Within the Capes

by Howard Pyle

On the Atlantic side of this sand-spit, and close to where it joined the body of the island, was the sunken wreck that afterward had so much to do with Tom’s fortunes, and of which I shall soon have more to tell you. The eastern side of this hook or beach was of sloping sand, washed up by the continual beating of the surf. The western, or bay side, was an abrupt coral reef. This coral reef was covered with barnacles, so that there were always plenty of fish to be caught along that shore during the slack water or the young flood.

Up and down the length of the eastern shore, and following in a line with the beach, was a ridge of white sand hills. A number of scrub trees grew along the crest of this ridge, and it was these trees or bushes that the lookout in the cutter had first sighted. In the south-western end of these sand hills Jack and Tom built their hut.

The lower end of the chain of white hills made a sudden turn to the westward, and not far from where they fell away to the level of the beach was a thicket of underbrush, with half a dozen palmetto trees growing in the midst of it. Near to the edge of this thicket a spring of clear, cool water bubbled up out of the white sand, and slid away through thick grasses and sedge until it found its way through a marshy little flat into the bay.

It was close to this spot that they chose to live, and thither they dragged the cutter from the place where she had been flung on the sand, two or three miles further up the beach. The boat had been stove in beyond all hopes of repairing, especially as they had no tools to mend it with, excepting their jack-knives and two rude chisels that Tom afterward made from rusty bolts which they picked out of the ribs of the wreck on the sand-spit. But, even if they had had a whole boat-builder’s outfit, and planks to spare, I doubt if the cutter could have been mended, for not only had the bottom been stove in, but the bow had been smashed into splinters.

The loss of the cutter was one of their bitterest sources of regret during their life on this place, for now and then they could see the looming of land not more than twenty miles away toward the southward. They could easily have reached it in a day’s time, if the boat had been sound and whole. As it was, she would never float again, so they dragged her down the beach and patched her with grass and mud, and used her for a roof to cover them at night, for they found that the dews were heavy at some seasons of the year. It took them over a fortnight to move the boat from where she had been thrown to the place where they built their home, three miles away. It was heavy work hauling it across the sand, but, as I said, by the time that a month had gone, they were pretty comfortably settled, and were feeling quite at home in their quarters.

In front of them was the long, narrow hook of white sand, over which the air danced and quivered when the hot sun beat down upon it. It curved out into the dark water for a mile, like a long, slender hook, cutting off the bay from the open water beyond. To the right of them was the bay shore of the island, the silvery sand strewn thickly with many-colored shells as far as the eye could reach. About three hundred yards away was the buried wreck. At that time nothing was to be seen of it but the ribs, that just showed above the sand like a row of dead, blackened stumps. From this wreck they obtained iron spikes, which Tom fashioned into rude tools and ruder fish-hooks.

Such was the scene that they had before their eyes for all those sixteen months, unchanged, excepting as storm or calm would change the face of things; and the same monotonous sound was always in their ears—the eternal “swash! swash!” of the ground swell on the shell-strewn beach below the hut, sounding unceasingly through the deep, heavy thundering of the Atlantic breakers to the eastward.

Day followed day in an unchanging round—now fishing and now hunting gull’s eggs. The fishing was done in the morning, when the tide was good. During the hot afternoons they would lie on the sand, in the shade of the cutter, looking out to sea, talking lazily, and now and then dozing. It was a helpless, listless life, and as time wore along, I doubt if they would have known what day or month or even what year it was, if Tom had not kept a score of the days as they passed, by marking them on the side of the cutter with his jack-knife—a short mark for week days and a long mark with a cross for Sundays. By this means they contrived to know how time was going with them.

This enforced inaction was one of the bitterest trials to them. I have known times when, while they were sitting still, Jack would burst out into a sudden volley of imprecations. Tom would never give way in this manner;—perhaps it would have been a relief to him if he had. When the darkness of despair would settle over him, he would leave Jack, and walk up and down the beach by himself; perhaps for hours at a time. During all the time that the Nancy Hazlewood was sinking under him, Tom had thought little of Patty, and had wondered at himself in a dull sort of a way; perhaps it was the press of work that was then upon him, that drove her out of his mind, or rather blunted the keenness of the thought of her. But now, in the listless idleness of his life, he thought of her, and thought of her continually. Her presence was always with him, and at times his longing for her was so deep and keen, that his heart ached with it. Often in the night time he would lie on the dark, lonely sand, looking up at the stars, saying nothing, but thinking of Patty and of his home, with a longing so strong, that sometimes he was nearly crazy with the yearning of his home-sickness. At other times the gloominess of a deep despair would settle over him in a dark cloud; then, perhaps, he would say to himself, “Supposing that I do get back to my home again, what good will it do me? I have been given a year in which to earn seven hundred and fifty dollars; it may be two years before I am taken off of this sand spit,—what chance is there of my earning that much here?” Then, maybe he would get up and walk away, pacing up and down the beach by himself, cursing the fortune that had thrown him on this land, and sometimes even selfishly wishing that he could die, and be rid of all the troubles that beset him. During such moods Jack would leave him alone, for he saw that Tom was thinking of things, and was not to be talked to or interfered with;—he had grown to have a strangely high regard and respect for him; very different from the way in which he used to look upon him. He seemed to have a dim idea that Tom’s troubles were deeper than his own, but why they were greater, he did not know, for Tom never talked of Patty to him. So Jack always let him alone, and, though he would follow him with his eyes, he never ventured a word at such times.

I would not have you think that Tom was twiddling his thumbs all this time, and idly wishing that he could get away without doing anything further than to wish.