The Mystery on Cobbett's Island Page 10

  “Why, son, you’ve heard just about every yarn in my book,” Captain Clark replied. “I’d be hard put to it to find another.”

  “You always say that, Captain Clark, but I have yet to see the time when you couldn’t come up with a fine tale,” Cap said as the old man came over to join them.

  The captain sat down in their midst, and after pulling on his pipe for several minutes while he gazed out to sea, he asked, “Did I ever tell you about the Eastern Belle?”

  There were cries of, “No. Please tell us. Go on, captain,” from everyone.

  Shifting his pipe to the other side of his mouth, Captain Clark settled back against the trunk of a tree and began.

  “It was back in 1908, and I was asked by old Mr. Atwood to sail the Eastern Belle down to the Bahamas. She had been built right here on the island years before and was used in the whaling trade all up and down the east coast in the days when people used sperm oil in their lamps. But after kerosene came in, the whalers didn’t go out any more, or if they did, it was only for the small amount of sperm oil that was needed for special purposes. So the Eastern Belle was just sitting out her time in port. She was a beautiful boat, stoutly built, and on her bow was a figurehead of a young woman, dressed in white, with golden hair flowing over her shoulders and her arms crossed in front of her.

  “Well, one day Mr. Atwood came down to the shipyard where the Belle had been put up and fell in love with her. He had more money than he knew what to do with. Seems his father had made it mining, so he could indulge himself in what he liked better than anything else on earth—boats. He had her put into shape, got new sails, and had the living quarters made comfortable. It was then I got a chance to take her south.

  “I didn’t have any trouble getting a crew, for the Belle was known as a good ship, and the trip promised to be a pleasant one. So one fine morning in May, we set out, rounding Montauk Point at dawn. I can see her now, with her canvas drawing sweetly in the strong breeze that took us at a fine clip for several days. Then we hit the doldrums, where the equatorial calms had us sitting day after day in the hot sun without enough breeze to put out a match. Well, sir, tempers began to get a mite edgy, but just when we were all secretly beginning to regret not having an engine in the ship, the winds came up again as suddenly as they had failed, and we were away, heading for one of the little-known Bahama Islands where we planned to anchor.

  “After a couple of fine days sailing, late one afternoon, we heard the cry of ‘Land ho’ from our lookout and knew that we were not far from our destination. We made for a small cove, not much bigger than this one here, that we knew was deep enough to enter. As we got up close enough to make out the trees on shore, the lookout called again. He’d seen people on the beach, running up and down waving their hands. Now we didn’t think this particular island was inhabited, and there wasn’t a sign of another boat around, so we were all mighty curious to know who these folks were.

  “It didn’t take long to launch a dory and row in. I went and took a couple of men to man the oars, and it was lucky we arrived just when we did. Those people we’d seen through the telescope were from a small fishing boat that had taken off from Florida. The boat had caught fire and had been completely destroyed. Six of the crew had managed to swim to this little island where they’d been living on fish and fruit for almost two weeks. Ours was the first ship they’d seen, and as we came ashore, their joy was almost overwhelming, tears mingling with laughter. After we had taken them on board the Eastern Belle, we gave them clean clothes and plenty to eat. The next day we took all of them back to their home port.

  “Now off with you, and let me have my nap,” the old man chuckled as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, clasped his hands over his stomach, and closed his eyes.

  “That means we won’t get any more yarns,” Cap said as they prepared to leave, “but maybe tonight he’ll tell us another one.”

  “See you later then,” Peter said, “and don’t forget to bring your accordion. It wouldn’t be a clambake without that.”

  Toward the end of the afternoon, after a swim and a couple of hours on the beach, they gathered at Pirate’s Cove again. There was a goodly crowd already there and more people were arriving every moment. Captain Clark and some of the other men were getting ready to remove the tarpaulin. Much of the sand had been shoveled off, but great care had to be taken that none of what remained got into the food. The delicious aroma of the clambake was the only invitation anyone needed to start eating. Plates were piled high, first with steamed clams and lobsters slathered with melted butter from the bowls laid out on tables here and there around the pit, and later on, with chicken and vegetables.

  Mart was in seventh heaven. Peter’s prediction was quickly being proved right, and he was being filled up at a great rate!

  “Don’t forget there’s still chicken, corn, and potatoes,” warned Peter as Mart went up to get a third helping of clams.

  “Is that a warning or a suggestion?” Mart asked, laughing.

  “I don’t want you to miss the best part,” Peter answered him, “but I guess you’ll manage without any cues from me.”

  The other Bob-Whites were managing about as well as Mart. “Have you ever tasted such delicious food?” Trixie exclaimed. “I’m about ready to burst, but I’m going to have one more ear of corn if it kills me!”

  Honey and Di, who had already eaten their fill, started out with Peter and Brian for a walk down the beach. “We’ll come along, too, in a few minutes,” Trixie called after them, “if we can manage to get on our feet.”

  When everyone had finished eating, more driftwood was put on the coals in the pit and soon a cheery fire was encouraging the guests to sing. A circle formed, and Cap brought out his accordion and played all the old favorite songs. Trixie, who during the stroll on the beach had been thinking about Captain Clark and his yarns, managed to get a seat next to him, and when a lull came in the songfest, said, “What about the menhaden boats, Captain Clark? Did you ever go out on them?”

  “Yes, young lady. The last time. I sailed on a trans-Atlantic boat, I had an experience that made me decide never to go across the ocean again, but that’s another story,” he mused, his eyes looking dreamily into the fire. “But I couldn’t seem to find anything on land that I fancied, not after so many years at sea, so I started going out on the Bunker boats. It wasn’t a hard life. I knew these waters hereabouts like the palm of my hand, and the crew did all the hard work, so I continued to go out for several years.” He paused and then rather abruptly said, “How’d you happen to ask about the Bunker boats, young lady?”

  Trixie told him she was staying at The Moorings, and that she could see the boats from her window there and had found herself fascinated by them.

  “You’re in the old Condon place, then,” the captain continued, eyeing her quizzically. “Well, that reminds me of something that happened—let me see, it must have been eighteen or twenty years ago. It was in the winter. We’d started out in good weather, and the fish were running out beyond Montauk. We’d worked two or three days, and the holds were just about filled with fish, when it began to sleet and snow. The winds blew harder and harder, and I soon saw we were in for a real blow. I gave orders to batten down the hatches and prepared to ride it out, not thinking it would last very long. But it stormed like fury all day and all night. The seas got higher and higher, and although I tried to make some headway, I couldn’t keep her on course. I began to think we’d end up on the rocks at the end of the point. That was before there was such a thing as radar, and the Bunker boats didn’t even have radios in those days. I don’t suppose we could see more than twenty feet in front of us; the snow and sleet were that thick. All we could do was blow our foghorn to warn any other ship that might be near us.

  “Suddenly, out of nowhere, we saw it—another Bunker boat coming toward us out of the night. As the lookout yelled, ‘Ship ahoy,’ I instinctively spun the pilot wheel around to ward off the blow, but it was too late. Even though th
e other boat tried to move off in the other direction, we couldn’t avoid the collision. We rammed into her side amidships, a little above the water line, but right where the engine room was. It was a good thing I could reverse our engines and pull off, because fire broke out almost immediately. I’ve never seen anything spread so fast. The crew tried to fight it at first, but the captain soon saw it was hopeless and gave orders for his men to abandon ship.

  “I worked our boat around to their windward side. There was enough breeze blowing to keep the heat and smoke from that part of the ship, and the men jumped across to our deck. Everyone was relieved when the captain, himself, came across, for we all thought that meant all the crew had been saved. But just then, our lookout called down that he could see another man on the foredeck, and it looked as though he had been hurt.

  “By this time the ship was an inferno, and I didn’t think we’d have time to try to rescue another without being set fire ourselves, but before I’d even had a chance to make up my mind, one of our men had jumped across to the other deck and was running forward to try to save the wounded man. We could see him lift him up, sling him over his shoulder, and carry him to the rail where he heaved him over to our boat. Then Ed, that was his name, jumped over himself. That is, he started to jump, but he missed his footing and fell between the boats, into the sea.”

  The captain stopped here, and Trixie knew he was having a hard time trying to continue. This was not just another sea story. This was a tragedy in which he had been personally involved. Trixie hoped he would continue, but she resolved not to ask a single question which might trouble this old man, who looked so strong, but who, she now knew, was most tenderhearted.

  “So the sea took its toll again,” he finally continued. “We searched the waters all that night and the next day, even when we knew it was hopeless. You may wonder what this all has to do with the old Condon place,” he continued, looking questioningly at Trixie. “Well, I’ll tell you. Mr. Condon had always been fond of Ed and advised him and such, and when he heard that Ed was gone, the shock killed him. Yes, two days after we got back to port, Mr. Condon, too, was gone, and no one left to live in his big house. He willed it to a distant niece out in California, and she’s rented it out ever since. Well, that’s it, young lady. So when you look over the harbor to the Bunker boats, just think of a young man who didn’t think twice about giving his life for someone he didn’t even know. He was a hero, that Ed.”

  Before Trixie had time to do more than thank him for telling her the story, the captain had gone away to see about cleaning up the remains of the clambake. Trixie turned to Jim, who had been sitting next to her, and said, “So now we know. Ed was a real person.”

  Chapter 12

  The Mysterious Stranger

  “Can you imagine, the garden party is this afternoon!” exclaimed Trixie. “I don’t see how we’ll ever get ready in time!”

  “I simply have to wash my hair. It’s full of sand from last night,” said Honey as she brushed it vigorously, “and it must smell like burning brush from all that smoke.”

  “Do you think the dresses we brought will be all right?” Di asked.

  “I guess they’ll have to be,” Honey answered. “Now that Mrs. Kimball has asked us to help, I wish we had something special to wear so we wouldn’t look like guests.”

  “Yes,” mused Trixie, “something like the Spanish costumes we wore in the winter carnival, only different, if you know what I mean.”

  “Well, I can’t think of anything we could dream up on the spur of the moment, can you?” asked Di, looking at each of them.

  “No,” answered Trixie slowly, “not unless—”

  “Not unless what, Trix? Something tells me you have one of your inspirations. Let’s have it,” cried Diana.

  “Well, I was just thinking. Remember all those trunks in the attic at Peter’s house? Maybe there are some old-fashioned clothes up there we could dress up in. People used to keep stuff like that, you know.”

  “That’s an absolutely brilliant idea, Trix,” exclaimed Honey. “Let’s go down and call Peter and see if his mother minds if we look through them. You know he said the other day he always meant to explore up there, but never had the time.”

  “Even if we don’t find any dresses, it will be fun to see what’s in the trunks,” added Di as they went to the phone.

  “But what about the gazebo?” Honey asked, stopping abruptly halfway down the stairs. “There’s still a terrific amount of work to do on it before the party.”

  “Oh, jeepers, I forgot all about that,” said Trixie dismally, sitting down on the bottom stair with her chin in her hands. “But I know what,” she said, her face almost immediately brightening. “We’ll let the boys take care of that little problem. You know how manly they acted about not wanting us to use the chain saw? Well, now we’ll flatter them into thinking they’re the only ones who could possibly know enough about carpentry to do the job.”

  “Good idea, if it works,” answered Honey, somewhat dubiously. “Let’s not tell them anything about what we’re going to do, and after they get to work we can ask Mrs. Kimball if she’ll let us try our plan.”

  “Quiet, here come our unsuspecting victims now,” said Trixie as she got up and sauntered into the diningroom.

  “What’s up?” asked Jim as he and the others came in. “You look just like three cats that have just swallowed three fat canaries.”

  “Why, nothing’s up,” answered Trixie, her eyes innocently wide. “We were just trying to figure out what to do with ourselves this morning while you boys are fixing that broken board and the pillar in the gazebo.”

  “You’re going to help us. That’s what you’re going to do,” said Mart. “What else?”

  “We’d love to. You know we would, but that’s a job for experts, and we’d just be in the way,” Di commented, looking as helplessly feminine as she knew how.

  “Yes, you know how clumsy girls are with tools,” Honey went on, “so it would be much better if we left the whole thing to you. The job will get done quicker that way.”

  “Okay,” said Jim, looking quizzically at Trixie. “It’s quite obvious the girls have something up their respective sleeves, and we might just as well try to get water out of a rock as to get secret plans from any of these three.”

  “Trixie’s probably lured them into some private sleuthing,” said Brian. “Wait till they come running back to us for help.”

  “Are you going over to Pete’s with us, or do your clandestine activities lead you to more distant fields?” inquired Mart.

  “If you must know, dear brother, we’re going over to see if we can help Mrs. Kimball get things ready,” answered Trixie with a toss of her head. “It really wouldn’t be fair not to help after all Peter has done for us.”

  “So any more work on the chart will have to wait until after the party,” Jim commented.

  When they arrived at the Oldest House, Mrs. Kimball greeted them warmly and said Peter was out in the tool shed getting ready to work on the repairs to the gazebo.

  “And I’m polishing some extra spoons, just in case we have an overflow crowd,” she added.

  “We’d better step on it, or Peter will think we’ve left him in the lurch,” Jim said as he headed out the door.

  “See you squaws later,” Mart called out to the girls, “and don’t take any wooden wampum!”

  Trixie threw him a withering glance, and then turning to Mrs. Kimball, asked, “Isn’t there something we could do to help you get ready?”

  “That’s sweet of you to ask, but my committee is coming any minute now, and I think we have things pretty well under control, especially since you’re going to help out as hostesses,” she answered. “Thank goodness, the weather’s cooperating, too.”

  “If you’re sure we can’t help right now, would you mind if we—” Trixie hesitated and felt the color rising in her cheeks.

  “What, Trixie?” Mrs. Kimball replied. “I’m sure anything you have in mind
is all right with me. Out with it!”

  Her gay laugh reassured Trixie that she wasn’t being forward, and the girl went on, “We thought that maybe up in your attic we might find some old-fashioned dresses we could wear this afternoon.”

  “What a charming idea!” exclaimed Mrs. Kimball. “I haven’t the slightest idea what’s up there, but you most certainly may look. You can go right up the back stairs here from the kitchen.”

  The girls could hardly wait to start their search, and so after thanking Mrs. Kimball, they dashed up the two flights to the attic.

  “Which one shall we try first?” asked Honey, looking around at the many boxes and trunks lined up under the eaves.

  “This one looks interesting,” said Trixie, going over to an old brass-bound trunk.

  As she lifted the cover, the faint odor of sandalwood mingled with the special scent of the old room where, long ago, various herbs had been hung to dry. “Oh, this smells just like the Chinese box Miss Rachel gave me,” sighed Trixie as she thought of the Bob-Whites’ adventure in the Marshland.

  In the rounded top of the trunk was a tray which held an assortment of fans, tortoiseshell combs, and bits of lace and ribbons. “Hurry and look underneath!” cried Di as Honey and Trixie lifted the tray out of the trunk and put it carefully down on the floor.

  Trixie’s hunch had been right. There were layer on layer of old dresses, some in soft wool, others of silk. Most of them were so old that the fabric had already begun to split. “Here’s one that looks strong enough to wear,” said Honey, carefully unfolding a moss-green skirt. “I wonder if there’s a top to go with it.”

  “Here it is, under this shawl,” cried Trixie excitedly. “Try it on, Honey. The color is simply wonderful for you!”