Boon Island - Kenneth Roberts [131]
He went into the tent and looked at the brisk little fire while Nason set off in the direction of the sloop, gesticulating to his shipmatessweeping his arm around to the north: pointing insistently to the northwest.
The others followed along behind him, the captain and Neal, Christopher Gray, George White and Charles Mellenall but Henry Dean, who lay near the fire, twitching dangerously. If Henry should have an attack of epilepsy now, there was no telling what might happen to the fire.
The sloop's jib rose: her anchor came up and was catted, and she went dipping off to the north, over the long surges; then bore around to the westward, so that we knew Nason had been understood.
The little fire burned brightly, and we stood damp pieces of wood around the circle of rocks, hoping that the burning shavings would dry them out. While we cut more shavings, Graystock and Saver pleaded for meatfor just one slice of meat. "We're wasting this fire," Saver said. "We could be roasting meat over it."
"Keep on cutting shavings," I told them. "Under the circumstances, I think the captain'll let us have more tonight, when there's no danger of losing the fire."
To watch the progress of that bark canoe across the island was harrowing. Nason and the captain carried the
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front end: White and Mellen the stern, while Neal stumbled alongside Nason showing him where to put his feet, and Christopher Gray did the same for Captain Dean.
They had overturned it on the two paddles, using the paddles as carrying poles, and because the four men slipped constantly, the canoe's progress was erratic and fumbling, like that of a beetle on a rough field.
The little cove for which they were headed was one we all knew well, because into it, after the wreck, we had pulled all the cordage and most of the junk from which we'd built the boat and raft. It had a smooth gravelly bottom; and when the four men righted the canoe and lowered it at the head of that little cove, I drew a deep breath of relief. That, I thought, was all there was to it: news of our whereabouts, of our hunger and our miserable condition, was already as good as in Portsmouth.
Langman, evidently angry because Nason had disagreed with him as to the day of the week, watched the proceedings with a jaundiced eye.
"What's going on down there?" he suddenly demanded. "By God, that fool Nason is going to run the captain out to that sloop! He can't do that! He can't let the captain get to Portsmouth ahead of the rest of us!"
He shouted, "Here! Here! No! No!" and ran from the tent.
Nason slid the canoe into the water. Captain Dean, holding a paddle, knelt in the bow.
Before Langman reached them, Nason stepped into the stern, and pushed hard with his paddle. Both men took a few quick strokes. The canoe veered sideways, as if twisted by a current. Her starboard side dipped sharply. When Captain Dean abruptly leaned to larboard to pre-
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serve her balance, she dipped even more sharply beneath him. A cataract of green water poured over her gunnel, the canoe slid out from under them, and both Nason and the captain went overboard in a surge of foam. Everybody, it seemed to me, was shouting, running and falling down.
Nason came up gasping, caught the canoe and pushed it ashore. The captain staggered to a seaweed-covered ledge, looking half drowned.
Hands grasped the canoe, emptied water from it, and swung it gently to the water again to let Nason hoist himself aboard. This time Nason, kneeling alone in the middle, stroked his little craft out of the cove, surmounted the green surges, and went safely aboard the sloop.
The western sky was a dingy gray, and the little sloop, weewawing toward that grayness, was too small and fragile for my peace of mind.
''I thought I was gone," the captain told us when he dragged himself to the tent. "I must have swallowed a tubful. The sloop looked so close to shore, I thought maybe we could all get away this afternoon, but the currents suck around