At Bevis’s home the authorities were still more wroth when they received the scrap of paper sent by Charlie, who scampered off before he could be questioned. There was more wrath about the battle than any of their previous misdeeds, principally because it was something novel. No one was hurt, and no one had even had much of a knock, except the larger boys, who could stand it. There was more rattling of weapons together than wounds. Ted’s forehead was bruised, and Bevis’s ankle was tender where some one had stepped on it while he was down. This was nothing to the bruises they had often had at football.
The fall over the quarry indeed might have been serious, so too the sinking of the punt; but both those were extrinsic matters, and they might have fought twenty Pharsalias without such incidents. All of them had had good sense enough to adhere to the agreement they had come to before the fighting. They could not anyhow have hurt themselves more than they commonly did at football, so that the authorities were perhaps a little too bitter about it. If only they had known what was going on, and had had it explained, if it had not been kept secret, so that the anxiety about Bevis being lost might not have been so great, there would not have been much trouble.
But now Bevis and Mark were in deep disgrace. As for their going away they might go and stay away if they wished. For the first day, indeed, it was quite a relief, the house was so quiet and peaceful; it was like a new life altogether. It would be a very good plan to despatch these rebels to a distance, where they would be fully employed, and under supervision. How peaceful it would be! The governor and Bevis’s mother thought with such a strain removed they should live fully ten years longer.
But next day somehow it did not seem so pleasant. There was a sense of emptiness about the house. The rooms were vacant, and occasional voices sounded hollow. No one chattered at breakfast. At dinner-time Pan was called in that there might be some company, and in the stillness they could hear the ring, ring of the blacksmith’s hammer on his anvil. When Bevis was at home they could never hear that.
The governor rode off in the afternoon, and Bevis’s mother thought now these tormentors were absent it would be a good time to sit down calmly at some needlework.
Every five minutes she got up and looked out of window. Who was that banged the outer gate? Was it Bevis? The familiar patter of steps on the flags, the confused murmur which came before them did not follow. It was only John Young gone out into the road. The clock ticked so loud, and Pan snored in the armchair, and looked at her reproachfully when she woke him. By-and-by she went upstairs into their bedroom. The bed was made, but no one had slept in it.
There was a gimlet on the dressing-table, and Bevis’s purse on the floor, and the half-sovereign in it. A great tome, an ancient encyclopaedia, which Bevis had dragged upstairs, was lying on a chair, open at “Magic.” Mark’s pocket-knife was stuck in the bed-post, and in his best hat there were three corn-crake’s eggs, blown, of course, and put there for safety, as he never wore it.
She went to the window, and the swallows came to their nests above under the eaves. Bevis’s jackets and things were lying everywhere, and as she left the room she saw a curious mark on the threshold, all angles and points. He had been trying to draw the wizard’s foot there, inking the five angles, to keep out the evil spirits and witches, according to the proper way, lest they should take the magician by surprise.
Next she went to the bench-room—their armoury—and lifted the latch, but it was locked, the key in Bevis’s pocket. The door rattled hollow. She looked through the keyhole, and could see the crossbow and the rigging for the ship. Downstairs again, sitting with her needlework, she heard the carrier’s van go by, marking the time to be about four. There was the booing of distant cows, and then a fly buzzed on the pane. She took off her thimble and looked at old Pan in the armchair—old Pan, Bevis’s friend.
It was deadly quiet. No shout, and bang, and clatter upstairs. No loud “I must,” “I will.” No rushing through the room, upsetting chairs, twisting tables askew. No “Ma, where’s the hammer?” “Ma, where’s my bow?” “Ma, where’s my hat?”
She rang the bell, and told Polly to go down and ask Frances to come and take tea with her, as she was quite alone. Frances came, and all the talk was about Bevis, and Mark, and big Jack. So soon as she had heard about the battle Frances immediately took their part, and thought it was very ingenious of Bevis to contrive it, and brave to fight so desperately. Then mamma discovered that it was very good of Mark, and very affectionate, and very brave to row all up the water in the storm to fetch Bevis from the island.
When the governor returned, to his surprise, he found two ladies confronting him with reasons why Bevis and Mark were heroes instead of scamps. He did not agree, but it was of no use; of course he had to yield, and the result was the dog-cart was sent for them on the following morning. But Bevis was not in the least hurry to return, not a bit. He was disposed, on the contrary, to disobey, and remain where he was. Mark persuaded him not to do this, but still he kept the dog-cart waiting several hours, till long after dinner.
They tried hard to get Jack to let them take the rifle with them, unsuccessfully, for he thought the authorities would not like it. At last Bevis deigned to get up, and they were driven home, for in his sullen mood Bevis would not even touch the reins, nor let Mark. He was very much offended. The idea of resentment against Ted had never entered his mind. Ted was his equal for one thing, in age.
But he hated to be looked at with a severe countenance as if he had been a rogue and stolen sixpence by the authorities against whom he did not feel that he had done anything. He burned against them as the conspirators abroad burn with rage against the government which rules them. They were not Ted, and equal; they had power and used it over him. Bevis was wrong and very unjust, for they were the tenderest and kindest of home authorities.
At home there was a dessert waiting on the table for them, and some Burgundy. The Burgundy, a wine not much drunk in the country, had been got a long time ago to please Bevis, who had read that Charles the Bold was fond of and took deep draughts of it. Bevis fancied he should like it, and that it would make him bold like Charles. Mamma poured him out a glassful, Mark took his, and said “Thank you.”
Bevis drank in silence.
“Aren’t you glad to come home?” said mamma.
“No, that I’m not,” said Bevis, and marched off up into the bench-room. Mamma saw that Mark wanted to follow, so she kissed him, recollecting that he had ventured through the storm after Bevis, and told him to do as he liked.
“The sails ought to be finished by now,” said Bevis, as Mark came up.
“Yes,” said Mark, “they’re sure to be. But you know I can’t go.”
“You ought to fetch them,” said Bevis, “you’re lieutenant; captains don’t fetch sails.” He was ready for any important exertion, but he had a great idea of getting other people to do these inferior things for him.
“I can’t go,” said Mark, “Frances hates me.”
“O! very well,” said Bevis savagely, and ready to quarrel with anybody on the least pretext. The fact was, though resentful, he did not feel quite certain that he approved of his own conduct to his mother. He could have knocked any one down just to recover confidence. He pushed by Mark, slammed the door, and started to get the sails.
Frances laughed when she saw him. “Ah!” she said, “Mark did not care to come, did he?” She brought out the sails nicely hemmed—they had been ready some days—and made them into a parcel for him.
“So you ran away from the battle,” she said.
“I didn’t,” said Bevis rudely.
“You sailed away—floated away.”
“Not to run away.”
“Yes, you did. And you were called Caesar.”
She liked to tease him, being fond of him; she stroked his short golden curls, pinched his arm, kissed him, taunted him, and praised him; walked with him as he went homewards, asked him why he did not offer her his arm, and when he did, said she did not take boys’ arms—boys with emphasis—till he grew scarlet with irritation. Then she petted him, asked him about the battle, and said it was wonderful, and he must show her over the battlefield. She made him promise to take her for a sail, and looked so delicious Bevis could not choose but smile.
She had her hat in her hand, such a little hand and so white, like a speck of sunshine among shadows. Her little feet peeped out among the grass and the blue veronica flowers. Her rounded figure, not too tiny at the waist, looked instinct with restless life, buoyant as if she floated. The bright light made her golden brown hair gleam. She lifted her long eyelashes, and looked him through and through with her grey eyes. Delicate arched eyebrows, small regular features, pouting lips, and impudent chin.
“You’re very little,” said Bevis, able to speak again. “I believe I could lift you over the stile.”
She was little—little and delicious, like a wild strawberry, daintily tinted, sweet, piquant, with just enough acid to make you want some more, rare, and seldom found.
“As you are so impertinent,” said she, “I shall not come any farther.”
Bevis got over the stile first to be safe, then he turned, and said,—
“Jack will have you some day, and he’s big, and he’ll manage you.”
“O!” said Frances, dropping her hat, “O!” Her little foot was put forward, she stood bolt upright with open lips. Scorn, utter, complete, perfect scorn was expressed from head to foot. Jack manage her! The idea! Before she could recover her breath, Bevis, who had immediately started running, was half across the next field.
Next morning they set to work to fix up the blue boat for sailing, and first stepped the mast and wedged it tight with a chip. A cord came down each side aslant to the gunwale, and was fastened there—these were the backstays to strengthen the mast when the wind blew rough. The bowsprit was lashed firmly at the bow, and the sheets or cords to work the foresail put through the staples, after which the tiller was fixed on instead of the lines. They had two sails—mainsail (without a boom) and foresail. Bevis once thought of having a topsail, but found it very awkward to contrive it without the ropes (they always called their cords ropes) becoming entangled.
The rigging and sails were now up, and Mark wanted to unfurl them and see how they answered, but Bevis, who was in a sullen mood, would not let him, till everything was completed. They had to put in the ballast, first bricks placed close together on the bottom, then two small bags of sand, and a large flat stone, which they thought would be enough. All this occupied a great deal of time, what with having to go backwards and forwards to the house for things and tools that had been forgotten, and the many little difficulties that always arise when anything new is being done.
Nothing fits the first time, and it all has to be done twice. So that when the last thing of all, the oyster-barrel with the tin canister inside, was put on board, it was about four in the afternoon. When they began to push the boat off the ground and get her afloat, they found that the wind had sunk. In the morning it had blown steadily from the westward, and busy at their work they had not noticed that after noon it gently declined. They pushed off, and rowed a hundred yards, so as to be out of the shelter of the trees on the shore, but there was no more breeze there than in the corner which they called the harbour.
The surface was smooth, and all the trees were reflected in it. Bevis had been sullen and cross all day, and this did not improve his temper. It was very rare for him to continue angry like this, and Mark resented it, so that they did not talk much. Bevis unfurled the sails and hoisted them up. The foresail worked perfectly, but the mainsail would not go up nor come down quickly. It was fastened to the mast by ten or twelve brass rings for travellers, and these would not slip, though they looked plenty large enough. They stuck, and had to be pushed by hand before the sail could be hoisted.
This was not at all proper, sails ought to go up and down easily and without a moment’s delay, which might indeed be dangerous in a squall. Bevis pulled out his knife, and cut a number of them off, leaving only three or four, and the sail then worked much better. Next they tried reefing, they had put in two rows, but when the second was taken in the sail looked rather shapeless, and Bevis angrily cut off the second row. He told Mark to row back while he furled, and Mark did so. After they had fastened the boat by the painter to the willow root, and picked up their tools, they went homewards, leaving the rigging standing ready for use on the morrow.
“There’s two things now,” said Mark, “that ought to be done.”
“What’s that?” crossly.
“There ought to be an iron ring and staple to tie the ship to—a ship ought not to be tied to a root.”
“Get a ring, then.”
“And another thing—two more things.”
“That there are not.”
“That there are. You want a bowl to bale the water out, the waves are sure to splash over.”
“That’s nothing.”
“Well, then,” said Mark savagely, “you’ve forgotten the anchor.”
Bevis looked at him as if he could have smashed him, and then went up into the bench-room without a word.
“You’re a bear,” shouted Mark from the bottom of the staircase. “I shan’t come;” and he went to the parlour and found a book. For the remainder of the day, whenever they met, in a minute they were off at a tangent, and bounded apart. Bevis was as cross as a bear, and Mark would not conciliate him, not seeing that he had given him the least reason. At night they quarrelled in their bedroom, Bevis grumbling at Mark for throwing his jacket on the chair he generally used, and Mark pitching Bevis’s waistcoat into a corner.
About ten minutes after the candle was out, Bevis got up, slipped on his trousers and jacket, and went downstairs barefoot in the dark.
“Glad you’re gone,” said Mark.
Bevis opened the door of the sitting-room where his mother was reading, walked up to her, kissed her, and whispered, “I’m sorry; tell the governor,” and was off before she could answer. Next morning he was as bright as a lark, and every thing went smoothly again. The governor smiled once more, and asked where they intended to sail to first.
“Serendib,” said Mark.
“A long voyage,” said the governor.
“Thousands of miles,” said Bevis. “Come on, Mark; what a lot you do eat.”
Mark came, but as they went up the meadow he said that there ought to be an anchor.
“So there ought,” said Bevis. “We’ll make one like that in the picture—you know, with a wooden shaft, and a stone let through it.”
“Like they used to have when they first had ships,” said Mark.
“And went cruising along the shore—”
“We’ve forgotten the compass.”
“Of course, that’s right; they had no compass when we lived.”
“No; they steered by the sun. Look, there’s a jolly wind.”
The water was rippling under a light but steady and pleasant summer breeze from the north-west. They pushed out, and while the boat slowly drifted, set the sails. Directly the foresail was up she turned and moved bow first, like a horse led by the bridle. When the mainsail was hoisted she began to turn again towards the wind, so that Bevis, who steered, had to pull the tiller towards him, or in another minute they would have run into the weeds. He kept her straight before the wind till they had got out of the bay where the boats were kept, and into the open water where the wind came stronger. Then he steered up the New Sea, so that the wind blew right across the boat, coming from the right-hand side.
It was a beautiful breeze, just the one they wanted, not too strong, and from the best direction, so that they could sail all the way there and back without trouble, a soldier’s wind, out and home again.
Mark sat by the mast, both of them on the windward side, so as to trim the boat by their weight and make her stiffer. He was to work the foresail if they had to tack, or let down the mainsail if a white squall or a tornado struck the ship. The ripples kissed the bow with a merry smack, smack, smack; sometimes there was a rush of bubbles, and they could feel the boat heel a little as the wind for a moment blew harder.
“How fast we’re going!” said Mark. “Hurrah!”
“Listen to the bubbles? Don’t the sails look jolly?” said Bevis. The sunshine shone on the white canvas hollowed out by the wind; as the pilot looked up he could see the slender top of the mast tracing a line under the azure sky. Is there anything so delicious as the first sail in your own boat that you have rigged yourself?
Away she slipped, and Mark began to hum, knocking the seat with his knuckles to keep time. Then Bevis sang, making a tune of his own, leaning back and watching the sails with the sheet handy to let go if a puff came, for were they not voyaging on unknown seas? Bevis sang the same two verses over and over:—
“Telling how the Count Arnaldos,
With his hawk upon his hand,
Saw a fair and stately galley,
Steering onward to the land.
‘Learn the secret of the sea?
Only those who brave its dangers,
Comprehend its mystery!’”
Mark sang with him, till by-and-by he said, “There’s the battlefield; what country’s that?”
“Thessaly,” said Bevis. “It’s the last land we know; now it’s all new, and nobody knows anything.”
“Except us.”
“Of course.”
“Are you going all round or straight up?” said Mark presently, as they came near Fir-Tree Gulf.
“We ought to coast,” said Bevis. “They used to; we mustn’t go out of sight of land.”
“Steer into the gulf then; mind the stony point; what’s that, what’s the name?”
“I don’t know,” said Bevis. “It’s a dreadful place; awful rocks—smash, crash, ship’s side stove in—no chance for any body to escape there.”
“A raft would be smashed.”
“Lifeboats swamped.”
“People jammed on the rocks.”
“Pounded into jelly-fish.”
“But it ought to have a name? Is it Cape Horn?”
“I don’t think so, that’s the other way round the world; we’re more the India way, I think.”
“Perhaps it’s Gibraltar.”
“As if we shouldn’t know Gibraltar!”
“Of course we should, I forgot. Look! There’s a little island and a passage—a channel. Mind how you steer—”
“It’s Scylla and Charybdis,” said Bevis. “I can see quite plain.”
“Steer straight,” said Mark. “There’s not much room, rocks one side, shoal the other; it’s not a pistol-shot wide—”
“Not half a pistol-shot.”
“We’re going. Hark! bubbles!”