FLEEING IN THE NIGHT
Southport was very quiet of a Sunday morning, the sleepy aspect of its
weather-beaten, low buildings taking on an even more drowsy appearance
with the Sabbath calm, and without the sign of any activity along the
shore and in the harbour to interrupt its rest. The faint tinkle of a
cow-bell, or the mild bleating of a few sheep coming in from a near-by
pasture, only served to accentuate the stillness.
The whole island sparkled with the morning sunlight, the rain-drops of
the night before gleaming on bushes and grass before they vanished under
its warmth and with the drying wind. The waters of the bay rolled away
clear and blue, ruffled a little by the freshening breeze, and here and
there showing patches of a darker hue, where a wind-flaw bore down quick
and sharp and flayed the water.
On the point, in front of the tent, stood the boys that had dashed down
from the Warren cottage, with Tom and Bob, rudely aroused from their
morning nap, and hastily dressed in trousers and sweaters.
There was no comfort nor hope in the view that extended before them. Down
between the islands, a schooner was running to sea, winged out before the
favouring breeze. Nearer, a coaster, light and drawing little water, was
beating up the bay, bound for Benton, to load with lumber. Over toward
the Cape was a fisherman, with stubby mast and no topmast, skirting
alongshore.
But there was no yacht, sailing or drifting. There was no yacht _Viking_
anywhere to be seen. Nor could she have sunk at the mooring, for at that
depth of water her topmast would be showing. However, half suspecting
some trick might have been played on them, and the yacht taken out into
deeper water and sunk, they went out in a rowboat and the canoe, and
examined the water for quite a distance, all about.
“We’re losing precious time, though,” said Henry Burns. “The _Viking’s_
been stolen. The first thing we’ve got to do, is to run over to the
mainland and send a telegram down to Stoneland—though I’m afraid, with
this breeze blowing all night, she’s got past there long before this.
We’ll telegraph on to Portland, and to Boston, too, and have the police
on the watch.”
“Oh, if the _Surprise_ was only here,” groaned Harvey. “We might stand
some chance in a long chase. Confound the crew! Here they are, gone, at
the one time in the whole summer that we need them most.”
“Isn’t it just barely possible, though, that John Hart or Ed Sanders
didn’t make her good and fast to the mooring, and that she went adrift?
If that is so, she would have gone clear across to the islands in the
night, or even past them, out to sea.”
“That’s possible,” replied Henry Burns, “but it isn’t likely. That’s one
thing a good sailor does, always, by sheer habit—leave a boat secure.
We’ll get them out, though.”
A hurried search brought forth Ed Sanders and John Hart, who stoutly
protested the yacht had been left as fast as human hands could tie her.
Moreover, they intimated, in no uncertain language, that the yacht had
been turned over to the possession of the owners, according to agreement;
and that, if they had not seen fit to look after their own property, it
was not the fault of John Hart or Ed Sanders or Squire Brackett.
And the yachtsmen realized there was no answer to this.
“Jack,” said Henry Burns, as they hurried back again to the shore,
“there’s no use trying to fool ourselves with false hopes. The _Viking’s_
stolen—and you and I know who took her. He came back for the treasure in
the cabin.”
In the same breath, they uttered the name of Mr. Carleton.
Then, to their amazement, George Warren gave an exclamation of dismay and
self-reproach; for there had come back to him again, for the first time,
the memory of that rainy night down the island, and of the envelope he
had found in the fireplace, with the name of Mr. Carleton upon it. He
told them now of the discovery he had made.
“Oh, if I’d only thought of it last night,” he cried, “I shouldn’t have
urged you to stay at the cottage. You see, the cruise we’ve been on put
the thing clean out of my mind. I hadn’t thought of Carleton since that
night. Hang it! I feel as though I was to blame—and you’d have gone
aboard last night if it hadn’t been for me.”
Poor George Warren looked the picture of dismay. “There’s nothing for you
to blame yourself about,” said Henry Burns. “You couldn’t suspect
Carleton was coming back.”
They had been running all the while, and had come by this time to Captain
Sam’s door.
“Now,” said Henry Burns, quick and sharp, “we’ve got to jump lively and
be off. You fellows will all help, of course. Tom, you and Bob have got
to go to Bellport. The canoe will do it twice as quick as any boat could
beat up around the head of the island and sail over.”
“We’re off,” replied Tom Harris. Without another word, he and Bob dashed
for the shore, had their sweaters off, in a twinkling, snatched up the
canoe as though it were a feather’s weight, launched it, and started down
along the island for the Narrows. The light craft darted ahead swiftly,
impelled by bronzed and muscular arms. The boys were trained to hard
work, in rough water and smooth; and they wasted no effort now in
starting off at any frenzied pace, under the excitement. They set, from
the first, a strong, steady, even stroke, that could be sustained for
hours if need be, knowing, as does a trained athlete, that the long
distance race is to the man that sustains, and does not exhaust, his
strength in useless haste.
“You fellows make for the islands in the _Spray_, will you?” said Henry
Burns, turning to the Warren boys. “There’s a man in back of Hawk Island
that owns a big fishing-boat; and if they’ve seen the _Viking_ go down
through that way, perhaps he’ll go along for us. Every man around this
bay will help, when he knows there’s a yacht been stolen.”
“We’ll start just as soon as we can get a jug of water and some food
aboard,” said George Warren.
“I’ll go back to the house for the food,” said young Joe.
The Warren boys started off on the run.
Henry Burns and Jack Harvey, their faces drawn and anxious-looking, but
determined to keep up their courage, knocked at the door of Captain Sam.
“Come in,” was the hearty response.
They opened the door, which admitted directly into the dining-room, where
sat Captain Sam, with Mrs. Curtis about to pour his coffee.
“You’re just in time. Sit right down,” cried Captain Sam hospitably.
“Baked beans and brown bread is what you get, you know. I can always tell
it’s Sunday morning, as soon as I wake up, by the smell from the oven.
Haw! haw!”
“Hello, what’s the matter?” he added, seeing the expressions of distress
on their faces. “Nothing gone wrong, is there?”
They told him, hurriedly.
Captain Sam Curtis raised his brawny right hand, which clutched an iron
knife with which he had been dexterously engaged in conveying beans from
his dish to his mouth, and brought it down on the table with a smash that
made the coffee-cups jump in their saucers.
“I knew it and I said it!” he cried. “I didn’t like the looks of that
Carleton from the first—did I, Nancy Jane?”
“No, you didn’t, Sam,” responded Mrs. Curtis. “You declared he had a
queer way with him—though I couldn’t see it.”
“The villain!” roared Captain Sam. “A boat-thief, is he? We’ll catch him,
if we have to sail to New York after him. Nancy Jane, throw some bread
and cheese and that cold meat and brown bread into a box, and we’ll get
away quicker’n scat.”
He bolted a cup of coffee at one swallow and unloaded his plate of beans
with a rapidity truly marvellous, urging the boys, between gulps, to do
likewise. But they had not much appetite and ate only a little, hastily.
“He’s the man—the scoundrel!” exclaimed Captain Sam, wrathfully, as they
gathered his belongings and prepared to leave the cottage. “And didn’t I
see him night before last, as sure as a man can see? I was coming down
through the pasture from the post-office, about dusk, and there was a man
ahead in the path; and when he heard me coming behind him, he slips off
into the bushes and cuts across lots. Once he looks back for a moment,
over his shoulder, and I says, ‘Why, that looks as much like that man
Carleton that boarded at my house as one pea looks like another.’ But he
didn’t answer when I called to him; only pushed ahead, out of the way.
And I thought it was queer—and now I know it.”
The _Nancy Jane_, Captain Sam’s big fishing-boat, named for his wife,
and, like that good woman, plump and sturdy of build, and not dashing,
was swinging idly at its mooring. They jumped aboard, lifted the tender
aboard also, so it would not drag and delay them, ran the mainsail and
jib up, cast off, and stood down alongshore. The chase of the _Viking_
had begun.
The yacht _Spray_, which had been under way for some minutes, was off
about half a mile, heading for the islands. The canoe had already reached
the Narrows, a little more than half a mile below, and was not to be
seen. The _Nancy Jane_ was doing her best. Jack Harvey and Henry Burns
looked at each other, their faces set and anxious. They could hardly
speak.
Only Henry Burns managed to say, “Keep up your courage, Jack. We’ll get
him, yet.”
Jack Harvey shook his head, dubiously.
“He’s got a long start,” he said; “and you know how the old _Viking_ can
sail.”
As for Captain Sam, he must have had his own convictions about the
relative merits of the _Nancy Jane_ and the _Viking_; but he refrained
from expressing them. He merely drew out his pipe and sent up such clouds
of smoke that it might have seemed as though the _Nancy Jane_ was
propelled by an engine.
Tom Harris and Bob White lost little time in reaching the Narrows. At
this point, the waters of the Eastern and Western Bays came so near
together that only a narrow strip of the island prevented the sea from
flowing between and making two islands, instead of one. The boys lifted
the canoe on their shoulders, carried across and launched it again in the
Western Bay. They had now some six miles of water to cross.
Heading somewhat above their destination, so as to allow for the setting
of the tide, they proceeded vigorously. With the precision bred of long
practice, their paddles cut the water at the same moment; while, under
the guidance of Tom’s stern paddle, the canoe sped on an undeviating
course, leaving a wake as straight as though a line had been drawn for
them to follow.
Then, when they came to within the last mile of Bellport, Tom gave the
word, and they finished at racing speed. In upon a clean strip of sandy
beach they ran; nor had the bow scarcely grated upon the shore, before
they were out and were carrying the canoe up above the reach of
tide-water, or the wash of any passing boat. Then, still stripped for the
race, with arms and shoulders bared, they started on a run for the
telegraph office. They had set out at about half-past six, and it was now
eight o’clock.
Oh, but the minutes seemed hours now. The little office, where the one
operator did whatever business came that way, was locked, when they
arrived. It was Sunday morning, and the operator was being shaved at a
near-by hotel. They fairly dragged him out of the barber’s hands,
however, and got him to send their messages: one to Stoneland, another to
Boston, and another to Portland. They were brief:
“Yacht _Viking_; thirty-eight feet, six; sloop; foresail, two jibs;
painted white; new sails. Stolen last night. Stop her.”
The messages were directed to the harbour-master at each port.
The boys, donning their sweaters, sat in the shade by the roadside, to
rest. The pace had been so swift, and their intent so absorbing, that
they had not fairly considered until now the real extent of the loss. But
now they groaned with sympathy for their comrades.
“Isn’t it awful?” exclaimed Bob. “Just think of losing a boat like the
_Viking_.”
“Yes, and think of the start he’s got,” replied Tom. “He’s had a smashing
breeze all night. He must have got past Stoneland. Only the despatch to
Portland or Boston will catch him.”
“Well,” said Bob, “what next?”
“Breakfast, the first thing,” said Tom. “Then let’s go down the bay
toward Stoneland and see what’s happened.”
They had, indeed, eaten nothing since Henry Burns had awakened them with
the dire news.
An hour later, they were paddling leisurely down alongshore.
In all the village of Southport, through which the exciting and unusual
news had spread, there was but one man who regarded the loss of the
_Viking_ with anything approaching satisfaction. Having assured himself
that no legal blame could attach to him, Squire Brackett was far from
being downcast over the event. He thought of the secret drawer and the
lobster-claw.
“I’m glad she’s gone,” he muttered. “Serves ’em right. And they can’t
blame me for it. I brought her back all safe.”
And yet, if the squire had known it, he was, by reason of having a son,
in that measure responsible for the _Viking’s_ strange disappearance.
Since Mr. Carleton’s sudden departure from Southport, there had been a
desultory correspondence carried on between him and young Harry Brackett,
unknown to any one but themselves. Harry Brackett, indeed, felt rather
flattered to receive attention from so important a person; and he had
become convinced that Mr. Carleton did, in truth, regard certain things
that the boy had done as practical jokes, instead of putting a worse
interpretation on them.
Moreover, in furtherance of this idea, Mr. Carleton in all his letters
spoke of a certain indefinite time when, if occasion offered, he should
return to Southport, and the two would have some quiet joke of their own
at the expense of the yachtsmen.
“And when I come, I shall stay into the fall,” he wrote, in one letter.
“I expect to buy some land of your father. But say nothing to him about
my coming. My plans might fall through and I should not wish to
disappoint him.”
Thus it had happened that when, on Thursday, Harry Brackett’s letter of
the day before reached Mr. Carleton at Bellport, it was a letter of much
importance to that gentleman. He sat on the veranda of the hotel, holding
the letter in his hand, thinking deeply, and uttering his thoughts softly
to himself.
“So the squire’s got the boat,” he murmured. “I wish it was I that had
her. I was a fool to start off so soon down this way, and not see
Chambers, myself. It’s funny, too, about that secret drawer with the
money. There wasn’t any when Chambers and I and French owned her. But it
must be there, for Chambers’s friend, Will Edwards, told me about it in
Portland. And didn’t he write me from Boston that Chambers says it is
still there? And isn’t it queer, and lucky, too, that there’s only
Chambers and I left to share it, since Will Edwards has been put where he
won’t need money for ten long years?”
Mr. Carleton arose and paced the veranda, still talking to himself.
“He said I was the one to get it, did Will Edwards, because I appear like
a gentleman, and can meet people—and, besides, I had the money to spend.
But there’s little enough of that left. I’ve spent a lot. Somebody’s got
to pay me. It’s the last chance, and I’ll have the boat if—”
Mr. Carleton did not finish the sentence. But behind the heavy moustache,
that had seemed like a disguise, almost, to Henry Burns, Mr. Carleton’s
teeth were clenched tight; and his eyes looked away across the bay to
Grand Island, with an expression in them that was cold and resolute.
Harry Brackett got an answer to his letter, next morning, and the secret
it contained filled him with expectation and excitement.
“A capital scheme for us, he says,” exclaimed Harry Brackett, tearing the
letter into little pieces and casting them to the winds. “I wonder what
it is? I’m to meet him in the pasture to-morrow night. Cracky! but I
guess something’s going to happen. I’d like to get even with Jack Harvey
and Henry Burns for once. I’ll dare to do anything that Mr. Carleton
will, too; for he’ll get the blame, if there’s any trouble, because he’s
a man.”
Thus it happened that Captain Sam Curtis had not been mistaken when, on
Friday night, he thought he saw his former lodger, Mr. Carleton, stealing
through the bushes in the pasture, as he was coming from the post-office.
Indeed, Captain Sam might have seen more, if he had been sharper-eyed. He
might have seen Harry Brackett dodge quickly out of sight at the sound of
his voice, then throw himself on the ground and lie still until he had
passed.
What took place between Harry Brackett and Mr. Carleton, on this Friday
night, was an agreement, merely, to meet there again on the succeeding
night; after which, Mr. Carleton proceeded some three miles down the
island, where he had engaged a room at a farmhouse.
“And what’s the joke?” Harry Brackett had asked, eagerly.
“Leave that to me,” Mr. Carleton had replied. “It won’t hurt the boat
any; I promise you that. But they may have to mend their sail a little
after it. You know what that means, eh, you young rascal?”
Mr. Carleton chuckled.
“Keep watch for the _Viking_,” were his parting words.
There was little need for Harry Brackett to watch for the _Viking’s_
return. He knew of it by the arrival home of Squire Brackett, in the
worst humour he had ever been in—if there could be degrees of such bad
humour as the squire’s. He knew of it by his father’s ordering him to
“clear out,” when he asked about the trip. So, his supper finished, he
lost little time in obeying.
Harry Brackett hurrying up the road and turning off at length into the
pasture, and Mr. Carleton walking rapidly up the island, and coming at
length to the same spot, they met, shortly after eight o’clock. Great
news had Harry Brackett to impart: the arrival of the _Viking_. Important
enough it was to Mr. Carleton, but he took it coolly—or seemed to.
“Well, well,” he said, laughing, “you’re in for fun, aren’t you? I didn’t
half expect you; the night started in so bad. I shouldn’t have come, if I
hadn’t promised you I would. However, we’re in for it. Ha! ha! I declare
it makes me feel like a boy again. We’ll have a laugh on them to-morrow,
for I’m coming back to Captain Sam’s to-morrow afternoon, to stay.”
“Now,” he continued, “you get back to the shore as quick as you can, and
keep a watch on the _Viking_, to see whether the boys go aboard. If they
do, we’ll have our little joke some other night. If they don’t—ho! ho!
I’m too old to play jokes like a boy—but I’m in for a good time. I’ll be
down to the shore by ten o’clock.”
“He’s a queer sort of a man,” said Harry Brackett, as he started on a
jog-trot back to the village.
“I wish I didn’t have to use him,” said Mr. Carleton, as he watched the
retreating figure. “But I don’t dare keep watch, myself; and I need some
one to help run the boat.”
It was a long and somewhat dreary wait for Harry Brackett, down by the
shore. The sky was clearing, but it was wet and soggy underfoot, and the
night was depressing. He almost fancied that he was sorry he had entered
into the scheme, though he didn’t know exactly why. However, if Mr.
Carleton, who had money to spend like a gentleman, and who was going to
buy his father’s land, could indulge in such a prank, why shouldn’t he?
Yet he jumped, and sprang up almost frightened, when a hand was laid
suddenly on his shoulder and a low voice spoke in his ear:
“Well, anybody appeared?”
Mr. Carleton had come very quietly. The boy had not heard a footfall.
“No,” he replied. “But how you startled me. What time is it?”
“A little after ten,” replied Mr. Carleton. “We’ll wait till nearer
eleven, to make sure.”
He was not especially companionable, was Mr. Carleton, during their
vigil. He screened himself behind a thin clump of alders, lighted a
cigar, and smoked silently. Harry Brackett quivered with impatience. He
wondered what it was about Mr. Carleton that so changed his appearance.
Why, of course, it was the dress. Mr. Carleton, the night being bad, had
discarded his light yachting costume, and wore a heavy, almost
shabby-looking suit, with a rough felt hat.
“What are we going to do?” inquired Harry Brackett, once more.
“Wait till we run her down alongshore between here and the crew’s camp,”
replied Mr. Carleton. “Then you’ll see.”
It was a quarter to eleven, by Mr. Carleton’s watch, when he at length
arose and motioned for the boy to follow him.
“Any skiffs along the beach?” he asked.
“There are, ’most always,” replied Harry Brackett. “The cottagers have
them.”
They found what they wanted, shortly, a little flat-bottomed affair, that
just sufficed to float the two. They got in and rowed out to the yacht.
Stepping aboard, Mr. Carleton dragged the light skiff also aboard after
him. Then he paused abruptly, as though a thought had occurred to him. He
shot one quick glance at Harry Brackett, and another off through the
darkness.
“We need another small boat,” he said. “When we get down alongshore we’ll
use them both.”
“There’s a rowboat moored off that cottage just below,” said Harry
Brackett.
“Get it,” said Mr. Carleton, “when we sail up to it.”
Harry Brackett expressed surprise.
“Oh, we’ve got to put them back where we get them from, when we are
through,” laughed Mr. Carleton. “Let’s untie the stops in this mainsail
now. We’ll run it up only a little way, enough to drift down out of sight
of any one from shore here. I want to light a cabin lamp, and I shouldn’t
dare to do it here, though I guess every one’s gone to bed.”
There was certainly no sign of life in and about the town. There was not
a fisherman in the harbour. Not even a light gleamed from a cottage
window. Southport had gone to bed. It was a gloomy sort of night, too,
with the black clouds wheeling along overhead, and only the uncertain
glimmering of the stars in the shifting patches of blue to relieve the
dreariness. Harry Brackett wondered what time he would get back home.
“It’s getting late,” he suggested.
“Well, it won’t take us long,” replied Mr. Carleton. “There, the sail’s
free. Get forward and cast that mooring off, while I start the sail up a
bit.”
Harry Brackett quickly gave the word that the _Viking_ had dropped its
mooring. Mr. Carleton gave another vigorous haul on the halyards, made
them fast, and sprang to the wheel. They ran down to where the rowboat
lay, and picked that up. But then, Mr. Carleton, strangely enough, ran
the sail up more than “a little way.” In fact, as it bagged out with a
sharp flaw of the night-wind, the _Viking_ shot ahead quickly and was
almost instantly under full headway, gliding rapidly out from the shore.
“We’ve got to get that sail up still more,” exclaimed Mr. Carleton. “We
don’t need it, but it’s dangerous sailing this way. However, we will get
there all the quicker. You pull on those halyards when I head up into the
wind.”
Harry Brackett, knowing little of what he was doing, complied.
“Now break into that cabin,” commanded Mr. Carleton. “There’s a hatchet
under that seat. It’s all right. It’s a cheap lock. We’ve got to get in
there.”
Harry Brackett hesitated. Was it going a bit too far?
“Hurry up, there!” exclaimed Mr. Carleton, impatiently. “We mustn’t lose
any time.”
There was something in his voice that made Harry Brackett hesitate no
longer. He took the hatchet and smashed the lock from the staple.
“Now,” said Mr. Carleton, quickly, “we’re down ’most far enough. We’ll
need some rope. There’s some light spare line up forward in the cabin,
usually. You just go below and look for it. Don’t light a lantern,
though. It isn’t safe yet.”
Harry Brackett stumbled below.
There were two reefs in the sail, but the wind was squally; and there was
sail enough on to make the water boil around the stern, as the _Viking_
sped swiftly onward. Harry Brackett, fumbling and groping about in the
cabin, could hear the rush of the water along the yacht’s sides. They
were sailing fast.
Moreover, had Harry Brackett been on deck, he would have seen, now, that
they were not running down alongshore, but, instead, were standing
directly out from it, and rapidly leaving it astern.
“I can’t find any rope,” he called, at length.
“Look again. It must be there,” replied Mr. Carleton.
Harry Brackett rummaged some more.
“Light a lantern if you want to,” called Mr. Carleton, finally. “We’re
most ready to drop anchor now. But turn the wick down low first.”
The light glimmered for a moment or two—and then Harry Brackett, dashing
out of the cabin as though he had seen an evil spirit in some dark
corner, and giving one wild, terrified glance across the waters, rushed
up to and confronted Mr. Carleton.
“Here!” he cried, “What does this mean? You’re not going down alongshore!
Why, we’re half a mile out! What are you doing? Don’t you get me into a
scrape—oh, don’t you!”
The boy was trembling; and the chill night air, seeming to penetrate to
his very marrow all at once, with his fright, set his teeth to
chattering.
In answer, Mr. Carleton, holding the wheel with his right hand, reached
out suddenly with the other hand and clutched the boy by an arm. He held
him in a powerful grasp.
“See here,” he said, “you keep quiet. Do you understand? It’s a long swim
from here to shore, and the water’s cold. One cry from you, and overboard
you go. Sit down!”
Harry Brackett fell upon the seat, all in a heap. He tried to speak; to
beg; to implore this cruel, evil man that was now revealed to him, to
stop—to let him go ashore. But something rose in his throat that seemed
to choke him; while the tears rolled down his cheeks. He could only gasp
and utter a few sobs. He shook and shivered as though it had been a
winter’s night.
“Get out of here!” exclaimed Mr. Carleton, sharply. “Go below and stop
that whimpering. You’re not going to be hurt. And when you get your spunk
back, come on deck again. I need you to help.”
Harry Brackett stumbled below and threw himself on a berth, groaning in
anguish.
The _Viking_, with Mr. Carleton sitting stern and silent at the wheel,
sped on through the night.