the wind and
rain, of which he was now scarcely conscious.
The boom came to his ears a second time, off to the east, and now
distinctly the report of a cannon. He waited a little, watching, and,
when the report came a third time, he saw dimly the flash of the gun,
but it was too dark for him to see anything of the ship. She was outside
the reefs, how far he could not tell, but he knew by the difference in
the three reports that she was driving toward the island.
It was for him to save the unknown vessel that was to save him, and in
the darkness and storm he felt equal to the task. His soul leaped within
him. His whole body seemed to expand. He knew what to do, and, quick as
lightning, he did it. He ran at full speed through the woods, his
lighted lantern swinging on his arm, and twice on the way he heard the
boom of the cannon, each time a little nearer. The reports merely made
him run faster. Time was precious, and in the moment of utmost need he
was not willing to lose a second.
He reached the great heap of wood that he had built up on the beach,
worked frantically with flint and steel, shielding the shavings at the
bottom with his body, and quickly set fire to them. The blaze crackled,
leaped and grew. He had built his pyramid so well, and he had selected
such inflammable material, that he knew, if the flames once took hold,
the wind would fan them so fiercely the rain could not put them out.
Higher sprang the blaze, running to the crest of the pyramid, roaring in
the wind and then sending out defiant hissing tongues at the rain. The
boom of the cannon came once more, and, then by the light of his
splendid bonfire, he looked. There was the ship outside the reefs which
his great pyramid of flame now enabled her to see. He shouted in his
joy, and threw on more wood. If he could only build that pyramid high
enough they would see the opening too and make for it.
He worked frantically, throwing on driftwood, the accumulation of many
years, and the flames biting into every fresh log, roared and leaped
higher. The ship ceased to fire her signal guns, and now he saw, with a
great surge of joy, that she was beating up in the storm and trying for
the opening in the reef, her only chance, the chance that he had given
her. He had done his part and he could do no more but feed the fire.
As he threw on wood he watched. His pyramid of flame roared and threw
out sparks in myriads. The ship, a sloop, was having a desperate
struggle with wind and wave, but his beacon was always there, showing
her the way, and he never doubted for a moment that she would make the
haven. He was sure of it. It was a terrible storm, and there was a
fierce sea beating on the reefs, but a master mind was on the sloop, the
mind of a great sailor, and that mind, responding to his signal of the
fire, the only one that could have been made, was steering the ship
straight for the opening in the reef.
His glasses were always in his pocket, and, remembering them now for the
first time, he clapped them to his eyes. The sloop and her tracery of
mast and spars became distinct. He saw guns on the deck and men, men in
uniform, and he could see well enough, a moment or two later, to tell
that they wore the uniform of Britain. His heart gave a wild throb. The
spirits in the air were good spirits, and the storm had never been able
to drive them away. They had been calling to him when he thought they
were silent, only he had not been able to hear them.
He gave a wild shout of joy that could be heard above the crash of the
storm. Triumph was assured. He was rescuing, and he would be rescued. He
did not realize until that instant how eager he was to be taken from the
island, how he longed, with all his soul, to rejoin his own kind, to see
his friends again and to take a part in the great events that were
shaking the world. He uttered his wild shout over and over, and, in
between, he laughed, laughed with a joy that he could not control.
The sloop entered the opening. It seemed to him that the rocks, those
fearful sharks' teeth, almost grazed her on either side, and his heart
stood still, but she went safely past them, drew into the little harbor
where she was safe from the wildest storm that ever blew, dropped
anchor, and was at rest.
Robert in his exultation had never permitted his fire to die down an
inch. Rather he had made it grow higher and higher until it was a vast
core of light, throwing a red glare over the beach and the adjacent
waves, and sending off vast showers of sparks. But when the ship cast
anchor in her port he stood still before it, a dark figure, a perfect
silhouette outlined against a blazing background, and watched, while a
boat was launched from the sloop.
He saw five figures descend into the boat. Four were sailors and one an
officer in uniform, and he knew well that they were coming to see him,
the human being by the fire who had saved them. Pride was mingled with
his joy. If he had not been there the sloop and probably all on board of
her would have perished. It was touch and go, only a brief opportunity
to save had been allowed him, but he had used it. So he raised himself
to his full height, straightened his clothes, for which he always had
respect despite the storm, and waited on. He had a full sense of drama,
and he felt that this was one of the most dramatic moments of his life.
The boat came up the beach on a wave, the men sprang out, held it as the
wave retreated, and then dragged it after them until it was beyond the
reach of invading water. Robert meanwhile never stirred, and the great
fire behind him enlarged his figure to heroic proportions.
The officer, young, handsome, in the British naval uniform, walked
forward, with the four sailors following in a close group behind, but he
stopped again, and looked at the strange figure before him. Evidently
something in its pose, in its whole appearance, in truth, made an
extraordinary impression upon him. He passed his hands before his eyes
as if to make sure that it was no blur of the vision, and then he went
forward again, the sailors keeping close behind, as if they were in fear
lest the figure prove to be supernatural.
"Who are you?" called the young officer.
"Robert Lennox, of Albany, the Province of New York, and the
wilderness," replied Robert. "Welcome to my island."
His sense of drama was still strong upon him, and he replied in his
fullest and clearest voice. The officer stared, and then said:
"You've saved the ship and all our lives."
"I think that's what I was here for, though it's likely that you've
saved me, too. What ship it that?"
"His Majesty's sloop of war, _Hawk_, Captain Stuart Whyte, from
Bridgetown in the Barbadoes, for Boston."
Robert thrilled when he heard the word "Boston." It was not New York,
but it was a port for home, nevertheless.
"Who are you?" continued the officer, on fire with curiosity. "You've
told me your name, but what are you? and where are the other people of
the island?"
"There are no other people. It's my island. I'm sole lord of the isle,
and you're most welcome."
"You heard our signal guns?"
"Aye, I heard 'em, but I knew before you fired a shot that you were
coming."
"'Tis impossible!"
"It's not! I knew it, though I can't explain how to you. Behold my
bonfire! Do you think I could have built such a pyramid of wood between
the firing of your first shot and your coming into my harbor? No, I was
ready and waiting for you."
"That's convincing."
"I repeat that I welcome you to Lennox Island. My house is but a short
distance inland in a beautiful forest. I should like to receive Captain
Whyte there as an honored guest, and you, too."
"Your house?"
"Aye, my house. And it's well built and well furnished. You'd be
surprised to know how much comfort it can offer."
The officer--a lieutenant--and the men, coming closer, inspected Robert
with the most minute curiosity. Lone men on desert islands were likely
to go insane, and it was a momentary thought of the officer that he was
dealing with some such unhappy creature, but Robert's sentences were too
crisp, and his figure too erect and trim for the thought to endure more
than a few seconds.
"It's raining heavily," he said, "and Captain Whyte will be glad to be a
guest at your home later. I'll admit that for a moment I doubted the
existence of your house, but I don't now. Are you willing to go on board
the _Hawk_ with us and meet Captain Whyte?"
"Gladly," replied Robert, who felt that his dramatic moment was being
prolonged. "The storm is dying now. Having done its worst against you,
and, having failed, it seems willing to pass away."
"But we don't forget that you saved us," said the officer. "My name is
Lanham, John Lanham, and I'm a lieutenant on the _Hawk_."
The storm was, in truth, whistling away to the westward and its rage, so
far as Robert's island was concerned, was fully spent. The waves were
sinking and the night was lightening fast. The sloop of war, heaving at
her anchorage, stood up sharp and clear, and it seemed to Robert that
there was something familiar in her lines. As he looked he was sure.
Coincidence now and then stretches forth her long arm, and she had
stretched it now.
The sailors, when the sea died yet more, relaunched the boat. Lanham and
Robert sprang in, and the men bent to the oars.