The Rudder Grangers Abroad and Other Stories by Frank R. Stockton

F >> Frank R. Stockton >> The Rudder Grangers Abroad and Other Stories

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

THE RUDDER GRANGERS ABROAD AND OTHER STORIES

BY

FRANK R. STOCKTON

1891, 1894

CONTENTS.

I. EUPHEMIA AMONG THE PELICANS
II. THE RUDDER GRANGERS IN ENGLAND
III. POMONA'S DAUGHTER
IV. DERELICT
V. THE BAKER OF BARNBURY
VI. THE WATER-DEVIL

EUPHEMIA AMONG THE PELICANS.

The sun shone warm and soft, as it shines in winter time in the
semi-tropics. The wind blew strong, as it blows whenever and wherever
it listeth. Seven pelicans labored slowly through the air. A flock of
ducks rose from the surface of the river. A school of mullet, disturbed
by a shark, or some other unscrupulous pursuer, sprang suddenly out of
the water just before us, and fell into it again like the splashing of
a sudden shower.

I lay upon the roof of the cabin of a little yacht. Euphemia stood
below, her feet upon the mess-chest, and her elbows resting on the edge
of the cabin roof. A sudden squall would have unshipped her; still, if
one would be happy, there are risks that must be assumed. At the open
entrance of the cabin, busily writing on a hanging-shelf that served as
a table, sat a Paying Teller. On the high box which during most of the
day covered our stove was a little lady, writing in a note-book. On the
forward deck, at the foot of the mast, sat a young man in a state of
placidness. His feet stuck out on the bowsprit, while his mildly
contemplative eyes went forth unto the roundabout.

At the tiller stood our guide and boatman, his sombre eye steady on the
south-by-east. Around the horizon of his countenance there spread a
dark and six-days' beard, like a slowly rising thunder-cloud; ever and
anon there was a gleam of white teeth, like a bright break in the sky,
but it meant nothing. During all our trip, the sun never shone in that
face. It never stormed, but it was always cloudy. But he was the best
boatman on those waters, and when he stood at the helm we knew we
sailed secure. We wanted a man familiar with storms and squalls, and if
this familiarity had developed into facial sympathy, it mattered not.
We could attend to our own sunshine. At his feet sat humbly his boy of
twelve, whom we called "the crew." He was making fancy knots in a bit
of rope. This and the occupation of growing up were the only labors in
which he willingly engaged.

Euphemia and I had left Rudder Grange, to spend a month or two in
Florida, and we were now on a little sloop-yacht on the bright waters
of the Indian River. It must not be supposed that, because we had a
Paying Teller with us, we had set up a floating bank. With this Paying
Teller, from a distant State, we had made acquaintance on our first
entrance into Florida. He was travelling in what Euphemia called "a
group," which consisted of his wife,--the little lady with the
note-book,--the contemplative young man on the forward deck, and
himself.

This Paying Teller had worked so hard and so rapidly at his business
for several years, and had paid out so much of his health and strength,
that it was necessary for him to receive large deposits of these
essentials before he could go to work again. But the peculiar habits of
his profession never left him. He was continually paying out something.
If you presented a conversational check to him in the way of a remark,
he would, figuratively speaking, immediately jump to his little window
and proceed to cash it, sometimes astonishing you by the amount of
small change he would spread out before you.

When he heard of our intention to cruise on Indian River he wished to
join his group to our party, and as he was a good fellow we were glad
to have him do so. His wife had been, or was still, a schoolteacher.
Her bright and cheerful face glistened with information.

The contemplative young man was a distant connection of the Teller, and
his first name being Quincy, was commonly called Quee. If he had wanted
to know any of the many things the little teacher wished to tell he
would have been a happy youth; but his contemplation seldom
crystallized into a knowledge of what he did want to know.

"And how can I," she once said to Euphemia and myself, "be expected
ever to offer him any light when he can never bring himself to actually
roll up a question?"

This was said while I was rolling a cigarette.

The group was greatly given to writing in journals, and making
estimates. Euphemia and I did little of this, as it was our holiday,
but it was often pleasant to see the work going on. The business in
which the Paying Teller was now engaged was the writing of his journal,
and his wife held a pencil in her kidded fingers and a little
blank-book on her knees.

This was our first day upon the river.

"Where are we?" asked Euphemia. "I know we are on the Indian River, but
where is the Indian River?"

"It is here," I said.

"But where is here?" reiterated Euphemia.

"There are only three places in the world," said the teacher, looking
up from her book,--"here, there, and we don't know where. Every spot on
earth is in one or the other of those three places."

"As far as I am concerned," said Euphemia, "the Indian River is in the
last place."

"Then we must hasten to take it out," said the teacher, and she dived
into the cabin, soon reappearing with a folding map of Florida. "Here,"
she said, "do you see that wide river running along part of the
Atlantic coast of the State, and extending down as far as Jupiter
Inlet? That is Indian River, and we are on it. Its chief
characteristics are that it is not a river, but an arm of the sea, and
that it is full of fish."

"It seems to me to be so full," said I, "that there is not room for
them all--that is, if we are to judge by the way the mullet jump out."

"I think," said the teacher, making a spot with her pencil on the map,
"that just now we are about here."

"It is the first time," said Euphemia, "that I ever looked upon an
unknown region on the map, and felt I was there."

Our plans for travel and living were very simple. We had provided
ourselves on starting with provisions for several weeks, and while on
the river we cooked and ate on board our little vessel. When we reached
Jupiter Inlet we intended to go into camp. Every night we anchored near
the shore. Euphemia and I occupied the cabin of the boat; a tent was
pitched on shore for the Teller and his wife; there was another tent
for the captain and his boy, and this was shared by the contemplative
young man.

Our second night on the river was tinged with incident. We had come to
anchor near a small settlement, and our craft had been moored to a rude
wharf. About the middle of the night a wind-storm arose, and Euphemia
and I were awakened by the bumping of the boat against the wharf-posts.
Through the open end of the cabin I could see that the night was very
dark, and I began to consider the question whether or not it would be
necessary for me to get up, much preferring, however, that the wind
should go down. Before I had made up my mind we heard a step on the
cabin above us, and then a quick and hurried tramping. I put my head
out of the little window by me, and cried--

"Who's there?"

The voice of the boatman replied out of the darkness:--

"She'll bump herself to pieces against this pier! I'm going to tow you
out into the stream." And so he cast us loose, and getting into the
little boat which was fastened to our stern, and always followed us as
a colt its mother, he towed us far out into the stream. There he
anchored us, and rowed away. The bumps now ceased, but the wind still
blew violently, the waves ran high, and the yacht continually wobbled
up and down, tugging and jerking at her anchor. Neither of us was
frightened, but we could not sleep.

"I know nothing can happen," said Euphemia, "for he would not have left
us here if everything had not been all right, but one might as well try
to sleep in a corn-popper as in this bed."

After a while the violent motion ceased, and there was nothing but a
gentle surging up and down.

"I am so glad the wind has lulled," said Euphemia, from the other side
of the centre-board partition which partially divided the cabin.

Although I could still hear the wind blowing strongly outside, I too
was glad that its force had diminished so far that we felt no more the
violent jerking that had disturbed us, and I soon fell asleep.

In the morning, when I awoke, I saw that the sun was shining brightly,
and that a large sea-grape bush was hanging over our stern. I sprang
out of bed, and found that we had run, stern foremost, upon a sandy
beach. About forty feet away, upon the shore, stood two 'possums,
gazing with white, triangular faces upon our stranded craft. Except
these, and some ducks swimming near us, with seven pelicans flying
along on the other side of the river, there was no sign of life within
the range of my sight. I was not long in understanding the situation.
It had not been the lulling of the storm, but the parting of our cable
which had caused the uneasy jerking of our little yacht to cease. We
had been blown I knew not how far down the river, for the storm had
come from the north, and had stranded I knew not where. Taking out my
pocket-compass I found that we were on the eastern shore of the river,
and that the wind had changed completely, and was now blowing, not very
strong, from the southeast. I made up my mind what must be done. We
were probably far from the settlement and the rest of the party, and we
must go back. The wind was in our favor, and I knew I could sail the
boat. I had never sailed a boat in my life, and was only too glad to
have the opportunity, untrammelled by any interference.

I awoke Euphemia and told her what had happened. The two 'possums stood
upon the shore, and listened to our conversation. Euphemia was much
impressed by the whole affair, and for a time said nothing.

"We must sail her back, I suppose," she remarked at length, "but do you
know how to start her?"

"The hardest thing to do is to get her off the beach," I answered, "but
I think I can do that."

I rolled up my trousers, and with bare feet jumped out upon the sand.
The two 'possums retired a little, but still watched my proceedings.
After a great deal of pushing and twisting and lifting, I got the yacht
afloat, and then went on board to set the sail. After much pulling and
tugging, and making myself very warm, I hoisted the main-sail. I did
not trouble myself about the jib, one sail being enough for me to begin
with. As the wind was blowing in the direction in which we wished to
go, I let the sail out until it stood nearly at right angles with the
vessel, and was delighted to see that we immediately began to move
through the water. I took the tiller, and steered gradually toward the
middle of the river. The wind blew steadily, and the yacht moved
bravely on. I was as proud as a man drawn by a conquered lion, and as
happy as one who did not know that conquered lions may turn and rend.
Sometimes the vessel rolled so much that the end of the boom skimmed
the surface of the water, and sometimes the sail gave a little jerk and
flap, but I saw no necessity for changing our course, and kept our bow
pointed steadily up the river. I was delighted that the direction of
the wind enabled me to sail with what might be called a horizontal
deck. Of course, as the boatman afterward informed me, this was the
most dangerous way I could steer, for if the sail should suddenly
"jibe," there would be no knowing what would happen. Euphemia sat near
me, perfectly placid and cheerful, and her absolute trust in me gave
me renewed confidence and pleasure. "There is one great comfort," she
remarked, as she sat gazing into the water,--"if anything should happen
to the boat, we can get out and walk."

There was force in this remark, for the Indian River in some of its
widest parts is very shallow, and we could now plainly see the bottom,
a few feet below us.

"Is that the reason you have seemed so trustful and content?" I asked.

"That is the reason," said Euphemia. On we went and on, the yacht
seeming sometimes a little restive and impatient, and sometimes rolling
more than I could see any necessity for, but still it proceeded.
Euphemia sat in the shadow of the cabin, serene and thoughtful, and I,
holding the tiller steadily amidship, leaned back and gazed up into the
clear blue sky.

In the midst of my gazing there came a shock that knocked the tiller
out of my hand. Euphemia sprang to her feet and screamed; there were
screams and shouts on the other side of the sail, which seemed to be
wrapping itself about some object I could not see. In an instant
another mast beside our own appeared above the main-sail, and then a
man with a red face jumped on the forward deck. With a quick,
determined air, and without saying a word, or seeming to care for my
permission, he proceeded to lower our sail; then he stepped up on top
of the cabin, and looking down at me, inquired what in thunder I was
trying to do.

I made no answer, but looked steadily before me. Now that the sail was
down, I could see what had happened. I had collided with a yacht which
we had seen before. It was larger than ours, and contained a
grandfather and a grandmother, a father and a mother, several aunts,
and a great many children. They had started on the river the same day
as ourselves, but did not intend to take so extended a trip as ours was
to be. The whole party was now in the greatest confusion. I did not
understand what they said, nor did I attend to it. I was endeavoring,
for myself, to grasp the situation. Euphemia was calling to me from the
cabin, into which she had retreated; the man was still talking to me
from the cabin roof, and the people in the other boat were vociferating
and screaming; but I paid no attention to any one until I had satisfied
myself that nothing serious had happened. I had not run into them head
on, but had come up diagonally, and the side of our bow had struck the
side of their stern. The collision, as I afterward learned, had
happened in this wise: I had not seen the other boat because, lying
back as I had been, the sail concealed her from me, and they had not
seen us because their boatman was in the forward part of their cabin,
collecting materials for breakfast, and the tiller was left in charge
of one of the boys, who, like all the rest of his party who sat
outside, had discreetly turned his back to the sun.

The grandfather stood up in the stern. He wore a black silk hat, and
carried a heavy grape-vine cane. Unsteadily balancing himself on his
legs, and shaking his cane at me, he cried:--

"What is the meaning of this, sir? Are you trying to drown a whole
family, sir?"

"If he'd run his bowsprit in among you," said the boatman from the
cabin roof, "he'd 'a' killed a lot of you before you'd been drowned."

Euphemia screamed to me to come to her; the father was standing on his
cabin roof, shouting something to me; the women in the other boat were
violently talking among themselves; some of the little children were
crying; the girls were hanging to the ladies, and all the boys were
clambering on board our boat. It was a time of great excitement, and
something must be instantly said by me. My decision was quick.

"Have you any tea?" I said, addressing the old gentleman.

"Tea!" he roared. "What do you mean by that?"

"We have plenty of coffee on board," I answered, "but some of our party
can't drink it. If you have any tea, I should like to borrow some. I
can send it to you when we reach a store."

From every person of the other party came, as in a chorus, the one
word, "Tea?" And Euphemia put her pale face out of the cabin, and said,
in a tone of wondering inquiry, "Tea?"

"Did you bang into us this way to borrow tea?" roared the old
gentleman.

"I did not intend, of course, to strike you so hard," I said, "and I am
sorry I did so, but I should like to borrow some tea."

Euphemia whispered to me:--

"We have tea."

I looked at her, and she locked her lips.

"Of course we can give you some tea, if you want some," said the
red-faced boatman, "but I never heerd of a thing like this since I was
first born, nor ever shall again, I hope."

"I don't want you to give me any tea," I said. "I shall certainly
return it, and a very little will do--just a handful."

The two boats had not drifted apart, for the father, standing on the
cabin roof, had held tightly to our rigging, and the boatman, still
muttering, went on board his vessel to get the tea. He brought it,
wrapped in a piece of a newspaper.

"Here comes your man," he said, pointing to a little boat which was
approaching us. "We told him we'd look out for you, but we didn't think
you'd come smashing into us like this."

In a few moments our boatman had pulled alongside, his face full of a
dark inquiry. He looked at me for authoritative information.

"I came here," I said to him, "after tea."

"Before breakfast, I should say!" cried the old gentleman. And every
one of his party burst out laughing.

Much was now said, chiefly by the party of the other part, but our
boatman paid little attention to any of it. The boys scrambled on board
their own vessel. We pushed apart, hoisted sail, and were soon speeding
away.

"Good bye!" shouted the father, a genial man. "Let us know if you want
any more groceries, and we'll send them to you."

For six days from our time of starting we sailed down the Indian River.
Sometimes the banks were miles apart, and sometimes they were very near
each other; sometimes we would come upon a solitary house, or little
cluster of dwellings; and then there would be many, many miles of
wooded shore before another human habitation was to be seen. Inland, to
the west, stretched a vast expanse of lonely forest where panthers,
bears, and wild-cats prowled. To the east lay a long strip of land,
through whose tall palmettoes came the roar of the great ocean. The
blue sky sparkled over us every day; now and then we met a little
solitary craft; countless water-fowl were scattered about on the
surface of the stream; a school of mullet was usually jumping into the
air; an alligator might sometimes be seen steadily swimming across the
river, with only his nose and back exposed; and nearly always, either
to the right or to the left, going north or going south, were seven
pelicans, slowly flopping through the air.

A portion of the river, far southward, called "The Narrows," presented
a very peculiar scene. The banks were scarcely fifty feet apart, and
yet there were no banks. The river was shut in to the right by the
inland shore, and to the left by a far-reaching island, and yet there
was no inland shore, nor any island to the left. On either side were
great forests of mangrove trees, standing tiptoe on their myriad
down-dropping roots, each root midleg in the water. As far as we could
see among the trees, there was no sign of ground of any kind--nothing
but a grotesque network of roots, on which the forest stood. In this
green-bordered avenue of water, which extended nine or ten miles, the
thick foliage shut out the breeze, and our boatman was obliged to go
ahead in his little boat and tow us along.

"There are Indians out West," said Euphemia, as she sat gazing into the
mangroves, "who live on roots, but I don't believe they could live on
these. The pappooses would certainly fall through."

At Jupiter Inlet, about a hundred and fifty miles from our point of
starting, we went into camp, in which delightful condition we proposed
to remain for a week or more. There was no trouble whatever in finding
a suitable place for a camp. The spot selected was a point of land
swept by cool breezes, with a palmetto forest in the rear of it. On two
sides of the point stretched the clear waters of the river, while half
a mile to the east was Jupiter Inlet, on each side of which rolled and
tumbled the surf of the Atlantic. About a mile away was Jupiter
Light-house, the only human habitation within twenty miles. We built a
palmetto hut for a kitchen; we set up the tents in a permanent way; we
constructed a little pier for the yacht; we built a wash-stand, a
table, and a bench. And then, considering that we had actually gone
into camp, we got out our fishing-lines.

Fishing was to be the great work here. Near the Inlet, through which
the waters of the ocean poured into and out of our river, on a long,
sandy beach, we stood in line, two or three hours every day except
Sunday, and fished. Such fishing we had never imagined!--there were so
many fishes, and they were so big. The Paying Teller had never fished
in his life before he came to Florida. He had tried at St. Augustine,
with but little success. "If the sport had been to chuck fish into the
river," he had said, "that would be more in my line of business; but
getting them out of it did not seem to suit me." But here it was quite
a different thing. It was a positive delight to him, he said, to be
obliged so often to pay out his line.

One day, when tired of struggling with gamy blue-fish and powerful
cavalios (if that is the way to spell it), I wound up my line, and
looked about to see what the others were doing. The Paying Teller stood
near, on tiptoe, as usual, with his legs wide apart, his hat thrown
back, his eyes flashing over the water, and his right arm stretched far
out, ready for a jerk. Quee was farther along the beach. He had just
landed a fish, and was standing gazing meditatively upon it as it lay
upon the sand. The hook was still in its mouth, and every now and then
he would give the line a little pull, as if to see if there really was
a connection between it and the fish. Then he would stand a little
longer, and meditate a little more, still looking alternately at the
line and the fish. Having made up his mind, at last, that the two
things must be separated, he kneeled down upon his flopping prize and
proceeded meditatively to extract the hook. The teacher was struggling
at her line. Hand over hand she pulled it in. As it came nearer and
nearer, her fish swam wildly from side to side, making the tightened
line fairly hiss as it swept through the water. But still she pulled
and pulled, until, red and breathless, she landed her prize upon the
sand.

"Hurrah!" shouted the Paying Teller. "That's the biggest blue-fish
yet!" But he did not come to take the fish from the hook. He was
momentarily expecting a bite.

Euphemia was not to be seen. This did not surprise me, as she
frequently gave up fishing long before the others, and went to stroll
upon the sea-beach, a few hundred yards away. She was fond of fishing,
but it soon tired her. "If you want to know what it is like," she wrote
to a friend in the North, "just tie a long string around your boy
Charlie, and try to haul him out of the back yard into the house."

But Euphemia was not upon the sea-beach to-day. I walked a mile or so
along the sand, but did not find her. She had gone around the little
bluff to our shark-line. This was a long rope, like a clothes-line,
with a short chain at the end and a great hook, which was baited with a
large piece of fish. It was thrown out every day, the land end tied to
a stout stake driven into the sand, and the whole business given into
the charge of "the crew," who was to report if a shark should bite. But
to-day the little rascal had wandered away, and Euphemia was managing
the line.

"I thought I would try to catch a shark all by myself," she said. "I
wonder if there's one on the hook now. Would you mind feeling the
line?"

I laughed as I took the rope from her hand.

"If you had a shark on the hook, my dear," said I, "you would have no
doubt upon the subject."

"It would be a splendid thing to catch the first one," she said, "and
there must be lots of them in here, for we have seen their back fins so
often."

I was about to answer this remark when I began to walk out into the
water. I did not at the time know exactly why I did this, but it seemed
as if some one had taken me by the hand and was leading me into the
depths. But the water splashing above my ankles and a scream from
Euphemia made me drop the line, which immediately spun out to its full
length, making the stake creak and move in the sand.

"Goodness gracious!" cried Euphemia, her face pale as the beach. "Isn't
it horrible? We've got one!"

"Horrible!" I cried. "Didn't you want to get one?" and seizing the axe,
which lay near by, I drove the stake deep down into the sand. "Now it
will hold him!" I cried. "He can't pull that out!"

"But how are we to pull him in?" exclaimed Euphemia. "This line is as
tight as a guitar-string."

This was true. I took hold of the rope, but could make no impression on
it. Suddenly it slackened in my hand.

"Hurrah!" I cried, "we may have him yet! But we must play him."

"Play him!" exclaimed Euphemia. "You can never play a huge creature
like that. Let me go and call some of the others to help."

"No, no!" I said. "Perhaps we can do it all by ourselves. Wind the line
quickly around the top of the stake as I pull it in."

Euphemia knelt down and rapidly wound several yards of the slack cord
around the stake. In a few moments it tightened again, jerking itself
out of my hand.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12