Teetoncey and Ben O'Neal

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  The Odyssey of Ben O'Neal

  1

  About the Author

  Copyright © 1975 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. 1975

  First paperback edition published by Avon Books 1976

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Taylor, Theodore, 1921—

  Teetoncey and Ben O'Neal/by Theodore Taylor.

  p. cm.

  "The Cape Hatteras Trilogy."

  Sequel to: Teetoncey.

  Summary: When the English girl Ben saved from a shipwreck

  recovers her memory and speech and reveals to him that two

  chests full of silver went down with the ship, Ben and his friends

  try to recover them without arousing suspicions.

  [1. Outer Banks, N.C.—Fiction. 2. Buried treasure—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.T2186Tf 2004

  [Fic]—dc22 2003067700

  ISBN 0-15-205296-8

  ISBN 0-15-205297-6 pb

  Text set in Dante

  Designed by Lydia D'moch

  Printed in the United States of America

  A C E G H F D B

  A C E G H F D B (pb)

  To Pete Glazer

  Good newspaperman, good teacher, good friend

  Laguna Beach, California

  June 1974

  1

  ALTHOUGH THESE INCIDENTS happened long ago, I clearly remember feeling the fool, standing there with tears on my cheeks just because the British castaway had found her tongue instead of always staring at me as if I were a beach ghostie. In truth, she was the sand ghostie or had been.

  This many years later, I still cannot say why I wept, which is not a manly thing to do, be you twelve or twenty-four. Perhaps it was because I had figured she was a hopeless orphan vegetable with addled brains and no tongue—then suddenly, she was cured; could think and speak. Perhaps it was because I cared more about her than I ever allowed myself to admit. Whyever the reason, I felt the pure watery-eyed fool.

  Just a few minutes later, about eight-thirty of that same stormy night, I also recollect that Mama rose from the girls bedside and said to me, "Ben, you talk to the Mistress Appleton while I git a drop o' Purple."

  She smiled down on the pale castaway. "That'll make you sleep like a warm stone." Then Mama padded off on her gray felt slippers, which she usually wore after sundown.

  Something struck me. The Mistress Appleton? That sounded like we had somebody important in the house. Never before had I heard Mama call any ungrown female a "mistress." In fact, up to the previous hour, when I had forced the London girl to face the gale and roaring surf, we'd called her Teetoncey simply because we hadn't known her true name. The word means small of any amount on our Outer Banks of North Carolina.

  It would take some proper attention, I recall thinking, to implant the new name of Wendy Lynn Appleton in my mind. But that wasn't the problem at the moment. I didn't exactly know what to say to her.

  Having wiped away those embarrassing tears, still thoroughly uncomfortable, I finally managed, rocking on my seaboots about six feet from her, "Gale'll be over soon."

  The wind was already losing its high whine, shifting more to due east than north after its quick smite at our Cape Hatteras coast. Midnight would see it down to a sigh.

  Nodding slightly, but now evidently disinterested in both the weather and me, the girl, her skin flour white from the evening's very unusual ordeal, eyes dull from shock, turned her daisy head toward the window though there wasn't much to see out there through the beading lances of water on the panes. The streaks glistened in the soft orange reflection of the table lamp.

  Boo Dog, my gold hound, a Labrador by breed, rose up slowly from the oval rag rug, curved his back in luxury, and then moved to the other side of the bed and wisely put his head in a position to be stroked. The girl took a hand from beneath the crazy-patch comforter and began to rub his scalp, though she didn't seem to be aware she was doing it. She knew him better than she thought.

  But it was quite obvious to me that she didn't want to talk to anyone at the moment and I could certainly understand why. Only survivor of the wrecked barkentine Malta Empress, she had been mauled by the sea, smacking her head on the bottom, blocking her mind for twenty-eight perplexing days. Yet now that she'd come out of her mental darkness and silence, I desperately wanted to hear all about that shipwreck. Perhaps on the morrow she'd say how it all happened. Her story would be of interest to everyone on the Carolina Banks since wrecks were our heritage.

  Mama came back with a jelly glass, filled halfway with the milky-purple liquid. A single dollop of that sticky medicine, kept in a small vial in the kitchen, was enough for sweet dreams. It was another of my older brother Reuben's contributions from his various voyages, and was said to be opium and something else, up from a Chinese shopkeeper in Trinidad. It worked, as I could testify.

  Mama sat down on the beds edge as the girl turned her head from the window. Mama said, softly and cheerfully, "Now, take this in one long gulp an the morrow'll be a brighter day."

  The girl swallowed it and then dropped her head back to the pillow, closing her red-rimmed eyes, and returning her small hand under the comforter.

  Face soft as lamb's belly, full of tenderness and concern, Mama said, "We'll jus' visit silent till you steal off."

  Not a peep was made by the girl.

  The ship's clock in the living room ticked on and the wind outside settled lower to a strum. There was no other sound in our cottage tucked back in a hammock not too far from Heron Head Shoal. Distantly, the surf crashed on the beach. I even muted my breath, watching the face with the pointed nose relax and sag into Purple peace.

  Soon Mama nodded and we eased out of the pine-board room which had been my own for years; leaving the door open and the oil lamp aglow.

  We lit another lamp and went into the kitchen. Mama rinsed the medicine glass in the wooden sink bucket and then sighed tiredly. December 5, 1898, was a wearing night. "Think I'll put some tea on, Ben," she said. The yaupon tea, made from holly, was her defense against harassment, natural and otherwise. Whiskey and wine never touched the lips of Rachel O'Neal. She was as good a Methodist woman as I have ever known.

  I sat down at the table. "What'd she say about the wreck?"

  "Not much."

  "But, Mama, you were in there for almost an hour before you called me in."

  "Ben, the child come out o' shock. She didn't know who she was; who we were. She hadn't remembered a thing till this night. I wasn't concerned about no shipwrec
k. I asked no questions."

  "Well, she must have said something."

  "I have an ideer she'll say it all later."

  There had been very little schooling on the Banks when Mama was a girl, born 1848, and her grammar lacked. She said "git" and "ideer" and other things, but all the old people spoke much the same way. Mainlanders sometimes considered us ignorant and quaint, especially when some of us said "hoigh" for high and "toide" for tide and "oiland" for island and "loight" for light, but that's the way it was.

  Jabez Tillett might say, for instance, "The toide is hoigh at Body Oiland." And that would be "foine" with everyone. Or Rasmus Gaskill, who liked his nip of Moyock corn likker, might say, "When oi git too toight, oi clim' up an' down the steps o' the loight three toimes an' oi'm sober."

  Some of us talked that way but not all of us. Some said our dialect came from London cockneys, the lower classes; others said it was from Devon, also in England. It wasn't worth any argument.

  Mama carried the kettle into the front room and put it on top of our heating stove, which was shaped like a fat iron bottle; kicking the grate with her heel to stir up wood char. Then she returned to the table and sat down, smoothing her middle-parted gray hair.

  Thoughtful a moment, Mama then said, "All she knew was that the ship had wrecked. She'd seen her poor mother swept acrost the deck. Then a big wave got her an' her papa an' they tried to swim to the beach. An' that's all she remembered till you had her in the surf tonight. She didn't even know it had happened a month ago. Imagine that."

  I asked, "You tell her that her mama and papa had gone loo'ard?"

  Mama nodded. "I had to, Ben. She asked. I think she alriddy knew, up in the corners o' her mind. I couldn't tell her yes they was alive tonight an' no they was dead tomorrow. I said both had drownded. You heerd her sobbin' but she took it a lot better'n I expected. You wake up in a strange place an' have somebody tell you your folks are dead. Mercy!"

  I nodded, relieved that I had not been in the room during that grim duty.

  Mama let out a long sigh. "What is worse is that she has no one in England, not a livin blood soul to go to. I did find that out. That lil' girl is purely alone. Lord knows what grief is up in her head an' what will come out bye 'n' bye. An' where does she go now? An' who to? That'll be things all o' us has to face on the morrow."

  I looked off toward the room in which the Teetoncey girl slept. No wonder she couldn't find her tongue to talk much now. That girl, without sole kin, surely had a hard road to travel. I wondered what kind of orphan homes they had in London. Maybe workhouses after the age of eight.

  "You ask her age?"

  Mama replied, "She turned twelve a week before that ship come up out o' the Barbadoes, sailing from the port o' Bridgetown, a place Reuben has mentioned."

  She was the same age as me. Yet she didn't look it. Being so small, she looked more nine or ten. Female ages are always tricky, I've found. Mama looked the same at fifty as those pictures of her at thirty-five—thin but noble and couthy, which means capable, with a nose as prominent as Bodie Island Lighthouse.

  The kettle announced itself from the living room and Mama moved to it, speaking on the way. "While I was fixin' that Purple, I came to think I'd ask Filene to take his time callin' the assistant inspector who will undoubtedly call the British consul. Teetoncey needs some grace 'fore bein hauled aroun' by officials, don't you agree?"

  I nodded. Filene Midgett was our cousin, the keeper who commanded the U.S. Lifesaving Station at Heron Head. He had been involved with the wreck of the Malta Empress.

  Mama poured the steaming water over the chopped and log-dried holly leaves for the cup of tea. We bought yaupon by the small bale though it was going out of fashion in favor of mainland tea in cans. "So long as no one's grievin for her anywhere, it won't hurt to help her acrost her river o' sorrow. Least we can do, Ben."

  Once again I nodded my agreement but sensed she had something else in mind. Far more.

  "So you tell Filene in the mornin not to hurry hisself phonin' the assistant inspector nor that consul, a man that I don't like very much, at best. Knowin' how governmint works, they'll do nothin but lay confusion out here an' Teetoncey don't need that now." Mama halted herself for an out-loud reminder. "I got to start rememberin' her proper name. Wendy! Wendy! Wendy!"

  Mama fell silent a moment but had that planning look on her face, chewing her lower lip. "I jus' recollected somethin'. A week ago I ordered two gingham dresses from Chicago for Teetoncey but have let that letter sit. After you tell Filene in the mornin', you make the mail boat."

  It would take six weeks to two months for that order to be filled, I well knew. "She's going to be around that long?"

  Mama didn't answer directly. "Least we'll send her back to London lookin respectable."

  The few clothes she was wearing when she washed ashore in early November had been pretty much mommicked, torn up, in the surf and I had never found her other shoe. She was decked out in borrowed clothes and borrowed shoes, plus a dress Mama had made for her.

  I gazed at the Widow O'Neal, as she was often known on the Banks, but did not speak my mind—Mama, why don't you plain admit you plan to keep that castaway girl awhile?

  Instead and much safer, I said, "I'll go on to bed." That way, I might possibly get to sleep before she slipped in beside me and started to snore, which she could do with great power.

  I did look in on the girl. She was having her sweet dreams. Her mouth was slightly open and her breathing was deep. That Purple medicine was not to be denied. Boo Dog had returned to the oval rug and lifted his big yellow head to stare at me as if I were an intruder. That fickle dog had taken it on himself to guard her, losing some noticeable respect for me.

  I went on to bed but did not drop off right away. Mama stayed up for almost another hour, far past her eight o'clock bedtime unless it was a revival night in Hatteras village or up in Manteo. I'm sure she was thinking, too. Perhaps the good Lord had decided to compensate her for the sea's killing of a good and righteous but unaffectionate husband, John O'Neal, and my second brother, Guthrie O'Neal. I am equally sure she had thought about it during the many previous days when the girl was ill of mind. Now that it was positively known that Teetoncey had no living soul to tend her, a purpose in the surf casting her up was clear. The good Lord had ordained it.

  I heard Mama move out of the kitchen and into that small room where I'd lived since the crib. She was probably looking down on the Teetoncey girl again, probably fussing with the comforter for a moment; lowering the wick in the lamp so it couldn't possibly smoke.

  I heard her whisper something to dumb old Boo Dog. Maybe, "Rout me if she wakes."

  That woman certainly deserved a girl inas-much as I hadn't turned out to be one. I had long lived with the painful fact that she'd hoped I'd be a female, then I wouldn't go to sea nor be a surfman and die in a gale. She'd even dressed me as a girl when I was five years old. I pretended I was fast asleep when she came in, and concentrated deeply on listening to the ocean roar.

  A few miles away, to south and east, rows of high waves, cresting white in the blackness, rolled over Diamond Shoals, which lay off Cape Hatteras, and then raced toward the beach, finally passing under the warm beam of Hatteras Lighthouse. On north from Hatteras Point, they marched endlessly, going past Wimble Shoals and lesser bars to spend tons of water against our fragile but defiant Outer Banks.

  Though the sand strips appeared to be slumbering for the night, entirely deserted, I knew there was movement on foot and mule and sand pony. Surfmen of the lifesaving stations were plodding along in the cold dampness above the grasping white water, now and then looking out to sea. During and after a gale of wind were the perilous times when the ships loomed suddenly, riding helplessly in spindrift that whipped off the long crests of Atlantic Ocean rollers.

  I hoped that no ship would wreck that night yet it was always an exciting time when they did.

  2

  WHEN CALM DAYLIGHT widened over the be
ach and sand ridges and flats, the sound-side marshes, the scattered silvered houses and red-roofed surfmen stations, sharpening the whalebone fences at some of the villages, word began to carry. Soon, it would go from Nags Head and Kill Devil Hills on over to Roanoke Island, and then down to Buxton Woods and Hatteras. I carried it willingly.

  Teetoncey could talk and knew who she was.

  Long before she was awake, recuperating from the events of the rough night, I rode Fid, our brown and white tackie, just an old, ugly big-hoofed sand pony, up to Heron Head Lifesaving Station and skidded off in back, by the cistern, near the door.

  I opened it without formality and yelled in at Keeper Midgett, startling him.

  "She's not crazy. Her names Wendy Lynn Appleton, and she's from London."

  Shoving back from the table and his swamped plate of pancakes and molasses, Filene said approvingly, "Well, I declare..."

  Surfinan Jabez Tillett, sitting opposite Filene, was caught with his mouth full and sputtered something no one could have detected.

  Mark Jennette, another surfman, just in from patrol, said in astonishment, "Is that so?"

  Lem O'Neal, third cousin of mine, and Malachi Gray were also eating.

  They'd all thought the British girl was hopeless.

  I took delight in repeating Mama's instructions. "Mama said don't call the inspector until you talk to her." I had changed it to make it a little more positive and saw Filene redden, as usual. There was always an undeclared war between Keeper Midgett and the Widow O'Neal, though they had admiration for each other. Yet I could never resist throwing on verbal coal oil.

  I jumped back on Fid to depart the sturdy two-story government shingle that housed the surfmen and all their rescue equipment and lifesaving boats. The building sat on dunes above the high-water mark, with a lookout cupola wedged in the juniper shingle roof.

  Filene must have untangled his massive body from the table because he filled the doorway in a jiffy. He yelled, "How did it happen?"

  Rapping both feet into Fid's shaggy belly, so he'd go to a fast trot, I yelled back, "Mama'll tell you. I got to make the mail boat, Cap'n."