Chapter XV: I Sail with My Band

‟I WILL not let you go alone.”

“But I could manage quite well. It will be moonlight, and such a still night. There would be no real difficulty.”

“I will not let you go.”

“But it will be days before you are fit to move. You know you cannot risk the delay: it is your brother’s only chance. You can’t see it wasted.”

“I can—if the price is too great to pay. I will not buy his safety at the risk of a young girl. I will not let you go.”

“Then let me tell your son.”

The white face on the pillow worked pitifully.

“No—anything but that! Harry is so young—and so proud. I cannot let him share the knowledge of disgrace. Life would never again be the same to him. I have tried so hard to keep it to myself—to spare Harry.”

“Ah, let me go!” I said. “It would be so easy—the launch is ready, and the run to Southport would be nothing. Think of it—to have all your anxiety at an end! Say I may go, dear Mrs. McNab.”

We had argued at intervals all the afternoon. At first, after recovering from the fainting-fit into which the arrival of Transom’s letter, urging Ronald Hull to come without delay, had thrown her, Mrs. McNab had declared that she herself would be well enough to go out that night: a manifest absurdity, speedily proved when she tried to walk across the room. She could only totter a few yards, and then was glad to catch at my arm and let me support her to a chair. Again and again she had tried, with no better success. I put her back to bed at last, and gave her a stimulant, angry with myself for having assisted at the folly. And then had begun the argument.

It seemed to me that the only thing to be done was for me to take the launch and convey Ronald Hull to Southport. I didn’t like the idea of doing it alone—who would? But there was no other way, since Mrs. McNab steadfastly refused to tell Harry. A second reading of Transom’s letter showed us that we should have received it a day earlier, and that to reach Adelaide in time Mr. Hull must start that very night. It was now or never; and Mrs. McNab had made up her mind that it must be never.

She turned her weary eyes in my direction now with a hopeless movement.

“I cannot. It is absolutely unthinkable that I could allow it. Even Ronald’s disgrace, sore as it is, would not be as bitter to me as my own conscience if I let you go. We must find some other plan of escape for him. I am too tired to talk any more. Promise me you will not try to go alone, and I will go to sleep.”

I promised, reluctantly, knowing that she had already strained her endurance too far: she had a touch of fever again, and I feared that the next day would find her much worse. She looked relieved, murmuring something I could not catch; then she closed her eyes, and I went quietly out of the room, tasting all the bitterness of failure. I had so built on ridding her of her abominable brother. It was terrible to think that this wonderful chance was to be lost—that when she struggled back to health he would still be a millstone about her neck.

The sound of galloping hoofs came to me as I went out on the front verandah, and I saw Judy and Jack come racing up the drive on their ponies. They waved to me and shouted, but did not stop, tearing on to the stable-yard. I sat down on a garden-seat to await them—and suddenly hope flashed on me like a beacon-light.

Judy and Jack! They were only children, but they were strong and sensible, when they chose: they knew the launch and its engine better than I did, and the sea was their friend and playfellow. They would come, my little Fellow-Members of the Band, and ask no questions that would lead to unpleasant explanations. I could trust them, just as their father had said he could trust them—not to betray a confidence, never to let one down. It wasn’t done, in the Band.

I turned my great idea over and over in my mind while we were at dinner in the schoolroom, and could find no flaw in it. I believed Mrs. McNab would find none, either. To go out on the sea at night was nothing to any McNab: that part of it I dismissed as not worth considering. The chief thing to ponder was the necessity of letting them into at least part of the secret: and there it was their very youth that gave me confidence. Harry, if told, would have demanded every detail: Judy and Jack would be content with what I chose to tell them, and I need tell them nothing that would affect their peace of mind in the future. I looked at my outlaws, unconsciously eating their dinner, with a gratitude that would certainly have amazed them, had they suspected it.

I went in to consult Mrs. McNab when we had finished. Before dinner she had not slept, and I had felt uneasy about her, for she was flushed and hot and restless: but now I found her in a heavy slumber, breathing deeply and regularly. She might remain so for hours, perhaps all night. Why should I tell her at all? Why not let her sleep on, untroubled, while the Band did her work? There was nothing to be gained by waking her. I knew where to find, in the Tower room, the little suit-case that held necessaries she had packed for her brother’s journey, and the money she had procured for him. It had been ready for days, in case of a hurried summons. I had only to take it, and go.

Slowly I went back to the schoolroom. The children were reading, their mother’s illness making them unusually quiet; they glanced up at me, and grinned in a friendly fashion. I sat down on the table and looked at them.

“Do you remember,” I asked, “what you told me your father used to say when he told you a secret?”

“Rather!” said Judy. “He always says, ‘Kids, this is confidential.’ Why?”

“Because I’m saying it now,” I said. “I have something to tell you, and—‘Kids, it is confidential.’ Is it all right?”

“O-oh, Miss Earle, you’ve got a secret! ’Course it’s all right. Isn’t it, Jack?”

“Cross-our-hearts,” said Jack solemnly. “Shall we swear a Hearty Oath?”

“Your word is good enough for me,” I answered. “But it has to be a very solemn word, because this is a big secret, and it isn’t even mine.”

“We’ll never tell,” Judy said. “Jack and I never tell anything, you know. Father understands that. Oh, Miss Earle, go on, or I’ll bust!”

“You two have got to help me to-night,” I said. “You have the biggest job that has ever come into your lives. And then you have to keep quiet about it for ever and ever.”

“_And_ ever!” said Judy. “Quick, Miss Earle!”

“I can’t tell you all the details, because they are not mine to tell,” I said. “But your mother has a friend who is hiding from some people who want to find him—why they want him is no business of ours. We will call this friend Mr. Smith. He is living on Shepherd’s Island.”

“On Shepherd’s Island! In the old hut? Miss Earle, what a gorgeous thrill!”

“That isn’t half the thrill there is,” I said, laughing in spite of myself. “Mr. Smith wants to go to Southport—it is very important that he should go there to-night. Your mother and I were going to take him there, in the small launch.”

“You and Mother! Nobody else knowing anything at all?”

“Not a soul.”

“Do you mean you two were going out late to take him? All the way to Southport? Why, it’s twenty miles!”

“Yes—to everything,” I said. “But your mother has gone and got ill, and she can’t come. That is worrying her dreadfully, because she knows Mr. Smith must be at Southport this very night. I wanted to go alone, but she would not let me. And all through dinner I have been wondering if my Fellow-Members of the Band would help me.”

“Any mortal thing!” declared Judy. “What can we do?”

“You can run a launch as well as I can—or better.”

“You mean——!” Light dawned on their eager faces. “You mean, you’d take us to Southport?”

“I mean that you two should come to help me take Mr. Smith to Southport. It has become a job for the Band.”

“It’s too wonderful to be true!” said Judy solemnly. “Oh, Miss Earle, you darling! When do we start?”

“I think we might slip out about nine o’clock——”

“Just when we ought to be going to bed!” said Jack, with a blissful chuckle.

“We had meant to go later, when every one was in bed—but I am very anxious to get back before your mother wakes. She is fast asleep now. If your brother or sister should come up after nine and find everything in darkness they will think we are all in bed. It seems to me the safest plan.”

“I suppose I’m really awake!” Judy remarked. “It would be too awful to wake up and find I had only dreamed it! Pinch me, kid, will you—Ouch!”—as Jack promptly complied. “Yes, I’m awake, all right. Miss Earle, d’you mean that no one but you and Mother knows Mr. Smith is on Shepherd’s Island?”

“No one.”

“How did he get there?”

“We took him one night some time ago.”

“What does he live on?”

“We gave him food. And he catches fish.”

“Where was he before?”

“Oh—different places.” The cross-examination was growing too searching. “Judy, I don’t want you to ask me questions, dear.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Earle,” was the quick response.

“It isn’t my secret, but your mother’s. I am telling you without her leave, and she may be worried when she knows. I want you to promise to ask no questions—to try not to be curious, even though it’s hard, about what really doesn’t concern you two or me. We are only acting as agents, and it isn’t our business. And don’t ask your mother anything when she is better. It is a matter to be silent about—on the honour of the Band.”

“Cross-our-hearts!” they said in chorus—a touch of awe on their young faces.

“That’s all right, then. Just look upon it that you’re doing a good turn and helping a lame dog over a stile—and, of course, one doesn’t talk of that sort of thing afterwards.”

“Rather not!” Jack said. “We’re never to speak of it again, ’cept when we three are together.”

“And very little then,” I said. “I’m going to forget all about it from the minute I come home to-night.”

“I don’t s’pose we could do that, because it’s the biggest adventure we’ve ever had in the world, and we’re awfully obliged to you for giving it to us—aren’t we, Ju? But it’s a deadly secret for ever and ever. Will Mr. Smith know who we are?”

“He may. But he is rather down on his luck, and I don’t think he will want to talk.”

“Well, goodness knows we don’t want to worry the poor beggar!” remarked Jack, in masculine sympathy. “Can I be engine-man, Miss Earle?”

“Yes, please. And will you steer, Judy?”

“Don’t you want to? Oh, I’d love to—and then it’ll be all our expedition and you’ll just be the Admiral and not do any work!” Judy hugged me in her ecstasy. “We know Southport quite well, you see—we’ve often been there in the launch, so we can do it all ourselves.” Joy overcame her: she jumped up and pranced round the room wildly.

“Judy, you villain, be quiet, or I won’t let you be even a cabin-boy,” I said, laughing. “You have got to be absolutely steady and silent—both of you. Now go on with your reading while I get ready.”

I peeped at Mrs. McNab, who was still sleeping heavily; and then ran up to her study, the key of which was in my care. The suit-case was on the table: I glanced inside it, to make sure that the money was there. Yes, it was all safe—a neat package of crisp bank-notes, tucked into a stout envelope among the clothes. Locking the study, I carried the suit-case down to my room, and found a long coat, into the pocket of which I slipped an electric torch, with a dark veil to tie over my hair. Then I scribbled on a half-sheet of notepaper: “Gone with Judy and Jack—please don’t worry,” and put it on a little tray with nourishment: a glass of milk and one of barley-water, with a saucer of chicken jelly. Mrs. McNab did not stir as I put the tray on the table beside her bed.

“Please go on sleeping,” I whispered. “I’ll take great care of your babies.” There was no sound but her heavy breathing, and I tiptoed out. I found Judy and Jack returning ecstatically from arranging dummy figures in their beds. We extinguished all the lights in our part of the house, and in a few moments we were hurrying across the paddock. It was barely nine o’clock.

There was no doubt that the presence of my two outlaws gave our expedition the air of a joyous adventure. Mrs. McNab and I had come in fear and trembling, seeing danger in every shadow; but with Judy and Jack I raced merrily down to the shore, and we stowed ourselves in the launch and pushed off with much ridiculous pomp and ceremony, as befitted a lordly Admiral with a crew sworn to be faithful. To the children it was simply a colossal lark, spiced with a glorious touch of mystery; it was easy enough to take their view of it and share their delight, until Shepherd’s Island suddenly showed before us. Then we ran in silently, and I got out and went up the slope for a little way, giving the signal of three low whistles—at which I could feel the new thrill that ran through Judy and Jack. Three whistles—and a hunted man in the dark! And to think that we, who shared this wonder, had a week ago played at pirates, like children, with gulls for foes!

Ronald Hull came running down with long strides.

“Is that you, Marie?” he breathed. “Have you heard from Transom?”

“Mrs. McNab is ill,” I told him curtly. “She has sent me in her place. The letter came this morning, and we are ready to take you to Southport, now.”

“We! Whom have you told?”

“Nobody. I have Judy and Jack with me, to help with the boat, but they do not know who you are. It was the only way: you have to be in Adelaide as quickly as possible.”

“But have you the money? I can’t go without it.”

“I have everything, and here is Transom’s letter: you are to get out at Mount Lofty, outside Adelaide, where he will meet you with a car. Is there anything you want to ask me?—because I do not want you to talk before the children. Your voice is so like their mother’s that it might make them suspicious. And please keep your hat pulled down well over your face.”

“You’re free enough with your orders,” he said with a sneer. “However, I suppose I am in your hands. Where is the money?”

“In the launch, in your suit-case. Do you want to get anything from the hut?”

“Yes—my hat and a few things. Get into the boat; I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He ran back, and I went down to the shore, where Judy and Jack waited in a solemn silence. But the launch seemed to quiver with their ecstasy!

We carried no light as yet—the moon gave us sufficient to steer by, though clouds hid it now and then. I was glad that a bank had drifted across its broad face just as Ronald Hull came down, in a long mackintosh, with a soft hat pulled over his eyes. He took his place on the bow, and we edged away for the last time from Shepherd’s Island.

Never was there a more silent voyage. Not a word fell between us as we ran the long miles along the coast, passing, one after another, the lights of little villages. The sky grew more and more overcast, and the air warmer, with little puffs of hot wind now and then. Had I been less centred on getting to Southport and seeing the last of my passenger, I might have been anxious about the weather; but I could only think of the blessed certainty that soon he would be gone, and hug myself with joy when I remembered the news I should have in the morning for Mrs. McNab. Judy’s hand was light on the tiller: Jack crouched over the engine, a queer, gnome-like figure, in the shadow. Ahead, the sinister figure sat on the bow, his back to us, smoking. I wondered what his feelings were, with freedom opening before him: and hardened my heart anew as I recollected that he had made no inquiry whatever about Mrs. McNab’s illness. Truly, it was a meritorious act, to rid a family of Mr. Ronald Hull.

“There’s Southport!” Judy said softly.

The lights of a town showed ahead, scattered and dim, with a few standing apart that marked the pier. We ran in gently, slowing the engine. No one was to be seen as we crept alongside the pier, looking for the steps at its side. The launch scraped them presently, and Mr. Hull steadied her and sprang ashore, while I handed up his possessions.

“Thanks,” he said, in a low voice. “Good night.”

“Good night—and good luck!” I had to say that, because I was representing Mrs. McNab. But I fear that, so long as he got clear of Australia, I did not care in the least whatever might happen to Mrs. McNab’s brother. I only hoped fervently that we might never see him again. It is years ago now, but he still gives me unpleasant dreams.

We headed for home joyfully, dodging anchored fishing-boats until we were out in the open and could go full speed ahead. Nothing mattered to us now: we had dropped our dangerous cargo, and not one of us cared who heard our engine as Jack opened the throttle and the launch shot over the oily sea. Judy was the first to speak.

“I did want to see his face, so’s I could make him into a real hero,” she said regretfully. “You can’t make a hero very well out of a mackintosh and a felt hat!”

“I don’t see why you can’t,” I told her, laughing. “It makes it all the more beautifully mysterious, like the Man in the Iron Mask. But you are to wash him out of your memory as soon as you can, and only remember that the Band had a gorgeous and exciting midnight voyage. As a matter of fact, this isn’t a motor-launch at all: it’s the _Golden Hind_, and I’m Drake, and you are my faithful captains!”

“And there’s a Spaniard ahead!” quoth Jack ferociously. “Up, Guards, and at ’em!”

A hot puff of wind went by; and a dash of spray fell on board. I glanced round, to see a dark line of clouds across the sky.

“There may or may not be Spaniards ahead, but there’s rain and wind behind,” I said. “Get all you can out of her, Jack—I don’t want to take you two home like drowned rats.”

“P’f!” Judy ejaculated. “What’s rain to us jolly mariners!”

We were to have an opportunity of seeing that. The clouds spread rapidly, and the wind rose. We were yet five miles from home when the moon was blotted out, and almost simultaneously the rain came down, in gusty squalls that deepened to a steady downpour. I took the tiller from Judy, who sat peering forward, picking up one shore-light after another as we raced the leaping seas. They were staunch comrades, my Fellow-Members: they sat as unconcernedly as if they were at dinner, efficient and cheerful, while I wondered what I should have done had I come alone, as I had wished. At intervals they apologized to me for the unpleasant nature of their weather, and hoped I was not getting very wet.

“We’ll have to turn and run back against it pretty soon, if it doesn’t clear,” Judy remarked. “It won’t do to get among the islands in this darkness.”

“It’s going to clear,” Jack said, scanning the horizon wisely.

“Well, you just slow down,” returned his sister. “I’d hate to hit an island at this pace!”

Jack grunted, and slowed down—and grunted again as a wave hit us squarely, deluging us with a rush of black water, just as the cover slammed down on the engine. That was the last effort of the squall: it lifted and blew away over the sea, and the moon came out and sailed majestically through the flying clouds, revealing the fact that we were quite unpleasantly near the islands which Judy would have hated to hit. Nothing troubled us now; we sang a song of triumph in whispers as we danced over the big seas and rounded the headland of Porpoise Bay. There is great solace in a whispered chant of triumph if circumstances prevent a full-throated chorus.

Drenched, but entirely cheerful, my outlaws and I made a burglarious entry into the darkened house. I had taken the precaution of leaving a big Thermos of hot milk, with which I regaled them when I had them snugly tucked into bed, after a brisk rub-down.

“That was heavenly!” said Judy, snuggling into her pillow. “I’ve had the most beautiful night of my life, Miss Earle, and I’ll bless you for it always!”

“Me, too,” echoed Jack sleepily.

“I rather enjoyed it myself,” I said. “Go to sleep, Fellow-Members. I shall certainly tell Colin that if he ever wants two mates in a tight place I can supply him from the Band!”

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