Black Bartlemy's Treasure Part 39

"'Tis done, Martin, and yours also."

"Mine!" says I, staring. "How should you do all this?"

"With the old, rusty sword, Martin. Come and see!"

So she brought me to the cave, the moon flooding the place with its pale radiance, and I espied a goodly bed of fern very neatly contrived, in one corner.

"Bravely done!" says I.

"At least, Martin, 'twill be more easy than your bed of sand, and methinks you shall have no ill dreams to-night."

"Dreams!" quoth I, and bethinking me of my last night's hateful visions (and now beholding the beauty of her) I shivered.

"Are you cold?"

"No!"

"Why then, good-night, Martin."

"Wait!" says I, "Wait!" And hasting out, I brought her the grapes I had saved, telling her that though small she would find them sweet and wholesome.

"Why, Martin!" says she, under her breath as one greatly surprised, "Why, Martin!" and so vanishes into her little cave forthwith, and never a word of thanks.

Now being yet haunted by my dreams of yesternight, I went forth into the moonlight and walked there awhile, my eyes uplifted to the glory of the heavens; and now I must needs bethink me of G.o.dby's star-time, of the dark, lonely road, of the beckoning light beyond and the welcoming arms of love. And hereupon I scowled and turned to stare away across the placid sea dimpling 'neath the moon, at the stilly waters of the lagoon, and the white curve of Deliverance Beach below; but, look where I would, I could see only the proud, lovely face and the great, truthful eyes of this woman Joan Brandon, even when my scowling brows were bent on that distant pimento tree beneath whose towering shadow Black Bartlemy had laughed his life out. So in a while I came within the cave and found it dim, for the moonbeam was there no longer, and cast myself upon my bed, very full of gloomy thoughts.

"Martin, I thank you for your grapes. To-morrow we will gather more!"

"Aye, to-morrow!"

"I found a shirt of chain-work by the pool, Martin--"

"'Tis mine."

"I have set it by against your need."

"Nay, I'm done with it, here is no fear of knives in the back."

"Are you sleepy, Martin?"

"No, but 'tis plaguy dark."

"But you are there," says she, "so I do not fear the dark."

"To-morrow I will make a lamp." Here she fell silent and I think to sleep, but as for me I lay long, oppressed by my thoughts. "Aye, verily," says I at last, speaking my thought aloud as had become my custom in my solitude, "to-morrow I will contrive a lamp, for light is a goodly thing." Now here I heard a rustle from the inner cave as she had turned in her sleep, for she spake no word; and so, despite my thoughts, I too presently fell to blessed slumber.

Now if there be any who, reading this my narrative, shall think me too diffuse and particular in the chapters to follow, I do hereby humbly crave their pardon, but (maugre my reader's weariness) shall not abate one word or sentence, since herein I (that by my own folly have known so little of happiness) do record some of the happiest hours that ever man knew, so that it is joy again to write. Therefore to such as would read of rogues and roguish doings, of desperate fights, encounters and affrays, I would engage him to pa.s.s over these next few chapters, for he shall find overmuch of these things ere I make an end of this tale of Black Bartlemy's Treasure. Which very proper advice having duly set down, I will again to my narrative.

CHAPTER XXVIII

I BECOME A JACK-OF-ALL-TRADES

Early next morning, having bathed me in the pool and breakfasted with my companion on what remained of our goat's-flesh, I set to work to build me a fireplace in a fissure of the rock over against the little valley and close beside a great stone, smooth and flat-topped, that should make me an anvil, what time my companion collected a pile of kindling-wood. Soon we had the fire going merrily, and whilst my iron was heating, I chose a likely piece of wood, and splitting it with the hatchet, fell to carving it with my knife.

"What do you make now, Martin?"

"Here shall be a spoon for you, 'twill help you in your cooking."

"Indeed it will, Martin! But you are very skilful!"

"Nay, 'tis simple matter!" says I, whittling away but very conscious of her watchful eyes: "I have outworn many a weary hour carving things with my knife. Given time and patience a man may make anything."

"Some men!" says she, whereat I grew foolishly pleased with myself.

The wood being soft and dry and my knife sharp the spoon grew apace and her interest in it; and because it was for her (and she so full of pleased wonder) I elaborated upon it here and there until, having shaped it to my fancy, I drew my iron from the fire and with the glowing end, burned out the bowl, sc.r.a.ping away the charred wood until I had hollowed it sufficiently, and the spoon was finished. And because she took such pleasure in it, now and hereafter, I append here a rough drawing of it.

(Drawing of a spoon.)

"'Tis wonderful!" cries she, turning it this way and that. "'Tis admirable!"

"It might be better!" says I, wishing I had given more labour to it.

"I want no better, Martin!" And now she would have me make another for myself.

"Nay, mine can wait. But there is your comb to make."

"How shall you do that, Martin?"

"Of wood, like the Indians, but 'twill take time!"

"Why then, it shall wait with your spoon, first should come necessities."

"As what?"

"Dear Heaven, they be so many!" says she with rueful laugh. "For one thing, a cooking-pot, Martin."

"There is our turtle-sh.e.l.l!" says I.

"Why, 'tis very well, Martin, for a turtle-sh.e.l.l, but clumsy--a little.

I would have a pan--with handles if you could contrive. And then plates would be a good thing."

"Handles?" says I, rubbing my chin. "Handles--aye, by all means, a pan with handles, but for this we must have clay."

"And then, Martin, platters would be useful things!"

"So they will!" I nodded. "These I can fashion of wood."

"And then chairs, and a table, Martin."