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