Читать книгу Swallows & Amazons - Boxed Set - Arthur Ransome - Страница 78

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“Where is he?”

And then everybody was talking at once. The woodmen talked to Mary and Mary talked to Titty. Titty was trying to explain what had happened, but answers that did very well for Nancy and Peggy were not quite enough for John and not nearly enough for Susan. Roger was sleeping in a wigwam. Oh, well, a charcoal-burner’s hut, and a native medicine man had poulticed his leg and said that nothing was broken. Was it Old Billy? No, said the woodmen, it was Young Billy. But where was he? Titty only knew that he was somewhere on the other side of the moor and that she had come back down the valley and all along the side of the lake. The woodmen told Mary the Billies were working in the Heald Wood. Yes, of course, that was the name Young Billy had told Titty to tell Nancy and Peggy. And then Nancy and Peggy and Mary all tried at the same time to explain to Susan that it was too far to go there at once. And then Titty was trying to tell her that Roger couldn’t be better off than he was, and to tell John how she had tumbled with the compass and how they had thought it had gone wrong but it hadn’t, and how they had gone round in a circle without meaning to, and followed a beck going the wrong way, and how Roger couldn’t come back that night anyhow, because his foot was all bound up with brackens and the medicine man said he had to keep it still.

“We must have a stretcher-party,” said Nancy. “We’ll fetch him across first thing to-morrow.”

“Can we do it before mother comes?”

“Of course we can. It’s not far to the Heald Wood, going over the moor. Come on, John, let’s get the things from the cove.”

“We’ll have to start jolly early,” said John.

“Stretcher-party on the road soon after dawn,” said Nancy.

“So long as we’re back before mother comes,” said Susan. “It’d be awful if she found the camp empty, like we did.”

“She shan’t. Come along.”

“Well, you needn’t worry Mrs. Walker about him to-night,” said Mary. “No need to take on now you know where he is. And that’s a good thing. And now I’ve the pigs to see to. Good-night, Jack. Good-night, Bob. There’s no call for you lads to wait.”

“Good-night, Mary,” said the woodmen, rather sheepishly, and told their horses to come up. The great log on which Titty had travelled round from the valley beyond the moor moved on along the road.

“You’d think those lads had nothing else to do,” said Mary, looking after them, “loitering about.” But she waved her hand as they passed out of sight. “Now,” she said, “you folk had better take up enough milk for your breakfasts now, and then I’ll be bringing you the morning’s milk before Mrs. Walker comes, so that you’ll be off over the fell without wasting time coming down here for it.”

Susan and Titty went with Mary back to the farm, and waited by the orchard gate while she went in with the milk-can and brought it back brimming over with new milk. John, Nancy, and Peggy went down to Horseshoe Cove for the last of Amazon’s cargo. By the time they climbed up again into Swallowdale, Susan had supper ready.

Supper of weak tea and hot bread and milk was quickly over. Susan was thinking already far into the next morning, and wondering how bad Roger’s foot really was, and what could be done if she found it too bad for Roger to be moved. Peggy or John asked a question sometimes and Titty tried to tell them about the beck, and those other woods, and how startling it had been to see Kanchenjunga come up out of the fog when she had been thinking she was looking at the hills the other side of Rio. Sometimes a question of Titty’s set Nancy or Peggy talking of the fog on the lake and of how they had groped their way through it with the compass. But these little gusts of talk died very quickly. It had been a long day and everybody was thoroughly tired out.

They were too tired to be surprised when Susan said there would be no washing up, and that the cups and spoons and things could be rinsing in the beck all night.

Their eyes were already more than half closed as they crawled into their sleeping-bags.

“Whoever wakes first in the morning wakes the others,” said Nancy, yawning. But nobody was awake to answer her.

It was a good thing that the great-aunt had kept the Amazons at home so long that this was the first night these holidays that they had spent in a tent instead of in a mere bed. The morning sun woke them early, but had no effect on the Swallows, who might have slept for twenty-four hours on end if Captain Nancy had not roused them with loud shouts while galloping off to plunge into the bathing-pool.

An hour later the stretcher-party was on the move. This time it did not seem worth while to hide everything in Peter Duck’s. They wanted the camp to look like a camp just in case mother should get there before they were back with the wounded Roger. So the four tents of the Swallows were left standing, and the parrot’s cage was on its stone pedestal. The Amazons had taken down their tent, because they wanted two of its poles to make a stretcher. It was the only tent with poles stout enough to bear anybody’s weight. Nancy rigged up a regular cat’s cradle of rope between the two poles, and then folded up the tent for a mattress, and laid it lengthwise between the poles on the top of the cat’s cradle.

“It won’t be very comfortable,” she said, “but it wouldn’t be real if it was.”

Nobody wanted to stay and look after the camp, and nobody was left behind, except the parrot, and even he was very angry about it and screamed, “Twice, twice. Two, two,” from the multiplication table.

“He’s telling us we left him behind once already, so it isn’t his turn,” said Titty. “We shan’t be so long this time, Polly. Going to fetch Roger. Back very soon. And besides it isn’t as if you were being left in Peter Duck’s.”

But the parrot refused to be comforted.

“I think I’d better go back and fetch him,” said Titty, as they heard him still screaming furiously after they had climbed out of Swallowdale and were already going up along the beck to Trout Tarn.

“All right,” said Susan, “but we shan’t wait for you. You must catch us up. Do remember mother’s coming in the middle of the day, and she’s much more likely to be early than late.”

Titty ran back and took the parrot out of his cage and climbed up again and went tearing along the side of the beck after the others, while the parrot, comforted now and screaming on quite a different note, balanced himself on her arm and flapped his short green wings.

“It’s all right,” she panted, as she caught up the rest of the expedition. “You know that notice there was on Polly’s cage last night, the one saying ‘STOP HERE TILL WE COME BACK.’ I put it in the empty cage so that mother won’t be able to help seeing it if she does get there a minute or two too soon.”

“Jolly,” said Nancy, “if lots of other people see it, and we come back to find the camp cram full of great-aunts all thinking they’re invited.”

“I never thought of that,” said Titty. “Shall I run back?”

Nancy laughed.

“There’s only one great-aunt in the world,” she said, “and she’s gone.”

They climbed on past Trout Tarn, and Titty showed Peggy where she and Roger had caught their big trout. They followed the little beck from the high end of the tarn up over the moor until they came to a wide marsh with tufts of those rushes that Titty and Roger had seen yesterday growing out of moss that squashed down into water when they trod on it. They bore away to the north round the marsh, and were presently over the top of the moor and looking down towards the valley on the other side.

“We’ve been here before,” said Peggy. “We know all this side of the fell. I don’t believe we could lose our way on it even in a fog.”

“Oh, couldn’t we?” said Nancy. “In a fog anybody can lose his way anywhere. Even the huntsmen get stuck up here sometimes.”

Peggy was looking eagerly before her.

“We ought to be coming to High Street in a minute,” she said. “There it is.”

“Now we’ll get along,” said Nancy. Peggy was already running forward along a clearly marked path, a narrow lane through the purple heather and a track trodden firm across the grassy spaces. Nancy and John, with the stretcher, trotted after Peggy, followed by Susan and Titty with the ship’s parrot. There was only room in High Street for one sheep or person, so that the expedition had to march in Indian file.

“If it hadn’t been for High Street,” said Nancy, “we’d probably have discovered Swallowdale. But we’ve always come up this side of the fell, and High Street is such a good track that we’ve always used it and never crossed over the watershed.”

“Watershed,” said Titty, as if she had been waiting for the word. “I ought to have thought of that at once, instead of thinking it was the compass getting bumped.”

On and on they walked along High Street, which, though it twisted sometimes, round a boulder stone or a bit of swampy ground, was in the main a straight track. At last Nancy said, “We ought to be turning away to the left now, if we’re to come down by the Heald Wood,” and soon after that Peggy pointed away down the moor.

“There’s your pine tree,” she said. “There’s a little bit of a beck under it, and waterfalls in the woods below, going down to the place where the charcoal-burners have an old hut.”

“If that’s the tree,” said Titty, “that’s where Roger hurt his foot. But where’s the beck?”

“You can’t see it from here,” said Peggy.

“Come on,” said Susan.

They left the regular track and made straight for the pine tree. In a few minutes they caught sight of the beck coming down the moor on their right. They met it by the tree.

“This is the place,” cried Titty. “Look. There’s a scrap of silver paper off the last bit of chocolate. That’s where Roger waited while I went down to find the medicine man.”

Susan plunged on down into the wood. The others hurried after her.

Somewhere below them they heard whistling, rather blowy whistling. Someone was trying to whistle “Spanish Ladies.”

“Roger,” called Susan, and the whistling stopped short.

“Hullo,” came from below them, and the next moment, as they pushed their way out through the bushes they saw Roger himself hopping across the open space by the charcoal-burner’s hut, swinging himself along on one foot and a crutch, the other foot just a big bundle in a red handkerchief kept carefully off the ground.

“Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest,” shouted Roger, who was enjoying himself very much indeed. “Yeo ho, ho, and a bottle of rum. Hullo! I am glad you’ve brought Polly. Hullo, Polly. Say ‘Pieces of eight,’ Polly. Do say ‘Pieces of eight.’ ”

Susan rushed at him. “Are you all right?” she said. “Going and hurting your foot.”

“Yeo ho, ho,” said Roger, spinning round on the point of his crutch.

“Who made that lovely crutch for you?” asked Titty.

“Young Billy did,” said Roger. “He says it’s all right to call him that.”

“It’s a grand morning,” said the old charcoal-burner coming out of his hut. “Aye, and he’s a grand lad. There’s not much amiss. He’ll be right enough if he doesn’t work his foot overmuch.”

“We’ve brought a stretcher for him,” said Nancy.

“That’s right,” said the old man. “If he keeps his foot off the ground for a day he’ll never know he harmed it. And how are you, Miss Ruth, and you, Miss Peggy? Haven’t seen you this long while. Eh! and isn’t that Mr. Turner’s parrot?”

“He used to be,” said Titty.

It was always a shock to the Swallows to hear Captain Nancy, the Terror of the Seas, called Ruth. But to-day Nancy did not seem to mind.

“How are you?” she asked. “And how’s the adder? Do let’s see it now we’re here.”

“It was in the wigwam all last night, but I slept just the same,” said Roger. “And he had it out this morning. . . . Hissing like anything.”

“We really ought to be getting back at once,” said Susan; but after all, there was nothing much wrong with Roger, and there was the adder in the hut, and it would be a little hard if Nancy and Peggy were not to see it if they wanted to. So the old man went back into the hut and came out with his box, told Titty not to let the parrot come too near, and lifted the lid at one side, when the adder poured out like a stream of some quick, dark liquid, and was picked up on a stick and hung there, hissing, with his forked tongue darting out between his narrow, bony lips. Susan herself, with all her native worries about being late, was glad to have a chance of looking at the snake again, but oh, how dreadfully easily these Amazons did seem to forget about the time.

At last the adder was dropped back into its box, and the lid closed. Nancy turned to the ship’s boy.

“Now then, let’s see how you fit into the stretcher.”

“I can get along like anything with a crutch,” said Roger.

“Get into the stretcher at once,” said Susan. “Mother’s on her way to Swallowdale, and we’ve got to get you back before she comes.”

The stretcher was laid on the ground, Roger lay down on it between the two tent-poles, with his crutch beside him. John and Nancy lifted the ends of the poles. The old man came with them to show them the best way up out of the wood.

“Thank you very much indeed for looking after him,” said Susan.

“And I had a lovely ride round on the big tree,” said Titty.

“That’s all right,” said young Billy. “Be seeing you again one of these days.”

“Good-bye, and thank you very much,” said Roger.

“Good-bye,” called the old man from the edge of the wood.

“Lie down, you little donkey,” said Captain Nancy, as Roger suddenly tried to sit up on the stretcher and wave his crutch.

“If you get tumbled out, you’ll go and hurt the other foot and then you’ll be no good for anything,” said John.

The stretcher-party hurried up the moor until they found the track the Amazons called High Street, when they went along it at a good pace.

“I shall get pins and needles in both my legs if I don’t do some hopping,” said Roger after a bit.

Light as he was, the stretcher-bearers were glad to have a rest from him, and so, though most of the way Roger travelled as a badly wounded man, he was allowed sometimes to caper along on one foot and his crutch as a very active kind of Long John Silver. Of all the party, perhaps the parrot liked the stretcher best. Its poles were just the thing for him to perch on, so he was ready to travel all the way on the stretcher whether Roger was in it or not.

Mother and the ship’s baby were a little disappointed when they found no one to meet them in Horseshoe Cove. “Perhaps we are a bit early,” mother said. “No. There’s no need to wait, thank you very much.” Mr. Jackson, who had rowed them down from Holly Howe, rowed out of the cove and away, and mother and the ship’s baby looked at the Amazon pulled up on the beach, with her painter tied to a tree, and then at the new mast for Swallow, thinking every minute that they would hear the shouts of the explorers hurrying down through the wood.

For a moment mother thought she might have mistaken the day, and that they were not yet back from Kanchenjunga; but no, she had seen Captain Flint that morning and he had told her that Miss Turner was gone, and that Nancy and Peggy had joined the camp in Swallowdale. Well, perhaps John’s watch had gone wrong again. It often did. It was a pity that none of them were there to help her with the big basket of good things from Holly Howe, but it couldn’t be helped. She would probably meet them before she got to the top of the wood. And she would not be going very fast, because of Bridget. “Come along, Bridgie,” she said, “let’s see how far we can get before they meet us.”

They got the whole way. They crossed the road, not being in the least afraid of natives, since after all, mother was a native herself. They climbed up through the wood on the other side. They rested at the top of it, looking up to Swallowdale, and wondering why there was no smoke. “Of course, it’s a long way to carry wood, and Susan probably doesn’t light the fire unless to boil a kettle.” They went on up the beck, and then, carefully, Bridget going first on all fours, and mother close behind, lest the ship’s baby should slip, they climbed up by the waterfall. And there were the four tents and the empty parrot-cage and the empty fireplace, and no sight or sound of a human being.

“Ah, ha,” thought mother. “Hiding in that cave of theirs.” And she and Bridget waited outside it, very quiet, with fingers on their lips, to surprise the first explorer who should come crawling out; but none came, and mother at last went in and found nobody there, and a can of milk, left by Mary, keeping cool in the shade of the doorway.

It was not till then that, coming back into the sunlight, she noticed the scrap of paper inside the parrot’s cage. She looked at it.

“STOP HERE TILL WE COME BACK.”

“Hm,” said mother, “short and sweet. It sounds more like Captain Nancy than Captain John. Not John’s writing. And Susan would certainly have said ‘Please.’ ‘Stop here till we come back.’ We won’t, will we, Bridgie?” And she walked on up Swallowdale to the bathing-pool, and then she and Bridgie climbed up out of Swallowdale and looked up towards Trout Tarn. And there, in the distance, hurrying towards them, they saw the stretcher-party.

Susan was in front and seemed to be hurrying the others. And then came John and Nancy, carrying something between them, something white and long. And then came Peggy and Titty. But where was Roger? And then mother saw the parrot, clinging to the thing that John and Nancy were carrying. And suddenly something moved on that thing, and in a moment mother was running to meet them. What had happened to Roger? It wasn’t safe, after all, to let them do things by themselves. Broken arm? Broken leg? Both legs broken?

But there was a sudden cheer from the stretcher-party. It stopped. There were wild jerks of something on the stretcher . . . she knew now only too well what it was . . . and in another moment there was Roger, hopping towards her with tremendous hops, swinging first on his crutch, then on one foot, and shouting “Yeo ho, ho” at the top of his voice.

“Oh, mother, I’m so sorry we’re late,” said Susan. “We did try to be in time.” But somehow lateness did not seem to matter. Mother was thinking of nothing but Roger’s foot, and at the same time was laughing with happiness to find things were so much less terrible than for one dreadful moment she had feared. Titty had run on to poor Bridgie who had not much liked being left suddenly behind. Roger was trying to explain how it was that his foot was bound up in a ball of bracken as big as his head. Nancy was trying to persuade him to get back on the stretcher and be carried into camp properly. The parrot was complaining because the stretcher had been dumped on the ground and nobody was taking any notice of him. Susan ran on and down into Swallowdale to get the fire lit at once. All talking together, mother, Bridgie, Roger and the rest of the stretcher-party came down into the camp.

“Shiver my timbers,” said Nancy, looking about her. “It isn’t half a camp without our tent. Come on, Peggy. It isn’t wanted as a stretcher any longer.”

By the time mother’s basket had been unpacked, and Susan was ready with the kettle, Nancy and Peggy had their tent pitched again and mother had unrolled all the brackens that the old charcoal-burner had put round Roger’s foot, and had a good look at the foot for herself.

“I don’t suppose the brackens have done it any harm,” she said.

“It’s nearly all right to-day,” said Roger. “I can waggle it and it doesn’t hurt a bit, at least hardly at all.”

“Well,” said mother, “you shall have them all back again if you want them,” and Roger, who wanted to keep his bandaged foot for at least one more day, said he did.

STRETCHER-PARTY

And then, during the feast, the whole story of the climbing of Kanchenjunga had to be told, and the two stories of the fog, and of sleeping on the side of the mountain, and of how Roger tried to hold on to a rock and to point at wild goats with the same hand, and of the night in the wigwam, and of the glories of duck’s eggs. . . . It was not until late in the afternoon that mother said, “And I’m nearly forgetting one of the things I came to do . . . now is the chance while Bridgie is with Peggy in the big tent. . . . You know it’ll be Bridgie’s birthday in a few days, and I want to see just how your tents are made. I want to make a little one for her just like them. . . . And then I thought we’d have her birthday party on the island, like we did last year.”

“But shall we be back there?” said Susan.

“What about Swallow?” said John.

“Mother knows something about Swallow,” said Titty, looking at her mother’s face.

“Ask your Captain Flint about her,” laughed mother. “He’s coming to row us home. And here he is.”

Captain Flint walked into the camp. He was going to shake hands with mother, but didn’t.

“My hands are all oil,” he said, and wiped them on a tuft of grass, but found that no use, and had to borrow the soap from Susan and wash them in the beck.

“He’s been working on the mast,” said John. “Have you?”

“You’ve made a good job of that mast,” said Captain Flint.

“How soon do you think Swallow will be back?”

Captain Flint hardly seemed to hear this question.

“Hullo!” he said, “what on earth has the ship’s boy been doing to himself?” Roger had just come out from Peter Duck’s after trying how well he could get through the doorway without letting his bandaged foot touch the ground. And then, of course, he had to be told of all that had happened. And long before he had heard the whole story there was tea. And mother found a cake at the bottom of her basket.

They were still talking of the Kanchenjunga adventure when mother said, “It’s getting rather late for Bridget,” and Captain Flint jumped up.

All the explorers came down to Horseshoe Cove to see them off, even Roger, who had already found, privately, that when he put his foot on the ground it did not really hurt.

“I shall be seeing you all to-morrow at Beckfoot,” said mother, as they crossed the road.

“But that isn’t till Swallow comes back,” said John.

Mother caught Captain Flint’s eye and laughed.

“She isn’t back, is she?” said Titty.

“She wasn’t last night,” said John.

Mother, Captain Flint, and Bridget were left behind in a moment, as all six explorers rushed ahead through the trees, Roger almost forgetting to use his crutch in his efforts to keep up with the others.

“The mast’s gone,” shouted John, and a moment later, bursting out from the trees into the little cove, he saw where it had gone to. Amazon was no longer the only sailing boat in the cove. Drawn up on the beach beside her was another little boat, very like Swallow, but in such a glory of new paint that at first sight they could hardly believe she was the same dingy, beloved old Swallow they had known. The new mast had already been stepped in her, pale gold with sandpapering and linseed oil, and hung with new buff halyards for sail and flag. Spread on the beach, the damage done in the wreck already neatly mended, lay the old brown sail, and beside it lay the boom and the gaff, new-scraped and varnished, together with a coil of fine rope for the lacings.

Not one of the four Swallows could say a single word. They rushed at her, and tenderly touched the new paint and found it dry. They looked at the place where, when they saw her last, there had been a patch of old stained groundsheet over gaping broken planks. They could not have told, if they had not known, where that dreadful hole had been. She was a new ship, better than new, for she had renewed her youth and kept her memories and was still at heart the same old Swallow—more, far more, to them than any other vessel could be, anywhere, in all the world.

When Captain Flint had explained yet again in answer to the chorus of thanks that they had nothing to thank him for, because it was only a tiny bit of what he owed them, he helped mother and Bridget into his rowing boat and pushed off.

“And to-morrow,” he said, “we’ll see which is the faster ship. Start at the houseboat. Finish at Beckfoot. I’ll be aboard the houseboat pretty early in the morning. Come along with your fleet as soon as you’re ready.”

“Good nights” were shouted, and the rowing boat was just going out between the headlands, and John’s fingers were already unfastening the end of the coil of fine rope to begin the bending of the sail, when Captain Flint stopped rowing.

“By the way, Roger,” he called over the water, “I’ve got that barrel of gunpowder.” And his oars dipped again and the rowing boat had left the cove.

“Three cheers,” shouted Roger.

“What did he mean?” asked Susan.

“He’s going to let me fire the cannon,” shouted Roger, and waved his crutch in the air.