Arthur Ransome - Swallows and Amazons (Complete Series)

Everybody except the parrot went down to Horseshoe Cove that afternoon. A great deal of work was done on the mast, which was now almost everywhere about the same size as the old mast that John was copying, though not so smooth. Roger went to Swainson’s farm and Mary gave him a fork and left him in the farmyard and washed him up afterwards when he had half filled a tin with the best of all kinds of worms, “the friskiest,” as he said, “he ever saw.” He was a long time at the farm, because there was no one to hurry him away, and he and old Mr. Swainson took their chance and did a lot of singing together.

“Did they say anything about Beckfoot?” asked Titty, when Roger came back with his worms.

“No,” said Roger, “but Mr. Swainson said it was no wonder I was catching no fish because rain was coming and the fish knew it.”

John, Susan and Titty looked anxiously up at the sky. It was certainly looking rather thick, and there was a heaviness in the air which all of them had thought was in their own minds. Perhaps it only meant that it was going to rain. They cheered up at once.

“We’ll want some more wood in Peter Duck’s,” said Susan, “so as not to have to dry it.”

“We haven’t tried the new tents in the rain,” said John. “Let’s go and get the wood, and have all snug before the storm.”

John put the shaping plane and callipers in his knapsack to take them up to Swallowdale, and presently the whole party were loading themselves with dry sticks near the top of the woods. Already, as they trudged home beside the stream they could see over the moor dark purple sky behind the hard edges of the hills.

It rained heavily that night. The first drops fell as they were tidying up after supper, but that was no more than a shower. It was not until after “Lights out” that it settled down to rain in earnest. There was very little wind with it, just steady, tremendous downpour.

“Take care not to touch the walls of your tents,” called John.

“I’m not,” said Roger.

“It’s trickling down the tent-pole by my head,” said Titty.

“Don’t let it trickle into your sleeping-bag,” said the mate.

“How’s your tent, Susan?”

“None come in yet.”

For some time the four explorers lay still listening to the rain drumming on the thin tent walls within a few inches of their faces. Then John remembered the guy-ropes, wriggled out of his sleeping-bag and nightclothes and slipped, a naked savage, into the rain.

“What are you doing?” asked the mate.

“Loosening the guy-ropes,” said the savage, “and tumbling over them in the dark,” he added suddenly as he fell to the ground with a bump.

“You’ll get your pyjamas wet.”

“No, I won’t,” said John. “It’s a good thing I thought of it. The ropes are as stiff as wires already.”

The rain made a different noise on the slackened tents. John crawled into his own, dried himself as well as he could, and settled down again to try to sleep.

“Listen to the beck,” said Titty.

The beck was sounding a new note, hurried, impatient, not stopping for anybody, quite different from the quiet music of the little waterfalls to which, in Swallowdale, the explorers had grown used.

“If it rains like this to-morrow, the Amazons won’t come anyway,” said Susan.

“And there won’t be any work on the mast,” said John.

Titty shivered. That would mean another day without knowing what had happened at Beckfoot. With the others, in sunlight, she was almost ready to be sure that the great-aunt had gone on scolding and being horrible in spite of the burning of the candle-grease image. At night, alone in her tent, in darkness, she remembered the casting of the spell and the feeling of the image in her hands as she ran out of the cave. Something must have happened.

“Mr. Swainson says they’ll bite like anything when the rain comes,” said Roger. He was still thinking of trout.

For a long time the explorers lay awake listening to the rain on their tents and the rushing noise of the stream and the new roaring of the waterfalls. But the rain was softer now. The noise was a steady noise and in the end even Titty fell asleep. In the morning they crawled out into a sodden world. The rain had stopped, but every stone was shining. The pale sunlight was glittering in thousands of drops that clung to every sprig of heather. The wet bracken was bowing to the ground. There was brown in the white foam of the waterfall, and the stream that flowed through Swallowdale was dark and coppery and had risen so much that it lapped the stones of Susan’s fireplace, and was within a yard or two of the tents.

“It’s a good thing we weren’t still camped in Horseshoe Cove,” said Susan.

“The dam’s gone,” called John, who had gone up to look at it. “At least one side of it has.”

“May I go for the milk?” asked Titty, but at that moment Mary Swainson herself climbed up into Swallowdale bringing her own can.

“Well,” she said, “I thought I might find you washed away. I see you’re not, and that’ll be good news for Mrs. Walker. How are you for dry wood?”

“We’ve got lots in the cave,” said Susan.

“That’s good. Dad says the rain’s given over now, and weather’s going to pick up again.”

Susan had brought out the explorers’ milk-can. Mary Swainson filled it from her own, and turned to go back down the valley.

“Do stop and have some tea like you did the other day,” said Titty, but Mary was in a hurry. She was rowing across to the village, and, besides that, was going to Holly Howe to report that all was well.

Titty ran after her and went with her as far as the lower waterfall.

“Have you had any news from Beckfoot?” she asked nervously.

“News? Nay. What news?”

“Not about anyone being ill there, or anything like that?”

“Not a word,” said Mary.

“Not about Miss Turner?”

“Nay. I’m sure I’d have heard if folk knew of anyone ailing there. I saw Jack last night. He’s loading logs round from over yonder, and working late, and he comes right by Beckfoot. He’d heard nothing of it or he’d have said.”

With that Titty had to be content.

Again Captain Flint did not come to Horseshoe Cove. Again there was no news of any kind from the Amazons. But in the afternoon, mother came rowing into the cove just as John was putting his tools away and Titty was going out on the rocks to have a last look in hopes of seeing Captain Flint.

Mother came up to Swallowdale, felt the sleeping-bags and found them all dry, and praised Susan for making a good fire and making use of the sunshine as well for a thorough airing of anything that might seem a little damp.

But she, too, had no news from Beckfoot.

“I expect they got in an awful row,” said Susan, telling how one thing after another had helped to make Nancy and Peggy late in spite of running home by the road.

“I know they got into trouble over the shipwreck,” said mother. “They were late then, poor dears, anybody would have been.”

“I wish we could find out,” said Susan.

“They’re probably locked up on bread and water,” said John.

“Much more likely made to stay with their grown-ups and have afternoon tea,” said mother. “Why, Titty, what’s the matter?”

Titty and mother walked up Swallowdale together, to look at the water pouring through the gap at one side of the dam. Roger was going with them, but John grabbed him just in time. Titty told mother the whole dreadful story of the candle-grease, and how the great-aunt had made Mrs. Blackett cry, and how Titty had wanted to make the great-aunt feel weak and tired so that she would think of going away to the seaside and leaving the Blacketts to be happy, and how, somehow, the candle-grease image had slipped and been melted and burnt up in the fire, and did mother think the great-aunt could be all right, because really Titty had not meant it to be burnt up but only melted just a very little.