Sailing Continued—Voyage to the Unknown Island.
After breakfast they got afloat, and when away from the trees the boat began to sail fast, and every now and then the bubbles rushed from under the bow. Mark sat on the ballast, or rather reclined, and Bevis steered. The anchor was upon the forecastle, as they called it, with twenty-five feet of cable. Sailing by the bluff covered with furze, by the oak where the council was held, past the muddy shore lined with weeds where the cattle came down to drink, past the hollow oak and the battlefield, they saw the quarry and Fir-Tree Gulf, but did not enter it. As they reached the broader water the wind came fresher over the wide surface, and the boat careening a little hastened on. They were now a long way from either shore in the centre of the widest part.
“This is the best sail we’ve had,” said Mark, putting his legs out as far as he could, leaning his back against the seat and his head against the mast. “It’s jolly.”
Bevis got off the stern-sheets and sat down on the bottom so that he too could recline, he had nothing to do but just keep the tiller steady and watch the mainsail, the wind set the course for them. They could feel the breeze pulling at the sails, and the boat drawn along.
“Is it rough?” said Mark.
“Shall we take in a reef?” said Bevis.
“No,” said Mark. “Let’s capsize.”
“Right,” said Bevis. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Not a bit. Isn’t she slipping along?”
“Gurgling and guggling.”
“Bubbling and smacking. That was spray.”
“There’s a puff. How many knots are we going?”
“Ten.”
“Pooh! twenty. No chance of a pirate catching us.”
“In these unknown seas,” said Mark, “you can’t tell what proas are waiting behind the islands, nor how many Malays with creeses.”
“They’re crooked the wrong way,” said Bevis. “The most curious knives I ever saw.”
“Or junks,” went on Mark. “Are these the Chinese Seas?”
“Jingalls,” said Bevis, “they shoot big bullets, almost cannon-balls, as big as walnuts. I wish we had one in the forecastle.”
“We ought to have a cannon.”
“Of course we did.”
“As if we couldn’t manage a cannon!”
“As if!”
“Or a double-barrel gun.”
“Or anything.”
“Anything.”
“People are stupid.”
“Idiotic.”
“We must have a gun.”
“We must.”
They listened again to the gurgling and “guggling,” the bubbles, and kiss, kiss of the wavelets.
“We’re a long way now,” said Mark presently. “Can we see land?”
“See land! We lost sight of land months ago. I should think not. Look up there.”
Bevis was watching the top of the mast, tracing its line along the sky, where white filmy clouds were floating slowly. Mark opened his drowsy eyes and looked up too.
“No land in sight,” said he. “Nothing but sky and clouds,” said Bevis. “How far are we from shore?”
“Six thousand miles.”
“It’s the first time anybody has ever sailed out of sight of land in our time,” said Mark. “It’s very wonderful, and we shall be made a great deal of when we get home.”
“Yes, and put in prison afterwards. That’s the proper way.”
“We shall bring home sandal-wood, and diamonds as big as—as apples—”
“And see unknown creatures in the sea, and butterflies as huge as umbrellas—”
“Catch fevers and get well again—”
“We must make notes of the language, and coax the people to give us some of their ancient books.”
“O! I say,” said Mark, “when you were on the Unknown Island did you see the magician with long white robes, and the serpent a hundred feet long he keeps in a cave under the bushes?”
“No,” said Bevis, “I forgot him.” So he had. His imagination ran so rapidly, one thing took the place of the other as the particles of water take each other’s place in a running brook. “We shall find him, I dare say.”
“Let’s land and see.”
“So we will.”
“Are you sure you’re steering right?”
“O! yes; it’s nothing to do, you only have to keep the wind in the sails.”
“I wonder what bird that is?” said Mark, as a dove flew over. He knew a dove well enough on land.
“It’s a sort of parrot, no doubt.”
“I wonder how deep it is here.”
“About a million fathoms.”
“No use trying to anchor.”
“Not the least.”
“It’s very warm.”
“In these places ships get burnt by the sun sometimes.”
Another short silence. “Is it time to take a look-out, captain?”
“Yes, I think so,” said the captain. Mark crept up in the bow.
“You’re steering too much to the right—that way,” he cried, holding out his right arm. “Is that better?”
“More over.”
“There.”
“Right.”
As the boat fell off a little from the wind obeying the tiller, Bevis, now the foresail was out of his line of sight could see the Unknown Island. They were closer than they had thought.
“Shall we land on Serendib?”
“O! no—on your island,” said Mark. “Steer as close to the cliff as you can.”
Bevis did so, and the boat approached the low sandy cliff against which the waves had once beat with such fury. The wavelets now washed sideways past it with a gentle splashing, they were not large enough to make the boat dance, and if they had liked they could have gone up and touched it.
“It looks very deep under it,” said Mark, as Bevis steered into the channel, keeping two or three yards from shore.
“Ready,” he said; “get ready to furl the mainsail.”
Mark partly unfastened the halyard, and held it in his hand. Almost directly they had passed the cliff they were in the lee of the island which kept off the wind. The boat moved, carried on by its impetus through the still water, but the sails did not draw. In a minute Bevis told Mark to let the mainsail down, and as it dropped Mark hauled the sail in or the folds would have fallen in the water. At the same moment Bevis altered the course, and ran her ashore some way below where he had leaped off the punt, and where it was low and shelving. Mark was out the instant she touched with the painter, and tugged her up on the strand. Bevis came forward and let down the foresail, then he got out.
“Captain,” said Mark, “may I go round the island?”
“Yes,” said the captain, and Mark stepped in among the bushes to explore. Bevis went a little way and sat down under a beech. The hull of the boat was hidden by the undergrowth, but he could see the slender mast and some of the rigging over the boughs. The sunshine touched the top of the smooth mast, which seemed to shine above the green leaves. There was the vessel; his comrade was exploring the unknown depths of the wood; they were far from the old world and the known countries. He sat and gloated over the voyage, till by-and-by he remembered the tacking.
They could not do it, even yet they were only half mariners, and were obliged to wait for a fair wind. If it changed while they were on the island they would have to row back. He was no longer satisfied; he went down to the boat, stepped on board, and hoisted the sails. The trees and the island itself so kept off the wind that it was perfectly calm, and the sails did not even flutter. He stepped on shore, and went a few yards where he could look back and get a good view of the vessel, trying to think what it could be they did not do, or what it could be that was wrong.
He looked at her all over, from the top of the mast to the tiller, and he could not discover anything. Bevis walked up and down, he worked himself quite into a fidget. He went into the wood a little way, half inclined to go after Mark as he felt so restless. All at once he took out his pocket-book and pencil and sat down on the ground just where he was, and drew a sailing-boat such as he had seen. Then he went back to the shore, and sketched their boat on the other leaf. His idea was to compare the sailing-boats he had seen with theirs.
When he had finished his outline drawing he saw directly that there were several differences. The mast in the boat sketched from memory was much higher than the mast in the other. Both sails, too, were larger than those he had had made. The bowsprit projected farther, but the foresail was not so much less in proportion as the mainsail. The foresail looked almost large enough, but the mainsail in the boat was not only smaller, it was not of the same shape.
In his sketch from memory the gaff or rod at the top of the sail rose up at a sharper angle, and the sail came right back to the tiller. In the actual boat before him the gaff was but little more than horizontal to the mast, and the sail only came back three-fourths of the distance it ought to have done.
“It must be made bigger,” Bevis thought. “The mainsail must be made ever so much larger, and it must reach to where I sit. That’s the mistake—you can see it in a minute. Mark! Mark!” He shouted and whistled.
Mark came presently running. “I’ve been all round,” he said panting, “and I’ve—”
“This is it,” said Bevis, holding up his pocket-book.
“I’ve seen a huge jack—a regular shark. I believe it was a shark—and three young wild ducks, and some more of those parrots up in the trees.”
“The mainsail—”
“And something under the water that made a wave, and went along—”
“Look, you see it ought to come—”
“What could it have been that made the wave and went along?”
“O! nothing—only a porpoise, or a seal, or a walrus—nothing! Look here—”
“But,” said Mark, “the wave moved along, and I could not tell what made it.”
“Magic,” said Bevis. “Very likely the magician. Did you see him?”
“No; but I believe there’s something very curious about this island—”
“It’s enchanted, of course,” said Bevis. “There’s lots of things you know are there, and you can’t find,” said Mark; “there’s a tiger, I believe, in the bushes and reeds at the other end. If I had had my spear I should have gone and looked, and there’s boa-constrictors and a hippopotamus was here last night, and heaps of jolly things, and I’ve found a place to make a cave. Come and see,” (pulling Bevis).
“I’ll come,” said Bevis, “in a minute. But just look, I’ve found out what was wrong—”
“And how to tack?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s do it, and tack and get shipwrecked, and live here. If we only had Jack’s rifle.”
“But we must sail properly first,” said Bevis. “I shan’t do anything till we can sail properly: now this is it. Look.”
He showed Mark the two sketches, and how their mainsail did not reach back far enough towards the stern.
“Frances must make it larger,” said Mark. “Of course that’s it—it’s as different as possible. And the mast ought to be higher—it would crack better, and go overboard—whop!”
“I don’t know,” said Bevis; “about the mast; yes, I think I will. We will make one a foot or eighteen inches higher—”
“Bigger sails will go faster, and smash the ship splendidly against the rocks,” said Mark. “There’ll be a crash and a grinding, and the decks will blow up, and there’ll be an awful yell as everybody is gulped up but you and me.”
“While we’re doing it, we’ll make another bowsprit, too—longer,” said Bevis.
“Why didn’t we think of it before,” said Mark. “How stupid! Now you look at it, you can see it in a minute. And we had to sail half round the world to find it.”
“That’s just it,” said Bevis. “You sail forty thousand miles to find a thing, and when you get there you can see you left it at home.”
“We have been stupes,” said Mark. “Let’s do it directly. I’ll shave the new mast, and you take the sails to Frances. And now come and see the place for the cave.”
Bevis went with him, and Mark took him to the bank or bluff inside the island which Bevis had passed when he explored it the evening of the battle. The sandy bank rose steeply for some ten or fifteen feet, and then it was covered with brambles and fern. There was a space at the foot clear of bushes and trees, and only overgrown with rough grasses. Beyond this there were great bramble thickets, and the trees began again about fifty yards away, encircling the open space. The spot was almost in the centre of the island, but rather nearer the side where there was a channel through the weeds than the other.
“The sand’s soft and hard,” said Mark. “I tried it with my knife; you can cut it, but it won’t crumble.”
“We should not have to prop the roof,” said Bevis.
“No, and it’s as dry as chips; it’s the most splendid place for a cave that ever was.”
“So it is,” said Bevis. “Nobody could see us.”
He looked round. The high bank shut them in behind, the trees in front and each side. “Besides, there’s nobody to look. It’s capital.”
“Will you do it,” said Mark.
“Of course I will—directly we can sail properly.”
“Hurrah!” shouted Mark, hitting up his heels, having caught that trick from Bevis. “Let’s go home and begin the sails. Come on.”
“But I know one thing,” said Bevis, as they returned to the boat; “if we’re going to have a cave, we must have a gun.”
“That’s just what I say. Can’t we borrow one? I know, you put up Frances to make Jack lend us his rifle. She’s fond of you—she hates me.”
“I’ll try,” said Bevis. “How ought you to get a girl to do anything?”
“Stare at her,” said Mark. “That’s what Jack does, like a donk at a thistle when he can’t eat any more.”
“Does Frances like the staring?”
“She pretends she doesn’t, but she does. You stare at her, and act stupid.”
“Is Jack stupid?”
“When he’s at our house,” said Mark. “He’s as stupid as an owl. Now she kisses you, and you just whisper and squeeze her hand, and say it’s very tiny. You don’t know how conceited she is about her hand—can’t you see—she’s always got it somewhere where you can see it; and she sticks her foot out so,” (Mark put one foot out); “and don’t you move an inch, but stick close to her, and get her into a corner or in the arbour. Mind, though, if you don’t keep on telling her how pretty she is, she’ll box your ears. That’s why she hates me—”
“Because you don’t tell her she’s pretty. But she is pretty.”
“But I’m not going to be always telling her so—I don’t see that she’s anything very beautiful either—you and I should look nice if we were all the afternoon doing our hair, and if we walked like that and stuck our noses up in the air; and kept grinning, and smacked ourselves with powder, and scent, and all such beastly stuff. Now Jack’s rifle—”
“We could make it shoot,” said Bevis, “if we had it all to ourselves, and put bullets through apples stuck up on a stick, or smash an egg—”
“And knock over the parrots up in these trees.”
“I will have a gun,” said Bevis, kicking a stone with all his might. “Are you sure Frances could get Jack—”
“Frances get Jack to do it! Why, I’ve seen him kiss her foot.”
They got on board laughing and set the sails, but as the island kept the wind off, Mark had to row till they were beyond the cliff. Then the sails filled and away they went.
“Thessaly,” said Mark presently. “See! we’re getting to places where people live again. I say, shall we try the anchor?”
“Yes. Let down the mainsail first.”
Mark let it down, and then put the anchor over. It sank rapidly, drawing the cable after it. The flat stone in the shaft endeavoured as it sank to lie flat on the bottom, and this brought one of the flukes or points against the ground, and the motion of the boat dragging at it caused it to stick in a few inches. The cable tightened, and the boat brought up and swung with her stem to the wind. Mark found that they did not want all the cable; he hauled it in till there was only about ten feet out; so that, allowing for the angle, the water was not much more than five or six feet deep. They were off the muddy shore, lined with weeds. Rude as the anchor was, it answered perfectly. In a minute or two they hauled it up, set the mainsail, and sailed almost to the harbour, having to row the last few yards because the trees kept much of the breeze off. They unshipped the mast, and carried it and the sails home.
In the evening Mark set to work to shave another and somewhat longer pole for the new mast, and Bevis took the sails and some more canvas to Frances. He was not long gone, and when he returned said that Frances had promised to do the work immediately.
“Did you do the cat and mouse?” said Mark. “Did you stare?”
“I stared,” said Bevis, “but there were some visitors there—”
“Stupes?”
“Stupes, so I couldn’t get on very well. She asked me what I was looking at, and if she wasn’t all right—”
“She meant her flounces; she thinks of nothing but her flounces. Some of the things are called gores.”
“But I began about the rifle, and she said perhaps, but she really had no influence with Jack.”
“O!” said Mark with a snort. “Another buster.”
“And she couldn’t think why you didn’t come home. She had forgiven you a long time, and you were always unkind to her, and she was always forgiving you.”
“Busters,” said Mark. “She’s on telling stories from morning to night.”
“I don’t see why you should be afraid of her; she can’t hurt you.”
“Not hurt me! Why if you’ve done anything—it’s niggle-niggle, niggle-naggle, and she’ll play you every nasty trick, and set the Old Moke on to look cross; and then when Jack comes, it’s ‘Mark, dear Mark,’ and wouldn’t you think she was a sweet darling who loved her brother!”
Mark tore off a shaving.
“One thing though,” he added. “Won’t she serve Jack out when he’s got her and obliged to have her. As if I didn’t know why she wants me to come home. All she wants is to send some letters to him.”
“Postman. I see,” said Bevis.
“But I’ll go,” said Mark. “I’ll go and fetch the sails to-morrow. I should like to see the jolly Old Moke; and don’t you see? if I take the letters she’ll be pleased and get the rifle for us.”
It was exceedingly disrespectful of Mark to speak of his governor as the Old Moke; his actual behaviour was very different to his speech, for in truth he was most attached to his father. The following afternoon Mark walked over and got the sails, and as he had guessed Frances gave him a note for Jack, which he had to deliver that evening. They surprised the donkey; Mark mounted and rode off.
Bevis went on with the mast and the new gaff and bowsprit, and when Mark got back about sunset he had the new mast and rigging fitted up in the shed to see how it looked. The first time they made a mast it took them a long while, but now, having learned exactly how to do it, the second had soon been prepared. The top rose above the beam of the shed, and the mainsail stretched out under the eave.
“Hoist the peak up higher,” said the governor. Being so busy they had not heard him come. “Hoist it up well, Mark.”
Mark gave another pull at the halyard, and drew the peak, or point of the gaff, up till it stood at a sharp angle.
“The more peak you can get,” said the governor, “the more leverage the wind has, and the better she will answer the rudder.”
He was almost as interested in their sailing as they were themselves, and had watched them from the bank of the New Sea concealed behind the trees. But he considered it best that they should teach themselves, and find out little by little where they were wrong. Besides which he knew that the greatest pleasure is always obtained from inferior and incomplete instruments. Present a perfect yacht, a beautiful horse, a fine gun, or anything complete to a beginner, and the edge of his enjoyment is dulled with too speedy possession. The best way to learn to ride is on a rough pony, to sail in an open ill-built boat, because by encountering difficulties the learner comes to understand and appreciate the perfect instrument, and to wield or direct it with fifty times more power than if he had been born to the purple.
From the shore the governor had watched them vainly striving to tack, and could but just refrain from pointing out the reason. When he saw them fitting up the enlarged sails and the new mast, he exulted almost as much as they did themselves. “They will do it,” he said to himself, “they will do it this time.”
Then to Bevis, “Pull the mainsail back as far as you can, and don’t let it hollow out, not hollow and loose. Keep it taut. It ought be as flat as a board. There—” He turned away abruptly, fearing he had told them too much.
“As flat as a board,” repeated Bevis. “So I will. But we thought it was best hollow, didn’t we?” There was still enough light left to see to step the mast, so they carried the sails and rigging up to the boat, and fitted them the same evening.