Chapter IX: Part 9

“Aim at the shoulder,” said Jack, thinking Bevis might miss the head. “And be sure you don’t pull both triggers at once, and--I say--” But Bevis had started. Bevis stepped as noiselessly as a squirrel, and glancing carefully round the willow saw the rabbits’ ears pricked up in the grass. They had heard or seen him, but being so young were not much frightened, and soon resumed feeding.

He lifted the gun, which was somewhat heavy, having been converted from a muzzle-loader, and old guns were made heavier than is the custom now. One of the rabbits moving turned his back to him, so that he could not see the shoulder; the other was behind a bunch of grass; but in a minute the third moved, and Bevis aimed at him. The barrels would not at first keep quite steady, the sight, just as he had got it on the rabbit, jumped aside or drooped, so that he had to try twice before he was satisfied.

“What a time he is,” whispered Mark, when Bevis pulled the trigger, and they all ran forward. Jack jumped through the gap and picked up the rabbit, which was kicking in the grass. Bevis rubbed his shoulder and felt his collar-bone.

“Hurt?” said Jack, laughing. “Kicked? I was going to tell you only you were in such a hurry. You should have held the stock tight to your shoulder, then it would not kick. There, like this; now try.”

Bevis took the gun and pressed it firm to his bruised shoulder.

“Got it tight?” said Jack. “Aim at that thistle, and try again.”

“But he’ll frighten the rabbits, and it’s my turn,” said Mark.

“All gone in,” said Jack, “every one; you’ll have to wait till they come out again. Shoot.”

Bevis shot, and the thistle was shattered. It scarcely hurt him at all, it would not have done so in the least, only his shoulder was tender now.

“It’s a very little rabbit,” said Mark.

“That it’s not,” said Bevis. “How dare you say so?”

“It looks little.”

“The size of a kitten,” said Jack. “As sweet as a chicken,” he added, “when cooked, and as white. You shall have it to-morrow for dinner-- just the right size to be nice;” he saw that Bevis was rather inclined to be doubtful, and wished to reassure him. Jack was a huge, kind-hearted giant.

“Are you sure it will be nice?”

“The very thing,” said Jack, “if Mark can only shoot another just like it; it wants two for a pudding.”

About half an hour afterwards Mark did shoot another, and then there was a long discussion as to which was the biggest, which could not be decided, for, in fact, being both about the same age, one could hardly be distinguished from the other, except that Mark’s had a shot-hole in the ear, and Bevis’s had not. On the way home a cloud of sparrows rose out of some wheat and settled on the hedge, and Bevis had a shot at these, bringing down three. Afterwards he missed a yellow-hammer that sat singing happily on a gate.

He wanted the yellow-hammer because it had so fine a colour. The yellow-hammer sang away while he aimed, repeating the same note, as he perched all of a heap, a little lump of feathers on the top bar. The instant the flash came the bird flew, and as is its habit in starting drooped, and so was shielded by the top bar. The bar was scarred with shot, and a dozen pellets were buried in it; but the yellow-hammer was not hurt.

Mark was delighted that Bevis had missed. There was an elm near the garden, and up in it Mark, on the look-out for anything, spied a young thrush. He took steady aim, and down came the thrush. They were disposed to debate as to who had shot, best, but Jack stopped it, and brought out the quoits. After they had played some time, and it was growing dusky, Ted entered the field.

“Halloa! Pompey,” said Mark. “Pompey!”

“Pompey,” said Jack, not understanding.

Ted walked straight up to Bevis.

“Where did you go,” said Bevis, “after I fell over?”

“But aren’t you angry?” said Ted.

“Angry--why?”

“Because I sent you over.”

“But you didn’t do it purposely.”

“No, _that_ I didn’t,” said Ted, with all his might.

From that moment they were better friends than they had ever been before, though it was some time before Ted could really believe that Bevis was not angry about it. In fact, the idea had never entered Bevis’s mind. Ted stopped with them to supper, and everything was explained to Jack, who was delighted with the battle, and could not hear enough about it. But they did not press Ted as to what had become of him, seeing how confused he was whenever the subject was approached.

Quite beside himself with terror and misery, poor Ted had pretended illness and remained in his room, refusing to see any one, and dreading every footstep and every knock at the door, lest it should be the constable come to arrest him. Towards the afternoon Val, who had already been down to Bevis’s house and found he was all right, strolled up to see Pompey. Ted would not open the door even to him, and Val taunted him for being such a coward all that time after the battle. Still, Ted would not unlock it till Val happened to say that there was a row about the war, and Bevis had gone up to Jack’s. Open came the door directly.

“Where’s Bevis?” said Ted, grasping at Val’s arm.

“At Jack’s.”

“Not killed?”

“Killed--no. How could he be killed?”

As soon as he understood that Bevis was really alive, not even hurt, Ted started off, to Val’s amazement, and never stopped till he entered the field where they were picking up the quoits as it grew too dark to play well. So Caesar and Pompey sat down to supper very lovingly, and talked over Pharsalia. Big Jack made them tell him the story over and over again, and wished he could have taken part in the combat. Like Mark, too, he envied Bevis’s real shipwreck. Now seeing Jack so interested they made use of his good-humour, and coaxed him till at last he promised to let them shoot with the rifle on the morrow in the evening, after he had finished in the fields.

All next day they rambled about the place, now in the garden, then in the orchard, then in the rick-yard or the stables, back again into the house, and up into the lumber-room at the top to see if they could find anything; down into the larder, where Jack’s dear old mother did her best to surfeit them with cakes and wines, and all the good things she could think of, for they reminded her of Jack when he was a boy and, in a sense, manageable. As for Jack’s old father, who was very old, he sat by himself in the parlour almost all day long, being too grim for anybody to approach.

He sat with his high hat on, aslant on his head, and when he wanted anything knocked the table or the floor as chance directed with a thick stick. When he walked out, every one slipped aside and avoided him, hiding behind the ricks, and Jack’s pointer slunk into his house, drooping his tail.

In the orchard Bevis and Mark squailed at the pears with short sticks. If they hit one it was bruised that side by the blow; then as it fell it had another good bump; but it is well-known that such thumping only makes pears more juicy. Tired of this they walked down by the mill-pool, in which there were a few small trout, Jack’s especial pets. The water was so clear that they could see the bottom of the pool for some distance; it looked very different to that of the New Sea below in the valley.

“We ought to have some of this water in our water-barrel when we go on our voyage,” said Bevis. “It’s clearer than the Nile.”

“The water-barrel must be got ashore somehow when we have the shipwreck,” said Mark, “or perhaps we shall not have any to drink.”

They were rather inclined to have a swim in the pool, but did not know how Jack would like it, as he was so jealous of his trout, and angry if they were disturbed. They would have had a swim though all the same, if the miller had not been looking over the hatch of his door. There he stood white and floury, blinking his eyes, and watching them.

“How anybody can be so stupid as to stand stock still, and stare, stare, stare, I can’t think,” said Mark, quite loud enough for the miller to hear. He did not smile nor stir; he did not even understand that he was meant; so sidelong a speech was beyond his comprehension. It would have needed very severe abuse indeed, hurled straight at his head, to have made him so much as lift his hand to dust the flour from his sleeve--the first thing he did when he began to feel a little.

Next they went indoors and had a look at the guns and rifle on the rack, which they dared not touch. Hearing the quick clatter of hoofs they ran out, and saw a labourer riding a pony bare back. He had been sent out to a village two miles away for some domestic requirement, and carried a parcel under his arm, while his heels but just escaped scraping the ground. The pony came up as sharp as he could, knowing his stable.

But no sooner was the labourer off, than Bevis was up, and forced him to go round the pasture below the house. When Bevis wearied, Mark mounted, and so by turns they rode the pony round and round the field, making him leap a broad furrow, and gallop his hardest. By-and-by, as Bevis got off and Mark had put his hand on before he sprang up, the pony gave a snort and bolted, throwing up his heels as he flew for his stable.

Such an experience was new to him, and he was some time before he quite understood; so soon as he did, and found out into what hands he had fallen, the pony made use of the first opportunity. They followed, but he showed his heels so viciously they thought it best to let him alone; so hurling the sticks with which they had thrashed him round the field at his head, they turned away. After dinner they took to another game.

This was sliding down the steep down just behind the house, on a short piece of broad plank with a ridge in front. The way is to lie down with the chest on the plank head first, trailing the toes behind, legs extended as rudders to keep the course straight. A push with the feet starts the board, and the pace increasing, you presently travel at a furious velocity. Nothing can be nicer. They worked at it for hours. The old gentleman came out into the garden and watched them, no doubt remembering when he used to do it himself; but as for the performers, all they thought about him was that they would like to squail a stick at his high and ancient hat aslant on his head.

Presently they rambled into a nut copse over the hill. The nuts were not ripe, and there was nothing much to be done there, but it was a copse, and copses are always pleasant to search about in. Mark returned to the sliding, Bevis sat down on the summit, and at first looked on, but after a while he became lost in his dreamy mood.

Far away the blue-tinted valley went out to the horizon, and the sun was suspended over it like a lamp hung from the ceiling, as it seemed no higher than the hill on which he sat. Underneath was the house, and round the tiled gables the swallows were busy going to and fro their nests. The dovecot and the great barn, the red apples in the orchard, the mill-pool and the grey mill, he could almost put his hand out on them.

Beyond these came the meads, and then the trees closed together like troops at the bugle call, making a limitless forest, and in this was a narrow bright gleam, like a crooked reaping-hook thrown down. It was the New Sea. After which there was no definition, surface only, fainter and fainter to the place where the white clouds went through the door of distance and disappeared. He did not see these, and only just knew that the wheat at his back rustled as the light wind came over. It was the vast aerial space, and the golden circle of the sun. He did not think, he felt, and listened to it.

Mark shouted presently that Jack was coming home; so he ran down, and they went to meet him. Jack put up the target after tea. It was a square of rusty sheet-iron, on which he drew a circle with chalk six inches in diameter, and outside that another about two feet. This he placed against the steep hill--the very best of butts--keeping it upright with two stakes, which he drove in the sward. He measured a hundred yards by stepping, and put three flints in a row to mark the spot. The rifle was loaded and the bullet rammed home with the iron ramrod, which had a round smooth handle at the end, so that you might force the lead into the grooves.

Jack fired, and missed; fired again, and missed; shot a third time after longer aim, and still there was no ringing sound and no jagged hole in the sheet-iron. Bevis tried, and Mark tried, and Jack again, but they could not hit it. More powder was used, and then less powder; the bullet was jammed home hard by knocking the ramrod with a fragment of post (the first thing that came handy), and then it was only just pushed down to the powder. All in vain. The noise of the reports had now brought together a number of labourers and cottage boys, who sat on the summit of the hill in a row.

They fired standing up, kneeling down, lying at full length. A chair was fetched, and the barrel was placed on the rung at the back as a rest, but not a single hole was made in the target. Mark wanted to go nearer and try at fifty yards, but Jack would not; the rifle was made to kill deer at a hundred yards, and at a hundred yards he intended to use it. He was getting very angry, for he prided himself on his shooting, and was in fact a good shot with the double-barrel; but this little rifle--a mere toy--defied him; he could not manage it. They fired between thirty and forty shots, till every bullet they had ready cast was gone.

The earth was scored by the target, cut up in front of it, ploughed to the right and left, drilled over it high up, but the broad sheet-iron was untouched.

Jack threatened to pitch the rifle into the mill-pool, and so disgusted was he that very likely he would have done it had not Bevis and Mark begged him earnestly not to do so. He put it up on the rack, and went off, and they did not see him till supper-time. He was as much out of temper as it was possible for him to be.

When they went to their bedroom that night, Bevis and Mark talked it over, and fully agreed that if they only had the rifle all to themselves they could do it.

“I’m sure we could,” said Bevis.

“Of course we could,” said Mark. “There’s only something you have to find out.”

“As easy as nothing,” said Bevis.

Volume Two, Chapter VI.

SAILING.

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.

“‘Wouldst thou,’ so the helmsman answer’d
‘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!”

Volume Two, Chapter VII.

SAILING CONTINUED--“THERE SHE LAY, ALL THE DAY!”

Bevis had eased off, and the boat was sailing right before the wind, which blew direct into the gulf. Mark crawled up more into the bow to see better and shout directions to the pilot.

“Left--left.”

“Port.”

“Well, port.”

“Starboard, now--that side. There, we scraped some weeds.” The weeds made a rustling sound as the boat passed over them.

“Right--right--starboard, that side,” holding out his hand, “you’ll hit the rocks; you’re too close.”

“Pooh!” said Bevis. “It’s deeper under the rocks, don’t you remember.” He prided himself on steering within an inch; the boat glided between the sandy island and the rocky wall, so close to the wall that the sail leaning over the side nearly swept it. Then he steered so as to pass along about three yards from the shore. The quarry opened out, and they went by it on towards the place where they bathed.

“Rails,” said Mark, “mind the rails.” By the bathing-place the posts and rails which were continued into the water were partly under the surface, so that a boat might get fixed on the top. Bevis pushed the tiller over, and the boat came round broadside to the wind, and began to cross the head of Fir-Tree Gulf.

The ripples here increased in size, and became wavelets as the breeze, crossing a wider surface of water, blew straight on shore, and seemed to rush in a stronger draught through the trees. These wavelets were not large enough to make the boat dance, but they caused more splashing at the bow, and she heeled a little to the wind. They slipped across the head of the gulf, some two hundred yards, at a good pace, steering for the mouth of the Nile.

“Tack,” said Bevis, as they came near. “It’s almost time. Get ready.”

Mark unfastened the cord or sheet on the left side, against which the foresail was pulling, and held it in his hand. “I’m ready,” he said, and in a minute,--“Quick, we shall be on shore.”

Bevis pushed the tiller down hard to the left, at the same time telling Mark to let go. Mark loosened the foresheet, and the boat turning to the right was carried by her own impetus and the pressure of the mainsail up towards the wind. Bevis expected her to do as he had seen the yachts and ships at the seaside, and as he had read was the proper way, to come round slowly facing the wind, till just as she passed the straight line as it were of the breeze, Mark would have to tighten the foresheet, and the wind would press on the foresail like a lever and complete the turn.

He watched the foresail eagerly, for the moment to shout to Mark; the boat moved up towards the wind, then paused, hung, and began to fall back again. The wind blew her back. Bevis jammed the tiller down still harder, rose from his seat, bawled, “Mark! Mark!” but he was jerked back in a moment as she took the ground.

Mark seized a scull to push her off, when letting go the sheet the foresail flapped furiously, drawing the cord or rope through the staple as if it would snap it. Bevis, fearing the boat would turn over, let go the mainsheet, and then the mainsail flew over the left side, flapping and shaking the mast, while the sheet or rope struck the water and splashed it as if it were hit with a whip.

“Pull down the mainsail,” shouted Bevis, stumbling forward.

“Hold tight,” shouted Mark, giving a great shove with the scull. The boat came off, and Bevis was thrown down on the ballast. The wind took her before they could scramble into their places, and she drifted across the mouth of the Nile and grounded again.

“Down with the sail, I tell you,” shouted Bevis in a rage. “Not that one--the big one.”

Mark undid the cord or halyard, and down fell the mainsail into the boat, covering Bevis, who had to get out from under it before he could do anything.

“Did you ever see such a bother?” said Mark.

“Is anything broken?” said Bevis.

“No. You ought to have tacked sooner.”

“How could I tell? She wouldn’t come round.”

“You ought to have had room to try twice.”

“So we will next time.”

“Let’s go up the Nile and turn round, and get the sails up there,” said Mark. “It will be such a flapping here.”

Bevis agreed, and they pushed the boat along with the sculls a few yards up the Nile which was quite smooth there, while at the mouth the quick wavelets dashed against the shore. The bank of the river and the trees on it sheltered them while they turned the boat’s head round, and carefully set the sails for another trial.

“We’ll have two tries this time,” said Bevis, “and we’re sure to do it. If we can’t tack, it’s no use sailing.”

When everything was ready, Mark rowed a few strokes with one oar till the wind began to fill the sails; then he shipped it, and sat down on the ballast on the windward side. The moment she was outside the Nile the splashing began, and Mark, to his great delight, felt a little spray in his face. “This is real sailing,” he said.

“Now we’re going,” said Bevis, as the boat increased her speed. “Lot’s see how much we can gain on this tack.” He kept her as close to the wind as he could, but so as still to have the sails well filled and drawing. He let the mainsail hollow out somewhat, thinking that it would hold the wind more and draw them faster.

“Hurrah!” said Mark; “we’re getting a good way up; there’s the big sarsen--we shall get up to it.”

There was a large sarsen or boulder, a great brown stone, lying on the shore on the quarry side of the gulf, about thirty yards above the bathing-place. If they could get as high up as the boulder, that would mean that in crossing the gulf on that tack they had gained thirty yards in direct course, thirty yards against the wind. To Mark it looked as if they were sailing straight for the boulder, but the boat was not really going in the exact direction her bow pointed.

She inclined to the right, and to have found her actual course he ought to have looked not over the stem but over the lee bow. The lee is the side away from the wind. That is to say, she drifted or made leeway, so that when they got closer they were surprised to see she was not so high up as the boulder by ten yards. She was off a bunch of rushes when Bevis told Mark to be ready. He had allowed space enough this time for two trials.

“Now,” said Bevis, pushing the tiller over to the right; “let go.”

Mark loosened the foresail, that it might not offer any resistance to the wind, and so check the boat from turning.

Bevis pushed the tiller over still harder, and as she had been going at a good pace the impetus made her answer the rudder better.

“She’s coming,” shouted Mark. “Jam the rudder.”

The rudder was jammed, but when the bow seemed just about to face the wind, and another foot would have enabled Mark to tighten the foresail, and let it draw her quite round like a lever, she lost all forward motion.

“O! dear!” said Bevis, stamping with vexation. The boat stopped a moment, and then slowly fell back. “Pull tight,” said Bevis, meaning refasten the foresheet. Mark did so, and the boat began to move ahead again.

“We’re very close,” said Mark almost directly.

“Tack,” said Bevis. “Let go.”

He tried to run her up into the wind again, but this time, having less weigh or impetus, she did not come nearly so far round, but began to pay off, or fall back directly, and, before Mark could get a scull out, bumped heavily against the shore, which was stony there.

“Let’s row her head round,” said Mark.

“Sculls ought not to be used,” said Bevis. “It’s lubberly.”

“Awful lubberly,” said Mark. “But what are we to do?”

“Pull away, anyhow,” said Bevis.

Mark put out the scull, pushed her off, and after some trouble pulled till her head came round. Then he shipped the scull, and they began to sail again.

“We haven’t got an inch,” said Bevis. “Just look; there are the rails.”

They had made about twenty yards, but in missing stays twice, drifting, and rowing round, had lost it all before the boat could get right again, before the sails began to draw well.

“What ever is it?” said Mark. “What is it we don’t do?”

“I can’t think,” said Bevis. “It’s very stupid. That’s better.”

There was a hissing and bubbling, and the boat, impelled by a stronger puff, rushed along, and seemed to edge a way up into the wind.

“Splendid,” said Mark. “We shall get above the Nile this time, we shall get to the willow.”

A willow-tree stood on the shore that side some way up. The boat appeared to move direct for it.

“I shall tack soon,” said Bevis, “while we’ve got a good wind.”

“Tack now,” said Mark. “It doesn’t matter about going right across.”

“All right--now; let go.”

They tried again, just the same; the boat paused and came back: then again, and still it was of no use.

“Row,” said Bevis. “Bother!”

Mark rowed with a scull out on the lee side, and got her round.

“Now, just look,” said Bevis. “Just look!”

He pointed at the Nile. They had drifted so that when they at last turned they were nearly level with the mouth of the river from which they had started.

“Let me row quicker next time,” said Mark. “Let me row directly. It’s hateful, though.”

“It’s hateful,” said Bevis. “Sailing without tacking is stupid. Nobody would ever think we were sailors to see us rowing round.”

“What’s to be done?” said Mark. “Now try.”

Bevis put the tiller down, and Mark pulled her head round as quick as he could. By the time the sails had begun to draw they had lost more than half they had gained, and in crossing as the breeze slackened a little lost the rest, and found themselves as before, just off the mouth of the Nile.

“I don’t think you keep her up tight enough,” said Mark, as they began to cross again. “Try her closer. Close-hauled, you know.”

“So I will,” said Bevis; and the breeze rising again he pulled the mainsheet tighter (while Mark tightened the foresheet), and pushed the tiller over somewhat.

The boat came closer to the wind, and seemed now to be sailing straight for the quarry.

“There,” said Mark, “we shall get out of the gulf in two tacks.”

“But we’re going very slow,” said Bevis.

“It doesn’t matter if we get to the quarry.”

The boat continued to point at the quarry, and Bevis watched the mainsail intently, with his hand on the tiller, keeping her so that the sail should not shiver, and yet should be as near to it as possible.

“Splendid,” said Mark, on his knees on the ballast, looking over the stem. “Splendid. It’s almost time to tack.”

He lifted the foresail, and peered under it at the shore.

“I say--well, Bevis!”

“What is it?” asked Bevis. “I’m watching the mainsail; is it time?”

“We haven’t got an inch--we’re going--let’s see--not so far up as the rushes.”

All the while the boat’s head pointed at the quarry she had been making great leeway, drifting with the wind and waves. The sails scarcely drew, and she had no motion to cut her way into the wind. Instead of edging up into it, she really crossed the gulf in nearly a straight line, almost level with the spot whence she started. When Bevis tried to get her round, she would not come at all. She was moving so slowly she had no impetus, and the wind blew her back. Mark had to row round again.

“That’s no use,” he said. “But it looked as if it was.”

“She won’t sail very near the wind,” said Bevis, as they crossed again towards the Nile. “We must let her run free, and keep the sails hollow.”

They crossed and crossed five times more, and still came only just above the mouth of the Nile, and back to the bunch of rushes.

“I believe it’s the jib,” said Bevis, as they sailed for the quarry side once more. “Let’s try without the jib. Perhaps it’s the jib won’t let her come round. Take it down.”

Mark took the foresail down, and the boat did show some disposition to run up into the wind; but when Bevis tried to tack she went half-way, and then payed off and came back, and they nearly ran on the railings, so much did they drift. Still they tried without the foresail again; the boat they found did not sail so fast, and it was not the least use, she would not come round. So they re-set the foresail. Again and again they sailed to and fro, from the shore just above the Nile to the bunch of rushes, and never gained a foot, or if they did one way they lost it the other. They were silent for some time.

“It’s like the Bay of Biscay,” said Mark.

“‘There she lay, all the day,
In the Bay of Biscay, O!’

“And the sails look so jolly too.”

“I can’t make it out,” said Bevis. “The sails are all proper, I’m sure they are. What can it be? We shall never get out of the gulf.”

“And after all the rowing round too,” said Mark. “Lubberly.”

“Horrid,” said Bevis. “I hope there’s no other ship about looking at us. The sailors would laugh so. I know--Mark!”

“Yes.”

“Don’t row next time; we’ll wear ship.”

“What’s that?”

“Turn the other way--with the wind. Very often the boom knocks you over or tears the mast out.”

“Capital, only we’ve no boom. What must I do?”

“Nothing; you’ll see. Sit still--in the middle. Now.”

Bevis put the tiller over to windward. The boat paid off rapidly to leeward, and described a circle, the mainsail passing over to the opposite side, and as it took the wind giving a jerk to the mast.

Mark tightened the other foresheet, and they began to sail back again.

“But just look!” said he.

“Horrid,” said Bevis.

In describing the circle they had lost not only what they had gained, but were level with the mouth of the Nile, and not five yards from the shore at the head of the gulf. It was as much this tack as they could do to get above the railings; they were fifteen yards at least below the rushes, when Bevis put the tiller up to windward, and tried the same thing again. The boat turned a circle to leeward, and before she could get right round and begin to sail again, they had gone so near the shore, drifting, that Mark had to put out the scull in case they should bump. In crossing this time the wind blew so light that they could not get above the mouth of the Nile.

“It’s no use wearing ship,” said Mark.

“Not a bit; we lose more than ever. You’d better row again,” said Bevis reluctantly.

Mark pulled her round again, and they sailed to and fro three times more, but did but keep their position, for the wind was perceptibly less as the day went on, and it became near noon.

“I hate those rushes,” said Mark, as he pulled her head round once more.

Bevis did not reply, but this time he steered straight across to the Nile and up it till the bank sheltered them from the wind. There they took down the sails, quite beaten, for that day at least, and rowed back to harbour.

Next morning when they arrived at the New Sea they found that the wind came more down the water, having turned a little to the south, but it was the same in force. They started again, and sailed very well till they were opposite the hollow oak in which on the day of battle it was supposed Bevis had hidden. Here the wind was a head-wind, against which they could only work by tacking, and when they came to tack they found just the same difficulty as yesterday.