West Wind Drift

CHAPTER VI.

Inside of a fortnight after the events just chronicled, the women came ashore to occupy the practically completed huts.

The Doraine was deserted except for Captain Trigger and the half-dozen sailors who remained with him. These sailors were ancient tars whose lives had been spent at sea. They were grizzled, wizened old chaps. One of them, Joe Sands, had been an able seaman for forty-six years, and, despite a perpetual crick in the back, he insisted that he was still an abler seaman than ninety-five per cent, of the thirty-year-olds who followed the sea for a living. When Captain Trigger announced his resolve to stay on board, where he belonged, these vainglorious old seadogs elected to remain with him to the end.

The exodus of women was hastened somewhat by the further listing of the Doraine. This was due primarily to the removal of thousands of tons from the holds, the galley and the engine room. A more sinister cause for alarm, however, was the action of the greatly lightened vessel when a tidal wave swept into the basin from the north. This came at the tag end of the storm,—on the third day, in fact. The Doraine seemed actually to be afloat for a few seconds, heaving, shuddering, groaning. Her bottom, after scraping and grinding and giving up the most unearthly sounds, suddenly appeared to have freed itself completely from the rocks on which it was jammed. She seemed on the point of righting herself. Then she started to roll over on her side! Almost as abruptly she stopped, shivered, and then lay still again. But she was not in her old position. She was lying over at least two degrees farther than before the upheaval.

This same, tremendous tidal wave, driven up by the strong wind that had blown steadily and viciously out of the north for three days,—or perhaps created by some vast internal convulsion of the earth,—completely inundated the low-lying point of land known as Cape Sunrise, At least two miles of the island was temporarily under water. The high ridge lining the shore alone prevented the sea from hurtling over into the valley to destroy the fields and gardens and even to imperil the row of huts along the opposite slope.

Out on Cape Sunrise the waters swept over the lonely grave of Betty Cruise, but fell back baffled when they attacked the foothills that protected the homes of the living. There were superstitious persons who read meaning into this startling visitation of the sea. They made ugly romance of it. For, said they, the lonely spirit of Jimmy Cruise was trying to reach its mate,—aye, striving to drag her body down to the bottom of the sea to lie beside his own.

As the days went by,—long days that were not governed by any daylight saving law,—the settlement took on the air and life of a sequestered village. There was the general warehouse from which stores were dispensed sparingly by agents selected for such duties. Women and men went to market and carried home the provender. A fish market was established; wood-yards, fruit and vegetable booths, a dispensary, and a general store where leather, cloths of various description, and furs were to be had by requisition.

In speaking of the dispensary, Dr. Cullen complacently announced that the supply of medicine was limited, but that it was nothing to worry about. He declared bluntly,—and with a twinkle in his eye,—that people took too much medicine anyhow.

“Medicine is a luxury,” he said. “The more we stuff into people the more they want, and the less they take the sooner they forget they're sick. As your doctor, from this time on, I shall be delighted to set your broken bones, sew up your gashes, and all that sort of thing, but it is precious little medicine I'll give to you. So don't get sick. The only epidemic we can have here, according to my judgment, is an epidemic of good health. Am I right, gentlemen?”

The two young American doctors put aside their dignity and grinned.

The wines and liquors from the Doraine were brought ashore and locked away in the cellar beneath the warehouse. It could be had only on the doctor's orders.

“It won't hurt any of us to drink nothing but water for awhile,” said Percival in discussing the matter; “and the chances are we'll be less likely to hurt each other if we let the grog alone. There'll be no drinking on this island if I can help it. I understand some of you men are planning to put the pulp of the algarobo through a process of fermentation and make chica by the barrel. Well, if I have anything to say about it, you'll do nothing of the sort. I know that stuff. It's got more murder in it than anything I've ever tackled. We can make flour out of that pulp, as some of you know, and that's all we are going to make out of it. Besides, we can be decent longer on flour than we can on chica.

“We'll find it harder to do without tobacco than without booze, and unless we discover something to take its place we'll be smokeless in a few weeks. Professor Knapendyke is experimenting with a shrub he has discovered here. He says it may be a fairly good substitute if properly cured. But it won't be tobacco, so I guess we may as well make up our minds to swear off smoking as well as drinking. I hope there's nothing in the saying that the good die young. Because if there is, we're in for an epidemic that will wipe out four-fifths of our population in no time at all. We're going to be so good we'll die like flies.”

The weeks wore on and the fields of grain were harvested. The yield was not a heavy one, but it was sufficient to justify the rather hap-hazard experiments. The fifty-odd acres of wheat produced a little over a thousand bushels. The twenty-acre oat-field had averaged forty bushels. A few acres of barley, sown broadcast in the calcareous loam along the coast, amounted to nothing.

Primitive means for grinding the grain had been devised. This first crop was being laboriously crushed between roughly made mill-stones, but before another harvest came along, a mill would be in operation on the banks of Leap Frog River.

The exploration of the island had long since been completed. In certain parts of the dense forest covering the western section there were magnificent specimens of the Norfolk Island pine. Fruits of the citrous family were found in abundance; wild cherries, wild grapes, figs, and an apple of amazing proportions and exceeding sweetness. Pigeons in great numbers were found, a fact that puzzled Professor Knapendyke not a little.

He finally arrived at an astonishing conclusion. He connected the presence of these birds with the remark-able exodus of wild pigeons from their haunts in the United States in the eighties. Millions of pigeons at that time took their annual flight southward from Michigan, Indiana and other states in that region, and were never seen again. What became of this prodigious cloud of birds still remains a mystery. Knapendyke now advanced the theory that in skirting the Gulf of Mexico on their way to the winter roosts in Central America they were caught by a hurricane and blown out to sea. By various stages the bewildered survivors of the gale made their way down the east coast of South America, only to be caught up again by another storm that carried them out into the Atlantic. A few reached this island, hundreds of miles from the mainland, and here they remained to propagate. At any rate, the naturalist was preparing to put his impressions and deductions into the form of a paper which he intended to submit to the National Geographic Magazine as soon as he returned to the United States.

The more practical Mr. Fitts decided to start a squab farm.

A few of the giant iguanas were seen, and many smaller ones. The meat of the iguana is a great delicacy. There were no beasts of prey, no herbaceous animals.

Lookouts on Top o' the Morning Peak reported the presence of monstrous birds at rare intervals. Where they came from and whither they went no one could tell. There were unscalable cliffs and crags at the western end of the island, and it is possible that they had their nests among them.

Lieutenant Platt described the first of these huge birds as being at least thirty feet from tip to tip. It flew low above the top of Split Mountain and disappeared beyond the hills to the west. When first descried by one of the lookouts, this bird was far out over the ocean, approaching the island from the east. As it soared over the heads of the men, several hundred feet above them, its wings full spread, it was more like a small monoplane than a bird. In colour it was a dirty yellow, with a black belly and head. Before any one could procure a gun from the hut it was out of range, flying at an incredible speed. A few days later another was seen, coming from the same direction. It was flying much higher, and a few futile shots were fired at it. Then, after a week or ten days without a single one of the monsters being seen, five of them appeared in the west and flew eastward over the island and out to sea.

“What was the name of that passenger-carrying bird they were always talking about in the 'Arabian Nights'?” inquired Platt.

“You mean the roc,” replied Knapendyke. “If it ever really existed outside of the fairy tales, it is now extinct. The nearest thing to it in size is the condor, I suppose.”

“I've seen some whopping big condors up in the Andes,” said Percival, “but twelve feet from tip to tip was what the natives called a full-grown specimen. What do you make of these birds, Flattner?”

“After seeing an iguana eighteen feet long, I'm ready to believe anything. A protracted and an enforced spell of sobriety is the only thing that keeps me from diagnosing my own case as delirium tremens. There's one thing sure. Birds as big as these, and iguanas as huge as the three we've seen,—to say nothing of the enormous flying fish Morris Shine claims to have seen,—take me back to the Dark Ages. I daresay we're seeing the tag end of the giants. God knows how old these birds and reptiles are,—hundreds of years, at least. I'd give almost anything to get one of those birds and stuff him. There was once a flying animal known as the pteranodon. It has been extinct for millions of years. Belonged to the class called pterodactyls. Who knows? If you fellows could shoot for sour apples, I'd have one of 'em.”

Christmas and New Year's day, long since past, had been celebrated in a mild, half-hearted way on board the Doraine. Easter was drawing near, and Ruth Clinton took upon herself the task of arranging special services for the children. She was going ahead with her plans when her aunt, with some bitterness, advised her to consult the “King of Babylon”—(a title surreptitiously accorded Percival by the unforgiving lady)—before committing herself too deeply to the enterprise.

“It would be just like him to cut Easter out of the calendar altogether,” said she.

“He cannot possibly have any objection to an Easter service,” protested Ruth, her brow puckering.

“There's no telling what he will object to,” said Mrs. Spofford.

“He is really quite tenderhearted, and awfully fond of children, you know. I am sure he will be very much pleased with the—Besides,” she broke off to say with considerable heat, “Mr. Percival is not as high and mighty as he imagines himself to be. Other people have something to say about the management of this camp. You forget,—and so does he perhaps,—that we have a council of ten. I rather fancy—”

“Pooh!” sniffed her aunt. “He is worse than all the Tammany bosses put together. The other men on the council of ten eat out of his hand, as Abel Landover says. His word is law,—or, I should have said, his smile is law. All he has to do is to grin and the argument is over. I've never seen anything like the way people give in when he smiles. It is disgusting.”

“Please don't forget, Auntie, that he did not smile on Saturday when Manuel Crust stopped him in front of the meeting-house and said he was going to take Sunday off from work up in the woods. He didn't smile then, did he? And there were a dozen men planning to take the day off with Manuel Crust, too.”

“I confess I was frightened,” admitted Mrs. Spofford, with a slight shudder. “That Manuel Crust is a—a dangerous man. He carries a knife. I saw it.”

“Were your sympathies with Manuel Crust or Mr. Percival? Answer, please.”

“Naturally, my dear, I—why, of course, they were with Percival. He was one man against a dozen. Besides, he does represent law and order. I have never questioned that, have I?”

“Weren't you a weeny, teeny bit proud of him yesterday, Aunt Julia?”

“Weren't you?” countered the other.

“I could have hugged him,” exclaimed Ruth, her eyes sparkling. “I hate him,—mind you,—but I could have hugged him, just the same.”

Mrs. Spofford looked searchingly into the girls clear, shining eyes.

“I wish I knew just how much you hate him, Ruth.”

“Be honest, Auntie. What you mean is, how little I hate him; isn't that so?”

“I don't believe you hate him at all.”

“Well, the first chance you get, ask him how much I hate him. He will tell you. Now let's talk about Easter Sunday. I don't in the least see why I should go down on my knees to Mr. Percival in order to—”

“Manuel Crust went down on his knees, didn't he?”

“Don't be silly! Manuel Crust was leading a strike. I am arranging a sacred entertainment.”

“Still, if I were you, my dear, I would ask him what he thinks about it.”

“All right,” cried Ruth, “I'll ask him. And what's more, I shall ask him to sing in the choir. He will love it.”

Not only did Percival promise to sing in the choir, but he eagerly offered to help her with the decorations. But when she announced that she was going up into the hills in quest of the little red winter berries that grew in profusion, he flatly put his foot down on the project.

“I don't feel any too sure of Manuel Crust and his gang,” said he. “They're in an ugly mood and they are brutes, Miss Clinton. Don't be alarmed. They're not likely to molest you or any one else, but I don't believe in taking chances. Just at present they're pretty sore at me and they're doing all they can to stir up discord. It will work out all right in the end, of course. They may be beasts but they're not fools.”

“Is it true that Manuel Crust claims that every man should have his woman?” she asked steadily.

He was surprised by the frank, unembarrassed question. “Crust is about as vile as they make them, Miss Clinton. Most of these fellows are decent, however.”

“But you have not answered my question.”

“I will answer it by saying that if he has any such notion as that in his mind he will have it taken out of him in short order if he attempts to put it into practice. The women on this island will be protected, Miss Clinton, if we have to kill Manuel Crust and his fol-lowers. It is true he has been preaching that sort of gospel among the vicious and ignorant Portugees and half-casts, but it's all talk. Don't pay any attention to it.”

“We can't help being worried. Suppose his following is much larger than you think. They are a rough, lawless crowd, and—”

“Ninety-five per cent, of the men here are decent. That's the only comfort I can give you.” He smiled his whimsical smile. “I think you will find that you will be courted in the regular, old-fashioned way, and proposed to with as much solemnity and uncertainty as if you were back at home, and it will be left for you to choose your own husband. We have two ministers of the gospel here, you know. I predict some rather violent courtships, and perhaps a few ill-advised marriages, but you may rest assured that no man is going to claim you until you claim him.”

He was looking straight into her eyes. She felt the blood mounting to her cheek,—and was conscious of a strange, delicious sensation as of peril stealing over her.

“You are most reassuring,” she managed to say, scarcely above a whisper, and then paused expectant.

Afterwards she was shamed by the exquisite pain of anticipation that had coursed through her in that moment of waiting. She never could quite account for the temporary weakness that assailed her and left her mute and helpless under the spell of his eyes. She only knew that she waited expectant,—for something that never came! What she might have said in response, what she might have done if he had uttered the words she was prepared to hear, she did not care to contemplate, even in the privacy of her own thoughts. She only knew that she was ashamed of the thrill that went over her and strangely bitter toward him for being the cause of it. She would not admit to herself that disappointment had anything to do with it,—for she found herself arguing, nothing could have been more distressing than to rebuff him when he seemed so eager to help her in her plans for Easter Sunday.

The fact remains, however, that Percival held his tongue, and she never quite understood why he did.

The time and the place of this encounter invited confession. There was a full moon in the heavens, the night was still, the air crisp with the tang of October in the north,—and they were alone in the shadow of the “tabernacle.” Lights gleamed in the little windows that stretched to the right and left of them. Far off somewhere in the dark, an unseen musician was gently thrumming a fandango on his Spanish guitar. She had been on her way home from Careni-Amori's cabin, where she had gained the prima-donna's promise to sing, when she saw him, walking slowly across the “Green.” His hands were clasped behind his back, his head was bent. She experienced a sudden rush of pity for him,—she knew not why, except that he looked lonely and forgotten. It was she who turned aside from her course and went out across the Green to join him.

“You are most reassuring,” she had said. The dusky light of the moon fell full upon her upturned face; her shadowy, limpid eyes were looking straight into his; enchantment charged the air with its soft and languorous breath,—and yet he looked away!

After a moment he spoke. His voice was steady and,—to her,—almost sardonic.

“The day of the cave-man is past. Likewise the cannibal. I think I can promise that you will neither be beaten nor eaten,—but you do run a little risk in being abroad on such a night as this,—and alone.”

She stiffened. “I don't think there is the slightest danger, Mr. Percival.”

“I wasn't thinking of danger,” he said. “There is a lot of difference between danger and consequences. You see, you might have been mistaken in your man. I might have turned out to be Manuel Crust.”

“I—I—I was sure it was you,” she stammered, and wished she had not said it. It was a confession that she knew his figure so well that she could recognize it in the gloom of the night and at a distance that should have rendered him almost invisible.

“Even so, I am Manuel's brother under the skin,” he said. “Like Judy O'Grady and the Colonel's lady, you know. However, all's well that ends well, so what's the use of magnifying the peril that stalks through the land.”

“You were brought up on the good, old-fashioned novels, I see. That's the language of heroes,—and heroes live only in novels, where they are perfectly safe from harm, thanks to the benevolent author.”

“You're right. I was brought up among the old-fashioned heroes. I lived through every adventure they had, I longed for every girl they loved, I envied everything they did, and I dreamed the most beautiful dreams about prowess and virtue and love. I rather fancy I'm a better man for having been a swashbuckling boy. I acquired the generous habit of falling in love with every heroine I read about, and in my thoughts I performed even more prodigious deeds of valour in her behalf than the hero to whom she inevitably plighted her troth in the final chapter. In real life, however, I've never been in a position to do anything more heroic than give up my seat in trolley-cars to ladies of all ages,—By the way, have you never longed desperately to be a heroine?”

“Of course, I have,” she cried, smiling in spite of herself. Her eyes were sparkling again, for the danger was past. “And I have loved a hundred heroes,—madly.” She hesitated and then went on impulsively: “We haven't been very friendly, Mr. Percival. Perhaps I am to blame. In any case, you have been very generous and forbearing. That is more than I have been. I never thought I could bring myself to the point of saying this to you. Can't we be friends again?”

He was silent for a moment.

“Do you mean to go back to where we were before—Well, before we clashed?”

“Yes,—if you will put it in that way.”

“I can't go back to that stage,” he said, shaking his head. “You may have stood still, Miss Clinton, but I have progressed.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“You will, after you reflect awhile,” he said.

She drew back, in a sudden panic. She spoke hurriedly, her composure wrecked.

“I—at least, Mr. Percival, I have done my part. If you do not care to be friends, I—I have nothing more to say. We must go on just as we were,—and I am sorry. I have done my part.”

“I do not want to distress you,” he said huskily. “If I were to tell you why it is best for us to go on as we are, you would lose what little faith you may still have in me. I have not always been able to conceal my feelings. You do not care as I do,—and I have been pretty much of a rotter in showing you just how I feel from time to time,—an ordinary bounder, and God knows I hate the word,—so there's nothing more I can say without distressing and offending you. I want you to feel perfectly secure so far as I am concerned. We are out here alone in the night. If I were to let go of myself now and say what I want to say to you,—well, you would be frightened and hurt and,—God knows I wouldn't hurt you for the world. I hope you understand, Miss Clinton.”

She had had time to fortify herself.

“Yes,—I understand,” she said, but not without a strange wonder filling her mind.

He was fair,—and yet he was baffling. She had not expected this rare trait in him. Men she had known were not like this. The men who loved her,—and they had been many,—were impetuous and insistent, demanding much and offering everything,—vain-glorious warriors who counted confidently on easy conquest. She had come in contact with but one class of men: the spoiled, cocksure sons of the rich who love in haste and have it over with while there is yet time to love again. She caught herself guiltily wondering how many men of her acquaintance would have allowed this engaging opportunity to pass without making the most of it! And why should this man be different from the others? She experienced a sharp feeling of irritation, and out of that sprang the wilful desire to hurt him because he was different. So she lifted her chin, and looking straight into his eyes, said: “I understand perfectly. You prefer that I should not put you in the class with Manuel Crust.”

“I'm not quite certain that Manuel's way of handling women isn't the best after all,” he said musingly. “Ride over 'em rough-shod, trample them under foot, kick them to one side and then ask them whether they love you or not. If they say they don't, all you have to do is to behave like a gentleman and leave them alone.”

She laughed. “But suppose they were to say they did love you,—what then?”

“That, I understand, is what they generally do say,—and it causes a great deal of trouble for the unfortunate gentleman.”

“Are you never in earnest, Mr. Percival?”

“I was very much in earnest a moment ago. You knew how much in earnest I was or you wouldn't have said that nasty thing about Manuel Crust.”

“I am sorry I said it,” she cried. “It was uncalled for,—and I was deliberately trying to be mean.”

“I knew it,” he said quietly. “I don't think any the worse of you for it. A woman plays fair until you get her into a corner,—and then she plays fairer than ever to make up for what she did when cornered. Am I not right?”

She did not reply. She was staring past him, down the line of huts. The door of Olga Obosky's cabin had opened and closed, projecting for an instant an oblong block of light into the darkness. The figure of a woman, emerging into the full light of the moon, had caught Ruth's attention. Percival turned quickly. Together they watched the figure move swiftly across the Green toward them. Suddenly it stopped, and then, after a moment, whirled and made off down the line of cabins, soon to be swallowed up by the gloom.

“Were you expecting some one?” inquired Ruth, icily.

He was still looking intently into the far-reaching gloom. Neither had spoken for many seconds. He started, and looked searchingly into her eyes.

“That was Madame Obosky,” he said.

“I know. I recognized her,” said she evenly.

“And you believe she was coming out here to meet me,—isn't that so?”

She drew herself up. “I shall have to say good night, Mr. Percival. No! It is not necessary for you to walk home with me.”

He placed himself in front of her. “Would you mind answering my question?”

“Yes,” she flashed, “I think she was coming out here to meet you. Permit me to pass, please.”

He stood aside. “Good night, Miss Clinton.”

He watched her until the door of her cabin swung open,—and he smiled as she stood revealed for an instant in the square of light, for she had obeyed the impulse to glance over her shoulder.

She was angry, hurt, disgusted as she slammed the door behind her.

“Where have you been?” cried out an accusing voice, and Ruth's gaze fell upon the figure in one of the deck chairs beside the fire. “I have been waiting for you for—”

“How long have you been here?” cried the girl, stock-still and staring.

“If Mrs. Spofford had not been so entertaining, I should say for hours and hours,” said Madame Obosky.

“As a matter of fact,” said Mrs. Spofford from her side of the fireplace, “it hasn't been more than an hour. Madame Obosky came soon after you went out, dear.”

“But—but I saw you just now coming out of your cabin,” cried Ruth blankly. She had a queer sensation as of the floor giving way beneath her.

“You saw—Oh, now I understand!” cried the Russian, with a laugh. “Zose girls of mine! Zey—they are like so many grandmothers. They will not go to bed until zey know I am safely tucked in myself. Alas, Mrs. Spofford, zose girls do not trust me, I fear. If I go out at night alone, zey instantly put their heads together and shake zem all at the same time. So that is what has happen, Miss Clinton. One of them,—Alma, I suspect, because she had a sister who,—Yes, it would be Alma, I am sure,—in any case, one of zem comes out to get me, so like a policeman. But still I do not understand something. I have told them I was coming here to see you. If it was one of my girls, why has she not come?”

Ruth had turned away, ostensibly to pull down the little window shade but really to send a swift searching glance out across the Green.

“She went the other way,” she replied, rather breathlessly.

Olga sprang to her feet. “Now, what is zat little fool up to?” she cried, angrily. “If I catch her running out to meet men at zis hour of—”

Ruth interrupted her. “She started in this direction but when she saw us, she turned and went the other way. I was talking to Mr. Percival out near the meeting-house. About the Easter services, Auntie,” she made haste to say as Mrs. Spofford looked up in surprise.

Olga was looking at her fixedly, an odd expression in her eyes, her lips slightly parted.

“He has promised to help me. He is delighted to sing in the choir. Madame Careni-Amori will sing two solos. She promises to make Joseppi sing one or two. I—I was discussing the arrangements with Mr. Percival.”

“Now I understand,” said Olga, gaily, but with the odd, inquiring look still in her eyes. “Alma thought it was I. I have zem very well-trained, those girls. She sees me with a man,—zip! She runs the other way as fast as she can! That is the height of propriety,—is it not, Mrs. Spofford?”

“I do not quite understand what you mean, Madame Obosky.”

“Why did he say it was you?” cried Ruth, hot with chagrin.

Olga shrugged her shoulders. “He is so very amiable,” said she. “I dare say he thought it would please you.”

Ruth bit her lip. There was no mistaking the challenge in the Russian's remark, however careless it may have sounded.

“I came to see you about Mr. Percivail's birthday,” said Olga, abruptly changing the subject. “Some one has suggested zat we all join in giving him a grand great big celebration. Bonfires, fire-works, a banquet with speeches, and all zat kind of thing. What do you think, eh?”

“He wouldn't like it at all,” said Ruth promptly. “Moreover, why should we celebrate his birthday? He doesn't deserve it any more than scores of other—”

“Oh, then we must drop it altogether,” broke in Olga, rather plaintively. “I thought every one would be in favour of it. But, of course, if there is the slightest opposition—”

“I do not oppose it,” said Ruth coldly. “Pray do not let me upset your plans.”

“It is not my plan. Zat nice, sarcastic Mr. Fitts, and Mr. Malone, and Captain Trigger, they have proposed it, Miss Clinton, not I. But men never quite get over being boys. They do not stop to question whether a thing is right or wrong. I dare say after they have thought a little longer over it, zey will agree with you that it is foolish to be so enthusiastic about this fellow Percivail,—and the whole project will dissolve into thin air.”

Her hand was on the latch. She met Ruth's harassed, unhappy gaze with her indolent, almost insolent, smile. Suddenly the American girl snatched up her jacket and the little fur collar she had thrown across a chair in the corner.

“If you don't mind, I will walk part of the way home with you,” she said.

Olga opened the door and looked out. “Thank you,—I am not afraid. Pray do not think of it,—I cannot permit you to come. It is late,—and the moon is under the clouds. Good night,—good night, Mrs. Spofford.”