Into the Wind: The Odyssey of Ben O'Neal Read online

  The Odyssey Of Ben O'Neal

  Theodore Taylor

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  ...

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map of The Outer Banks

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  About the Author

  An Odyssey/Harcourt Young Classic

  Harcourt, Inc.

  Orlando Austin New York San Diego Toronto London

  Copyright © 1977 by Theodore Taylor

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or

  transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including

  photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system,

  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work

  should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department,

  Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

  www.HarcourtBooks.com

  First Harcourt Young Classics edition 2004

  First Odyssey Classics edition 2004

  First published by Doubleday and Company, Inc. 1977

  First paperback edition published by Avon Books 1979

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Taylor, Theodore, 1921-

  The odyssey of Ben O'Neal/by Theodore Taylor,

  p. cm.

  "The Cape Hatteras Trilogy."

  Sequel to: Teetoncey and Ben O'Neal.

  Summary: The further adventures of Ben and Teetoncey as they take to the

  sea—he, to find his brother, and she, to escape a forced return to England.

  [1. Sea stories.] I. Title.

  PZ7.T21860d 2004

  [Fic]—dc22 2003067705

  ISBN 0-15-205299-2

  ISBN 0-15-205295-X pb

  Text set in Dante

  Designed by Lydia D'moch

  Printed in the United States of America

  A C E G H I D B

  A C E G H F D B (pb)

  For Brandy Golden Boy,

  dog of Wendy Lynn and hound about the house,

  model for the mule-headed character of "Boo"

  Laguna Beach, California

  September 1975

  1

  THERE IS A trusted saying on our remote Outer Banks of North Carolina that we who live there are all frail children of the moody Mother Sea, that she watches over and controls our every destiny. Shapes us as she carves out sandbars. Puts us in raging waves or calm, sunny waters. Makes fools out of us now and then, and isn't beyond having a good laugh herself. However, in her behalf, the old people claim she takes a long and careful time before making up her mind on how to dispose of us. She'll beckon us mysteriously when she's ready and not a tide before. There is also steadfast belief from Kill Devil Hills clear to Hatteras village and Ocracoke Island that she talks to us constantly and often we don't listen.

  I do believe that now, although I didn't pay it much attention in March 1899, when my various voyages began. The Mother Sea was having a good laugh for herself during that trying period.

  In the chill, gray dawn of a Tuesday, in the midmonth, sun reddening but not yet mounting the horizon, I stood at the dew-coated rail on the quivering stern of the steamer Neuse, looking south down Croatan Sound, which lies between Roanoke Island, of Lost Colony fame, and the flat, marshy Carolina mainland. Below my feet, glassy bubbles and white froth boiled out from the railway ferry as she throbbed steadily toward the Pasquotank River and Elizabeth City, North Carolina, where a train would be waiting to carry me on to Norfolk, across the Virginia border.

  A knowledgeable but plotting girl once told me my face smacked poetically of sun on Irish bogs and Land's End winters. I can't at all vouch for that, but I can tell you how I looked that Tuesday otherwise. I was clad in a sturdy brown wool jacket, good knickers, black stockings without holes in them, and a seaman's blue wool cap (courtesy of surfman Mark Jennette), and by my legs rested a tubby canvas bag containing clothes, a pair of rubber boots, writing paper, a towel, and a bar of soap. So far as I knew, I was well equipped for what lay ahead but not so well off for what lay behind.

  Way down the sound I could still make out the little boat's sails but could no longer see the comforting, hunched forms of Keeper Filene Midgett and surfman Jabez Tillett. Already they were beating away in the sharpie, and in late afternoon would arrive at Chicky Dock, on the Pamlico Sound. The Outer Banks, a string of small islands with low dunes and hammocks, bent oaks and scrub holly, flank the sounds, with a watching and listening and talking Atlantic Ocean on the other side, to east. Without doubt, Filene and Jabez would be safely to home at Heron Head Lifesaving Station, which Keeper Midgett commanded, well before supper of wild pig or Mattamuskeet deer or roast ruddy duck, over which to talk about the event of the morning: my great departure.

  Home, I couldn't help but think. With people they knew. Places they knew. Standing there, I shivered, I remember, and it wasn't from any icy wind. Disgraceful tears, once more (and I was certainly glad that the men in the sharpie hadn't seen them), had stopped. I'd resolutely fought them back, but somehow my throat kept on crowding. Only ten minutes before, when the Neuse pulled away from the dock at Skyco, Filene and Jabez had let the sharpie drift on out into the channel, then waved a last farewell before hauling sail up.

  Never would they know just how close I'd come to yelling, "Take me with you."

  A few minutes later, with three miles of brown water already separating the sailboat from the high-stacked white steamer, I thought very hard about turning myself around in Elizabeth City, swallowing my pride as I was gulping the gummy throat lumps, admit I was scared right down to my high-top shoes. Go home and unpack my seabag and wait in the small shingle house near Heron Head for brother Reuben to return from his voyages in the Caribbean.

  I also distinctly recall hoping I'd see that sharpie come smartly about and race after the Neuse, finally catching it in Lizzie City, big Cousin Filene shouting up, "I been thinkin', Ben. You ought to wait to next year, when you're fourteen. Come on down an' git in this boat with us..."

  It didn't happen, of course.

  Then I tried to imagine what they were saying to each other and later found out I wasn't the width of six hairs off.

  FILENE: "I do deceive that boy may be tougher'n John O'Neal. Didn't leak nary a tear. Jus' stood there manly an' said good-bye. For sure, he is tougher'n Reuben. Why, the night his mama died, if he cried I didn't see it. He jus' took off south on that pony o' his."

  Well, I cried plentysome.

  FILENE: "But a dozen times this week I felt like tellin' Ben he shouldn't go. Too quick after his mama died. Too soon to git his feet wet. He should stay with us up to the station, or up to the Odens or Farrows or Gillikins, an' they all thought about offerin'..."

  I would have refused and they all knew it. I'd talked too bragging much about going out to sea; dug my own foolish pit, so to speak.

  FILENE: "Thirteen's a mite young to go to open sea, but Ben could always rightfully tell us that his brother had done it no older'n that. Others on the
Banks afore him."

  JABEZ: "That is true, Cap'n. I did myself." Jabez often took a big spit of Ashe's best plug after he said something profound and undoubtedly did this time.

  FILENE: "As I do recall, Reuben was not a month over thirteen when he went off to Norfolk. I remember that Rachel, God rest her soul, was beside herself."

  JABEZ: "That she was. I don't think it happened more'n a year after John O'Neal capsized."

  FILENE: "About then. But I think John O'Neal, God rest his heroic soul, too, would have been right proud today that he had a boy who'd buried his dead an' faced the wind."

  JABEZ: "Right proud." And then a six-to-eight-foot spit.

  In truth, I wasn't facing the wind, and the region between my chin and forehead must have looked like a wrung-out mop.

  I stayed by the rail until the peak of canvas vanished behind the first sun rays and then made my way toward the bow, pausing outside the lounging and dining saloon. It was richly carpeted in red, everything clean and shining. Forward were two long tables with snowy cloths, silver-colored cream pitchers, and thin little rose vases, minus roses because it wasn't summer as yet.

  Other passengers were already eating breakfast. The coffee smelled good, as did the frying pork belly. So, carrying my seabag inside, placing it down where I could watch it—Filene had warned of thieves north of Kitty Hawk—I advanced on one table and sat down at the far end, away from other diners. Looking around that saloon, I'd never seen such splendor.

  In a moment, a tall, elderly waiter in a starched white SS Neuse jacket with brass buttons on it placed a glass of water in front of me and said pleasantly, "Mornin'. We got some nice Smithfield ham today. Or some Philadelphy scrapple. Virginia trout. Grits 'n' gravy."

  From strain, my voice cracked when I answered. "Reckon I'll have some oatmeal, please." More and more, my vocal cords were doing that of late, the usual plague of change of life.

  Almost without thinking of it, I touched my pants pocket to see if the odd change was still there; let my hand slip stealthily to my breastbone to feel the fourteen dollars, my entire fund, bound tightly and hanging on a whistle lanyard, an idea of Filene's. It was safely there.

  I'd seen these steam railway ferries many times as they plied the sounds and had boarded this same vessel once, just recently, when delivering Teetoncey, the British shipwreck survivor who'd lost her parents and was headed back for London, England. But I'd never been a passenger myself and had no idea what they charged for breakfast. Oatmeal shouldn't be more than a few pennies, anywhere.

  "No ham 'n' eggs?" asked the waiter, tempting me.

  "Just some oatmeal, please," I replied, feeling hot and stuffy.

  "Shame we got no berries today," said the waiter, moving off toward the galley.

  Thirty minutes later, I was down on the second deck of the Neuse, leaning out of an open cargo port near the stern, throwing up. There was hardly a ripple on the Albemarle Sound and I could only guess that the sour gush of porridge wasn't exactly from seasickness.

  2

  THE FOLLOWING will not be of much interest to lucky people who travel trains often, but I must tell it all exactly as it happened.

  Lizzie City, North Carolina, with streetlights and brick buildings and more stores and people than I ever knew existed, was most impressive but did not compare to the mud-colored four coaches and baggage car of the Elizabeth City & Norfolk Railroad, Currituck line, as they sat behind an engine that made a heavy, metallic breathing sound. Though I wouldn't have cared to admit it to any living soul, never before had my eyes chanced upon a real train. I let them slowly travel the length of the busy platform, staying a long time on the engine. Just like the pictures in McClure's Monthly, all right.

  I had my confidence back. The fear and loneliness of an hour before had pretty much given way to pure excitement. Except for hollowness, my heaving stomach had settled down and I was beginning to believe I'd make it. Finally, I climbed the EC&N steps into the first coach, having a little trouble with my seabag. It almost knocked the hat off a fat lady following behind. But it was a very large hat. "Watch it, boy," she snapped, and I duly apologized, only to graze her again a few feet down the aisle.

  "Will you settle somewhere," she said, with unbridled annoyance. City people are short on both manners and forgiveness, I soon learned.

  "Yes, ma'am," I replied, feeling very awkward, all fumbling hands and feet, but also thinking that women on the Banks were never this jumpy, not even Mavis Gillikin, who often had spells of twitching nerves.

  Shoving the seabag onto a seat, I quickly pushed in behind it as the fat lady passed along with a snort and a searing look. No sooner had that happened when the man across the way leaned over. "Son, your bag is supposed to go back with the luggage or else put it under your seat." I felt foolish twice again but stowed it promptly.

  Just getting on the train is a considerably vexing chore, I discovered. But looking around, I'd never viewed such a fancy thing on wheels; far nicer than Reuben had described. The seats were padded and upholstered in nubby green. There were overhead electric lights; heating pipes ran down near the floor.

  Then everything happened at once. The conductor yelled, "All aboard." There was a slight jerk; then another, and I found myself holding my breath as the cars moved, a deep chomping sound coming from up ahead, creaking sounds from beneath. So this was how Reuben did it so long ago. For years, walking over the sand trails on the Banks, or in bed at night, I'd thought about this very day, and now it was here, suddenly spinning along. The station and the platform disappeared and the land began to rush by.

  A few minutes later, nose pressed against the window so as not to miss anything, I barely heard the conductor calling for tickets, and frantically searched around the seat. He stood over me and laughed. "It's in your hand."

  Clearly, I made a terrible mess of things that first twenty minutes, and it took another twenty to work up courage for something else I'd planned for a long time. I rose up, keeping my eyes strictly ahead, and went to the narrow mahogany door at the rear of the car, opened it, and stepped into the cubicle, locking the door securely behind me. For a moment, I just stood there in awe, looking down at the flush toilet, then up to the water chamber with the brass pull chain. An outhouse on wheels! And I promptly unbuttoned my pants to partake of the luxury.

  A moment later, I could hardly contain a shout of triumph as I reached for the iron knob on the chain. Holding the lid up, I watched joyfully as the water spewed down to the crossties of the roadbed. What an event!

  It was the first of my many experiences with modern conveniences, and I went back down the aisle as if I'd ridden a train a thousand times. Unfortunately, I did not fool one unkind railway employee.

  Just after we crossed the Virginia border, other side of Moyock, a harsh voice came thrusting up behind me. "Candy bars! Cookies! Apples! Pears!"

  Hovering near was a skinny, oval-faced, green-eyed boy in a baggy brown uniform, hat with a shiny plate saying ATLANTIC NEWS COMPANY on his head, blond hair spiking out from under it. In the crook of his long arm was a laden wicker basket ringed with chocolate bars.

  Suddenly realizing I was now hungry, I said, "I'll take an apple."

  The boy rested the basket on the seat arm. "You pick it. That'll be five cents."

  "Five cents?" I was stunned, though the apples were certainly larger and shinier than any I'd ever seen. But fine winesaps sold for a penny each at the Burrus store, in Chicky village, where I'd previously worked; plucking chickens, packing ducks in ice, head down; errands and such.

  "That's robbery," I said, withdrawing my hand.

  He eyed me coldly. "You wanted to buy it."

  "I don't now."

  The boy looked me over as if examining a possum held by the tail. "Where you goin'?"

  "Bound out to sea."

  He hooted. "To sea? You ain't old enough to sail bathtub boats."

  Well, despite the fact that he was trying to grow a mustache and doing a scraggly poo
r job of it, he didn't look a day over fifteen himself. Worse, he talked with a Yankee twang. Yet I couldn't help but be impressed with him. Here he was on these trains day after day. A merchant, no less. So, deepening my tone as much as I could, I looked the skinny peddler straight in the eye. "I'm old enough, all right. Seventeen."

  The boy grinned, balancing with the sway of the coach. "You a captain?"

  "No," I replied. "Just a sailor," I added, holding my temper.

  "You been to sea before?"

  "Many times." The Pamlico, on to which our rickety dock extended, was a sea of sorts.

  The insolent grin vanished. "Tar Heel, I don't even think you been on a train till today."

  Embarrassed, I looked around. Some of the other passengers were listening. The man across the way was laughing.

  "I watched you," the vicious seller went on. "Your mouth was wide open when you boarded in Lizzie City. I've seen hundreds like you. Real hayseeds."

  I felt fire spreading over my cheeks as he tipped his hat and went on down the aisle yelling about his apples and pears.

  3

  THE TRAIN RUMBLED along over the marshy land, whistling at last at Brand Creek Turnpike, slowing to curve around at Chatham Junction and begin the run directly east to Union Station. A few minutes later, I saw the outskirts of the city, marred with smoke, and a dryness came into my throat. Scared again. Houses, no more than twenty or thirty feet apart, and streets, some paved, stretched in every direction. A trolley car—and I'd heard of them—went by an intersection and the train curved widely, slowing and whistling, as other tracks suddenly sprouted alongside.

  I wiped at drops of sweat as the conductor came down the aisle yelling, "Nor-fawk, Nor-fawk..." The moment of trial was near on that fourteenth day of March.

  Finally, the train jerked to a stop by a long shed and I did what everyone else was doing: got off. Passengers threaded by me, baggage carts were rolling, and I finally moved with the throng, bewildered and bumping about.