THE rain came down dismally, and the chill of the night was very considerable, as I learned soon after ceasing my own exertions. The men made some sort of shelter for themselves by turning up the long boat and the dingey on edge, crawling into the lee, and thus finding a little protection. All but John, my cook. That calm personage, every time I turned, was at my elbow in the dark, standing silent, waiting for I knew not what. For the first time, I realized the virtue of his waterproof silk shirt. He seemed not to mind the rain, although he asked my consent to put his bundle and his book under the shelter. I stooped down at the firelight, curious to see the title of his book. It was familiar—The Pirate’s Own Book!

“Where you catchee book, John?” I asked him.

“Litlee boy he give me; him ’Melican book. I lead him some. Plenty good book.”

“Yes,” said I; “I see. That boy’ll make pirates of us all, if we aren’t careful.” “That book, him tellee what do, sposee bad storm,” said John proudly. “I know.”

I walked over to where Peterson lay, his pipe now lighted by some magic all his own. We now could see more plainly the furred and yellow gleam of the lighthouse lamp. Peterson’s concern, however, was all for the Belle HelÈne.

“I hate to think of her out there all by herself,” said he.

“So do I, Peterson. I hate also to think of all that ninety-three we left out there.”

We were standing near the edge of the ladies’ shelter, and I heard Mrs. Daniver’s voice as she put out her head at the edge of the tarpaulin.

“I thought you said all the ninety-three was gone,” said she with some interest, as it appeared to me.

“No, we only had the last bottle of that case at luncheon, Mrs. Daniver,” said I. “There are yet other cases out yonder.”

“It’s a bad night for neuralgia,” said she complainingly.

“It is, madam. But I don’t think I’ll pull out again. And I am rejoiced that you are not troubled now with seasickness,—that you never are.” Which last resulted in her dignified silence. Through the night, there came continually the clamoring of the wild fowl in the lagoon back of us, and this seemed to make the boys restless. It was Jean Lafitte, next, who poked his head out from under the tarpaulin.

“I’ve got the gun all right,” said he, “and a lot of shells. In the morning we’ll go out and get some of those ducks that are squawking.”

“Yes, Jean,” said I; “we’re in one of the best ducking countries on this whole coast.”

“That’s fine—we can live chiefly by huntin’ and fishin’, like it says in the g’ographies.”

“If the wind should shift,” said I, “we may have to do that for quite a time. I don’t know whether the lighthouse keeper has a boat or not, and the channel lies between us and the light—it makes out here straight to the Gulf. But now, be quiet, my sons, and see if we can’t all get some sleep. I’ll take care of the fire.”

I passed a little apart to hunt for some driftwood, my shadow, John, following close at hand. When I returned I found a muffled figure standing at the feeble blaze. Helena raised her eyes, grave and serious.

“It was splendid,” said she in a low tone of voice, addressing not so much myself as all the world, it seemed to me. “Get back in there and go to sleep,” said I. And, quietly she obeyed, so far as I might tell.

For my own part, I did not seek the shelter of the other boat, but, wrapped in sweater and slicker, stood in the rain, John at my side. Once in a while we set out in the dark to find more wood for the little fire. In some way the long night wore on. Toward morning the rain ceased. It seemed to me that the rocking search-light of the Belle HelÈne made scarce so wide an arc across the bay. The lighthouse ray shone less furry and yellow through the night. The wind began to lull, coming in gusts, at times after some moments of calm. The roll of the sea still came in, but sometimes I almost fancied that the surf was bellowing not so loud. And so at length, the dawn came, softening the gloom, and I could hear the roar of the great bodies of wild fowl rising as they always do at dawn, the tumult of their wings rivaling the heavy rhythm of the surf itself.

The advancing calm of nature seemed to quiet the senses of the sleepers, even in their sleep. Gently making up the fire for the last time, as the gray light began to come across the beach, I wandered inland a little way in search of the fresh water lagoon. Its edge lay not more than two or three hundred yards back of our bivouac. So, as best I might, I bathed my face and hands, and regretted that such things as soap and towels had been forgotten with many other things. Not irremediable, our plight; for now I could see the Belle HelÈne still rolling at her anchor, uneasy, but still afloat; and in the daylight, and with a lessening sea, there would be no great difficulty in boarding her as we liked.

Presently the others of the party were all afoot, standing stiffly, sluggishly, in the chill of dawn; and such was the breakfast which my boy John presently prepared for us, that I confess I began to make comparisons not wholly to his discredit. Now, for instance, said I to myself, had it been Mrs. Daniver who had been forgotten on board ship—but, of course, that line of reasoning might not be followed out. And as for Mrs. Daniver herself, it was only just to say that she made a fair attempt at comradeship, considering that she had retired without any aid whatever for her neuralgia. Helena seemed reticent. The men, as usual, ate apart. I did not find myself loquacious. Only my two young ruffians seemed full of the enjoyment possible in such a situation.

“Gee! ain’t this fine?” said L’Olonnois. “I never did think we’d be really shipwrecked and cast away on a desert island. This is just like it is in the books.”

“Can we go huntin’ now?” demanded Jean Lafitte, his mouth still full of bacon. “And will you come along? There must be millions of them ducks and geese. I didn’t know there was so many in all the world.”

“You may go, both of you, Jean Lafitte,” said I, “if you’ll be careful not to shoot yourselves. As for me, I must go back once more to the boat, I fancy.”

Peterson and I now held a brief conference, and presently, leaving the ladies in charge of Willy and the cook, we two, with Williams to run the motor, with some difficulty launched the long boat and made off through a sea none too amiable, to go aboard the Belle HelÈne once more—which so short a time before I had thought we never might do again.

“This is easier than pulling out in the dingey,” grinned Peterson, as we approached the Belle HelÈne. “Confound that deck-hand, he might have got you drowned! I’ll fire him, sure!”

“No,” said I; “I’ve been thinking that over. There was a great deal of confusion, and after all, he may have thought that we had John with us. Besides, he’s only young, and he’s human. I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Peterson—I’ll dock him a month’s wages, and I’ll send his wages to his mother. Meantime, let him carry the wood and water for a week.”

We found it not difficult now to go aboard the Belle HelÈne, for, in the lessening seaway, she rolled not so evilly. Peterson sprang to the deck as the bow of our boat rose alongside on a wave, and made fast our line. When Williams and I had followed, we took a general inventory of the Belle HelÈne. All the deck gear was gone, spare oars and spars, a canvas or so, and some coils of rope. Beyond that, there seemed no serious damage, unless the hull had been injured by its pounding during the night.

“It’s a mud-bank here, I think, Mr. Harry,” said Peterson. “She may have ripped some of her copper on the oyster reefs, but she seems to bed full length and maybe she’s not strained, after all.”

“There’s the line of channel guides,” said I, pointing to a row of sticks driven into the mud a couple of miles in length.

“Yes,” said the old man, “the channel’s not more than a biscuit toss from here. We came right across it—if it hadn’t been in the dark, we’d have gone through into the lee of the island and been all right. Now as it is, we’re all wrong.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“How’ll we get that anchor up?” grumbled he. “If we start the engines and try to crawl up by the capstan, we couldn’t pull her out of the mud. If we put on a donkey engine we’d snatch the bow out of here before we could lift the hook. And until we do, how are we going to move her? There’s the channel, but it’s as far as ever. We can’t sweep her off, of course, and we can’t pole her off.”

“Well, Peterson,” said I, “let us, by all means, hope for the worst.” I smiled, seeing that he now was possessed of his normal gloom.

“Well,” said he, “we went on at full tide, and hard aground at that. This wind is blowing all the water out of CÔte Blanche. Of course, if the wind should turn and drive in again, we might move her, if we caught her at high tide once more. Until that happens, I guess we’re anchored here for sure.”

“The glass is rising now, Peterson,” said I, pleasantly.

“Oh, yes, it may rise a little,” said he, “and of course the storm’s gone by for the time. But I don’t think there’s going to be any good change of weather that’ll hold, very soon. But now, Williams and I’ll go below and see if we can start a pump. I expect she’s sprung a leak, all right.”

Shaking his head in much apprehension, the old man made his way with Williams, first into the engine-room. For my own part, I turned toward my cabin door. All at once as I did so it seemed to me I heard a sound. It came again, a sort of a meek diffident sound, expectant rather than complaining. And then I heard an unmistakable scraping at the door. Hastening, I flung it open. I was greeted with a great whine of joy and trust, a shaggy form leaped upon me, thrust its cold nose into my face, gave me much greetings of whines, and at length of a loud howl of joy.

“Partial!” I cried, and caught him by the paws as he put them on my shoulders and rubbed his muzzle along my cheek, whimpering; “Partial! Oh, my dear chap, I say now, I’m glad to see you!”

As a matter of fact, I had forgotten Partial these three days, other things being on my mind. Once more our amateurishness in shipwreck had nearly cost us a life. Partial, no doubt, had meekly waited at his usual place until ordered to come out with the rest. We had closed the doors and port-holes when we left the Belle HelÈne, and thus he had been locked in. I sat down on one of the bench lockers with Partial’s head in my hand, and almost my eyes became moist. “Partial,” said I, “let me confess the truth to you. The woman had maddened me. I forgot you—I did, and will own it now. It was a grave fault, my friend. I do not ask you to forgive me, and all I can do is to promise you such amend as lies in my power. From now on, I promise you, you shall go with me to all the ends of the earth. My people shall be your people, till death do us part. Do you hear me, Partial?”

He answered by springing up again and licking my face and hands, whimpering excitedly, glad that I had come at last. “Dear Partial,” said I, “you’re no gladder than I am. And what’s more, you’ve nothing to cost you penitence. Come, we’ll go to the dining-room and see whether there’s anything left to eat.”

He followed me now along the rolling deck, and happily I was able to get him some scraps for his breakfast. Peterson heard me talking, and thrust up a head above the engine-room hatch. He was as crestfallen as myself when I showed him that, once more, we had been forgetful and had left a friend while busy in saving ourselves.

I went once more to my cabin—Peterson having discovered, apparently to his great regret, that so far as could be determined, we had not started a seam or smashed a timber anywhere. I found a small tent among other of my sporting equipment and tossed this out to go in the long boat’s cargo. Another fowling piece and ammunition, my canvas hunting coat and wading boots, followed. Even, I caught down from a nail the only other pair of trousers available in my wardrobe—for Davidson’s vast midship section comported ill with my own. I found my watch in these other trousers, and putting a hand in a pocket, fished out also my portemonnaie. It had certain bills in it—I presume two or three thousand dollars in all, and I thrust these into my pocket. At the bottom of the little purse,—among collar buttons and other hard objects,—I found a little round white object, and once more bethought me of my pearl which I had won on the far northern river, as it seemed to me many years before—the pearl which, as I have said, was to be known as the Belle HelÈne. I preserved it now.

Peterson and Williams, meantime, were busy in getting aboard a case or so of water—not forgetting the ninety-three of which I reminded the old man once more. Some additional stores of bacon and tea, and a case of eggs, were also taken aboard. At length, with quite a little cargo in the way of comforts, we embarked once more and started for our rude encampment.

“We may be here for a month,” said Peterson gloomily, looking at the Belle HelÈne, now rolling just a little, her keel fast full length in the mud-bar. “I don’t think there’s ever going to be any change of wind—it’ll blow steadily this way for a week, anyhow.”

“I presume, Peterson,” said I coolly, “that you don’t see the sun breaking through the clouds over there, at all. And I fancy that you will not believe, either, that the sea is lulling now. Very well, I don’t want to make you unhappy, my friend.”

I heard Williams chuckling as he stooped over his engine. Thus, chugging on merrily with the long oily roll of the sea under us, we presently once more ran our surf, and this time had small difficulty in winning through, for, once we felt the ground under us, we simply sprang overboard and waded in, dragging the boat with us, waist-deep sometimes in the flood, but on the whole quite safe.

My two pirate mates came down to the beach joyously, and helped us unload. It seemed that they had made something of a hunt already, for with much pride Jean now displayed to me certain birds, proof of his own prowess with his shotgun.

“Some of ’em’s good to eat,” said he. “Regular greenheads, like we get up North.” I looked at the string of birds, and saw that they were mallards and teals, a couple of dozen at least.

“Fie, fie!” said I. “I fear you’ve been shooting on the water.”

“Sure I did! And here’s four things that I don’t suppose are good to eat—they got kind of snaky heads, and red-colored, too. Ain’t no ducks good to eat that ain’t got green heads.”

“Each man to his taste,” said I, “but if you like, you may have the green heads, and I’ll take these with the auburn locks.”

“Pshaw! What are they?” answered he.

“Only canvasbacks,” said I, “and good fat ones, too. What luck have you, Jimmy, my son?”

“Well, I went along and helped carry things,” said L’Olonnois.

“What’s that you’ve got on a string?” I asked him.

“Oh, that,” said he, flushing. “It ain’t nothing but a little turtle. It had funny marks on its back. I caught it in the grass over there by the lake.”

Something about Jimmy’s little turtle interested me, and I picked it up in my hands.

“For amateur sportsmen, gentlemen,” said I, “you’re doing pretty well. Your funny little turtle, Jimmy, is nothing but a diamond-back terrapin. There are perhaps more of them on this coast than anywhere else in the world to-day. And Partial, here—that friend of ours now leaping excitedly and joyously before them, barking at this little turtle of Jimmy’s—will perhaps be able to help you find some more of them in the grass—the market hunters here hunt them with dogs, as perhaps you did not know.”

“We got some oysters, Sir,” said Willy, coming forward shyly and shamefacedly; and showed me the cockpit of the duck boat pretty well filled. The boy had, it seems, found a reef of these in a brackish arm which made inland, and dug them by the simple process of stooping down below the surface of the water, since he had no oyster tongs.

“Well,” said I, “it looks as if we would fare pretty well for lunch. John”—and I called my China boy—“again I find renewed cause for felicitations on your rescue.” John stood looking at me blankly.

“You savee, John?” said I, showing him one of the canvasbacks, and he remarked mildly, “All litee.” If anything, his lunch was better than his breakfast, and when I saw him take Jimmy’s funny little turtle from him and examine it with appraising eye, I felt fairly well convinced that we should not suffer at the dinner hour.

But though a certain gaiety now came to others of the party as we sat about our midday meal, warm now and well fed, and although the boys excitedly made plans about putting up the tent and furnishing it and going into camp for the winter, I could not share their eagerness. There was one other reticent figure at our fireside. Helena sat silent, the head of Partial in her lap. I felt resentment that she should steal from me even my dog. At last, having nothing better to do, I picked up my gun, and slipping on my coat, started down the beach, telling the boys that I was going alone, perhaps too far for them to follow, with the purpose of making some sort of an exploration of the island.

Moody and depressed, not in the least well satisfied with life, even with matters thus so far more fortunate than we had so recently had reason to expect, I walked along the hard sand, sometimes looking at the long lines of wild fowl streaming in above the fresh-water lagoon, but in reality thinking but little of these. I did not at first hear the light step which came behind me on the sand.