The Mystery on Cobbett's Island (13 page)

He put the money to pay for the food on the table and they left. They raced back to the car.

“Did you find them?” asked Brian, impatient for news, as they all were.

“No,” gasped Trixie, trying to get her breath. “But I have some really good leads—at least I
think
I have,” she declared, remembering this time to be a little more cautious.

“Hurry up and tell us,” said Jim. “Even
I
don't know what Trixie found out in there.”

“Well, before we went in I looked through the window and spotted some boys who looked kind of suspicious. So we went in and sat in the booth right back of them,” Trixie began.

“Oh, step on it, Trix. Skip the details and tell us what you found out,” Mart urged her impatiently.

“Anyway, I caught the words ‘flashing buoy' so I pressed my ear right up against the back of the booth and heard most of the conversation. One of them was boasting that some guy in Greenpoint had asked him to go out and shoot out the buoy lights. He said it was Slim something-or-other who had thought up that little caper. It sounded like a foreign name. I couldn't hear it clearly. Anyway, it seems Slim was sore about being turned down by the Coast Guard and swore he was going to keep them hopping.”

“Good work, Trix. At least you got part of his name and where he's from. I think that's terrific. Were you scared?” asked Honey.

Trixie looked at Jim and conceded that she was glad he had been with her. “That's quite a joint!” she said. “But now we should get this information to Abe, don't you think?”

“We can telephone him as soon as we get back,” Brian suggested. “I hope he doesn't think this is another wild-goose chase.”

“You can bet he won't. Not after what Captain Price must have told him tonight!” Trixie exclaimed.

It was later than usual by the time they all got to bed, and everyone was glad he could sleep a little later the next morning. Once the excitement had let up, they realized they were more tired than they had at first thought.

Trixie tossed and turned in her bed, unable to go to sleep, with visions of Jimmy's Place, the chart, the coming clambake, and the open sea going round and round in her head.

Diana, realizing how restless Trixie was, got out of bed and very quietly, so as not to disturb Honey, went into the bathroom, returning with a washcloth which she had wrung out with cold water. She sat on the edge of Trixie's bed and put the folded cloth on her forehead, patting her arm gently until she felt the tension ease. Before long, Trixie yawned sleepily and mumbled, “Thanks, Di. Good night.” It was but a few minutes then before they were both asleep.

The Bob-Whites were just finishing breakfast the next morning when they heard the familiar beep-beep of the Ice-Box. Honey ran out to tell Peter they would be ready in a minute. “We always have to wait for Mart to finish the last bite of toast or pancake, or whatever we're having,” she said. “I think his legs are hollow.”

The others came out almost immediately, and Peter smiled when he saw Mart with a half-eaten bun in his hand. “I bet we'll fill you up tonight, Mart Belden,” he said as they were getting into the car. “You've never seen so much food in your life as they have at one of these clambakes.”

“Who's giving it?” Trixie asked as they were driving off.

“It's the yacht club's opening party,” Peter answered. “Some of us pitch in and help set it up, but it's really supervised by old Captain Clark. He's the island clambake expert. He's a real character.”

Pirate's Cove was on the other side of the island from The Moorings. It was approached by a dirt road
that twisted and turned through woods of scrub oak, locust, and wild cherry trees. Peter told them the whole area was a game sanctuary, and as he drove slowly along, they saw a doe shyly looking at them from the trees. Jim, who was a great nature lover, pointed out a fawn whose dappled baby coat made it almost invisible among the leaves of the underbrush. A cock pheasant sauntered jauntily across the road in front of the car, as if to show off his brilliant plumage and beautiful long tail. A covey of quail rattled up into the air from their hiding place in the leaves.

“I guess they don't recognize their bob-white cousins,” Jim remarked, but when Peter stopped the car and Jim imitated the little crooning noise the birds make when feeding, he was able to lure them back into view.

“What a wonderful place this would be for my camp!” continued Jim, whose fondest dream was to establish a year-round outdoor school for children who, like himself, had been orphaned.

Pirate's Cove was a quiet little bay, surrounded by a broad stretch of sand. Peter said it got its name from the legend that a pirate had once been forced to take refuge there and may have buried his treasure on shore. “Every island I've ever heard of has its favorite pirate,”
he added with a laugh, “so Cobbett's is not to be outdone, but so far, no one has found a thing except Indian arrowheads and stone utensils.”

“Even Sleepyside has a legend about Captain Kidd,” Trixie said. “He must have been quite a traveler!”

As they piled out of the car, they saw a huge fire already burning in a shallow pit down on the beach. An old man was adding pieces of driftwood with the help of Cap and some boys.

“Come on, slowpokes!” yelled Cap as he came up to meet them. “Help us bring some big rocks. The fire's almost ready for them.”

“Rocks on a fire?” Trixie queried, her brows furrowed in bewilderment.

“It does sound crazy,” said Peter, “but the idea is to get the rocks as hot as possible and then cover them with wet seaweed.”

“That would make steam, I gather, but where does the food fit into the picture?” asked Brian.

“Are you embarking on a scientific investigation of this mysterious process, or are you just making sure you won't have to eat algae for supper?” quipped Mart.

“I'm merely taking careful note of the procedure for future reference, dear brother. Here, grab a rock!” And
Brian tossed a big stone to Mart who, pretending to be knocked down as he caught it, rolled over and over in the sand.

Peter, introducing them to Captain Clark, said, “Our island's most eminent seafarer. Captain Clark's been sailing since he was a boy of—how old, captain?”

“I was twelve when I first went to sea, just sixty years ago, come July,” Captain Clark answered in a booming voice.

He was a huge man with thick hair which was almost white, and a heavy beard. Trixie thought, as she looked at him, that he would make a perfect Santa Claus if he were dressed for the part. Instead, he was wearing faded blue denim pants held up by an intricately woven rope belt, and a red and white striped shirt which accentuated the breadth of his shoulders and the girth of his chest. His arms were tattooed from elbow to wrist with assorted mermaids, ships, and anchors. Very bright blue eyes shone out from under his shaggy brows, and in a stentorian voice he was barking orders for them to “set to, and heave up the rocks, else we'll have no clambake tonight.”

Once the pile of stones on the fire was hot, it was covered with seaweed. Then Captain Clark led them all up to his truck parked in the shade near the edge of the
woods. He pulled back a canvas which covered a great variety of baskets. Some contained clams, others, ears of corn still in their husks, and in still others there were plump chickens, wrapped in cheesecloth. There were lobsters, and a basket of potatoes, each of which had been wrapped in aluminum foil. Everything was carried to the fire and laid on top of the seaweed. When the captain had checked to be sure each item was in its proper place, an enormous tarpaulin was carefully spread over the whole pile and weighted down with sand which the boys shoveled on top of it.

“Now we'll let this steam all day, and tonight—” Words failed the captain as he thought of the succulent feast, and so he merely kissed the fingers of his right hand and pointed to the heavens in an elaborate gesture of anticipation.

Everyone had been so busy there had been little time for talk, but now that the work was done, they went down to the edge of the beach to scoop up water onto their hot faces and to dip their tired feet. After they had cooled off, they sat down in the shade of the trees, and Cap, calling to the captain who was still fussing around the clambake to be sure everything was in the proper order, asked him if he would tell them a story.

“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.