CHAPTER XXIII

THE RETURN

The gulls were mewing and calling and flying above him in the blue. He was lying on his back, his left arm out, and Jude’s head on his shoulder.

She had snuggled up beside him for company, and then, regardless of spirit crabs, “hants,” and the possibility of crustaceans landing in shiploads to devour them, had fallen asleep. Her arm was flung over his chest. It was the embrace of a tired child, delightful to wake up to as the freshness of the air and the new life of the world and the innocence of the flower-blue sky, delightful as her breath, sweet and warm against his cheek. As he moved she stirred, grumbled something under her breath, shifted her head so that his arm was released, and turned on her other side, with her right arm flung out on the sand.

He stood up. The tide was in and the dinghy only waiting to be launched. Not a sail or speck upon the sea.

Rum Cay had prophesied right,—the fine weather held,—but the water was nearly gone, and the “grub” was finished. There was no breakfast till they boarded the _Sarah_ again.

He turned to where the starboard watch was lying, clinging still to Morpheus, and stirred it gently with his foot. Jude moved, turned, grumbled to herself, and then, as if electrified, sat up digging her fists into her eyes and yawning. Then she sat gazing at the sea as if stunned.

“Come on,” said Ratcliffe, “we’ve got to be starting. All the grub’s gone and nearly all the water. How did you sleep?”

“Oh, Lord!” said Jude. “I’ve been chasin’ round the hull night with a hatful of eggs. I’m near dead beat. Which way’s the wind? Sou’east. Must a changed in the night. It’ll take us back in two ticks.”

She collapsed again comfortably.

“Remember,” said he, “the current is against us.”

“Oh, it ain’t no distance,” said Jude, “and a few minutes more or less don’t count. Wonder what Satan’s doing?”

Knowing that it was hopeless to bother till the spirit moved her, he sat down on the sand beside her and began picking up little shells and casting them into the sea.

“Goodness knows!” said he. “I’m wondering what he’ll say when we get back.”

“He’ll start jawing,” said Jude dreamily and fatefully and with her eyes closed. “I can hear him as if I was listening. He’ll say, ‘What you mean leaving the ship, and where’s your eggs?’ No use telling him they’re broke. Lord! I’m sick of it all! I’m just going to lay here and die.”

He began to drop shells on her chest.

“Quit foolin’.”

“Then get up and come on. Let’s get it over. It’s like having a tooth pulled,—the sooner over the better.”

“Did y’ever have a tooth pulled?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it like?”

“Beastly for a moment, but it’s soon over.”

“Did y’spit blood?”

“Rather! Come on.”

“I’m coming in a minute.”

Then suddenly she sat up, put on her hat, scrambled to her feet, took a glance round the sea, and made for the dinghy.

“Shove in the water jar,” said Jude. He put the jar in, seized the opposite gunnel, and ran her down.

In a minute they were afloat, the sail spread to the wind, Jude steering and holding the sheet. Gulls chased them out, and the beam wind meeting tide and current sent boosts of spray on board. It was a rougher passage coming than going, and a more silent one. Ratcliffe, squatting in the bottom of the boat, had little else to do than smoke and watch Jude. Jude, engaged with her own thoughts, and with her eyes keened for the indications of Lone Reef, seemed absolutely to have forgotten him.

There was no indication of the companion who had slept with her arm round him, who had sat almost lovingly, half-forgetfully, with her arm across his shoulder and his arm round her waist.

It came to him suddenly and with a curious pang that Jude would never be more than that,—a warm companion if cast alone together, just as she might be with Satan, or any stranger her fancy approved of.

Instinctively he felt that there was a barrier,—a curious barrier, he seemed to have broken through that night he took her part, and when, for the first time in her life, she had confessed herself at fault; a barrier, that had, however, mended itself. It was as though he had injured her independence. Yet Satan was injuring her independence all day long with his orders and what not. Ay, but Satan was her brother, almost part of herself. She would not have banged Satan on the head for kissing her.

He gave up thinking, watching her and how well she handled the boat. The crying of the gulls round the spit had died down; nothing remained but the voice of the sea, silent as dumb death from the blue horizon to the planking of the dinghy when it spoke.

“That’s her!” suddenly said Jude.

“What?”

“Lone—I kin see the spars of the _Juan_ an’ the _Sarah_. Rubber and you’ll see them too.”

He turned with his elbow resting on the thwart and picked out the spars on the sea-line.

“And the _Natchez_,” said Jude. “Look, close up to the _Juan_. Cleary’s put in and we not there! I’d forgot Cleary; didn’t believe he’d pick up the place so soon. There he is. Oh, hell!”

“No matter,” said Ratcliffe; “it can’t be helped.”

“Cuss them gulls! If they’d stuck to their laying places, we’d have got the eggs soon’s we’d landed and been back last night. Wonder what’s been going on?”

“Well,” said he, “Satan’s all right. Cleary has no grudge against him. If there has been any bother, it has been between Cleary and Sellers.”

“Maybe,” said Jude.

An hour later they were so close up that they could see the reef-line and the line of the wreck with fellows working on it. Whatever had happened, business was going on as usual.

The three vessels, anchored and swinging to the tide, looked peaceful enough, and as they drew up to the _Sarah_, Satan, who had just appeared on deck, came and stood by the starboard rail watching them.

They fastened up, preparing for an explosion. None came.

“Couldn’t get back last night,” said Jude as they came on board. “Left it till sundown, and then I was afeard of the current.”

“Afeard of the dark,” said Satan. “I reckoned that’d be so—whar’s your eggs?”

“Gone phut. Smashed the lot. Wasn’t more than a hatful. Them rotten gulls had given up nesting, all but at the ends—and say, Satan, I saw a wuzzard! I was carrying the eggs when I saw him, and then I ran and smashed the lot.”

“A which?”

“A hant—little old chap walking on the sands. D’you remember the figurehead on that old bark they broke up last year at Havana,—man with a glass under his arm and the other arm wavin’ his hat? That was him plain as my eye. He up with his glass and I let one yelp. Rat’ll tell you: he saw me running.”

“Oh, git along—git along, you and your hants! I’d been countin’ on them eggs, and here you come back like a one-eyed skite with your yarns about hants. Why, you ought a had a boatful! Didn’t you see no turkles’ eggs?”

“Nope.”

“Well, come along down if you want some grub. I sighted you more’n an hour ago, and there’s coffee waitin’. D’ye see that?” He pointed to a new-washed jumper drying in the blazing sun on the rail.

“Well, I was het up,” said Jude, “or I’d have la’ndered it before I started.”

“Come along down,” said Satan.

It came to Ratcliffe that the quietude of Satan over the business came less from natural good temper than some other reason. The desertion of the _Sarah_ was mutiny and a rank crime. Satan had been left with his food to cook and his jumper to wash, his sister had been off with an almost stranger for a whole night—yet he was not displeased.

If Jude had done the business alone, she most surely would have been carpeted. It was evidently his—Ratcliffe’s—participation in it that fended off trouble and turned wrath into complacence. Why?

Was it because he was a guest? Not a bit! Satan, had he been angry, would not have bothered about that. He followed down below, and there, over the breakfast table, the Cleary business was cleared up.

“He dropped in last night,” said Satan, “an hour before sundown, and the anchor hadn’t more than clawed the mud before he was aboard the _Juan_. I expected the shootin’ to begin; but there weren’t no fireworks, and after dark I lit out for the _Juan_ in the c’lapsible and tied up and boarded her. All the men were in the foc’sle, eating onions and playin’ tunes on guitars,—no anchor watch,—and the Cleary crowd down in the saloon as friendly as pie, Cark ladling the liquor and Cleary suckin’ it down, cigars as big as your leg in their faces, and Cleary with his thumbs in the armhulls of his vest leanin’ back laughin’. That’s how I found them.”

“I told you,” said Jude to Ratcliffe, “they’d be kissing each other and—”

“Suppose you shet your head!” said Satan. “I’m tellin’ you—there they were sittin’ all colludin’ together thick as thick, and I sat for an hour with them and then lit out. Sweet as sugar they were; but I tell you this, I’m as frightened as hell.”

“How’s thet?”

“Cleary. Y’see Cark and Sellers aren’t much by themselves, but Cleary is the snake’s tooth an’ poison bug of that combination, now that he’s joined in with Cark again. Cleary’s Irish gone bad on the father’s side and drunk Welsh on the mother’s: I had his pedigree from Pap. Pap said he was a sure-enough thoroughbred of a hellhound, and he reckoned the roof of his mouth was black right down to the heart of him. Well, I’ve had forty dollars from Cleary for them rotten pearls and one thousand dollars from Cark on account of takin’s. Now you see how I am, supposin’ the wreck turns out a dud. D’you mean to say they won’t go for me to get their money back? Supposin’ the gold is there. D’you mean to say they won’t chouse me out of my share?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I worked the hull thing out last night before I boarded them. Seeing there was no fighting, I concluded they’d joined up an’ become friends; then I made my plans, I didn’t put out no anchor light.

“Sellers, when I was leaving the _Juan_, said, ‘Whar’s your light?’

“‘Run short of oil,’ says I. ‘Kin you let me have some?’ He thought I was tryin’ to wangle oil out of him, and he closed; said he was run short himself.”

“What was your meaning in not putting out a light?” asked Jude.

“Maybe you’ll find out,” said Satan, “if you keep your eyes skinned and stop askin’ questions. Well, that’s where we are. They’ll have the barrel of gunpowder fixed by tomorrow to blow the deck off her, and as soon as they put a light to it we’ll know. It’s blastin’ powder and ought to split the deck to flinders if they fix it proper. I don’t b’lieve it’s coral coverin’ that deck, I b’lieve it’s old petrifacted guano, if you ask me; anyhow, it’s hard enough.”

“By Jove!” said Ratcliffe. “If that’s so, it bears out my theory. I came to the conclusion that the old hooker had never been under water according to that yarn Lopez slung; yet I couldn’t account for the coral deposits. I believe you’re right. I believe the real wreck is lying at that place you said that’s given in the latitude and longitude. Well, see here, why not get the anchor up and light out right now for the other place. They wouldn’t follow.”

“Wouldn’t they?” said Satan. “The _Natchez_ would be after us like a cat pouncin’. No, I’d rather stick, if it’s all the same to you, and see the fireworks. After that leave ’em to me. There aren’t many’s got the better of me when my dander’s up. Now then, Jude, if you’ve done stuffin’ yourself, maybe you’ll lend a hand on deck. There’s swabbin’ to be done.”