Within the Capes

by Howard Pyle

Nevertheless, I would not have you think from that which I have just written that Tom and Jack were altogether miserable during the year and a half that they lived there. Many times they were sick at heart looking for the aid that was so long in coming; but there were other times when they were full of hopes, and times when they were even happy. Neither was the place a barren, desolate, dreary sand waste, such as are many of the Bahama Islands. They saw many curious and beautiful things during the time of their living there. As an instance I may say that when Tom came away he brought with him a parcel of as handsome shells as ever I saw in all my life. They are now piled upon the mantle-shelf in my parlor. I have them before my eyes as I write these words. There is a large one upon the centre-table that has a full-rigged ship wrought upon it. It was carved with a jack-knife, and it shows the work of many idle moments, when Tom sat beside the fire in front of their hut at night, with Jack Baldwin for company.

Oftentimes a great longing has come upon Tom to visit the old place once more, and to see those things again which he learned to know so well. As I sit here now, and close my eyes, I can see many of them with my inward sight. I can even see them more clearly than when the memory of them was fresh and green, for, as the eyes of one’s body become dim and blurred, the eyes of memory become ever sharper and keener, so that not even the smallest thing escapes their sight. So now I can see the place that was Tom’s home for sixteen months so long ago, as plainly as though I had left it only yesterday. I can see the cave in the side of the sand-hill, the cutter turned bottom up for the roof, and the screen of woven grass that hung in front to keep the rain from beating in. I can even see the tame sea-gull sitting on the keel of the upturned boat.

Oftentimes, as I sit smoking my pipe after my dinner, I slide off into a doze, and sometimes I dream of all these places—of the sand-spit where they found the half-buried wreck that brought them so strange a fortune; of the long, narrow tongue of sand beyond, where, at low tide, the flamingoes always stood in a line, like so many red-coated British soldiers; of the coral reef where they fished; of the beach where the turtles came to drop their eggs, and of other things, all of them seeming pleasant as I look at them down through the distance of the past. So I should like to see the old place once more with my mortal eyes, though I may never hope to do so now, for my sands are nearly run.

But, though the place may seem pleasant to me after all these years, it was not an island such as one reads of in novels and stories; it was not a place upon which one would choose to live all one’s years, and Tom Granger was tired enough of it before he got through with it, I can tell you.

My neighbors profess to be very fond of listening to me when I get started in upon spinning yarns about Tom Granger’s life on the island, and I think that not only do they profess to be fond of it, but that they really are so.

My dear old friend, the late Doctor White, used to come regularly every Saturday night, winter or summer, clear or foul, and the first thing that he would say was:

“Come, Tom, spin us a yarn;” or, “Let us hear one of your traveler’s lies, Tom.” (This, you understand, was merely a piece of pleasantry upon his part.) Then straightway I would begin upon some yarn, while he would sit opposite to me across the fire, listening to me and smoking his pipe the while. I must say, though, that he had a nasty habit of interrupting me with experiences of his own, for he had been assistant surgeon aboard the Pimlico, in the South Atlantic, from 1836 to 1838, and he had seen a few little trivial things which he would tell me, though I had heard them a score of times before, and though they were not nearly as interesting as those things which I would be telling him.

However, that is neither here nor there, and I find that I am again wandering from the point in hand. What I began to say was, that, though my neighbors are always glad to listen to my yarns, and though they tell me that they are both interesting and instructive, I will not give a long and full account of Tom’s and Jack’s daily life upon the island on which they were cast, for this narrative concerns other matters of more import, and I thank my stars that I am able to bridle my tongue, being, as I said before, no great talker.

Tom and Jack were the only ones of all the crew of the cutter that were cast alive on the island. The first day or two of their life thereon was as bitter and miserable as could be. All this would be both painful and unpleasant to tell, as well as needless, and, therefore, I will pass it by. By the time that a month had gone, they were settled as comfortably as could be, considering what they had at hand to make themselves comfortable.

The body of the island was about five miles in length, and about two miles or two miles and a half in breadth at the widest part. From the lower and easterly end a long, sandy hook ran out into the ocean. It was the continuation of the eastern beach, and, with the south shore of the island, it enclosed a smooth, deep bay or harbor, in which even the largest ships could have ridden at anchor easily and comfortably.