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.”