Kate Bonnet/Chapter 28

S soon as Dickory had left off his cocked hat and his gold-embroidered coat, the little girl Lena had ceased to be afraid of him, and the next morning she came to him, seated lonely—for this was a busy household—and asked him if he would like to take a walk. So, hand in hand, they wandered away. Presently they entered a path which led through the woods.

"This is the way my sister goes to her lookout tree," said the little girl. "Would you like to see that tree?"

"Oh, yes!" said Dickory, and he spoke the truth.

"She goes up to the very top," said Lena, "to look for ships. I would never do that; I'd rather never see a ship than to climb to the top of such a tree. I'll show it to you in a minute; we're almost there."

At a little distance from the rest of the forest and upon a bluff which overlooked a stretch of lowland, and beyond that the bay, stood a tall tree with spreading branches and heavy foliage.

"Up in the top of that is where she sits," said the child, "and spies out for ships. That's what she's doing now. Don't you see her up there?"

"Your sister in the tree!" exclaimed Dickory. And his first impulse was to retire, for it had been made quite plain to him that he was not expected to present himself to the young lady of the house, should she be on the ground or in the air. But he did not retire. A voice came to him from the tree-top, and as he looked upward he saw the same bright face which had greeted him over the top of the bushes. Below it was a great bunch of heavy leaves.

"So you have come to call on me, have you?" said the lady in the tree. "I am glad to see you, but I'm sorry that I cannot ask you to come upstairs. I am not receiving."

"He could not come up if he wanted to," said Lena; "he couldn't climb a tree like that."

"And he doesn't want to," cried the nymph of the bay-tree. "I have been up here all the morning," said she, "looking for ships, but not one have I seen."

"Isn't that a tiresome occupation?" asked Dickory.

"Not altogether," she said. "The branches up here make a very nice seat, and I nearly always bring a book with me. You will wonder how we get books, but we had a few with us when we were marooned, and since that my father has always asked for books when he has an opportunity of trading off his hides. But I have read them all over and over again, and if it were not for the ships which I expect to come here and anchor, I am afraid I should grow melancholy."

"What sort of ships do you look for?" asked Dickory, who was gazing upward with so much interest that he felt a little pain in the back of his neck, and who could not help thinking of a framed engraving which hung in his mother's little parlour, and which represented some angels composed of nothing but heads and wings. He saw no wings under the head of the charming young creature in the tree, but there was no reason which he could perceive why she should not be an angel marooned upon a West Indian island.

"There are a great many of them," said she, "and they're all alike in one way—they never come. But there's one of them in particular which I look for and look for and look for, and which I believe that some day I shall really see. I have thought about that ship so often and I have dreamed about it so often that I almost know it must come."

"Is it an English ship?" asked Dickory, speaking with some effort, for he found that the girl's voice came down much more readily than his went up.

"I don't know," said she, "but I suppose it must be, for otherwise I should not understand what the people on board should say to me. It is a large ship, strong and able to defend itself against any pirates. It is laden with all sorts of useful and valuable things, and among these are a great many trunks and boxes filled with different kinds of clothes. Also, there's a great deal of money kept in a box by itself, and is in charge of an agent who is bringing it out to my father, supposing him to be now settled in Barbadoes. This money is generally a legacy for my father from a distant relative who has recently died. On this ship there are so many delightful things that I cannot even begin to mention them."

"And where is it going to?" asked Dickory.

"That I don't know exactly. Sometimes I think that it is going to the island of Barbadoes, where we originally intended to settle; but then I imagine that there is some pleasanter place than Barbadoes, and if that's the case the ship is going there."

"There can be no pleasanter place than Barbadoes," cried Dickory. "I come from that island, where I was born; there is no land more lovely in all the West Indies."

"You come from Barbadoes?" cried the girl, "and it really is a pleasant island?"

"Most truly it is," said he, "and the great dream of my life is to get back there." Then he stopped. Was it really the dream of his life to get back there? That would depend upon several things.

"If, then, you tell me the truth, my ship is bound for Barbadoes. And if she should go, would you like to go there with us?"

Dickory hesitated. "Not directly," said he. "I would first touch at Jamaica."

For some moments there was no answer from the tree-top, and then came the question: "Is it a girl who lives there?"

"Yes," said Dickory unguardedly, "but also I have a mother in Jamaica."

"Indeed," said she, "a mother! Well, we might stop there and take the mother with us to Barbadoes. Would the girl want to go too?"

Dickory bent his head. "Alas!" said he, "I do not know."

Then spoke the little Lena. "I would not bother about any particular place to go to," said she. "I'd be so glad to go anywhere that isn't here. But it is not a real ship, you know."

"I don't think I will take you," called down Lucilla. "I don't want too many passengers, especially women I don't know. But I often think there will be a gentleman passenger—one who really wants to go to Barbadoes and nowhere else. Sometimes he is one kind of a gentleman and sometimes another, but he is never a soldier or a sailor, but rather one who loves to stay at home. And now, sir, I think I must take my glass and try to pick out a ship from among the spots on the far distant waves."

"Come on," said Lena, "do you like to fish! Because if you do, I can take you to a good place."

The rest of the day Dickory spent with Mr. Mander and his wife, who were intelligent and pleasant people. They talked of their travels, their misfortunes and their blessings, and Dickory yearned to pour out his soul to them, but he could not do so. His woes did not belong to himself alone; they were not for the ears of strangers. He made up his mind what he would do. Until the morrow he would stay as a visitor with these most hospitable people, then he would ask for work. He would collect firewood, he would hunt, he would fish, he would do anything. And here he would support himself until there came some merchant ship bound southward which would carry him away. If the Mander family were anyway embarrassed or annoyed by his presence here, he would make a camp at a little distance and live there by himself. Perhaps the lady of the tree would kindly send him word if the ship he was looking for should come.

It was about the middle of the afternoon, and Lena had dropped asleep beneath the tree where Dickory and her parents were conversing, when suddenly there rushed upon the little group a most surprising figure. At the first flash of thought Dickory supposed that a boy from the skies had dropped among them, but in an instant he recognised the face he had seen above the bushes. It was Lucilla, the daughter of the house! Upon her head was a little straw hat, and she wore a loose tunic and a pair of sailor's trousers, which had been cut off and were short enough to show that her feet and ankles were bare. Around her waist she had a belt of skins, from which dangled a string of crimson sea-beans. Her eyes were wide open, her face was pale, and she was trembling with excitement.

"What do you think!" she cried, not caring who was there or who might look at her. "There's a ship at the spring, and there's a boat rowing across the bay. A boat with four men in it!"

All started to their feet.

"A boat," cried Mander, "with four men in it? Run, my dear, to the cave; press into its depths as far as you can. There is nothing there to be afraid of, and no matter how frightened you are, press into its most distant depths. You, sir, will remain with me, or would you rather escape? If it is a pirate ship, it may be Blackbeard who has returned."

"Not so," cried Lucilla, "it is a merchant vessel, and they are making straight for the mouth of our stream."

"I will stay here with you," said Dickory, "and stand by you, unless I may help your family seek the cave you speak of."

"No, no," said Mander, "they don't need you, and if you will do so we will go down to the beach and meet these men; that will be better than to have them search for us. They will know that people live here, for my canoe is drawn up on the beach."

"Is this safe?" cried Dickory; "would it not be better for you to go with your family and hide with them? I will meet the men in the boat."

"No, no," said Mander; "if their vessel is no pirate, I do not fear them. But I will not have them here."

Now, after Mander had embraced his family, they hurried away in tears, the girl Lucilla casting not one glance at Dickory. Impressed by the impulse that it was the proper thing to do, Dickory put on his coat and waistcoat and clapped upon his head his high cocked hat. Then he rapidly followed Mander to the beach, which they reached before the boat touched the sand.

When the man in the stern of the boat, which was now almost within hailing distance, saw the two figures run down upon the beach, he spoke to the oarsmen and they all stopped and looked around. The stop was occasioned by the sight of Dickory in his uniform; and this, under the circumstances, was enough to stop any boat's crew. Then they fell to again and pulled ashore. When the boat was beached one of its occupants, a roughly dressed man, sprang ashore and walked cautiously towards Mander; then he gave a great shout.

"Heigho, heigho!" he cried, "and Mander, this is you!"

Then there was great hand-shaking and many words.

"Excuse me, sir," said the man, raising his hat to Dickory, "it is now more than two years since I have seen my friend here, when he was marooned by pirates. We were all on the same merchantman, but the pirate took me along, being short of hands. I got away at last, sir" (all the time addressing Dickory instead of Mander, this being respect to his rank), "and shipping on board that brig, sir, I begged it of the captain that he would drop anchor here and take in water, although I cannot say it was needed, and give me a chance to land and see if my old friend be yet alive. I knew the spot, having well noted it when Mander and his family were marooned."

"And this is Lucilla's ship," said Dickory to himself. But to the sailor he said: "This is a great day for your friend and his family. But you must not lift your hat to me, for I am no officer."

For a long time, at least it seemed so to Dickory, who wanted to run to the cave and tell the good news, they all stood together on the sands and talked and shook hands and laughed and were truly thankful, the men who had come in the boat as much so as those who were found on the island. It was agreed, and there was no discussion on this point, that the Mander family should be carried away in the brig, which was an English vessel bound for Jamaica, but the happy Mander would not ask any of the boat's crew to visit him at his home. Instead, he besought them to return to their vessel and bring back some clothes for women, if any such should be included in her cargo.

"My family," said he, "are not in fit condition to venture themselves among well-clad people. They are, indeed, more like savages than am I myself."

"I doubt," said Mander's friend, "if the ship carries goods of that description, but perhaps the captain might let you have a bale of cotton cloth, although I suppose—" and here he looked a little embarrassed.

"Oh, we can buy it," cried Dickory, taking some pieces of gold from his pocket, being coin with which Blackbeard had furnished him, swearing that his first lieutenant could not feel like a true officer without money in his pocket; "take this and fetch the cloth if nothing better can be had."

"Thank you," cried Mander; "my wife and daughters can soon fashion it into shape."

"And," added Dickory, reflecting a little and remembering the general hues of Lucilla's face, "if there be choice in colours, let the cloth be pink."

When Mander and Dickory reached the house they did not stop, but hurried on towards the cave, both of them together, for each thought only of the great joy they were taking with them.

"Come out! Come out!" shouted Mander, as he ran, and before they reached the cave its shuddering inmates had hurried into the light. When the cries and the tears and the embraces were over, Lucilla first looked at Dickory. She started, her face flushed, and she was about to draw back; then she stopped, and advancing held out her hand.

"It cannot be helped," she said; "anyway, you have seen me before, and I suppose it doesn't matter. I'm a sailor boy, and have to own up to it. I did hope you would think of me as a young lady, but we are all so happy now that that doesn't matter. Oh, father!" she cried, "it can't be; we are not fit to be saved; we must perish here in our wretched rags."

"Not so," cried Dickory, with a bow; "I've already bought you a gown, and I hope it is pink."

As they all hurried away, the tale of the hoped-for clothes was told; and although Mrs. Mander wondered how gowns were to be made while a merchantman waited, she said nothing of her doubts, and they all ran gleefully. Lucilla and Dickory being the fleetest led the others, and Dickory said: "Now that I have seen you thus, I shall be almost sorry if that ship can furnish you with common clothes, what you wear becomes you so."

"Oho!" cried Lucilla, "that's fine flattery, sir; but I am glad you said it, for that speech has made me feel more like a woman than I have felt since I first put on this sailor's toggery."

In the afternoon the boat returned, Mander and Dickory watching on the beach. When it grounded, Davids, Mander's friend, jumped on shore, bearing in his arms a pile of great coarse sacks. These he threw upon the sand and, handing to Dickory the gold pieces he had given him, said: "The captain sends word that he has no time to look over any goods to give or to sell, but he sends these sacks, out of which the women can fashion themselves gowns, and so come aboard. Then the ship shall be searched for stuffs which will suit their purposes and which they can make at their leisure."

It was towards the close of the afternoon that all of the Mander family and Dickory came down to the boat which was waiting for them.

"Do you know," said Dickory, as he and Lucilla stood together on the sand, "that in that gown of gray, with the white sleeves, and the red cord around your waist, you please me better than even you did when you wore your sailor garb?"

"And what matters it, sir, whether I please you or not?"