"Saw your hat and thought I saw tobacco smoke, so I got out the glass," said Resolved Forbes. "Said to myself, 'If Adam Long leaves a half-smoked cigarro and a half-finished rum, then there must be something mighty queer going on, so I'd better fetch help.' "
"Tarnation! For that I'll give you a drink free! Come on!'
It was a wild coast and they had approached it with caution, which may account for the fact that nobody saw Eb Waters and Carl Peterson slip over the side.
Adam nearly resorted to profanity when they wakened him.
"Serve 'em right if I let them stay here!"
He looked at the land, a dark one, above which no smoke stood. There might be a plantation or two, or three or four, tucked away in the folds of those hills, but he could not see any. There would be coves and creeks along such a coast, ideal hiding places for the small-boaters Captain Wallis had warned him against.
"I expect they thought all they had to do is lie down and food'll fall right into their faces."
"Aye," said Jeth Gardner.
"While beautiful brown gals fanned 'em with palm fronds!"
"Aye. They've never been down in these parts before."
Adam sighed.
"Well, they'll be back. Won't be able to stand it. But maybe that'll be tonight and maybe not till tomorrow. I don't want to wait that long, a spot like this. I'll go after them. Prayers first. Bring me my Book. And the musket, too, long's you're down there."
He wanted the gun not for signaling purposes—it never occurred to him that he might need to signal—but for protection against snakes. Adam had always been deathly afraid of snakes.
"Stand on and off. See anything you don't like—run. Don't stay and shout for me."
"What if you're not back by dark?"
"I'll be back."
There was a skimpy shelly beach, backed by jungle that evidently had dismayed the runaways: their footprints showed that they had moved back and forth a little before plunging in.
Indeed, entering that jungle was like walking into a solid thing, a wall. Even Adam Long caught up his breath when he did it.
Then he paused, permitting his eyes to get used to the gloom. As he had expected, the trail was as plain as though made by oxen. Sailors ashore are the clumsiest of men.
But Adam was so busy watching where he was going, where he put his feet down, that he soon lost the trail. He might have turned back to the beach, but he'd be seen from the schooner then and would appear ridiculous. He kept on. He tripped over decayed stumps, sank calf-deep into holes. Creepers, pushed aside, sprang back to lash him from behind, and their spikes cut his neck and clothing. Several times he fell full-length, the heels of his hands squashing into the muck.
He was panting. It startled him to hear it. Aboard ship his wind always had been sound. In this close dank place he was all but stifled.
He cast to the right, taking it much more slowly; and when after a while he found no sign of the deserters there, he swung to the left.
It was some time before he confessed that, ridiculous or not ridiculous, it would be better if he went back and started all over again. Then he found, to his flabbergastment, that he could not even follow his own trail back. He did not even know the direction of the beach! He sniffed earnestly, holding his head back like a hen that drinks water. All he got was the rank wet odor of rot, no brine.
It outraged him, at the same time frightening him, to learn that this jungle, this sewer of suffocating stench, could blot out every trace of the sea near at hand, the clean sea. It didn't seem decent.
Once he thought he heard a slippy noise near his feet, and he shied like a colt.
There was another sound, a faint dripping; but when he moved stealthily toward this in the hope of finding a stream he could follow to the sea, it came from behind him; and when he turned, it came from one side or the other. Motionless, listening carefully, at last he decided that the dripping was all around him. It was almost inaudible—was in fact less a sound than a sense of motion, of disintegration, as though the forest were softly, wetly dropping to pieces.
He prayed. When he had finished—and he was brief—he looked up, already with an idea.
He would climb a tree.
He must be still near the beach. No matter how queer this place was, it couldn't screen off a whole ocean.
He placed his musket at the foot of the largest tree he could find, and started up. Vines and creepers came spewing down when he put weight on them. Some were too slippery to hold. Some had spikes. It was worse up there than it had been on the ground. It was thicker, trickier. He was never sure what was the true trunk of the tree and what parasite. There were mosses and twisted slimy flowers. Things came away in his hands, unclean things that made a soft sucking sound. Adam could clamber up ratlines as nimbly as any boy; but he knew when he was beaten.
Baffled, having seen nothing, he climbed down again.
He was within a few feet of the ground and about to drop the rest of the way, when he looked down in order not to land on the musket— and the sweat that larded his body turned cold.
A snake lay across the musket. It had been in motion and was curved, but now it was still except for the raised head, which tilted slightly this way and that like some delicate flower stirred by a breeze.
The snake was about six feet long, and very thin, and the head was small. It was bright green in color, a luminous, almost a phosphorescent green, with dark gray spiraling along its back.
After a while, still holding its head high, it slithered away.
Adam counted to five hundred, then dropped, snatched up his musket, and ran.
When he had stopped, only because of lack of breath, he forced himself to be still and to think. Though he could neither hear breakers nor see the sun, it stood to reason that he had not gone far.
He heard a high wailing behind him.
He whirled around.
He heard it again. It was some distance away, half a mile perhaps, though that was hard to estimate in soggy air like this.
Now Adam Long was not superstitious. He didn't believe in ghosts much. With no hesitation at all, as the howling came to his ears again, nearer this time, he started to run toward it.
Even if it was a ghost he would prefer it to a snake.
At last he saw light ahead. He burst into a clearing.
The howl rose again, that wail as of a banshee, right in front of him; and he made out the monsters.
There were two, collared, and to their collars were attached long leads, the other ends of which disappeared into the jungle. In appearance at least they were not fierce, these enormous dogs. They seemed tired, or bored. One had already flumped in disgust to the ground; the other, after a half-hearted growl, its snout tilted skyward, regarded Adam with a bleak bleary gaze, the while absently scratching a flea.
Into the clearing, now, came a man in blue and pink. He stopped. He hauled out a pistol.
Adam Long raised his musket.
After a while, but moving with circumspection, watchful, tense, the men lowered their weapons a little.
The bloodhounds took no interest in these somewhat silly proceedings. The second flopped down beside the first; it grunted, then fell asleep.
The man was thin, thirtyish. His own hair, unpowdered, was caught behind in a sash of silk, unblushingly blue, and a blue velvet band decorated his hunting hat.
"Zitt, alors! Dites-moi, que cherchez-vous ici?"
"Can't you talk English?" plaintively.
"But to be sure I can! You are the English, then?"
"I hail from the continental colonies,"
"Ah, a Yankee?"
He pronounced it "Yawn-feee."
"I reckon," said Adam.
"And you seek water, it could be?"