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The Lady and the Pirate, a novel by Emerson Hough |
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Chapter 32. In Which I Rescue The Cook |
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_ CHAPTER XXXII. IN WHICH I RESCUE THE COOK "What's that?" said Peterson sharply--"you didn't obey orders?" "Well, I thought he was in the other boat," explained Willy, hanging his head. "You'll get your time," said the old man quietly, "soon as we get to the railroad--and you'll go home by rail." "What are you trying to do, Mr. Harry?" he demanded of me, a moment later. I was looking at the long boat. "Well, he's part of the boat's company," said I, "and we've got to save him, Peterson." "What's that?" asked Helena now coming up--and then, "Why, John, our cook, isn't here, is he?" She, too, looked at the long boat and at the sea. "How horrible!" she said. "Horrible!" "What does he mean to do?" she demanded now of Peterson in turn. The old man only looked at her. "Surely, you don't mean to go out there again," she said. I turned to them both, half cold with anger. "Do you think I'd leave him out there to die, perhaps? It was my own fault, not to see him in the boat." "It wasn't," reiterated Peterson. "It was Willy's fault--or mine." "In either case it's likely to be equally serious for him. We can't leave the poor devil helpless, that way." "Mr. Harry," began Peterson again, "he's only a Chinaman." "Take shame to yourself for that, Peterson," said I. "He's a part of the boat's company--a good cook--yes, but more than a good cook----" "Well, why didn't he come up with the rest of us?" "Because he was at his place of duty, below, until ordered up," said I. Peterson pondered for a moment. "That's right," said he at length; "I'll go out with you." I felt Helena's hand on my arm. "It's awful out there," said she. But I only turned to look at her in the half-darkness and shook off her hand. "You can't launch the big boat," said Peterson. "You'd only swamp her, if you tried." "That may be," said I, "but the real thing is to try." "We might wait till the wind lulls," he argued. "Yes, and if the wind should change she might drag her anchor and go out to sea. Which boat is best to take, Peterson?" A strange feeling of calm came over me, an odd feeling not easy to explain, that I was not a young man of leisure, but some one else, one of my ancestors of earlier days, used to encounters with adversity or risk. Calmly and much to my own surprise, I stood and estimated the chances as though I had been used to such things all my life. "Which is the best boat, Peterson?" I repeated. "Hardly the duck boat, I think--and you say not the big boat." "The dingey is the safest," replied Peterson. "That little tub would ride better; but no man could handle her out there." "Very well," said I; "she'll get her second wetting, anyhow. Lend a hand." "She'll carry us both," commented the old man, stepping to the side of the stubby little craft. "But she'll be lighter and ride easier with but one," was my reply. "A chip is dry on top only as long as it's a chip." "Let me go along," said Jean Lafitte, stepping up at this time. "You'll do nothing of the sort, my son," said I. "Go back to the ladies and make a fire, and make a shelter," said I. "I'll be here again before long." The news of the new adventure now spread among our little party. Mrs. Daniver began sniffling. "Helena," I heard her say, "this is terrible." But meantime I was pulling off my sweater and fastening on a life belt. Nodding to Peterson, we both picked up the dingey, and when the next sea favored, made a swift run in the endeavor to break through the surf. "Let go!" I cried to him, as the water swirled about our waist. "Go back!" And so I sprang in alone and left him. For the time I could make small headway, indeed, had not time to get at the oars, but pushing as I might with the first thing that came to hand, I felt the bottom under me, felt again the lift of the sea carry me out of touch. Then an incoming wave carried me back almost to the point whence I had started. In such way as I could not explain, none the less at length the little boat won through, no more than half filled by the breaking comber. I worked first as best I might, paddling, and so keeping her off the best I could. Then when I got the oars, the stubby yawing little tub at first seemed scarce more than to hold her own. I pulled hard--hard as I could. Slowly, the line of white breakers passed astern. After that, saving my strength a trifle, I edged out, now angling into the wind, now pulling full into the teeth of the gale. Even my purpose was almost forgotten in the intensity of the task of merely keeping away from the surf. Dully I pulled, reasoning no more than that that was the thing for me to do. It had seemed a mile, that short half-mile between the yacht and the beach. It seemed a hundred miles now going back to the boat. I did not dare ask myself how I could go aboard if even I won across so far as the yacht. It was enough that I did not slip backward to the beach once more. Yawing and jibbing in the wind which caught her stubby freeboard, the little boat, none the less, held up under me, and once she was bailed of the surf, rode fairly dry in spite of all, being far more buoyant than either of the other craft. Once in the dark, I saw something thrust up beside me and fancied it to be a stake, marking the channel which pierced the key hereabout. This was confirmed in my mind when, presently, as rain began to fall and the fog lessened for the time, I saw the blurred yellow lighthouse eye answering the wavering search-light of the Belle Helene, which swept from side to side across the bay as she rolled heavily at her anchor. In spite of the hard fight it had given me, I was glad the wind still held inshore. I knew the point of the little island lay not far beyond the light. Once adrift beyond that, not the Belle Helene herself would be safe, in this offshore wind, but must be carried out into the gulf beyond. Not reasoning much about this, however, and content with mere pulling, I kept on until at length I saw the nodding lights of the Belle Helene lighting the gloom more definitely about me. Presently, I made under her lee, so that the dingey was more manageable, and at last, I edged up almost to her rail, planning how, perhaps, I might cast a line and so make fast. But, first, I tried calling. "Ahoy, there below, John!" I called through the dark. At first there came no answer, and again I shouted. At this I saw the door of the dining saloon pushed open, and John himself thrust out his hand. "All litee," said he, merely greeting me casually. "You come?" "Yes," said I, with equal sang-froid. "You makee quick jump now, John, s'pose I come in." "All litee," said he once more. I saw now that he stood there, a book and a bundle in his arm. Perhaps he had been reading to pass the time! Be that as it may, I cautiously pulled the dingey under the lee of the Belle Helene. Timing his leap with a sagacity and agility combined which I had not suspected of him, my China boy made a leap, stumbled, righted himself, got his balance and so placed his bundle on the bottom of the boat and his book upon the seat, where he covered it carefully against the spray. "All litee," said he once more. "I makee pull now. You come this place." I endeavored to emulate his Oriental calm. "John," said I, "I catchee plenty wind this time." "Yes, plenty wind," said he. "You suppose we leave China boy?" I demanded. "Oh, no, no!" he exclaimed with emphasis. "I know you come back allee time bimeby, one time." "What were you doing, John?" "I leed plenty 'Melican book," said he calmly. "Now I makee pull." To oblige him I made way for him, and we crawled past each other on the floor of the heaving dingey. He took the oars and began pulling with an odd chopping sort of a stroke, perhaps learned in his youth on some sampan that rode the waters of his native land; but for my own part, since Fate seemed to be kind to me after all, I trusted his skill, such as it was, and was willing to rest for a time. "No velly bad," said John judicially, after a time. "Pretty soon come in." No doubt he saw the little fire, now beginning to light the beach. At any rate, he headed straight in, the seas following, reeling after us. They have their own ways, these people of the East. I fancy John had run surf before. At any rate, I knew the water now was shallow and that, perhaps, one could swim ashore if we were overset. I trusted him to make the landing, however, and he did it like a veteran. One plunge through the ultimate white crest, and we were carried up high on the beach, to meet the shouts of my men and to feel their hands grasp the gunwales of the sturdy little craft. "All litee," remarked John amiably, and started for the fire, such being his instinct, not with the purpose of getting warm, but of cooking something. And in half an hour he had a cup of hot bouillon all around. "It's a commendable thing," remarked Mrs. Daniver, "that you, sir, should go to the rescue of even a humble Chinaman. I find this bouillon delicious." "Have you quite recovered from your seasickness by this time, Mrs. Daniver?" I asked politely. "Seasickness?" She raised an eyebrow in protest. "I never was seasick in my life--not even in the roughest crossings of the Channel, where others were quite helpless." "It is fortunate to be immune," said I. "People tell me it is a terrible feeling--they even think they are going to die." Jean Lafitte, I found, had made quite a serviceable shelter, throwing a tarpaulin over one of the long boat's oars. We pushed our fire to the front of this, and after a time induced the ladies to make themselves more comfortable. Only with some protest did my hearty pirates agree to share this shelter which made our sole protection against the storm. _ |
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