Читать книгу Arthur Ransome - Ultimate Collection - Arthur Ransome - Страница 75

Table of Contents

The noise of the axe, “Plunk, plunk, plunk,” was very near. Titty slackened her pace. She had come fast down the steep wood, holding now to one tree and now to another to steady herself. But, now that the noise was so near, she moved a little less like someone running for a doctor and a little more like an explorer in an unknown country. With Roger lying wounded at the edge of the moor, there was no time to be lost, but Titty did not want to run straight into the natives without knowing first what sort of natives they were. She tried to keep her feet from making so much noise among the dry leaves and fallen twigs. This was difficult because the wood just here was of the noisy kind, oaks, beeches, rowans, and especially hazels, with leaves and twigs that seemed to crackle and snap on purpose. Here and there were a few old giants, but most of the trees were short, young, bushy, and so near together that even a small and careful able-seaman could not push her way through without making a noise. Close in front of her, however, the trees had been lately cleared. The green curtains of leaves were not so thick as they had been, and in another moment she would be able to see who it was so steadily chopping away down there with hardly a rest between the blows. Titty heard the “plunk” of the axe, and then another, and then the noise of a chopped stick breaking off with a loud crack. Whoever it was, he was not cutting down a big tree, but was chopping small stuff. Almost it seemed too much to hope, and yet the noise did sound very much as if it might be charcoal-burners. Titty crept quietly to the edge of the clearing and looked out.

There beside the stream was a stretch of level ground, as it might be a platform on the side of the hill. On it there was a ring of sticks laid for the burning. The round stack was three or four feet high already, made of sticks about a yard long, all pointing towards the middle. Between the stack and the stream was a great pile of cut sods of earth. Titty knew what they were for, because last year she had seen one of the charcoal-burners’ stacks already alight, and covered all over with sods of earth, so that the fire should not burn too fast. She had seen the charcoal-burners keep the fire caged inside by covering every little hole with a sod the moment smoke or flame showed that the fire was finding a way out. On the other side of the half-finished stack, so close against the trees that she would hardly have seen it unless she had been looking for it, was the charcoal-burners’ hut, a wigwam built of long poles, their thick ends on the ground, their thin tops meeting high overhead. In front of it a big black kettle was hanging from a tripod over a small fire. At the other side of the flat space the wood dropped steeply again down into the valley. The sun, which had disappeared altogether during the fog, was now low over the shoulder of Kanchenjunga, and shone straight into Titty’s eyes as she looked out from among the trees. For a moment she did not see the charcoal-burner, though she heard him. Then the chopping stopped and from the other side of the wood-pile came an old, bent, brown man with a bundle of sticks which he put on the fire under the kettle.

Titty ran joyfully out. She did not know which of them he was, but she knew that the old man was one of the two Billies, the charcoal-burners who had shown them their adder last year when they had been making charcoal up in the woods on the other side of the lake.

“Well, lass,” said the old man, “we’ve been talking of seeing you again. And where are the rest of you?”

“There’s nobody here but me,” said Titty. “But Roger’s up on the moor at the top of the wood and he’s hurt his foot and I’ve got to get him home.”

The old man looked at Titty. She thought perhaps he had not understood.

“We got lost in the fog.”

“Aye,” said the charcoal-burner, “I was thinking it would be that. Came on fast, didn’t he? Thick, too. Older folk than you lose the road on the fells when he comes on thick as that. I was lost three days up on the tops fox-hunting one back end. Fifty year ago, it’ll be. Roger’s the little lad, eh? Where did you leave him? Top of the wood. By the beckside? You and I’ll be going to look to him right away.”

He walked to the edge of the flat space and put one hand to his mouth, to shout down through the trees.

“Kettle’s on,” he shouted, in a much louder voice than Titty had expected. “Kettle’s on. Come up, one o’ ye, to see to’t. I’m away.”

“Aw reet, Billy.” A shout came up from far below, and now for the first time Titty heard noises from down there, the clanking of chain over a pulley, the stamping of horses and the creak of heavy timber.

“What is it?”

“Shifting timber,” said the old man. “There are some rare big logs to go yet. You’ll have seen some of them going round to the foot of the lake. Like to run down and have a look?”

“I must go back to Roger,” said Titty.

“I’ll be thinking I’m getting old next,” said the charcoal-burner. “I was forgetting the lad already. Come on then, lass, and we’ll soon see what’s to do.”

The old man and the able-seaman set out to climb through the trees up to the moor.

“Aye,” he said, “they were saying you were back and up on fellside above Swainson’s. There was a rare lot of talk last year about you folk and finding Mr. Turner’s things for him that were taken. And this year they say you’ve had a bit of a sad do with your boat.”

“It wasn’t John’s fault,” said Titty. “It might have happened to anybody. And Swallow’s nearly mended and she’s coming back as good as new. And the new mast’s done. And as soon as we’ve got her again we’re going back to the island.”

“And the Blackett lasses,” said the charcoal-burner. “There’s old Miss Turner been staying at Beckfoot. You’ll not have been seeing so much of the lasses, I reckon.”

“She’s gone now,” said Titty. “And Nancy and Peggy are camping with us to-night. They’ve sailed down the lake, with John and Susan. And we ought to have had the fire lit before they got to the camp. And then the fog came. And now Roger . . .”

“Don’t take on, lass,” said the old man. “Happen the fog bothered them a bit, too, on the water.”

That was true, she thought. Perhaps the boat party were not yet at Swallowdale. It might yet be possible to get there first. Titty looked at the old man and made up her mind to ask him a question.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but are you Young Billy or Old Billy? It was Young Billy who had the adder, wasn’t it?”

The old man laughed.

“You remember that, do you? Aye, it was my adder you saw. I’m Young Billy, I am. It’s my dad’s Old Billy.”

“And where is he?” asked Titty. “Was he down there where you said they were loading trees?”

“Nay,” said young Billy. “It’s like this. There’s a hound-trail over Bigland way to-day, and a bit of a do, like, after it, and my old dad heard that old Jim Postlethwaite was going to be there, and thinking he’d be oldest of the lot. Now Jim Postlethwaite’s nobbut eighty-nine and my dad’s seen ninety-four this last back end. ‘I’m not going to be beat by a young chap like that,’ says my dad, and he was off to Bigland this morning, walking over the fell, and he’ll be stopping there the night with a young nephew of mine that has a mort of great-grandchildren to show him.”

Young Billy himself was over seventy and had grandchildren much older than the able-seaman, but she was more out of breath than he was as they climbed up the wood.

When they came near the top, Titty gathered all the breath she had left to give the owl call so as to let Roger know that help was at hand.

There was no answer.

“It wasn’t a very good one,” she said, and tried again.

This time a decidedly shrill young owl answered from close above them.

“To-whoooooooo,” called Titty again, and in another minute Roger, who had waked up suddenly in the lair by the stream where he had fallen asleep while trying what it was like to faint from pain, saw the able-seaman and the old charcoal-burner coming up out of the forest.

“Hurrah!” he shouted, “it’s the Billies.”

“Only the young one,” laughed Young Billy, who would have been called old if only his father had not been older still. “Well, lad, don’t you stir. Let’s have a look at that foot of yours. Properly puffed, it is. Is it broken?”

“I can waggle it,” said Roger, “and it doesn’t hurt as much as it did. It hurts a lot all the same.”

“That’s all right,” said the charcoal-burner, after holding the foot in his hands. “A poultice is what it wants. Now then, lassie, hold that leg of his off the ground while I heave him up on t’other. Steady. Up with him.”

Roger found himself standing on one leg, with Titty and the charcoal-burner holding him up.

“You can let go that leg of his now,” said the charcoal-burner.

“Ouch!” said Roger.

“Keep it off the ground. Now then.” He stooped. “Get you a good grip round my shoulders. So.” And the ship’s boy found himself clear off the ground and on the old charcoal-burner’s back.

“Heavy? Nowt to some faggots I’ve carried. Are you right, lad?”

The old charcoal-burner hitched the ship’s boy a little higher on his back and set off by the side of the stream down once more into the forest. Titty picked up the two knapsacks, put the compass in her pocket, and hurried after him.

When they came down to the open space with the wood stacked for burning and the charcoal-burners’ hut, they found two other, much younger natives, busy by the fire, filling tin mugs with hot tea from the kettle and pouring milk in out of a big green bottle.

“What’s amiss?” said one of them, looking up, and Titty knew him at once for Mary Swainson’s woodman. So this was the place he was bringing the logs from, and the horses she had heard stamping down below must be the three great horses they had seen the day Roger and she discovered Swallowdale, and again and again since, passing one way or the other along the road that went to the foot of the lake.

“Nothing much,” said the old charcoal-burner. “Lad’s turned his foot on wrong side. He’ll be right enough with a bracken poultice. Whoa, now. Steady, lad. Stand on the one leg and keep game one off the ground. Lend a hand, Jack, to lay him down.”

The two young woodmen helped and presently Roger was comfortably lying by the fire looking at the natives and over his shoulder at the charcoal-burners’ hut. What he was thinking about was, whether he had a chance of seeing the adder.

Titty was watching Young Billy, who was hunting about for old, dead bracken leaves from last year. He found the leaves he wanted and made a great bundle of them round Roger’s foot, and wrapped it over with a big red handkerchief damped in hot water from the kettle.

“But there’s tea in it,” said Titty.

“Water’s none the worse for a drop of good tea, take it inside or out. And now you’d best be taking a drop inside yourselves.”

He lifted the bit of sacking that did instead of a door, went into his hut and came out with two tin mugs, one for himself and the other, which was really Old Billy’s, his father’s, to be shared by the able-seaman and the boy. And Mary’s woodman poured them some milk in out of his green bottle and there they were all having tea together, and the woodmen were saying that it was no wonder Titty and Roger had missed their way, for you could have cut that sea fog with a blunt knife and used the bits to build a wall with.

It was very pleasant after being lost in the fog to be sitting there in the quiet wood having tea with a medicine man and other friendly natives, and Titty would have been happy if only she had not been thinking all the time of Susan and the others up in Swallowdale wondering what had happened. Time was going on. The sun was already low, and she would have to ask one of the natives to show her the way over the moor. And then there was Roger. How was he to get along with only one foot and the other a huge red bundle that must not be allowed to touch the ground?

“How soon will Roger be able to start?” she said.

“Nay, he won’t shift to-night,” said the old man. “He’ll have to bide here with me, and you can come for him in the morning. He’ll bide with me. You tell the Blackett lassies that the lad’s with Young Billy in the Heald Wood and they’ll bring you over the fell in the morning. You won’t mind biding here, will you, lad?”

“In the wigwam?” said Roger, almost jumping up, but reminded by his foot that he had better not. “With you? May I really? I’m sure Susan wouldn’t mind.”

Titty was not so sure, but after all the main thing was to let Susan and John know that Roger was all right, and of that she was sure enough. The boy had not squeaked even when the old man put the poultice on. He was being cured in the right way, by savage medicine, herbs, bracken leaves at least, and probably charms. She jumped up.

“Is it very far from here across the moor?” she asked.

THE RETURN OF THE ABLE-SEAMAN

The old charcoal-burner was talking to Mary’s woodman.

“There’s no two ways about it,” he was saying. “The lad must lie and the lass must away back to tell the others not to be in a taking. And it’s a poor road across the fell from this side for folk what don’t know it. You’d best take her with you, Jack. It’s nobbut a step for her from Swainson’s farm, and you’ll be stopping there likely. Bonny lass is Mary Swainson, aye, and a good wife she’ll make and all.” He laughed and the woodman reddened and then laughed too.

“And welcome,” he said. “She can ride on the log and the horses’ll not know the differ. Are you ready to be starting now?” he added, turning to Titty. “We’re more than a bit late to-night.”

Almost before she had time to say “Good-bye” to Roger, she was going down the wood with the two woodmen and the charcoal-burner. At the bottom of the wood in a clearing close to the road were the three great horses harnessed to a huge log resting on two pairs of big red wheels.

Mary’s woodman lifted Titty high in air and set her on the end of the log where it stuck out far beyond the wheels.

“Are you right?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you,” said Titty.

“Hold tight while we get going.”

The other woodman was taking their nosebags off the horses.

“You’ll set her down at Swainson’s,” said the old charcoal-burner. “And tell Mary I’ll have the lad right by morning.”

“Thank you very much indeed,” said Titty.

“Good-night, Billy,” said the two woodmen.

“Good-night, Jack. Good-night, Bob.”

“Coom up, lass!”

For a moment Titty thought that Jack was speaking to her, but the horse between the shafts threw its weight forward with a jerk, and the two leading horses pulled on the traces, and the huge log, with the able-seaman sitting high on the after end of it, as if on the poop of an old galleon, moved out of the wood and off along the road.