“That’s where we go next,” said the Mastodon, pointing across the open water to a gap in the bank on the other side. “It’s a canal. But the water’s not quite high enough yet.”
John and Titty hurried off along the high bank of a creek and found that this bit of Daddy’s map needed little change, though it did not show the canal, and did not mark the native settlement. By the time they got back the water had risen another foot, and the others were already in their boats ready for the last stage.
“Come along,” said the Mastodon. “Roger and I’ll go first. There won’t be room for two boats side by side.”
Six boats, one after another, left the open water and pulled into the narrow mouth of the canal. This was the queerest bit of exploration they had yet done, but easy to put on their maps, for the canal was almost straight. They stopped when the water ended and they could go no farther, close under some old, tarred piling that had once been a staithe for barges. The water was so shallow that they had to pole the last few yards.
“We haven’t been here for ages,” said Daisy, as, each taking an arm, she and Nancy hoisted Bridget to dry land. “Let’s go and see if the cowman’s still here.”
Close to the staithe were some houses with an inscription on them to say that they had been built with stones from old London Bridge. Savages and explorers wandered round them, as if in a foreign country, and came to a farmyard, where cows were being milked in a wooden cowshed.
“Come for some milk, have you?” said the cowman, and sent his son for some glasses. “I remember you … and you …” he said, “but you’re a stranger and so are you. …”
There were hurried whisperings among the savages, and Daisy said, “We haven’t a penny among us. We don’t really want any milk.”
“We’ve got plenty,” said John. “Susan’s got the expedition’s purse. We won’t have any unless you will too.”
“Of course you must have some,” said Susan.
“Well, we are jolly thirsty,” said Daisy. “Thank you very much.”
“Drink up,” said the cowman, and the seven of them took turns with the glasses, because there were only three of them among the lot.
“Loving cups,” said Nancy. “Troll them round.”
“I say,” said Roger, as they turned to go back to their boats. “He only charged twopence a pint. That’s a penny less than at home. I mean, in our own country.”
“Come overseas, you have,” said the cowman, laughing.
“Well, we have,” said Roger.
The cowman laughed again, as if Roger had made a joke, and no one explained that Roger had been telling the exact truth. The water was still coming in when they went back to their boats.
THE MAP: WITH THE UPPER WATERS AND THE MANGO ISLANDS
“Hop in, Roger,” said the Mastodon. “The wind’s blowing straight down the canal. They’ll be able to sail back, and we’ll have a job to get to Speedy before them.”
“Dee,” said John. “Will there be time to look at that North West Passage?”
“No,” said Dee. “Not unless we give up going to Speedy for supper.”
“Hurry up,” called the Mastodon. “Set your sails and see if you can catch us.”
John gave in. First that seal and now the Mastodon’s party. He badly wanted to make sure of that passage, but it would be pretty beastly to go off and take Dee with him. “We’ll catch you all right,” he shouted.
One after another the little sailing boats hoisted sail and blew down the canal. They shot out, to see the Mastodon, rowing hard, disappear into the channel south of the Mango Islands. They were close behind him, close enough to hear Roger encouraging him as if he were a horse, when they came out again into open water, saw Mastodon Island ahead of them and the tall trees of the heronry, and presently had to lower sails and take to oars to follow him through the winding western end of Speedy Creek.
CHAPTER XXII
THE MASTODON GIVES A PARTY
ROUND A BEND in the channel, six boats swept in a bunch towards the ancient wreck in which the Mastodon had made his lair. Water was washing through the upright timbers, but the bows, newly tarred and painted by the Mastodon himself, looked, with the water lapping round them, as if they belonged to a barge still ready to put to sea. It was a close thing, but the Mastodon had got a fresh start while the other boats were downing sails, and he had just time to climb aboard with Roger before the rest of his visitors came alongside.
The Mastodon helped them over the rail when they had climbed the ladder much as if he was welcoming them aboard a private yacht. “Never mind about the mud,” he said. “It’ll wash off afterwards. No trouble at all. I always do wash down every morning. Oh well, if you do want to get it off, here’s a bucket.” He dropped it over the side and brought it up full of water. Those of his visitors whose feet were bare, washed the worst of the mud off. Those who had boots, followed the Mastodon’s own example, got out of them, and stood them in a row in the scuppers. He was assisted as host by Roger, who showed Peggy, Susan and Bridget round the deck as if he owned the barge. “This is the windlass,” said Roger. “You’ve seen the anchor up on the bank. This is where the mast used to be. That’s the chimney. … He’s got a real stove. … That’s the way down to the cabin. …”
“Let’s go down,” said the Mastodon. “It’ll take a minute or two getting things ready. Thank you for bringing those mugs and plates. I’ll take them down. You’ll want two hands for the ladder.”
Somehow or other eleven people crowded into the Mastodon’s cabin. For some moments people could hardly move until the Mastodon begged them to sit down, when they found places for themselves on boxes, on his bunk, on his bench and on the floor, while the Mastodon lit his stove, put a kettle on and began to hack at a ham with a carving knife.
Susan watched him for a minute or two with increasing pain. “Do let me cut the ham,” she said, when she could bear the sight no longer.
“She’s a dab at it,” said Roger, and the Mastodon thankfully handed over and turned to other things.
Roger was pointing out the fishing lines, the nets that were being made, the cupboards, the hooks for hanging clothes, when Nancy caught sight of the looking-glass message that had caused all the trouble, spiked on a nail on the wall.
“There it is,” she cried. “There’s their secret message with the words all inside out. Jolly clever. Have a look at it, Susan. It’s as good as any of ours.”
The Mastodon’s happy smile faded from his face.
“Don,” exclaimed Daisy. “It was all a mistake. You oughtn’t to have kept it.” She jumped up, grabbed the message, scrumpled it up and poked it into the stove. “There you are. It’s gone. Peace for ever!”
The Mastodon smiled again and went on digging tins of stewed peaches out of a sack.
“Until tomorrow night!” said Nancy.
“Of course,” said Daisy. “And then corroboree and human sacrifice and peace for ever and ever. We’re awfully glad you people came. The tribe’s never been big enough for a proper war dance. … And, I say, you’ve seen ours. Do show us how you do your messages.”
“You have to know semaphore,” said Nancy. “It’s like this.” She took a piece of paper that had been wrapped round a loaf of bread. “ ‘Peace for ever’, you said. Well look here. Those are the signals for it. Now put legs on them … like this. …”
“It looks like a war dance,” said Daisy.
“That’s just it,” said Nancy. “Nobody who saw it would think it had anything to do with peace. Look here. I’ll draw you the whole alphabet. It’s the arms that matter. You can make the legs do anything you like.”
Susan, cutting slices of ham, took up one end of the table. John, who had collected all the maps, spread them at the other end, comparing them side by side, and sometimes putting one on the top of another and holding them up against the light that came down through the hatch. It was going to be a tremendous job, making one map out of the lot of them and getting all those ch
annels in their right places. He borrowed a sheet of paper from the Mastodon, who was busy with a tin-opener, and began to see what he could make of it. A creek down there. Yes. Roger had done that pretty well, and then the southern channel, and the ways through the Mango Islands. … It would pan out all right in the end, but it was going to take time.
At first, while he worked, he hardly heard the talk that was going on around him, but later, when he came to rubbing out lines that had gone wrong in his sketch and darkening others that were there to stay, he heard sentence after sentence that showed the other people were thinking of anything but mapping. “Barbecued Billy-goats. … I mean Great Congers … It’ll be the best ever.” That was Nancy’s voice, urging something, and he knew that the explorer in Nancy was only skin deep. That was the pirate coming through. Or had the pirate got somehow mixed up with the Eel? Oh well, it didn’t matter, so long as the map got done. Then he heard Bridget: “And you have promised, haven’t you? Even Susan says I’m old enough.” Then Roger, in consultation with the brothers: “I don’t see how we can make a really good one. We’ve used nearly all the wood we could find for boiling kettles.” Then Daisy, breaking in: “Don’t you worry about that. You wait till tomorrow morning.” “What about your whistle, Roger?” said the Mastodon. “Oh Gosh!” said Roger. “I’ve left it in your boat.” Roger hurried up the ladder, and presently “The Keel Row” sounded on deck, and Daisy and Nancy and then Peggy and the Eel brothers began stamping their feet in time with it.
Susan said, “Look here, John, put away those maps. We’ll want the table to lay out the feast. … And there’s no room to dance down here. Clear out, everybody, if you can’t keep still.
SEMAPHORE ABC. “YOU CAN MAKE THE LEGS DO ANYTHING YOU LIKE”
The final preparations were made by the Mastodon and Susan alone, hardly able to hear each other speak because of the thunder on the decks overhead. There was still plenty of light outside, but the Mastodon lit the hurricane lantern and hung it from a hook. Then, with a grin at Susan he unwrapped a big box of crackers. “Mother had got them for my birthday,” he said. “But I told her it would be waste to keep them.”
“Ready now,” called the Mastodon, but no one heard him. “READY!” he shouted. The music of the whistle was cut off short, and musician and dancers came down to their supper.
Tea, ham, bread and butter, tinned peaches, cheese biscuits, chocolate biscuits, and cake went down well. There were paper caps in the crackers and Bridget looked well in a pink crown and the Mastodon even better in a pale blue bonnet.
“Jolly good feast,” said Roger, when at last he could eat no more.
“Bridget and eel will be much better,” said the Mastodon. “You wait till tomorrow night. … If only I catch a decent lot. … You won’t want me for exploring tomorrow,” he added. “You won’t be able to do much anyway.”
John looked at his map. “There isn’t an awful lot left to do,” he said. “The most important bit’s that northern shore we didn’t finish. We’ve got to settle whether there’s a North West Passage or not round behind the Blackberry Coast. And we’ve got to find out if there’s a North East Passage to make Peewitland an island. And then there’s the road across the Red Sea.”
The Mastodon looked up at the tide-table nailed to the wall. “High water before eight,” he said. “That means low water about two. No good in boats with a falling tide. All through the middle of the day there won’t be any water except in the main channels. Just right for doing the Wade.”
“We’ll do the road while the tide’s out,” said John. “And we might have a go at the Northern Coast while it’s coming in again. The road won’t take long. Couldn’t you come then, to try that gap?”
“What about the ceremonial stew?” said the Mastodon. “Eels are awful to catch. I may have to keep at it all day as soon as I’ve got a good lot of worms.”
“And we’ve got to get ready for the corroboree,” said Daisy, looking at Nancy.
“We shan’t want guides for mapping the road,” said John. “And when that’s done there’ll be only that northern part left. But it’s the most important bit of all.”
“We’ll get the whole thing done,” said Nancy. “But don’t you start thinking of going off on a voyage tomorrow afternoon. It’s a waste of good savages not to be attacked by them. And if you’re all away somewhere else, they’ll have nobody to attack. And you can’t have a decent war dance without a bit of war.”
“We’ll be ready for them,” said John. “Four of them against seven. They won’t have much of a chance.”
Nancy grinned. “You wait and see. The Swallows’ll be up against a horde.”
The tide had begun to fall again when they went up the ladder and looked round from the deck. The explorers hurried down into their boats to get away before the water left them. Daisy and her brothers, with smaller, shallower boats, waited for a last private word or two with Speedy’s skipper.
“It was a grand feast,” Roger called out.
“Thank you very much,” shouted the others.
“Three cheers for the Mastodon,” shouted Roger.
“Jolly good thing we didn’t have it the other night,” said Nancy. “Much more fun with the cabin busting full.”
They rowed away.
“Race you home,” said Nancy. “Starting now with sails down.”
There was frantic bustle in both boats. Yards were yanked to mast heads, tacks hauled down, rudders hurriedly shipped. Every second mattered with only such a little way to go.
“Whoever gets a foot ashore first,” cried Nancy, as the two boats, almost touching, shot out into Goblin Creek.
“Our rudder’s a bit stiff,” said Susan, who was steering Wizard. “I say, Titty, are you sure you got it properly shipped?”
“Let’s have another shot,” said Titty. “I jammed it in in an awful hurry.”
“It’s sometimes wobbly and sometimes stiff,” said Susan. “There’s something awfully wrong with it.”
“Carry on as it is,” said John. “You’re steering all right. We won’t have a chance if we stop. Bring your weight a wee bit forward Titty. Good. We’re gaining. Gosh, it’s going to be pretty close.”
“Wind’s on our shore,” said Susan. “Will you lower sail before we come in?”
“Lose if we do,” said John. “Nancy won’t. I’ve got the centreboard up. Steer for the mud just this side of the piles, and let your sheet go as you touch. Roger, are you ready to jump for it? She said ‘First one ashore’.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Roger.
The two boats headed for the shore together. Peggy was scrambling forward in Firefly, ready to jump.
“Look out, Nancy,” called John suddenly. “Give us room. Lots of piles under water. …”
He was too late.
“Bring her in the other side of the hard,” he shouted to Susan. “Now … Let go your sheet. Jump, Roger. … Jump. …”
There was a simultaneous splash, as Roger and Peggy, from opposite sides, landed in the mud on the narrow pathway, and grabbed each other to save themselves from falling.
“Dead heat,” said Peggy.
“Something’s happened,” said Susan. “We’re stuck. It’s the rudder. I can’t move it at all.”
Everybody in Wizard, except Roger who was in mid air at the time, had felt a sudden jar. Firefly had slid easily up the mud beside the hard and come to rest. Wizard had stopped as if she had hit a wall, her bows still afloat.
“She’s on the piles,” said John. “Everybody get ashore. I’ll lower sail afterwards.”
They scrambled out into the water. Bridget splashed up the pathway and ran to the camp to tell Sinbad he should have his supper in a minute.
John pulled gently at the boat. She moved a little from one side to the other but not forward. John waded to her stern and felt under water.
“Rudder’s caught between two of those beastly piles,” he said. “I’ll have it out in a minute.”
“I
say,” said Nancy. “I’m awfully sorry. I thought you were coming in on the other side.”
“Well, so we have,” said John. “But some of those piles stick up a long way. … Look here. You hang on to her.”
John got hold of the slim wooden rudder with both hands, reaching down under water. He gave a tremendous tug and freed it.
“Fairly jammed between them,” he said. “Oh gosh! Look at this.”
The rudder, in an ordinary way, swung on two pintles which dropped into gudgeons. Titty, hurriedly shipping it, had slipped the upper pintle into place, but had missed the gudgeon with the lower one, so that it was no wonder that Susan had found steering difficult. And now, the upper pintle itself had been bent sideways when the rudder caught in the piles.
“We’ll bend it straight again,” said Nancy. But John had already tried.
“No good,” he said. “They’ve both got to be in a dead straight line. And she’s not our boat. I’ll have to take it to a boat builder.”
“Karabadangbaraka!”
The three Eels were passing on their way home.
“Akarabgnadabarak!” replied the explorers.
“What’s happened?” said Daisy.
“Bust a rudder,” said Nancy.
“Where’s the nearest boatbuilder?” called John.
“Up the town creek,” shouted one of the Eels. “A good one close to the Yacht Club!”
The little boats were moving fast, they too racing on their homeward way.
“Palefaces!” Daisy’s voice shrilled over the water. “Hi! White Chiefs!”
“Hullo!”
“You’d better wear hats tomorrow night.”