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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 62875 ***</div>
<h1 class="pgx" title="">The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Queen Versus Billy and Other Stories, by
Lloyd Osbourne</h1>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10">
<tr>
<td valign="top">
Note:
</td>
<td>
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
<a href="https://archive.org/details/queenversesbilly00osborich">
https://archive.org/details/queenversesbilly00osborich</a>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p> </p>
<hr class="pgx" />
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<h1>The Queen versus<br />
Billy and<br />
Other Stories</h1>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="titlepage">
<p><span class="xlarge">THE QUEEN VERSUS<br />
BILLY AND<br />
OTHER STORIES</span></p>
<p><span class="large"><i>By</i> LLOYD OSBOURNE</span></p>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_title.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<p>Charles Scribner’s Sons<br />
New York . . . . 1900</p></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p class="center">Copyright, 1900, by<br />
<span class="smcap">Charles Scribner’s Sons</span><br />
<br />
<small>THE DEVINNE PRESS.</small></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak">
Contents</h2></div>
<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2" summary="table">
<tr><td> </td><td class="tdr">Page</td></tr>
<tr><td>The Queen versus Billy</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_3"> 3</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>The Beautiful Man of Pingalap</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_31"> 31</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>The Dust of Defeat</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_65"> 65</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>The Happiest Day of his Life</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_109"> 109</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>Father Zosimus</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_127"> 127</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>Frenchy’s Last Job</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_171"> 171</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>The Devil’s White Man</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_213"> 213</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>The Phantom City</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_237"> 237</a></td></tr>
<tr><td>Amatua’s Sailor</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_287"> 287</a></td></tr>
</table>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak">THE QUEEN VERSUS BILLY</h2></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">THE QUEEN VERSUS BILLY</h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">IT was the <i>Sandfly</i>, Captain Toombs, that brought
the news to Sydney and intercepted her Majesty’s
third-class cruiser <i>Stingaree</i>, as she lay in Man-of-War
Cove, with her boats hoisted in and a deck-load
of coal as high as her bulwarks, on the eve of a long
trip into the western Pacific. It was the same old
story—another white man sent to his last account in
the inhospitable Solomons, where if the climate does
not kill you the black man soon will: “Thomas
Hysslop Biggar, commonly known as ‘Captain Tom’;
aged forty-six; British subject; occupation, trader in
coprah; place of residence, Sunflower Bay, island of
Guadalcanar; murdered by the natives in September,
1888, between the 7th and the 24th, and his station
looted and burned.” There was trouble in store for
Sunflower Bay; they had killed Collins in 1884, and
Casseroles the Frenchman in 1887, and had drawn
upon themselves an ominous attention by firing into
the <i>Meg Merrilies</i> in the course of the same year.
Murder was becoming too frequent in Sunflower
Bay, and Captain Casement, while policing those
sweltering seas, was asked to “conduct an inquiry
into the alleged murder of T. H. Biggar, and take
what punitive measures he judged to be necessary.”</p>
<p>It was not everybody who would have liked such a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span>
task; in dealing with savages the innocent are too
often lumped with the guilty, and while you are
scattering death and canister among the evil-doers,
you are often mangling their wives and children in a
way horrible to think of. Captain Casement had seen
such things in the course of his eventful service, and
though no stickler where his duty was concerned, he
was neither a brute nor a coward. He was a simple
gentleman of character, parts, and conscience, with
refined tastes, and a horror of shedding innocent blood.
Under his command were five officers: Facey, acting
first lieutenant, Burder, acting second, Assistant
Paymaster Pickthorn, Engineer Sennett, Dr. Roche,
ten marines, and a crew of eighty-eight men.</p>
<p>After a roundabout cruise through the pleasant
groups of Fiji, Tongataboo, and Samoa, with little to
occupy him save official dinners, tennis parties, and an
occasional dance ashore, Captain Casement headed his
ship for the wild western islands and pricked out a
course for Sunflower Bay. One hot morning, when
the damp, moist air made everything sticky to the
touch, and the whole ship sweated like a palm-house
from stem to stern, the <i>Stingaree</i> ran past the towering
cliffs and roaring breakers of Guadalcanar, and
let go her anchor off the blow-hole in Sunflower Bay.
It was a melancholy spot to look at, though beautiful
in a gloomy and savage fashion, and the only signs
of man’s occupancy were the blackened ruin of the
trader’s house, a small mountain of coal half covered
with creepers, and a flagstaff surmounted by a skull.
There was no visible beach, for the mangroves ran to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span>
the water’s edge, save where it had been partially
cleared away by the man whose murder they had
come to avenge; nor did the closest scrutiny with the
glass betray any tell-tale smoke or the least sign of
habitation. Captain Casement surveyed the place
with his keen, practised eyes, and the longer he looked
the less he liked it. The desolation jarred upon his
nerves, and his heart fell a little as the blow-hole
burst hoarsely under the ship’s quarter, and the everlasting
breakers on the outer reef droned their note
of menace and alarm.</p>
<p>“Goodness gracious!” he said, in his abrupt, impatient
fashion, as he stood beside Facey on the bridge
and superintended the laying of the kedge. “I don’t
half like the look of it, Mr. Facey; it’s a damned nasty-looking
place.”</p>
<p>The first lieutenant nodded. He was a burly, inarticulate
man, to whom speech was always a serious
matter.</p>
<p>“And see here, Facey,” went on the captain. “Guns
don’t matter much; none of the devils shoot fit to
speak of; but their poisoned arrows are the very
deuce—you know that was the way Goodenough was
killed—and you must keep your weather eye lifting.”</p>
<p>“Am I to go, sir?” asked the lieutenant.</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Casement. “You must take Pickthorn
and twenty-five men in the first cutter. Send Burder
in the second, with twenty more, to cover your landing.
And for God’s sake, Facey, keep cool, and neither get
flustered nor over-friendly! Don’t shoot unless you
have to; and always remember they are the most<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>
treacherous savages in the world. Be gentle and firm,
and do everything with as little fuss and as great a
show of confidence as you can.”</p>
<p>“All right, sir,” said Facey.</p>
<p>Half an hour later, Facey, with twenty-five well-armed
men, had vanished into the mangroves, while
Burder and his crew lay forty yards off the shore in
the second cutter, the officer devouring “Under Two
Flags,” and the men smoking and yarning in the
bottom of the boat. On the <i>Stingaree</i> two light guns
were cast loose and made ready to open fire at a moment’s
notice, and a lookout man was stationed in the
maintop. The doctor busied himself in dismal preparation,
while the captain paced the bridge with quick
and anxious steps, fretting for the safety of his party
ashore.</p>
<p>Hour after hour passed and brought never a sound
from the melancholy woods. The fierce sun mounted
to the zenith and sank again into the western sky.
Casement was beside himself with suspense; a cup of
tea served him for lunch, and he smoked one cigar
after another. A deep foreboding brooded over the
ship; the men sat or walked uneasily about the waist;
the maintop was clustered with anxious blue-jackets;
and old Quinn, the gunner, a half-crazy zealot whose
religious convictions were of the extremest order,
pattered off prayers beside the shotted guns. Towards
five o’clock, when things were looking desperate and
all began to fear the very worst, a sudden shout
roused the ship, and the shore party, noisy and triumphant,
were seen streaming down to the beach. A<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>
few moments later the two boats pulled slowly off to
the ship, Facey’s company the richer by a black man,
whose costume consisted of little more than the ropes
he was bound with. A thundering cheer hailed them
as they swept under the stern and drew up at the
starboard gangway, and Facey was soon reporting
himself on the bridge.</p>
<p>“I can’t tell you what a relief it is to see you,” said
the captain. “I wouldn’t pass another such day for
a thousand pounds!”</p>
<p>Facey was dog-tired, and his tattered clothes and
scratched face gave evidence of a toilsome march.
But he was in a boisterous good humour. He had
acquitted himself with marked success, and was thankful
to have brought back his party and himself safe
and sound.</p>
<p>“Well, how did you make out?” asked the captain.</p>
<p>“We landed at the trader’s house,” began Facey,
“followed a path that led inland, and reached some
Kanaka huts. Not a soul in ’em; clean gone, every
man jack. Followed along a well beaten path which
led us into the next bay, bearing north-northeast
half-east, keeping the liveliest lookout all the time.
Three miles along we ran into another village, chock-a-block
with niggers. It looked a nasty go; lots of
guns and spears, and everybody pretty skittish, kind
of they would and they wouldn’t! I recollected your
orders and went slow; you know what I mean, sir—worked
off the presents, and smoked my pipe leisurely.
By and by they came round, tricky as the devil, on to
make friends or to eat us alive, whichever seemed the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>
more promising. I let out what I wanted, and bit by
bit found out that all the Sunflower Bay crowd were
there, even to old Jibberik, the chief—him Toombs
said was the biggest scoundrel of the lot. He looked
pretty sick and knew mighty well what we were after.
I talked broadsides to that old man, and put it to him
that he had better give up the chaps who had killed
the trader than waltz back to the ship and be shot
instanter himself—for somebody had to go, I said;
and just as soon as I got the old codger alongside of
me I gave him to understand that he was my bird,
and kept my cocked pistol pointed at his belly. After
no end of a fuss, and lots of frothing and loud talk,
with things looking precious ugly now and again, we
ended by coming out on top. Then they dragged
along a young nigger named Billy, a returned labour-boy
from the Queensland plantations, they said, and
handed him over to me as the murderer. I thought
it was more than likely they’d give us some cheap
nigger they had no use for, or some worn-out old customer,
as they did in Pentecost to Dewar of the <i>Royalist</i>;
but I think this Billy was all right. A lot of niggers—Billy’s
own push, I suppose—looked as black as
fits and wouldn’t come round for a long time. Then
I lashed the prisoner’s hands and tied him to one of
our men, and talked pretty straight to Jib. I made
him promise he’d bring his people back at once, and
be down on the beach, himself and two others, to-morrow
morning to give evidence against Billy.”</p>
<p>“You’ve done well, Mr. Facey,” said Casement, as
his lieutenant drew to a close, “and I tell you the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>
story sha’n’t lose when I report it to the admiral.
You had better go now and get your clothes off,” he
added.</p>
<p>Facey jumped to his feet. “I am sure I am awfully
obliged to you, sir,” he said.</p>
<p>“Ugh, that’s all right,” said Casement, in his testy
way. “What have you done with the prisoner?”</p>
<p>“Turned him over to the sergeant for safe-keeping,
sir,” returned the officer.</p>
<p>“Leg-irons?” asked Casement.</p>
<p>“Leg-irons, handcuffs, and a dog-chain,” returned
Facey, with a grin. “He’s cost too much to take any
chances of his getting off.”</p>
<p>The first thing next morning, old Jibberik was
brought aboard with his two companions. He was a
disgusting old gorilla of a man, with a hairy chest and
a cold, leering eye—a mere scarecrow of humanity,
of a type incredibly cruel and debased. He had
worked up enough courage overnight to beg for
everything within sight, and he fingered the clothes
and accoutrements of the seamen like a greedy child.
His two friends were not a whit behind him, either in
manners or appearance. They clicked and chattered
like monkeys, and showed extraordinary fearlessness
in that armed ship amid the swarming whites; the only
man they seemed to dread was old Jibberik himself;
and they wilted under his piercing glance like flowers in
the sun, whenever his baleful attention fell their way.</p>
<p>Four bells was the time set for the court martial;
at nine o’clock Casement sent for Facey and told him
he must prepare to defend the prisoner.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>“Burder will prosecute for the Queen,” he said.
“Pickthorn will act as clerk. Sennett, Roche, and I
will compose the court.”</p>
<p>The first lieutenant was overcome. “I don’t think
I can, sir,” he said feebly. “I never did such a thing
in my life; I wouldn’t know where to begin, or to
leave off, for that matter.”</p>
<p>“You can leave off when we hang your prisoner,”
Casement returned, with his bull-doggish air. “Of
course, it’s all a damned farce,” he went on. “Somebody’s
got to act for the nigger; it’s printed that way
in the book.”</p>
<p>“I’ll move for an adjournment,” said Facey.</p>
<p>“I’ll be hanged if you will,” said the captain.
“It’s a beastly business, and we have got to put it
through.”</p>
<p>Facey groaned.</p>
<p>“Well, do you think I like it?” said Casement.</p>
<p>The lieutenant saluted and walked away to find his
prisoner.</p>
<p>Billy was clanking his chains in a canvas hutch
alongside the sick-bay, where a man lay dying. He
looked up as Facey approached, and his face brightened
as he recognised his captor. He was a good-looking
young negro, and the symmetry of his limbs,
and his air of intelligence and capacity, stood out in
pleasant contrast with the rest of his comrades in
Sunflower Bay.</p>
<p>“Billy,” said Facey, “they are going to make judge
and jury for you by and by; and I am to talky-talky
for you.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>“All same Queensland,” returned Billy. “May the
Lord have mercy on your sinful soul!”</p>
<p>Facey was stupefied. “Where in thunder did you
learn that?” he demanded.</p>
<p>“Oh, me savvy too much,” said Billy.</p>
<p>“Now, see here,” said the lieutenant. “You didn’t
kill that trader?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I kill him,” said Billy, cheerfully.</p>
<p>“You did?” cried the other.</p>
<p>“White fellow no good; I kill him,” said the
prisoner.</p>
<p>“If you tell that to the captain he’ll shoot you,”
said Facey. If the prisoner was to be defended he was
going to give him all the help he could.</p>
<p>The black boy looked distressed and nodded a forlorn
assent.</p>
<p>“You’ll be a big fool to say that,” said Facey.</p>
<p>“White fellow no good; I kill him,” repeated Billy.</p>
<p>“You unmitigated idiot, you’ll do for yourself,”
cried the lieutenant, angrily. “What’s the good of
my talking for you if you can’t stand up for yourself?”</p>
<p>Billy began to whimper; the other’s loud voice and
threatening demeanour seemed to overwhelm him.</p>
<p>Facey was struck with contrition. “Now shut up
that snivelling,” he said, more kindly. “Tell me the
truth, Bill. Isn’t this some humbuggery of old Jib’s—a
regular plant, to shield somebody else at the cost
of your hide?”</p>
<p>Billy rolled his eyes, and wiped away the tears with
a grimy paw.</p>
<p>“White fellow no good; I kill—”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>“You be damned!” cried his legal adviser.</p>
<p>At ten o’clock the court martial was assembled on
the quarter-deck. The captain, with his brawny
shoulders thrown forward, and his hands deep in his
trouser pockets, had all the air of a man in the throes
of indigestion. On either side of him were Sennett and
Roche; and in front, beside a table covered with a
flag, was Pickthorn, with a clerkly outfit and a Bible.
Billy stood in chains beside a couple of marines, looking
extremely depressed. The old gorillas, their filthy
kilts bulging with what they had begged or pilfered,
were in charge of the sergeant, who had all he could
do to prevent their spitting on the deck.</p>
<p>Facey was the first one sworn. He deposed as to
the capture and identity of the prisoner. Then Billy
was led up to the table and told to plead.</p>
<p>“Kiss the book and say whether you murdered the
trader or not,” said the captain.</p>
<p>“White fellow no good; I kill him,” quavered the
prisoner.</p>
<p>“Pleads guilty,” said Casement to the clerk.</p>
<p>“What did you do it for?” demanded the court.</p>
<p>Billy reiterated his stock phrase.</p>
<p>“Take him away,” said the captain.</p>
<p>Jibberik was the next witness. He kissed the book
as though it were his long-lost brother, and looked
almost unabashed enough to beg it of Pickthorn. I
shall not weary the reader with his laboured English,
that lingua Franca of the isles which in the Western
Pacific is known as Beach da Mar. He told a pretty
plain story: Billy and the trader had always been on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>
bad terms. One night, crazy with palm-toddy, Billy had
sneaked down to Captain Tom’s house and shot him
through the body as he was reading a book at supper.
As to the subsequent burning and looting of the station
the old savage was none so clear, sheltering himself
in the unintelligibility of which he was a master.
His two companions followed suit, and drew the noose
a little tighter round Billy’s throat.</p>
<p>Then rose Burder for the Queen. He was a cheeky
youngster, with pink cheeks, a glib tongue, and no
end of assurance.</p>
<p>“I don’t propose to waste the time of the honourable
court,” he began; “but if ever there was a flat-footed,
self-confessed murderer, I would say it is the dusky
gentleman in the dock. The blood of Biggar cries
aloud for vengeance, and it would be a shame if it
cried in vain,” he said. He would point to that dreary
ruin of which the defunct had been the manly ornament,
radiating civilisation round him like a candle
in the dark, and then to that black monster, who had
felled him down. This kind of thing had got to stop
in the Solomon Islands; the natives were losing all
respect for whites, and he put it to the court whether
they would not jeopardise the life of the new trader
if they acquitted the murderer of the old. Now that
they had got their hand in, he would go even further,
and hang up with Billy the three witnesses for the
prosecution, old Jib and the other brace of jossers,
who had villain and cutthroat stamped—</p>
<p>“Stick to the prisoner,” cried the court.</p>
<p>“I bow to correction, sir,” went on Burder. “I say<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>
again, this is no time for half-measures; and I say
that Sunflower Bay will be a better place to live in
without Mr. Billy. I leave it to the honourable court,
with every confidence, to vindicate justice in these
islands by condemning the prisoner to the extreme
penalty of the law. The case for the Queen is closed,
gentlemen.”</p>
<p>“I believe you appear for the defence, Mr. Facey?”
said Casement, as the Queen’s prosecutor took his
seat.</p>
<p>“I do, sir,” returned the first lieutenant, nervously.</p>
<p>“I should like to say, first of all,” he began, “that
I will not cross-examine these dirty old savages who
have given evidence against my client. I quite agree
with everything my honourable friend has said regarding
them, and I cannot think that the court will attach
undue importance to any evidence they may have
given. We’ve been told that the Kanakas are losing
all respect for whites, and that if we don’t take some
strong measures there will be the deuce to pay in these
islands. Perhaps there will be; but is that the British
justice we’re so proud of, or is it fair play, gentlemen,
to the unfortunate wretch who is trembling before
you? From what I’ve seen of the whites in this
group, I can say emphatically that I’m in a line with
the Kanakas. Now, as to this Billy: What is there
against him but his own confession? and that, I beg
leave to point out, ought not to be taken as conclusive.
As like as not he is the scapegoat for the whole bay,
and has been coached up to tell this story under the
screw. Just look one moment at old Jib there, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>
see how his friends wither when his eyes fall their way.
For all we know to the contrary, his gibberish and
click-click may be to the tune of ‘Billy, you son of a
gun, I’ll cut you into forty pieces, or flay you alive if
you don’t stick to what I’ve told you.’ After all, what
have we learned from Billy? Nothing more than this:
‘White fellow no good; I kill him.’ Is that what anybody
would call a full confession? Does it give any
clew or any details as to the motive or the carrying
out of this murder? It may be, indeed, that Billy is
a monomaniac with a confirmed delusion that he has
killed Biggar; the court may smile, but I think I am
right in stating that such things have occurred and
have even led to miscarriages of justice in the past. I
tell you, gentlemen, I believe it was the whole blooming
bay that killed Biggar, and that Billy was just as
guilty or just as innocent as the rest. And there is
one thing I feel mortal sure about: that if we take the
prisoner outside the heads we will soon get the gag
off his mouth, and learn a good deal more about this
ugly business. Under old Jib’s search-light he’s got
to keep a close lip; but take him out to sea, and I
answer for it he won’t be so reticent. In conclusion,
gentlemen, I say again that the evidence in this case
is inconclusive; that the honourable gentleman who
has appeared for the Queen has failed to make out a
convincing case against my client; that Billy’s confession
in itself is not a sufficient proof that he committed
the crime charged against him; and that we
cannot take the life of a human being on such flimsy
and unsupported evidence.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>A dead silence fell upon the court when Facey drew
his case to a close and resumed his seat. Nothing
could be heard but the scratching of Pickthorn’s pen
and the reverberating growl of the blow-hole as it
fretted and fumed within for the screaming blast
which was soon to follow. Casement rammed his
hands deeper into his pockets, gnawed his tawny mustache,
and protruded his chin. At last, with a start,
he awoke from his reverie, and barked out:</p>
<p>“Mr. Sennett, as the youngest member, it is for
you to speak first.”</p>
<p>“I think he’s guilty, sir,” said Sennett.</p>
<p>Casement turned his quick glance on Roche.</p>
<p>“Same here,” said the doctor.</p>
<p>“The finding of the court,” said the captain after
another pause, “is that the prisoner Billy is guilty
of the murder of T. H.—what’s his name?—Biggar,
at Sunflower Bay, on the blank day of September,
1888, and is condemned to be shot as an example to
the island. Sentence to be deferred until I get the
ship back from New Ireland, where I’ve to look into
that Carbutt business and the outrage at MacCarthy’s
Inlet, on the chance of the prisoner making a further
confession and implicating others in his crime.
The court is dismissed.”</p>
<p>“Beg pardon, sir,” said Pickthorn, looking up from
his writing as the others rose to their feet. “What
am I to call the case?—the Queen <i>versus</i> Billy what?”</p>
<p>“Billy nothing,” said the captain, savagely. “Call
him William Pickthorn if you think it sounds better.”</p>
<p>The verdict of the court was explained to Jibberik,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>
and the old rogue and his pair of friends were landed
in the cove, the boat returning to find the ship with
anchor weighed and the loosened sails flapping on the
yards. In a few minutes she was steaming out to
sea, and every one grew confident that Billy’s tongue
would soon wag as he saw Sunflower Bay dwindle
behind him. But the dogged savage stuck to his
tale; he had but one reply to all inquiries, to all
probing and pumping for further particulars of the
murder. On his side the conversation began and
ended with: “White fellow no good; I kill him.”
On other topics he could be drawn out at will, and
proved himself a most tractable, sweet-tempered, and
far from unintelligent fellow. The men got to like
him immensely, keeping him in perpetual tobacco
and providing him with more grog than was quite
good for him. In the fo’castle it was rank heresy to
call him a murderer or to express any doubts regarding
his innocence. He became at once the pet and
the mystery of the ship, and his canvas cell the rallying-point
for all the little gaieties on board. He
played cards well, was an apt pupil on the accordion,
and at checkers he was the master of the ship! And
he not only beat you, but he beat you handsomely,
shaking hands before and after the event, like a prizefighter
in the ring.</p>
<p>Casement felt very uneasy about the boy; he grew
more and more uncomfortable at heart, and it was
the talk of the ship that the problem of Billy was
weighing on the “old man” like a hundredweight of
bricks. The whole business preyed upon him unceasingly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span>
and he dreaded each passing day that brought
the execution ever nearer. Billy kept him sleepless in
the steaming nights; Billy faced him like a spectre at
his solitary board; Billy’s face blurred the pages of
the books and magazines he had laid up for these
dreary days in the Solomons. Casement visited his
prisoner twice a day, against the better judgment that
bade him keep away and try to forget him. He never
said much after his first two ineffectual attempts to
wrestle with Billy’s stereotyped phrase and to extort
further information; but, chewing a cigar, he would
stare the black creature out of countenance for ten
minutes at a time, with a look of the strongest annoyance
and disfavor, as though his patience could not
much longer withstand the strain.</p>
<p>The officers were not a whit behind their captain.
Billy’s artless ways and boundless good humour had
won the whole ward-room to his side; and his grim
determination to die, at once bewildered and exasperated
every soul on board. The strange spectacle
offered of a hundred men at work to persuade their
prisoner to recall his damning confession, and on pins
and needles to save him from a fate he himself seemed
not to fear. The captain as good as told Facey that
if the boy would assert his innocence he would
scarcely venture to shoot him; and this intelligence
Facey handed on to his client, and, incidentally, to
the whole ship’s company. Never was a criminal so
beset. Every man on board tried in his turn to shake
Billy’s obstinacy, and to paint, in no uncertain colours,
the dreadful fate the future held in store for him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>
One and all they retired discomfited, some with
curses, others on the verge of tears. They swore at
him for a fool; they cajoled him as they would a
child; they acted out his last end with all fidelity to
detail, even to a firing platoon saying “Bang, bang!”
in dreadful unison, while a couple of seamen made
Billy roll the deck in agony. The black boy would
shudder and wipe his frightened eyes; but his fortitude
was unshaken.</p>
<p>“White fellow no good; I kill him.”</p>
<p>Then old Quinn got after him—wild-eyed, tangle-haired
old Quinn, the gunner, who was half cracked
on religion. He prayed and blubbered beside the
wretched boy, overwhelming him with red-hot appeals
and perfervid oratory. Billy became an instant convert,
and got to love old Quinn as a dog his master.
There was no more card-playing in Billy’s cell, no
more rum or tobacco; even checkers fell under the
iron ban of old Quinn, to whom every enjoyment was
hateful. Billy learned hymns instead, and would
beguile the weary sentry on the watch with his tuneful
rendering of “Go Bury thy Sorrow,” or “Nearer,
my God, to Thee.” He was possessed, too, of a Bible
that Quinn gave him, from which the old gunner
would read, in his strident, overbearing voice, the
sweet gospel of charity and good will. But if old
Quinn accomplished much, he ran, as they all ran
at last, into that stone wall of words which Billy
raised against the world. Contrition for the murder
which had doomed him to die was what Billy would
not show or profess in any way to feel. Rant though<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>
old Quinn might, and beseech on bended knees, with
his eyes burning and his great frame shaking with
agitation, he could extort from his convert no other
answer than the one which all knew so well. Billy’s
eyes would snap and his mouth harden.</p>
<p>“White fellow no good; I kill him.”</p>
<p>As the days passed, and the ship made her way from bay
to bay, from island to island, in the course of her
policing cruise among those lawless whites and more
than savage blacks, the captain grew desperate with
the problem of Billy. They all said that Casement
looked ten years older, and that something would soon
happen to the “old man” if Billy did not soon skip
out; and the “old man” showed all the desire in the
world to bring about so desirable a consummation.
Billy was accorded every liberty; his chains had long
been things of the past, and no sentinel now guarded
him in his cell or watched him periodically in his sleep.
Billy was free to go where he would; and it was the
fervent hope of all that he would lose no time in making
his way ashore. But though Casement stopped
at half a hundred villages, and laid the ship as close
ashore as he dared risk her, still, for the life of him,
Billy would not budge. Then they thought him
afraid of sharks, which are plentiful in those seas, and
kept the dinghy at the gangway, in defiance of every
regulation, in the hope that the prisoner would deign
to use it. But Billy showed no more desire to quit
the ship than Casement himself, or old Quinn.
He did the honours of the man-of-war to visiting
chiefs, and seemed to be proud of his assured position<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span>
on board. Go ashore? Escape? Not for
worlds!</p>
<p>Then the captain determined upon new measures.
He passed a hint to Facey, and Facey passed it to the
mess, and the mess to the blue-jackets, that they were
making things too comfortable for their prisoner.
For a while Billy’s easy life came to an abrupt conclusion.
His best friends began to kick and cuff him
without mercy. He was rope’s-ended by the bo’sun’s
mate, and the cook threw boiling water over his naked
skin. The boy’s heart almost broke at this, and he
went about dejected and unhappy for the first time
since he had come aboard. But no harsh usage, no
foul words, could drive him to desert the ship. He
stuck to it like a barnacle, for all the captain spun out
the cruise to an unconscionable length and stopped at
all sorts of places that offered a favorable landing for
the prisoner. But if Billy grew sad and moody under
the stress of whippings and bad words, it was as
nothing to the change in Casement himself, who
turned daily greyer and more haggard as he pricked
a course back to Sunflower Bay. Of course, he maintained
a decent reserve all along, and betrayed, in
words at least, not a sign of his consuming anxiety to
rid himself of Billy. But at last even his iron front
broke down. It was on the bridge, to Facey, when
the ship had just dropped anchor in Port McGuire, not
forty miles from Sunflower Bay.</p>
<p>“Mr. Facey,” he said, “send Mr. Burder ashore
with an armed party; tell him just to show himself
a bit and come off again.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>“Yes, sir,” said Facey.</p>
<p>“I am thinking they might take that fellow Billy to
translate for them,” he went on, shamefacedly.</p>
<p>The first lieutenant turned to go.</p>
<p>“Hold on,” said the captain, suddenly lowering his
voice and drawing his subordinate close to him.
“Just you pass it on to Burder that I wouldn’t
skin him alive—you know what I mean—if—well,
suppose that black fellow cut his lucky altogether—”</p>
<p>Facey smiled.</p>
<p>“Of course,” rasped out the captain, “I can’t tolerate
any dereliction of duty; but if the young devil
made a break for it—”</p>
<p>“Ay, ay, sir,” returned the first lieutenant, and
darted down the brass steps three at a time. He
called Burder aside and gave his instructions to that
discreet youngster, who was sharp to see the point
without the need for awkward explanations. A broad
grin ran round the boat when Billy was made to
descend and take his place beside Burder in the stern;
and so palpable and open was the whole business
that some aboard even shook the negro by the hand
and bade him God-speed.</p>
<p>A couple of hours later Burder embarked again and
headed for the ship in a tearing hurry. A chuckle
ran along the decks as not a sign of Billy could be
made out, and the nearing boat soon put the last
doubt at rest. There was no black boy among the
blue-jackets.</p>
<p>Burder skipped up the steps and saluted the captain
on the bridge.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>“I have to report the escape of Billy, sir,” he said,
with inimitable gravity and assurance. “I scarcely
know how it came to happen, sir, but he managed to
bolt as he was walking between Miller and Cracroft.”</p>
<p>“This is a very serious matter,” said the captain,
with ill-concealed cheerfulness. “I don’t know but
what it is my duty to reprimand you very severely for
your carelessness. However, if he’s gone, he’s gone,
I suppose. I hope you took measures to recapture
him?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” returned Burder. “Looked for him
high and low, sir.”</p>
<p>“Poor Billy!” said the captain, with a smile that
spoke volumes. “We’ll say no more about it, Mr.
Burder; it may be all for the best; but remember,
sir, it mustn’t happen again.”</p>
<p>“No, sir,” said Burder.</p>
<p>“How did you manage it, old man?” was the eager
question that met the youngster as he took shelter in
the ward-room and ordered “a beer.” All his messmates
were round him, save Facey, who was officer
of the deck and could not do more than hang in the
doorway.</p>
<p>“I tell you it wasn’t easy,” said the boy. “We
promenaded all round the place, and I tried like fun
to shake him off. I sent him errands and hid behind
trees, and talked of how we were going to shoot him to-morrow—but
it was all no blooming good! I was at
my wits’ end at last, and had almost made up my mind
to tie him to a tree and run for it, when I got a bright
idea. I pretended I had dropped my canteen under<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>
a banyan a mile behind the town, a kind of cemetery
banyan, full of dead men’s bones—a rummy place, I
can tell you. And when we got down near the boat, I
took the nigger on one side and bade him go and
fetch it. ‘And don’t you come back without it, Billy,’
said I. ‘I’ll be dismissed the service if I can’t account
for that canteen!’ Then he asked how long I
was going to stay, and I said a week; and he went off
like a lamb, while we squared away for the ship.
Didn’t you see the jossers pull!”</p>
<p>It had been the merest pretence that had taken the
war-ship into Port McGuire, and now that her merciful
errand had been so successfully accomplished, and
Billy reluctantly torn at last from those who had to
kill him, Captain Casement lost no time in ordering
the ship to sea. But as the winch tugged at the
anchor, and the great hull crept up inch by inch to
the tautened chain, a sudden yell roused the captain
on the bridge and struck him as cruelly as one of
those poisoned arrows he feared so much.</p>
<p>“Billy, on the starboard bow!”</p>
<p>Sure enough, a black poll protruded above the rippling
bosom of the bay, and two frantic arms were
seen driving a familiar dark countenance on a course
towards the vessel. It was Billy indeed, his honest
face marked with anguish and despair as he fought
his way to regain his prison.</p>
<p>Casement groaned. And for this he had been
holding the cruiser two long weeks in those God-forsaken
islands, and had invented one excuse upon
another to delay his return to Sunflower Bay! Billy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>
had been given a hundred chances to escape, and now,
like a bad penny, here he was again, ready to precipitate
the catastrophe which could no longer be postponed.</p>
<p>A great laugh went up when Billy presented himself
on deck, exhausted, dripping like a spaniel, and
sorely hurt in spirit. He began at once to blurt out
the story of the canteen, and made a bee-line for Burder;
but that intrepid youngster could afford to listen
to no explanations, and in self-defence had to order
Billy into the hands of the marines, who led him
away protesting.</p>
<p>Casement’s patience was now quite at an end. He
headed the ship for Sunflower Bay, and spared no coal
to bring her there in short order. Three hours after
they had passed out of the heads of Port McGuire the
<i>Stingaree</i> was at anchor off the blow-hole.</p>
<p>Facey was drinking a whisky-and-soda, and preparing
himself, as best he could, for the ordeal he
knew to be before him, when the captain’s servant
entered the ward-room and requested his presence in
the cabin.</p>
<p>“Mr. Facey,” said the captain, “take the doctor
and the pay and forty men well armed from the
ship, and when you’ve assembled the village take
that Billy and shoot him.”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” said the lieutenant, turning very pale.</p>
<p>“Faugh,” rasped Casement, “it makes me sick.
Damn the boy, why couldn’t he cut? Well, be off
with you, and kill him as decently as you know how.”</p>
<p>Billy did not at first realize how seriously he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>
involved in the plans of the shore party that was
making ready. He dropped into one of the boats
light-heartedly enough, and took his place cheerfully
between two marines with loaded rifles. But the
mournful hush of all about him, the eyes that turned
and would not meet his own, the tenderness and sorrow
which was expressed in every movement, in every
furtive look, of his whilom comrades, all stirred and
shook him with consternation. No one laughed at his
little antics. He tickled the man next him, and nudged
him, his friend Tommy, who could whistle like a
blackbird and do amazing tricks with cards; but
instead of an answering grin, Tommy’s eyes filled
with tears and he stared straight in front of him.
Billy was whimpering before they were half ashore,
and some understanding of the fate in store for him
began to struggle through his thick head.</p>
<p>There was no need to assemble the village. It was
there to meet them, old Jibberik and all, silent, funereal,
and expectant. The men were marched up to the
charred remains of the trader’s house and formed up
on three sides of a square, leaving the fourth open to
the sea. To this space Billy was led by Facey and old
Quinn, the gunner. The negro looked about him like
a frightened child and clung to the old man.</p>
<p>“Will you give the prisoner a minute to make his
peace with God?” asked old Quinn.</p>
<p>Facey nodded.</p>
<p>Quinn plunged down on his knees, Billy beside
him. For a brief space the gunner pattered prayers
thick and fast, like a man with no time to lose.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>“Billy,” he said at last, “as you stand on the brink
of that river we all must cross, as the few seconds
run out that you have still to live and breathe and
make your final and everlasting peace with the God
you have so grievously offended, let me implore you to
show some sorrow, some contrition, for the awful act
that has brought you to this! Billy, tell God you are
sorry that you killed Biggar.”</p>
<p>For a moment Billy made no answer. At last, in
a husky voice, he said:</p>
<p>“You mean Cap’n Tom, who live here before?”</p>
<p>“Him you hurled into eternity with all his sins hot
on him. Yes, Captain Tom, the trader.”</p>
<p>“No!” cried Billy, with a strangled cry. “Me no
sorry. White fellow no good; I kill him.”</p>
<p>“Quinn,” cried Facey, “your time’s up.” The first
lieutenant’s face was livid, and his hands trembled as
he bound Billy’s eyes with a silk handkerchief.</p>
<p>“Stand right there, Billy,” said the officer, turning
the prisoner round to face the firing party, that was
already drawn up.</p>
<p>“Good-bye, Missy Facey and gennelmen all,” whimpered
the boy.</p>
<p>“Good-bye, Billy,” returned the other. “Now,
men,” he added, as he ran his eye along the faltering
faces, “no damned squeamishness; if you want to help
the nigger, you’ll shoot straight. For God’s sake
don’t mangle him.</p>
<p>“Fire!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="nobreak">THE BEAUTIFUL MAN OF
PINGALAP</h2></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">THE BEAUTIFUL MAN OF
PINGALAP</h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">HE stood five feet nothing in his naked feet, a
muscular, sandy little fellow, with a shock of
red hair, a pair of watery blue eyes, and a tawny, sun-burned
beard, the colour of fried carrots. I could not
see myself that he was beautiful, and might have lived
a year with him and never found it out; though he
assured me, with a giggle of something like embarrassment,
that he was no less a person than the Beautiful
Man of Pingalap. Such at least was his name
amongst the natives, who had admired him so persistently,
and talked of him so much, that even the whites
had come to call him by that familiar appellation.</p>
<p>“You see,” he said, in that whining accent which no
combination of letters can adequately render, “it tykes
a man of a ruddy complexion to please them there
Kanakas; and if he gains their respeck and ’as a w’y
with him sort of jolly and careless-like, there’s
nothing on their blooming island he carn’t have for
the arsking.”</p>
<p>I gathered, however, as I talked with him in the
shadow of the old boat-house in which we lived
together at Ruk like a pair of tramps, that he, Henery
Hinton, had not presumed to ask for much in those<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>
isles from which he had so recently emerged. Indeed,
except for a camphor-wood chest, a nondescript valise
of decayed leather, a monkey, a parrot, and a young
native lady named Bo, my friend owned no more in
the world than the window-curtain pyjamas in which
he stood.</p>
<p>“It ain’t much, is it,” he said, with a sigh, “to show
for eight long years on the Line? Sixty dollars and
w’at you see before you! Though the monkey may
be worth a trifle, and a w’aler captain once offered me
a mee-lodian for the bird.”</p>
<p>“And the girl?” I asked.</p>
<p>“Who’d tyke her?” he replied, with a drop of his
lip. “Did you ever see an uglier piece in all your
life?”</p>
<p>“What do you mean to do with her?” I asked,
knowing that the firm had promised him a passage
to Sydney in the <i>Ransom</i>, and wondering what would
become of the unfortunate Bo, whom he was little
likely to drag with him to the colonies.</p>
<p>“You don’t think I’m going to desert that girl,” he
said truculently, giving me a look of deep suspicion.
“My word!” he went on, “after having taught her to
byke bread and sew, and regularly broke her in to all
kinds of work, it ain’t likely I am going to leave her
to be snapped up by the first feller that comes along.
The man as gets her will find himself in clover, and
might lie in bed all day and never turn his hand to
nothink, as I’ve done myself time and time again at
Pingalap, while she’d make breakfast and tend the
store. It would tyke several years to bring a new<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span>
girl up to her mark, and then maybe she mightn’t
have it in her, after all,—not all of them has,—and so
your pains and lickings would be wasted.”</p>
<p>“Lickings!” I said. “Is that the way you taught
Bo?”</p>
<p>“I’d like to know any other w’y,” he said. “My
word! a man has to master a woman, and there’s no
getting around it. With some you can do it with love
and kindness, but the most need just the whip and
plenty of it. That little Bo, w’y, I’ve held her down
and lashed her till my arm was sore, and there ain’t
a part of me she hasn’t bit one time and another!
Do you see that purple streak on my ear? I thought
I was booked for hydrophobiar that morning, for it
swelled up awful, and I was that weak with loss of
blood that when I laid her head open with a fancy trade
lamp I just keeled over in a dead faint. But there
was never no nasty malice in Bo, and if we had a turn
up now and then, she always played to the rules, and
never bit a feller when he was down; and she never
hurt me but what she’d cry her eyes out afterwards
and sometimes even arsk me to whip her for her
wickedness. My word! I’d lay it on to her then, for
I could use both hands and had nothing to be afryde
of. Of course that was long ago, when she was raw
and only half trained like. I don’t recollect having
laid my hand to her since the <i>Belle Brandon</i> went
ashore on Fourteen Island Group.”</p>
<p>Having gone so deeply into the history of her subjugation,
the Beautiful Man could not resist showing
me a proof of Bo’s dearly bought docility, and whistled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>
to her to come to him. This she did readily enough,
her ugly face wrinkling into smiles at sight of him.
She was a wizened little creature, with an expression
midway between that of a monkey and a Japanese
image. Of all things in the world, Bo’s chief pleasure
was in clothes, of which she possessed an inordinate
quantity, and it was her custom to make at least three
toilets a day. She wore tight-fitting jackets plastered
with beadwork like an Indian’s, with embroidered
skirts of bright cotton, and she incessantly occupied
herself in adding to her stock. Half the day her little
claws were busy with needle and beads, covering fresh
bodices with barbarous patterns, while the monkey
played about her and pilfered her things, and the parrot
screamed whole sentences in the Pingalap language.</p>
<p>My own business in the Islands was of a purely
scientific description, a learned society having
equipped me for two years, with instructions to
study the anthropological character of the natives, dip
into the botany of Micronesia, and do what I could in
its little-known zoölogy. I had meant to go directly
to Yap, but in the uncertainties of South Sea travelling
I had been landed for a spell on the island of
Ruk, from which place I had hope of picking up
another vessel before the month was out. Here I had
run across the Beautiful Man, himself a bird of passage,
waiting for the barque <i>Ransom</i>; and when I
learned that Johnson, the firm’s manager, had meant
to charge me two dollars and a half a day for the
privilege of messing at his table and seeing him get
drunk every night, I was glad to chum in with Hinton<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>
and share the tumble-down boat-house in which he
camped. Here we lived together, the Beautiful Man,
Bo, and myself, in a simplicity that would have shamed
the Garden of Eden. We slept at night on the musty
sails of some forgotten ship, and in the daytime Bo
prepared our meals over a driftwood fire. She baked
the most excellent bread, and made her own yeast
from fermented rice and sugar, which used to blow up
periodically, with an explosion like that of a cannon.
She also made admirable coffee, and a sort of sugar
candy in the frying-pan, as well as griddle-cakes and
waffles with the gulls’ eggs we used to gather for ourselves.
More than this she did not know, except how
to open the can of beef or salmon which was the inevitable
accompaniment of all our meals.</p>
<p>We rose at no stated hour in the morning, the sun
being our only clock, and, as we read it, a very uncertain
one. Hinton and I bathed in the lagoon, where
he taught me daily how to dive with the greatest good
humour and zeal, roaring with laughter at my failures,
and applauding my successes to the skies. He often
spoke to me in Pingalap, forgetting for the moment
his own mother-tongue, and would wear a hang-dog
expression for an hour afterwards, as though in some
way he had disgraced himself. On our return to the
boat-house we would find breakfast awaiting us, Bo
guarding it with a switch from the depredations of
the monkey and the parrot. After breakfast, when
the Beautiful Man and I would lie against the wall
and smoke our pipes, the little savage would wash her
dishes, and putting them away in an empty gin-case,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span>
would next turn her attention to the pets, cleaning
and brushing them with scrupulous care. Then, for
another hour, we would see no more of her, while she
retired behind a sail to effect fresh combinations
of costume, reappearing at last with her hair nicely
combed, and her breast dazzling like a robin’s. There
was to me something touching in the sight of this
little person doing the round of a treadmill she had
invented for herself, and spending the bright days in
stringing her unending beads. It seemed a shame
that she should be abandoned, so forlorn, solitary, and
friendless, on the alien shore of Ruk; and the matter
weighed on me so much that it often disturbed my
dreams and gave rise to an anxiety that I was half
ashamed to feel. Several times I spoke to the Beautiful
Man on the subject, drawing a little on my imagination
in depicting the wretchedness and degradation
to which he was meaning to leave poor Bo, who
could not fail, circumstanced as she was, to come to a
miserable end. He always took my lecture in good
part; for, in fairness to the Beautiful Man, I must confess
he was the most good-natured creature alive, and
used invariably to reply that he would not think of
doing such a thing were it not for the pressing needs
of his health, which, he assured me with solemnity,
was in a bad way. I never could learn the exact
nature of his malady, nor persuade him into any
recital of his symptoms beyond a vague reference
to what he called constitutional decay. Of
course, I knew well enough that this was a mere
cloak to excuse his conduct to Bo, whom I could see<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>
he meant to desert in the most heartless fashion, if in
the meantime he failed to sell her to some passing
trader. This he was always trying to do, on the sly,
for he had enough decency left to screen the business
from my view and carry on the negotiations with
as much secrecy as he could manage. But the prospective
buyer invariably cried off when he was shown
the article for sale, however much it was bedizened
with beads and shined up with oil, and the matter
usually ended in a big drunk at the station, from
which the Beautiful Man was more than once dragged
insensible by his helpmeet. He even hinted to me that,
owing to our long and intimate relations, I might myself
become Bo’s proprietor for a merely nominal
sum; and when I told him straight out that I had
come to the Islands to study, and not to entangle myself
in any disreputable connection with a native
woman, he begged my pardon very earnestly, and said
that he wished to Gord he had been as well guided.
But he always had a bargaining look in his eye when
I praised Bo’s bread, which indeed was our greatest
luxury, or happened to pass my plate for another of
her waffles.</p>
<p>“You’re going to miss them things up there,” he
would say. “My word, ain’t you going to miss
them!”</p>
<p>This remark, incessantly repeated, made such an
impression on me that I persuaded Bo to give me
some lessons in bread-making, and even extorted from
her, for a pound of beads paid in advance, the secret
of her dynamitic yeast; so that I, too, started a bomb-shell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>
of my own, and was half-way through a sack of
flour before it finally dawned upon me that here was
an art that I was incapable of learning. Bread I could
certainly make, of a peculiarly stony character, but the
trouble (as Hinton said) was the digesting of it afterwards.
Nor was I more successful with my waffles,
which glued themselves with obstinacy to the iron,
like oysters on a rocky bottom, requiring to be detached
in shreds by the aid of a knife. My efforts
convulsed the Beautiful Man, and were the means of
leading him, through his own vainglory and boastfulness,
to perpetrate a basaltic lump of his own, the
sight of which doubled Bo up with laughter, and
caused her to burst out in giggles for a day afterwards.
These attempts, of course, only enhanced her
own prowess as a cook, and Hinton was never tired of
expatiating on the lightness of her loaves and the
melting quality of her cakes and waffles, with a glitter
in his eye that I knew well how to interpret.</p>
<p>One day my long-overdue ship appeared in sight,
and, beating her tedious way up the lagoon, dropped
her anchor off the settlement. Captain Mins gave
me six hours to get aboard, and promised me, over
an introductory glass of square-face in the cabin, a
speedy and prosperous run to the westward. My
packing was a matter of no difficulty, for I had lived
from day to day in the expectancy of a sudden call to
start; besides, in a country where pyjamas are the rule
and even socks are regarded as something of a superfluity,
life reduces itself to first principles and baggage
disappears. In half an hour I was ready to shift my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>
things to the ship, only dallying a little longer to say
farewell to my friends and take one final glance at
the old boat-house. My heart misgave me when I
looked, as I thought for the last time, at poor Bo in
the midst of her pets, threading beads with the same
tireless industry; while the Beautiful Man, at the
farther end of the shed, was trying to sell her to a
new-comer off the barque, an evil-looking customer
they called Billy Jones’s Cousin.</p>
<p>Prompted (I have since supposed) by the devil, I
called the little man to where I stood and asked him
peremptorily to name his lowest price for Bo. He
replied in a brisk, businesslike manner that he
couldn’t dream of letting her go for less than a hundred
dollars.</p>
<p>“A hundred fiddlesticks!” I exclaimed. “Rather
than see her abandoned here to starve, I will take her
for my servant and pay her ten dollars a month.”</p>
<p>“Oh, she don’t need no money,” he said. “Just you
hug and kiss her a bit, and keep her going with beads
and such-like, and she’ll work her hands off to serve
you. It’s a mug’s game to give a Kanaka money.
W’y, they ain’t no more fit for money than that monkey
to navigate a ship.”</p>
<p>“See here, Hinton,” I said, “I have told you before
that I did not come up here to start a native establishment—least
of all with a woman who looks like Bo.
But I’m ready to take her off your hands and pay her
good wages, and I don’t think you can be so contemptible
as to stand in her light.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I shan’t stand in her blooming light,” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>
“I’d sleep easier to think I had left her in a comfortable
home with a perfeck gentleman such as you
to tyke care of her. My word, I would, and the
thought of it will be a comfort to me in the privations
of my humble lot; and I trust you will believe me
that it was in no over-reaching spirit that I ventured
to nyme my figger for the girl. But I put it to you,
as between man and man, won’t you spare me a few
dollars as a sort of token of your good will?”</p>
<p>“I’ll give you twenty-five dollars for her,” I said,
“and not one penny more.”</p>
<p>“My word,” he said, “you’re getting her cruel
cheap!”</p>
<p>“Well, that’s my price,” I said.</p>
<p>“Perhaps you wouldn’t care to give her a half a
year’s wages in advance?” he inquired. “A little
money in her hand might hearten her up for the parting.”</p>
<p>“Hearten you up, you mean,” I said.</p>
<p>“I never was no haggler,” he said. “She’s yours,
Mr. Logan, at twenty-five dollars.”</p>
<p>“You go and talk to her a bit,” I said, “and try to
explain things to her, for I tell you I won’t take her
at all if she is unwilling.”</p>
<p>It cut me to the heart to watch the poor girl’s face
as the Beautiful Man unfolded the plans for her future,
and to see the way she looked at me with increasing
distress and horror. When she began to cry, I could
stand the sight no longer, and hurriedly left the place,
feeling myself a thorough-paced scoundrel for my
pains. It was only shame that took me back at last,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>
after spending one of the most uncomfortable hours
of my life on the beach outside the shed. I found her
sitting on her chest, which apparently had been packed
in hot haste by the Beautiful Man himself. With the
parrot in her lap and the monkey shivering beside her,
Bo presented the most woebegone picture. I don’t
know whether he had used the strap to her, or whether
he had trusted, with apparent success, to the torrents
of Pingalap idiom which was still pouring from his
lips; but whatever the means he had used, the
desired result, at least, had been achieved; for the
little creature had been reduced to a stony docility,
and, except for an occasional snuffle and an indescribable
choking in her throat, she made no sign of rebellion
when the Beautiful Man proposed that we should
lose no further time in taking her aboard the ship.
Between us we lifted the camphor-wood chest and set
out together for the pier, Bo bringing up the rear with
the monkey and the parrot and a roll of sleeping-mats.
If ever I felt a fool and a brute, it was on this
melancholy march to the lagoon, and I tingled to the
soles of my feet with a sense of my humiliation. My
only comfort, besides the support of an agitated conscience,
was the intense plainness of my prisoner,
whose face, I assured myself, betrayed the singleness
and honesty of my intentions.</p>
<p>We put the chest in the corner of the trade-room,
and made a little nest for Bo among the mats she had
brought with her; and leaving her to tidy up the monkey
with my hair-brush, the Beautiful Man and I
retreated to the cabin to conclude the terms of our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
contract. To my surprise, he handed me a sheet of
paper, made out in all appearance like any bill for merchandise,
and asked me, with the most brazen assurance,
to kindly settle it at my convenience. This was
what I read:</p>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table">
<tr><td class="tdl">W. J. Logan, Dr., to Henery Hinton:</td></tr>
<tr><td>1 Young Woman, cut price</td><td class="tdr"> $25.00</td></tr>
<tr><td>1 Superior Congo Monkey</td><td class="tdr"> 7.50</td></tr>
<tr><td>1 Choice Imported Parrot</td><td class="tdr"> 4.50</td></tr>
<tr><td>1 Chest Fancy Female Wearing Apparel</td><td class="tdr"> 40.00</td></tr>
<tr><td>7 Extra-size Special Kingsmill Mats</td><td class="tdr"> 5.00</td></tr>
<tr><td>5 lbs. Best Assorted Beads</td><td class="tdr"> 2.50</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="tdr">———</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdc">Total</td><td class="tdr"> $84.50</td></tr>
</table>
<p>I burst out into a roar of laughter, and without any
waste of words I told the Beautiful Man that he might
carry the lady ashore again and peddle her to some
bigger fool than I, for I was clean sick of him and
her and the whole business, and though I still felt
bound to give the twenty-five dollars I had originally
promised, he might go and whistle for one cent more.
Then, boiling over at the thought of his greed and
heartlessness, I let out at him without restraint, he trying
to stem the tide with “Oh, I s’y!” and “My word, Mr.
Logan, sir!” until at last I had to pause for mere lack
of breath and expletives. He took this opportunity to
enter into a prolonged explanation, quavering for my
pardon at every second word, while he expatiated on
the value of that monkey and the parrot’s really
phenomenal knowledge of the Pingalap language. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>
was willing, seeing that I took the matter in such a
w’y, to pass over the girl’s duds (about which there
might be some question) and even give w’y about the
mats, w’ich, as Gord saw him, had cost eight dollars,
Chile money, as he could prove by Captain Coffin of
the <i>Cape Horn Pigeon</i>, now w’aling in the Arctic Seas;
but as to the parrot and the monkey, he appealed to
me, as between man and man, to settle for them out of
hand, as they were truly and absolutely his own, and
could not be expected to be lumped in with the price
of the girl. I grew so sick of the fellow and his
whining importunity that I counted out thirty-seven
dollars from my bag, and told him to take or leave
them and give me a clean receipt. This he did with
the greatest good humour, having the audacity to
shake my hand at parting, and make a little speech
wishing me all manner of prosperity and success.</p>
<p>I noticed, however, that he did not return to the
trade-room, but sneaked off the ship without seeing
Bo again, and kept well out of sight on shore until
the actual moment of our sailing. When I went in
to pay a sort of duty call on my prisoner, I found her
huddled up on the mats and to all appearance fast
asleep; and I was not a little disappointed to find that
she had not escaped in the bustle of our departure.
Now that I was her master in good earnest and irrevocably
bound to her for better or worse, I became a prey
to the most dismal misgivings, and cursed the ill-judged
benevolence that had led me into such a mess.
And as for bread, the very sight of it was enough to
plunge me into gloom, and when we sat down that day<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
to lunch I asked the steward, as a favour, to allow me
seamen’s biscuit in its stead.</p>
<p>Every few hours I carried food to Bo and tried to
make her sit up and eat; but, except for a little water,
she permitted nothing to pass her lips, but lay limp
and apathetic on the square of matting. The monkey
and parrot showed more appetite, and gobbled up
whole platefuls of soup and stew and preserved fruit,
which at first I left on the floor in the hope that their
mistress might be the less shy when my back was
turned. Finally I decided to remove the pets altogether,
for they were intolerably dirty in their habits,
and I could not but think that Bo would be better off
without a frowsy parrot roosting in her hair and a
monkey biting her in play, especially as she was in
the throes of a deathly seasickness and powerless to
protect herself. Getting the parrot on deck was a
comparatively simple matter, though he squawked a
good deal and talked loudly in the Pingalap language.
At last I stowed him safely away in a chicken-coop,
where I was glad to see him well trounced by some
enormous fowls with feathered trousers down their
legs. But the monkey was not so lightly ravished
from his mistress. He was as strong as a man and
extraordinarily vicious; in ten steps I got ten bites,
and came on deck with my pyjamas in blood and rags,
he screeching like a thousand devils and clawing the
air with fury. For the promise of a dollar I managed
to unload him on old Louey, one of the sailors of the
ship, who volunteered to make a muzzle for the brute,
and tie him up until it was ready. But as I was still<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>
panting with my exertions, and cursing the foolishness
that had ever led me into such a scrape, I heard
from behind me a kind of heartbroken wail, and
turned to see Bo emerging from the trade-room door.
I am ashamed to say I trembled at the sight of her,
for I recalled in a flash what the Beautiful Man had
said of her temper when aroused, and I thought I
should die of mortification were she to attack me now.
But, fortunately, such was not her intention, though
her face was overcast with reproach and indignation
as she unsteadily stepped past me to the coop, where,
with a cry, she threw open the door and clasped the
parrot in her arms. Even as she did so, the trousered
fowls themselves determined to make a break for liberty,
and finding the barrier removed, they tumbled
out in short order; and the ship happening at that
moment to dip to leeward, two of them sailed unhesitatingly
overboard and dropped in the white water
astern. Subsequently I had the pleasure of paying
Captain Mins five dollars for the pair. Bo next started
for the monkey, which she took from old Louey’s
unresisting hands, and almost cried over it as she
unbound the line that held him. Having thus rescued
both her pets, she retreated dizzily to the shelter of
the trade-room, where I found her, half an hour later,
lying in agony on the floor.</p>
<p>We were three days running down to Yap, and
arrived there late one afternoon just at the fall of
dusk. On going ashore, I had the good fortune to
secure a little house which happened to be lying
vacant through the death of its last tenant; who, on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span>
the principle, I suppose, of letting the tree lie where
it falls, had been buried within six feet of my front
verandah. The following morning I moved my
things into my new quarters, Bo following me obediently
ashore in the ship’s boat, seated on the top
of her chest. I soon got the trade-room into shape
for my work, unpacking my note-books, my little
library, my collector guns, my photographic and
other apparatus, as well as my big compound microscope
with which I meant to perform scientific
wonders in a part of the world so remote and so
little known. Busy in these preparations, I managed
to forget my slave and enjoy a few hours’ unalloyed
pleasure. I was brought back to earth, however,
by the sound of her sobbing in the next room,
where I rushed in to find her weeping on her mats,
with her face turned to the wall. I made what shift
I could to comfort her, talking to her as I might to a
frightened dog, though she paid no more attention
to me than she did to the parrot, who had raised its
voice in an unending scream. At last, in despair,
and at my wits’ end to know what else to do, I put
ten dollars in her little claw, and tried to tell her
that it was her first month’s wages in advance.
This form of consolation, if altogether ineffective
in the case of Bo herself, came in capitally to cheer
the monkey, whom I heard slinging the money out of
the window, a dollar at a time, to the great gratification
of a crowd of natives outside.</p>
<p>All that day and all the following night Bo lay
supinely on the mats, and hardly deigned to touch<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>
more than a few morsels of the food I prepared and
brought her. The next morning, finding her still
of the same mind, I unpacked my flour and other
stores, and ordered her, in a rough voice, to get up
and make bread. This she did, in a benumbed sort
of fashion, dripping tears into the dough and snuffling
every time I looked her way. The bread was all
right when it was done, though it stuck in my throat
when I reflected on the price I had paid to get it, and
wondered how I was going to endure two long years
of Bo’s society. After a few weeks of this sort of
housekeeping I began almost to wish that I were dead,
and the sight of the creature became so intolerable to
me that I hated to spend an unnecessary hour within
my own house. Instead of improving in health, or
spirits, or in any other way, Bo grew daily thinner and
more woebegone and started a hacking cough, which,
she communicated, in some mysterious manner, to the
monkey, so that when one was still the other was in
paroxysms, giving me, between them, scarce a moment
of peace or sleep. Of course I doctored them both
from my medicine-chest, and got the thanks I might
reasonably have expected: bites and lacerations from
the monkey, and from Bo that expression of hers that
seemed to say, “Good God! what are you going to do
to me now?” I found it too great a strain to persevere
with the bread-making, and soon gave up all thought
of turning her to any kind of practical account; for
what with her tears, her cough, and her passive resistance
to doing anything at all, save to titivate the
monkey with my comb and brush and wash him with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>
my sponge, I would rather have lived on squid and
cocoanuts than anything of her making. Besides,
she really seemed to be threatened with galloping
consumption; for in addition to her cough, which
grew constantly worse, she had other symptoms which
alarmed me. Among my stores were a dozen tins of
some mushy invalid food,—“Imperial something,” it
was called,—with which I manufactured daily messes
for my patient, of the consistency (and flavour) of
white paint. If she at least failed to thrive on this, it
was otherwise with the monkey and the parrot, who
fought over her prostrate body for the stuff, and the
former would snatch the cup from his mistress’s very
mouth.</p>
<p>I think I could have borne up better under my
misfortunes had I not suffered so much from loneliness
in that far-off place; for, with the exception of
half a dozen sottish traders, and a missionary and
his wife named Small, there was not another white
on the island to keep me company. The Smalls lived
in snug missionary comfort at the other end of the
bay, with half a dozen converts to do their work and
attend to a nestful of young Smalls; and though they
had parted, as it seemed to me, with all the principles
of Christianity, they still retained enough religious
prejudice to receive me (when I once ventured
to make a formal call on them) with the most undisguised
rudeness and hostility. Small gave me to understand
that I was a sort of moral monster who,
with gold and for my own wicked purpose, had
parted a wife from her husband. It appeared, according<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>
to Mr. Small, that I had blasted two fair young
lives, as well as condemned my own soul to everlasting
perdition; and he promised the active interference
of the next man-of-war. On my attempting to make
my position in the matter a little clearer, the reverend
gentleman began to take such an offensive tone
that it was all I could do to leave his house without
giving freer vent to my indignation than words alone
sufficed. Indeed, I was angry enough to have kicked
him down his own missionary steps, and made him in
good earnest the ill-used martyr he pretended to be in
his reports home.</p>
<p>With the traders I fared even worse, for the discreditable
reports about me had become so well
established that I was exposed by them to constant
jokes and innuendoes, as well as to a friendliness
that was more distasteful than the missionary’s pronounced
ill will. It was spread about the beach, and
carried thence, I suppose, to every corner of the group,
that Bo was a half-white of exquisite beauty, for whose
possession I had paid her husband a sum to stagger
the imagination, and that, unable to repel my loathsome
embraces, she was now taking refuge in a
premature death.</p>
<p>I doubt whether there was in the wide Pacific a man
so depressed, so absolutely crushed and miserable, as
I was during the course of those terrible days on Yap.
Had it not been for the shame of the thing, I believe
I would have sailed away on the first ship that
offered, whatever the port to which she was bound,
and would have quitted my unhappy prisoner at any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span>
hazard. But, to do me justice, I was incapable of
treating any woman so badly, particularly such a sick
and helpless creature as Bo was fast becoming. I
had now begun, besides, to suspect another name for
her complaint, and to see before me a situation more
ambiguous and mortifying than any of which I had
dreamed. My household was threatened with the
advent of another member!</p>
<p>The idea of Bo and I both leaving together never
struck my mind until the opportune arrival of the
<i>Fleur de Lys</i>, bound for Ruk, suddenly turned my
thoughts in a new direction. With feverish haste
I calculated the course of the <i>Ransom</i>, the barque
in which the Beautiful Man had been promised his
passage to Sydney, and it seemed that with any kind
of luck I might manage to intercept her in the <i>Fleur
de Lys</i> by a good three days. Of course I knew a
sailing-ship was ill to count upon, and that a favourable
slant might bring her in a week before me or
delay her for an indefinite time beyond the date of
my arrival; but the chance seemed too good a one to
be thrown away, and I lost no time in making my
arrangements with Captain Brice of the schooner.
When I explained the matter to Bo with signs that
she could not misunderstand, she became instantly
galvanised into a new creature, and ate a two-pound
tin of beef on the strength of the good news.</p>
<p>I never grudged a penny of what it cost me to leave
Yap, though I was stuck for three months’ rent by
the cormorant who said he owned my house, besides
having to pay an extortionate sum to Captain Brice<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>
for our joint passage. But what was mere money
in comparison to the liberty I saw before me—that
life of blissful independence in which there should be
no Bo, no dark shadow across my lonely hearth, no
sleepless nights and apprehensive days, no monkey,
no parrot! I trod the deck of the <i>Fleur de Lys</i> with
a light step, and I think Bo and I began to understand
each other for the first time. For once she
even smiled at me, and insisted on my accepting a
beadwork necktie she had embroidered for the monkey.
If there was a worm in the bud, a perpetual
and benumbing sense of uneasiness that never left
me, it was the thought that the Beautiful Man might
have slipped away before us; and I never looked
over our foaming bows but I wondered whether the
<i>Ransom</i> was not as briskly ploughing her way to
Sydney, leaving me to face an unspeakable disaster
on the shores of Ruk. But it was impossible to be
long despondent in that pleasant air, with our little
vessel heeling over to the trades and the water gurgling
musically beneath our keel. Indeed, I felt my
heart grow lighter with every stroke of the bell, with
every twist of the patent log; and each day, when
our position was pricked out on the chart, I felt a
sense of fresh elation as the crosses grew towards
Ruk. Nor was Bo a whit behind me in her cheerfulness,
for she, too, livened up in the most wonderful
manner, playing checkers with the captain, exercising
her pets on the open deck, and romping for an hour
at a stretch with the kanaka cabin-boy.</p>
<p>By the time we had raised the white beaches of our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>
port, the whole ship’s company, from the captain to
the cook, were in the secret of our race, and as eager
as I was myself to forestall the <i>Ransom</i> in the lagoon.
When we entered the passage and opened out the
head-station beyond, there was a regular cheer at the
sight of our quest at anchor; for it was by so narrow
a margin that I had cut off the Beautiful Man’s retreat,
and intercepted the vessel that was to carry him
away. Coming up under the <i>Ransom</i>, we made a
mooring off her quarter; and among the faces that
lined up to stare at us from her decks, I had the satisfaction
of recognising the frizzled red beard of our
departing friend. On perceiving us, he waved his
hand in the jauntiest manner, and replied to Bo’s
screams of affection by some words in Pingalap which
effectually shut up that little person. She was still
crying when we bundled her into the boat, bag and
baggage, monkey, parrot, and camphor-wood chest;
and pulling over to the barque, we deposited her, with
all her possessions, on the disordered quarter-deck of
the <i>Ransom</i>. The Beautiful Man sauntered up to us
with an affectation of airy indifference, and languidly
taking the pipe from his mouth, he had the effrontery
to ask me if I, too, were bound for Sydney.</p>
<p>Resisting my first impulse to kick him, I controlled
myself sufficiently to say that I was <i>not</i> going to Sydney—telling
him at the same time that I washed my
hands of Bo, whom I had now the satisfaction of returning
to him.</p>
<p>“My word!” he said, “you don’t think I’m going to
tyke her?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>“That’s your affair,” said I, moving off.</p>
<p>“Oh, I s’y!” he cried in consternation, attempting,
as he spoke, to lay a detaining hand on my sleeve.
But I jerked it off, and stopping suddenly in my walk
towards the gangway, I gave him such a look that he
turned pale and shrank back from me.</p>
<p>“Oh, I s’y!” he faltered, and allowed me to descend
in quiet to my boat.</p>
<p>Most of that afternoon I spent in the schooner’s
cabin, covertly watching Bo from a port-hole. For
hours she remained where I had left her on the quarter-deck,
seated imperturbably on her chest, the monkey
and parrot on either hand. As for the Beautiful
Man, he, like myself, had also disappeared from view,
and was doubtless watching the situation from some
secure hiding-hole of his own. Bo was again and
again accosted by the officers of the ship, who alternately
cajoled and threatened her in their fruitless attempts
to get her off the vessel. But nothing was
achieved until five o’clock, when the captain came off
from the station, and, in an off-with-his-head style, commanded
the presence of the Beautiful Man. I was too
far off, of course, to hear one word that passed between
them, but the pantomime needed no explanation, as
Hinton cringed and the captain fumed, while Bo
looked on like a graven image in a joss-house. In
the end Bo was removed bodily from the ship to
the shore, and landed, with her things, on the beach,
where, until night fell and closed round her, I
could see her still roosting on her box. Seriously
alarmed, I began to experience the most disquieting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>
fears for the result, especially as I could perceive the
Beautiful Man lounging serenely about the barque’s
deck, smoking a cigar and spitting light-heartedly over
her side. It made me more than uneasy to see him
afloat and her ashore; and the barque’s loosened sail
lying ready to open to the breeze warned me there was
little time to lose. It was some relief to my mind to
learn from Captain Brice that the barque was not due
to sail before the morrow noon; but even this short
respite served to quicken my apprehension when I
reflected on my utter powerlessness to interfere. I
passed a restless night, revolving a thousand plans to
hinder the Beautiful Man’s departure, and rose at
dawn in a state of desperation.</p>
<p>The first thing I saw, on going to the galley for my
morning cup of coffee, was poor Bo planted on the
beach, where, as far as I could see, she must have passed
the night, sitting with unshaken determination on her
camphor-wood chest. Taking the schooner’s dinghy,
I pulled myself over to the <i>Ransom</i>, bent on a fresh
scheme to retrieve the situation. The first person I
ran across on board was the Beautiful Man himself,
who hailed me with the greatest good humour, and
asked what the devil had brought me there so
early.</p>
<p>“To put you off this ship,” I replied. “When the
captain has heard my story, I don’t think you will
ever see Sydney, Mr. Beautiful Man.”</p>
<p>“W’y, w’at’s this you have against me?” he asked,
with a very creditable show of astonishment.</p>
<p>I pointed to the melancholy spectre on the beach.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>“W’at of it?” he said. “She ain’t mine: she’s yours.”</p>
<p>“You wait till I see the captain!” I retorted.</p>
<p>“A fat lot he’ll care,” said Hinton. “The fack is,
as between man and man, I don’t mind telling you
he’d shake me if he dared, the old hunks; but I’ve
got an order for my passage from the owner, and it
will be worth his job for him to disregard it. My
word! I thought he was going to bounce me last night,
for he was tearing up and down here like a royal
Bengal tiger in a cage of blue fire, giving me w’at he
called a piece of his mind. A dirty low mind it was,
too, and I don’t mind who hears me say it. But I
stood on my order. I said, ‘Here it is,’ I said, ‘and
I beg to inform you that I’m going to syle in this ship
to Sydney. Put me ashore if you dare,’ I said.”</p>
<p>At this moment the captain came on deck. He
gave a stiff nod in reply to my salutation, and marched
past the Beautiful Man without so much as a look.</p>
<p>“That’s a nice sight, sir,” I said, pointing in the
direction of Bo.</p>
<p>He gave a snort and muttered something below his
breath.</p>
<p>“Is his order good?” I asked.</p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” he replied; “his order is good.”</p>
<p>“See here, Hinton,” I said, “wouldn’t you care to
sell it?”</p>
<p>“W’y, w’at are you driving at?” he returned.</p>
<p>“If you’ll take her back,” I said, indicating Bo in
the distance, “I’ll buy your passage for what it’s
worth.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span>“I don’t know as I’d care to sell,” he returned;
“leastw’ys, at any figger you’d care to nyme.”</p>
<p>“What would you care to nyme?” I repeated after
him, in involuntary mimicry of his whine.</p>
<p>“One hundred dollars,” he replied.</p>
<p>“And for one hundred dollars you will surrender
your passage and go back to the girl,” I demanded,
“and swear never to leave her again, unless it is on
her own island and among her own relations?”</p>
<p>“Oh, come off!” he exclaimed. “Ain’t you blooming
well deserting her yourself?”</p>
<p>“If you are not careful I will punch your head,” I
said.</p>
<p>“Don’t mind me, sir,” said the captain, significantly,
turning an enormous back upon us.</p>
<p>“Is it business you’re talking, or fight?” inquired
the Beautiful Man. “You sort of mix a feller up.”</p>
<p>“I tell you I’ll pay you one hundred dollars on
those terms,” I said.</p>
<p>“Hand them along, then,” said Hinton. “I tyke you.”</p>
<p>Unbuckling the money-belt I wore round my waist,
I called upon the captain to witness the proceedings,
and counted out one hundred dollars in gold. Without
a word the Beautiful Man resigned his order into
my hands and tied up the money in the corner of a
dirty handkerchief, looking at me the while with
something almost like compunction.</p>
<p>“Would you mind accepting this red pearl?” he
said, producing a trumpery pill of a thing that was
worth perhaps a dollar. “You might value it for old
syke’s syke.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>I was rather disarmed by this gift and took it with
a smile, putting in another good word for Bo.</p>
<p>“Might I ask what you are going to do now?”
asked the captain, addressing Hinton in a tone that
bordered on ferocity.</p>
<p>“W’y, I was just thinking of st’ying to breakfast,
sir,” quavered the little man, “and then toddle ashore
to my happy home.”</p>
<p>“Get off my ship!” roared the captain. “Get off my
ship, you red-headed beach-comber and pirate. Get off
before you are kicked off!”</p>
<p>Hinton bolted like a rabbit for the rail, and almost
before we could realise what he was about, we saw
him leap feet foremost into the lagoon. Blowing and
cursing, he rose to the surface, and informed the captain
he should hold him personally responsible for
his bag, which, it seems, had been left in one of the
cabins below.</p>
<p>“Your bag!” cried the captain, going to the open
skylight and thundering out: “Steward, bring up
that beach-comber’s bag!”</p>
<p>The boy came running up with the valise I remembered
so well; it looked even more dilapidated than
before, for the thing was patched with canvas in a
dozen places, and was wound round and round with a
kind of cocoanut string. The captain lifted it in his
brawny arms, and aiming it at the Beautiful Man’s
head, let it fly straight at him. It just missed Hinton
by an inch, and splashed water all over him as he
grasped it to his breast. Turning on his back and
dragging the spongy thing along with him, as one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>
might the body of a drowning person, he set off most
unconcernedly for the shore. In this fashion we saw
him strike the beach, and rise up at last with the bag
in his hand, not a dozen paces from where Bo was
still encamped. We were, unfortunately, at too great
a distance to watch their faces or to observe narrowly
the greeting that must have passed between them;
but the meeting was to all appearance not unfriendly,
and I had the satisfaction of seeing them move off
together in the direction of the boat-house, lugging
the chest and bag between them, as though they were
about to resume housekeeping in the old place.</p>
<p>I spent the rest of the morning writing letters to go
by the <i>Ransom</i>, which sailed away at noon, homeward
bound. I had no heart to go ashore again that day,
for the Bo affair stuck in my throat, and the loss of
so much money, not to speak of time, made me feel
seriously crippled in the plans I had laid out for my
future work. I was undecided, besides, whether to
remain at Ruk and wait for another ship to the westward,
or to stand by the schooner in her cruise through
the Kingsmills, remaining over, perhaps, at Butaritari,
or at one of the islands towards the south. On talking
over the matter with the captain, I found his feelings
so far changed towards me that he was eager
now to give me a passage at any price; for, as he told
me, he had taken a genuine liking to my company,
and was desirous of having another face at his lonely
table. Accordingly we patched up the matter to our
mutual satisfaction, and arranged to sail the next day
when the tide turned at ten.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>Shortly before this hour, I remembered some improvised
tide-gauges I had set on the weather side of
the island, and I snatched an opportunity to see them
on the very eve, as it was, of the schooner’s sailing.
It seemed, however, that I had been too late in
going, for not one of them could I find, though I
searched up and down the beach for as long a time as
I dared to stay.</p>
<p>I was returning leisurely back across the island,
when a turn of the path brought me face to face with
the Beautiful Man himself, carrying some kind of fish-trap
in his hand. I would have walked silently past
him, for the very sight of the creature now turned
my stomach, had he not, in what proved an evil moment
for himself, detained me as I was passing.</p>
<p>“My word!” he said, “that girl is regularly gone
on you, she is! W’y, last night, when I told her of
the hundred dollars, she was that put out that I heard
the teeth snap in her head like that, and I thought she
was going to do for me sure, while I lit out in the
dark and looked for a club. She’s put by a little
present for you before you go,—one of them pearl-shell
bonito-hooks, and a string of the last monkey’s teeth,—and
she asked me to say she hoped you wouldn’t
forget her.”</p>
<p>“I won’t forget her,” I answered pretty quietly.
“Nor you either, you little cur.”</p>
<p>“Cur!” he repeated, edging away from me.</p>
<p>I don’t know what possessed me, but the memory
of my wrongs, wasted money, lost time,
the man’s egregious cynicism and selfishness, suddenly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>
set my long-tried temper flaming, and almost before
I knew what I was doing, I had the creature by
the throat and was pounding him with all my force
against a tree. I was twice his size and twice his
strength, but I fought him regardless of all the decencies
of personal combat in a lawless and primeval
manner, even as one of our hairy ancestors might have
revenged himself (after extraordinary provocation)
upon another. I shook and kicked him, and I pulled
out whole handfuls of frowsy red hair and whisker,
and when at last he lay limp before me in the dirt,
whimpering aloud for mercy, I beat him for ten minutes
with a cocoanut branch that happened, by the best
of fortunes, to be at hand. When I at length desisted,
it was from no sense of pity for him, but rather in
concern for myself and my interrupted voyage. I did
turn him over once or twice to assure myself that
none of his bones were broken, and that my punishment
had not gone too far; and as I did so, he executed
some hollow groans, and went through with an
admirable stage-play of impending dissolution. I
could plainly see that he was shamming, and had an
eye to damages and financial consolation, as well as
the obvious intention of wringing my bosom with
remorse. I left him sitting up in the path, rubbing
his fiery curls and surveying the cocoanut branch with
which he had made such a painful acquaintance, a
figure so mournful, changed, and dejected that Pingalap
would scarce have known him for her Beautiful
Man.</p>
<p>As I was hurrying down to the beach, I saw the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>
schooner getting under way, and heard the boat’s crew
imperiously calling out to me to hasten. I broke into
a run, and was almost at the water’s edge when I
turned to find Bo panting at my side. I stopped to
see what she wanted, and when she forced a little
parcel into my pocket I suddenly remembered the
present of which Hinton had spoken.</p>
<p>“Good-bye, Bo,” I cried, wringing her little fist in
mine. “Many thanks for the fish-hook, which I shall
always keep in memory of our travels.”</p>
<p>All the way out to the schooner I seemed to feel the
package growing heavier and heavier in my pyjama
pocket, and the suspicion more than once crossed
my mind that it was no fish-hook at all. Feeling
loath to determine the matter before the men, who
must needs have seen and wondered at the transaction
from the boat, I kept down my curiosity until I
could satisfy it more privately on board. Then, as
the captain and I were watching the extraordinary
antics of the Beautiful Man (who had rushed down to
the beach and thrown himself into a native canoe, in
the impossible hope of overtaking us, alternately paddling
and shaking his fist demoniacally in the air), I
drew out the package and cut it open with my knife.
In a neat little beadwork bag (which still conserved a
lurking scent of monkey), and carefully done up in
fibre, like a jewel in cotton wool, I found a shining
treasure of gold and silver coin.</p>
<p>One hundred and thirty-seven dollars!</p>
<p>It was Bo’s restitution.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">THE DUST OF DEFEAT</h2></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">
THE DUST OF DEFEAT</h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">THEY took their accustomed path beside the strait,
walking slowly side by side, each conscious that
they would never again be together. The melancholy
pines, rising from the water’s edge to the very summit
of the mountains, gave that look of desolation which
is the salient note of New Caledonian landscape.
Across the narrow strait as calm and clear as some
sweet English river, the rocky shore rose steep and
precipitous, cloaked still in pines. A faint, thrilling
roar broke at times upon the ear, and told of Fitzroy’s
mine far up on the hill, its long chutes emptying
chrome on the beach below. Except for this, there
was not a sound that bespoke man’s presence or any
sign that betrayed his habitation or handiwork.</p>
<p>“This is our last day,” he said. “Do you not once
wish to see the little cabin where I have eaten my
heart out these dozen years? Do you never mean to
ask me what brought me here?”</p>
<p>“I would like to know,” she answered; “but I was
afraid. I didn’t wish to be—to be—”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for that unspoken
word. You did not wish to be disillusioned—to
be told that the man you have treated with such
condescension was a mere vulgar criminal, a garroter
perhaps, such a one as you have read of in Gaboriau’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span>
romances. Ah, mademoiselle, when you have heard my
unhappy story,—that story which no one has ever listened
to save the counsel that defended me,—you will
perhaps think better of poor Paul de Charruel.”</p>
<p>“You are innocent?” she cried, looking up at him
with eyes full of tenderness and curiosity. “You
have shielded some one?”</p>
<p>M. de Charruel shook his head. “I am not innocent,”
he said. “I am no martyr, mademoiselle—not,
at least, in the sense you are good enough to imply.
I was fortunate to get transportation for life, doubly
fortunate to obtain this modified liberty after only
three years. You may, however, congratulate yourself
that your friend is a model prisoner; his little
farm has been well reported on by the Chef de l’Administration
Pénitentiaire; it compares favourably
with Leclair’s, the vitriol-thrower of Rue d’Enfer, and
his early potatoes are said to rival those of Palitzi
the famous poisoner.”</p>
<p>His companion shuddered.</p>
<p>“Pardon me,” he continued. “God knows, I have
no desire to be merry; my heart is heavy enough, in
all conscience.”</p>
<p>“You will tell me everything,” she said softly.</p>
<p>He walked along in silence for several minutes,
moody and preoccupied, staring on the ground before
him.</p>
<p>“I suppose I ought to begin with my father and
mother, in the old-fashioned way,” he said at last,
with a sudden smile. “There are conventionalities even
for convicts! My father (if we are to go so far back)<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>
was the Comte de Charruel, one of the old noblesse;
my mother an American lady from whom I got the
little English I possess, as well as a disposition most
rash, nervous, and impulsive. There were two of us
children—my sister Berthe and myself, she the
younger by six years. My father died when I reached
twenty years, just as I entered the Eighty-sixth
Hussars as a sub-lieutenant. Had he survived I
might perhaps have been saved many miseries and
unhappinesses; on the other hand, he, the soul of
honour, might have been standing here in my place,
condemned as I have been to a lifelong exile.</p>
<p>“I was a good officer. Titled, rich, and well born,
there was accorded me the friendship of the aristocratic
side of the regiment; a good comrade, and free
from stupid pride, I stood well with those who had
risen from the ranks and the humbler spheres of
society. Many a time I was the only officer at home
in either camp, and popular in both. When I look
back upon my army life, so gay, so animated, so filled
with small successes and commendations from my
superiors, I wish that I had been fated to die in
what was the very zenith of my happiness and
prosperity.</p>
<p>“My mother, except for a short time each year at
our hôtel in Paris, lived in our old château in Nemours,
entertaining, in an unobtrusive fashion, many of the
greatest people in France; for the entrée of few houses
was more eagerly sought than our own. Though we
were not so well born as some, nor so rich as many,
my mother contrived to be always in request, and to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>
make her <i>salon</i> the centre of all the gaiety and wit
of France.</p>
<p>“From her earliest infancy my sister Berthe was
counted one of the company at the château, and while
I was at the <i>lycée</i> and afterwards at St. Cyr, she was
leading the life of a great lady at Nemours. Marshals
of France were her cavaliers; famous poets and musicians
played with her dolls and shared her confidences;
men and women distinguished in a thousand ways
paid court to her childish beauty. Beauty, perhaps,
I ought not to say, for her charm lay most in the extraordinary
liveliness and intrepidity of her character,
which captivated every beholder. Indeed, she ought
to have been the man of the family, I the girl—so
diverse were our tastes and aspirations, our whole
outlook on life.</p>
<p>“You, of course, cannot recollect the amazing revolution
that swept over Europe when I was a young
man—that upheaval of everything old, accepted, and
conventional, which was confined to no one country,
but raged equally throughout them all. Huxley,
Darwin, Haeckel, Renan, and Herbert Spencer were
names that grew familiar by incessant repetition;
young ladies whom one remembered last in boxes at
the opera, or surrounded by admirers at balls and great
assemblies, now threw themselves passionately into
this new Renaissance. One you would find studying
higher mathematics; another geology and chemistry;
another still, teaching the children of thieves and cut-throats
how to read. Girls you had seen at their
father’s table, with downcast eyes and blushes when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span>
one spoke to them, now demanded separate establishments
of their own; worked their way, if necessary,
through foreign universities; fought like little tigers
for the privilege of studying till two in the morning
and starving with one another in the gloomiest parts
of the town. Nor were the young men behind their
sisters: to them also had come the new revelation,
this self-denying and austere standard of life, this religion
of violent intellectual effort. To many it was
ennobling to a supreme degree; and while our girls
boldly made their way into avenues hitherto closed to
women, there were everywhere young men, no less
ardent and disinterested, to support them in the mêlée.
In every house there was this revolt of the young
against the old, this perpetual argument of humanitarianism
against apathy and <i>laisser-faire</i>.</p>
<p>“To me it all seemed the most frightful madness.
I was bewildered to see bright eyes pursuing studies
which I knew myself to be so wearisome, taking joy
where I had found only vexation and fatigue. Like
all my caste, I was old-fashioned and thought a woman’s
place at home. You must not go to the army
for new ideas. It was no pleasure to me to see delicately
nurtured ladies rubbing shoulders with raw
medical students or tainting their pretty ears with the
unrestrained conversation of men. You must remember
how things have changed in eighteen years; you
can scarcely conceive the position of those forerunners
of your sex in Europe, so much has public opinion
altered for the better. In my day we went to extremes
on either side, for it was then that the battle<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>
was fought. The elders would not give way an inch;
the children dashed into a thousand extravagances.
To some it looked as though the dissolution of society
was at hand. Girls asked men to marry them,—men
they had seen perhaps but once,—in order that they
might gain the freedom accorded to married women
and secure themselves against the intolerable interference
of their families. Some of them never saw
their husbands again, nor could even recollect their
names without an effort. Ah, it was frightful! It
was a revolution!</p>
<p>“In spite of all her liberal opinions, her unconventional
views, her apparent allegiance to the new
religion, my mother soon took her place amid the
reactionary ranks, while my sister, the <i>mondaine</i>, just
as surely joined the rebellion. As I said before, it was
the battle of the young against the old; age, rather
than conviction, assigned one’s position in the fight.
Our house, hitherto so free from domestic discord,
became the theatre of furious quarrels between mother
and daughter—quarrels not about gowns, allowances,
suitors, or unpaid bills, but involving questions abstract
and sublime: one’s liberty of free development;
one’s duty to one’s self, to mankind; one’s obligation,
in fact, to cast off all shackles and take one’s place in
the revolution so auspiciously beginning.</p>
<p>“The end of it was that Berthe left Nemours, coming
to Paris without my mother’s permission, to study
medicine with a Russian friend of hers, a girl as defiant
and undaunted as herself. This was Sonia Boremykin,
with whose name you must be familiar.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>
Needless to say, I was interdicted from giving any
assistance to my sister, my mother imploring me not
to supply the means by which Berthe’s ruin might be
accomplished. But I could not allow my sister to
starve to death in a garret, and if I disobeyed my poor
mother, she had at least the satisfaction of knowing
that my sympathies were on her side of the quarrel.
My greatest distress, indeed, was that Berthe would
accept so little, for she was crazy to be a martyr, and
was, besides, prompted by a generous feeling not to
take a sou more than the meagre earnings of her
companion. So they lived and starved together, these
two remarkable young women, turning their backs on
every luxury and refinement. Either, for the asking,
could have received a thousand-franc note within the
hour; for each a château stood with open doors; for
each there was a dowry of more than respectable
dimensions, and lovers who would have been glad to
take them for their <i>beaux yeux</i> alone! And yet they
chose to live in a garret, to be constantly affronted as
they went unescorted through the wickedest parts of
Paris, to subsist on food the most unappetising and
unwholesome. For what? To cut up dead paupers
in the Sorbonne!</p>
<p>“I was often there to see them with the self-imposed
task of trying to lighten the burden of their sacrifices.
I introduced food in paper bags, and surreptitiously
dropped napoleons in dark corners—that is, until I
was once detected. Afterwards they watched me like
hawks. Sometimes they were so hungry that tears
came into their eyes at the sight of what I brought;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>
at others they would appear insulted, and throw it
remorselessly out of the window. Though I had no
sympathy whatever with their aims, I was profoundly
interested, profoundly touched, as one might be at
the sight of an heroic enemy. Their convictions were
not my convictions; their mode of life I thought detestable:
but who could withhold admiration for so
much courage, so much self-denial, in two beautiful
young women? I used often to bring with me
my old colonel, a glorious veteran with whom I
was always a favourite, and the girls liked to hear
our sabres clank as we mounted the grimy stair,
and to see our brilliant uniforms in their garret.
It reminded them of the <i>monde</i> they had resigned; besides,
they needed an audience of their own caste
who could appreciate, as none other, their sacrifices
and their fortitude. Mademoiselle Sonia used to
look very kindly at me on the occasion of my visits,
never growing angry, as my sister did, at my stupidity,
or by my failure to understand their high-flown
notions of duty. Once, when I was accidentally
hurt at the salle d’armes by a button coming
off my opponent’s foil, it was she who dressed my
wound with the greatest tenderness and skill, converting
me for all time as to the medical career for
women. Poor Sonia, how her eyes sparkled at her
little triumph!</p>
<p>“On one of my visits I was thunderstruck to find
before me the Marquis de Gonse, a gentleman much
older than myself, with whom I had not actual acquaintance,
though we had a host of friends in common.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>
Upon his departure I protested vehemently
against this outrage of the proprieties. I besought
them to show a little more circumspection in their
choice of friends, admitting no man to their intimacy
who counted not his fifty years. But my protestations
were received with laughter; I was told that the marquis
was a friend of Sonia’s father, and was trying to
effect a reconciliation highly to be desired. Berthe
accused me mockingly of wishing to keep the little
Russian to myself. Indeed, she said, what could be
more demoralising to her companion than the constant
presence of a beautiful young hussar? With her
saucy tongue she put me completely to the blush; in
vain I pleaded and argued; de Gonse’s footing was
assured. Yet, if they had searched all Paris, they
could not have found a man more undesirable, or more
dangerous for two young women to know. Ardent,
generous, and himself full of aspirations for the advancement
of humanity, nothing was better calculated
to appeal to him than the struggle in which my sister
was engaged. His sympathy, his sincere desire to
put his own shoulder to the wheel, were more to be
feared than the most strenuous protestations of regard.
If he had made love to my sister, she was
enough a woman of the world to have sent him to
the right about; but he adopted, all unconsciously, I
am sure, a more subtle plan to win her good opinion:
he was converted!</p>
<p>“If I shut my eyes I can see him sitting there in
that low garret as he appeared on one occasion which
particularly imprinted itself on my mind; such a high-bred,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>
such a distinguished figure, with his silk hat and
gloves beside the box which had been given him for
a chair, and his face full of wonder and sadness! You
have read of Marie Antoinette in prison, of her sufferings
so uncomplainingly borne, of her nobility and
steadfastness in the squalor of her cell! You have
revolted, perhaps, at the picture—clinched your little
fists and felt a great bursting of the heart? It was
thus with M. de Gonse. Berthe he had often seen at
our château in Nemours; Sonia’s father he had known
in Russia, a general of reputation, standing high in the
favour of the Czar. None was better aware than he of
what the young ladies had given up. I could see that
he was deeply moved. He asked many questions; at
times he exclaimed beneath his breath. He insisted
on learning everything—the amount of their income,
the nature of their studies, all their makeshifts and
contrivances. The two beautiful, solitary girls, from
whom sympathy and appreciation had so long been
withheld, unbared their lives to us without reserve.
Berthe told us, amid the passionate interjections of
Sonia Boremykin, the story of their struggles at the
medical school: the open hostility of the professors;
the brutal sneers and innuendoes; the indescribable
affronts that had been put upon them. During this
terrible recital—for it was terrible to hear of outrages
so patiently borne, of insults which bring the
blood to the cheek even to remember after all these
years—de Gonse rose more than once from his seat,
walking up and down like one possessed, uttering
cries of rage and pity. It was no feigned anger, no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>
play-acting to win the regard of these poor women.
Let me do the man that justice.</p>
<p>“I don’t think my sister was prepared for the effect
of her eloquence on the marquis, or could have foreseen,
even for a moment, the tempest she had raised
within his breast. He swore he would challenge every
professor in the school; that he would unloose spadassins
on the offending students, whose bones should
be broken with clubs; that to blight their careers in
after life he would make his business, his pleasure,
his joy! It was with difficulty that he was recalled
to the realities of every-day existence, my sister telling
him frankly that such a course as he proposed
might benefit woman in general, but could not fail to
destroy the future of herself and Sonia Boremykin.
To be everywhere talked about, to get their names
into the newspapers, to be pointed at on the street as
the victims of frightful insults—what could be more
detestable, more ruinous to the careers they hoped to
make? De Gonse was reluctantly compelled to withdraw
his plans of extermination; for who could controvert
the logic with which they were demolished or
fail to see the justice of my sister’s contention? Confessing
himself beaten on this point, he sought for
some other solution of the problem. Private tutors?
Intolerably expensive, came the answer; poor substitutes
for one of the greatest schools in Europe; unable,
besides, to confer the longed-for degree. The
University of Geneva, famous for its generous treatment
of women? Good, but its diploma would not
carry the desired prestige in France. I hazarded boys’<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>
clothes and false mustaches; but my remark was
greeted with a shout of laughter and a half-blushing
confession from Mademoiselle Sonia that one experiment
in this direction had sufficed. It was to the
marquis that light finally came.</p>
<p>“‘Fool! Idiot!’ he thundered, striking himself on
his handsome forehead with his fist. ‘Why did I not
think of it before? To-morrow I join the medical
school myself—the student de Gonse, cousin of the
marquis, a man tired of the hollowness and the trivialities
of high life. I do nothing to show I am
acquainted with you, nothing to compromise you in
the faintest manner. But de Gonse, the medical student,
is a gentleman, a man of honour. A companion
ventures on a remark derogatory to the dignity of the
young ladies; behold, his head cracks like an egg
against his desk! Another opens his mouth, only to
discover that <i>le boxe</i> (you know I am quite an Anglais)
is driving the teeth down his throat, setting up medical
complications of an extraordinary and baffling
nature. A professor so far forgets his manhood as
to heap insults on the undefended; the strange medical
student tweaks his nose in the tribune and challenges
him to combat! How simple, how direct!’</p>
<p>“Imagine my surprise a few days later to learn that
this had been no idle gasconade on the marquis’s part.
True to his word, he had appeared at the school elaborately
attired for the part he was to play, even to a
detestable cravat and a profusion of cheap jewellery!
Unquestionably there must have been others in the
plot, for no formalities anywhere tied his hands or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>
opposed the least obstacle to his audacity. As one
would have expected from a man so eager and so full
of resource, the object for which he came was soon
achieved. Mingling with the students as one of themselves,
he singled out those who went the farthest in
persecuting the women, and insensibly cajoled them
into a better way of conduct. The minority, too, those
that still kept alive the chivalry of young France, were
strengthened and encouraged by the force of his example,
so that the crusade, once authoritatively begun,
went on magnificently of itself. Not a blow was
struck, not a wry word said, and behold, de Gonse had
accomplished a miracle! From that time the position
of women was assured; protectors arose on every side
as though by magic; in a word, gallantry became the
fashion. When professors ventured on impertinences,
hisses now greeted them in place of cheers; they
changed colour, and were at pains to explain away
their words. The battle, indeed, was won.</p>
<p>“Had de Gonse contented himself with this victory,
which saved my sister and Mademoiselle Sonia from
countless mortifications, how much human misery
would have been averted, how great a tragedy would
have remained unplayed! But evil and good are inexplicably
blended in this world, a commonplace of
whose truth, mademoiselle, you will have many opportunities
of verifying. Having acted so manly a part,
one so calculated to earn the gratitude and esteem of
these poor girls, he turned from one to the other, wondering
with which he should reward himself. I have
reason to think his choice first fell on Sonia Boremykin,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>
who had the whitest skin and the prettiest blue
eyes in the world. How can I doubt, to judge from her
wild, tragic after life, but that he could have persuaded
her to her ruin? But he must have paused half-way,
struck by the incomparable superiority of my sister.
In beauty she was not perhaps the equal of her companion,
though to compare <i>blonde</i> and <i>brune</i> is a matter
of supererogation. In other ways, at least, there
never lived a woman more desirable than Berthe de
Charruel. She possessed to a supreme degree the
charm that springs from intelligence,—I might say
from genius,—which, when found in the person of a
young and beautiful woman, is almost irresistible to
any man that gains her favour. Jeanne d’Arc was such
another as my poor sister, and must have been impelled
on her career by something of the same fire,
something of the same passionate earnestness. To
break a heart like hers seemed to de Gonse the crown
to a hundred vulgar intrigues and <i>bonnes fortunes</i>.</p>
<p>“Of course, I knew nothing of this gradual undoing
of my sister, though during the course of my visits to
the little garret I often found the marquis in the society
of Berthe and her friend. I disliked to see him
there, but I was powerless to interfere. I was often
puzzled, indeed, by the ambiguous conduct of Mademoiselle
Sonia, who had the queerest way of looking
at me, and whose eyes were always meeting mine in
singular glances, whether of warning or appeal I was
at a loss to tell. Her words, too, often left me uneasy,
recurring to me constantly when I was in the saddle
at the head of my troop or as I lay awake in bed awaiting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>
the reveille. I wondered if the little Russian
were making love to me, for, like all hussars, I was
something of a coxcomb, though, to do me justice,
neither a lady-killer nor a pursuer of adventures. It
was in my profession that I found my only distraction,
my only mistress. I am almost ashamed to tell
you how good I was, how innocent—how in me the
Puritan stock of my mother seemed to find a fresh
recrudescence. Some thought me a hypocrite, others
a coward; but I was neither.</p>
<p>“I learned the truth late one afternoon from Sonia
Boremykin, who came to my quarters closely veiled,
in a condition of agitation the most frightful. I could
not believe her; I seemed to see only another of her
devices to win my regard. My sister! My Berthe!
It was impossible! I said to her the crudest things;
I was beside myself. She went on her knees; she hid
nothing; it was all true. My anger flamed like a
blazing fire; I rushed out of the barracks regardless
of my duties—of everything except revenge. A lucky
<i>rencontre</i> on the street put me on de Gonse’s track,
and I ran him down in the <i>salle</i> of the Jockey Club.
He was standing under one of the windows, reading
a letter by the fading light, a note, as like as not, he
had just received from Berthe. I think he changed
colour when he saw me; at least, he drew back with a
start.</p>
<p>“I lifted my glove and struck him square across
his handsome face.</p>
<p>“‘You will understand what that is for, M. le
Marquis de Gonse!’ I cried.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>“He turned deadly white, and with a quick movement
caught my wrists in both his hands.</p>
<p>“‘<i>Mon enfant!</i>’ he exclaimed in a loud voice, which
he tried to invest with a tone of jocularity, ‘you carry
your high spirits beyond all reason; I am too old to
enjoy being hit upon the nose.’ Then in a lower key
he whispered: ‘Paul, calm thyself; for the love of
God, do not force a quarrel. Come outside and let us
talk with calmness.’</p>
<p>“But I was in no humour to be cajoled. I fiercely
shook off his restraining hands. ‘Messieurs,’ I cried,
as the others, detecting a scene, began to close round
us, ‘Messieurs, behold how I buffet the face of the
Marquis de Gonse!’ And with that I again flicked
my glove across his face.</p>
<p>“De Gonse slunk back with a sort of sob.</p>
<p>“‘Captain de Charruel and I have had an unfortunate
difference of opinion,’ he cried, recovering his
aplomb on the instant. ‘It seems we cannot agree
upon the Spanish Succession. M. le Comte, my seconds
will await on you this evening.’</p>
<p>“I turned and left the club, my head in a whirl, my
face so distraught and haggard that I carried consternation
through the jostling street, the people making
way for me as though I were a madman. To obtain
seconds was my immediate preoccupation, a task of no
difficulty for a young hussar. My colonel kindly condescended
to act, and with him my friend Nicholas van
Greef, the military attaché of the Netherlands government.
To both I told the same story of the Spanish
Succession and the quarrel of which it had been the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>
occasion. But my colonel smiled and laid a meaning
finger against his nose; the Dutchman said drily it
was well to keep ladies’ names out of such affairs. I
am convinced, however, that neither of them had the
faintest glimmering of the truth. Having thus arranged
matters with my seconds, I attempted next to
find my poor sister, hastening up her interminable
stairs with an impatience I leave you to imagine.
Needless to say, she was not in the garret, which was
inhabited by Mademoiselle Sonia alone, her pretty
face swollen with weeping, her humour one of extraordinary
caprices and contradictions. She blamed me
altogether for the catastrophe: I ought not to have
given Berthe a sou; I ought to have starved her back
into servitude. Women were intended for slaves; to
make them free was to give them the rope to hang
themselves. For her part, said mademoiselle, she
thought a convent the right place for girls, and crochet
work the best occupation! At any other time I
might have stared to hear such sentiments from my
sister’s friend, but for the moment I could think of
nothing but Berthe. To find her was my one desire.
In this, however, Sonia would afford me no assistance,
frankly asking what would be the good.</p>
<p>“‘The harm is done, my poor Paul,’ she said, looking
at me sorrowfully. ‘Why should I expose you
or her to an interview so unpleasant? How could it
profit any one?’</p>
<p>“I could not altogether see the force of this acquiescence
in evil. I said that the honour of one of the
oldest families in France was at stake; that if my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>
sister did not leave the marquis I should kill her with
my own hands and fly the country. I implored Mademoiselle
Sonia, with every argument I thought might
move her, to betray my sister’s hiding-place. But she
kept putting me off, mocked at my impatience, and
tried to learn, on her side, whether or not I meant to
fight de Gonse.</p>
<p>“‘If you really wish to find out where she is,’ she
cried at last, ‘why don’t you make me tell you? Why
don’t you take me by the throat and pound my head
against the wall, as they do down-stairs with such
admirable success? Those women positively adore
their men.’ As she spoke she threw back her head
and exposed her charming neck with a gesture half
defiant, half submissive! Upon my soul, I felt like
carrying her suggestion into effect and choking her in
good earnest, for I had become furious at her contrariety.
But, restraining the impulse, I saw there
was nothing left for me save to retire.</p>
<p>“‘Mademoiselle Boremykin,’ I said, ‘you are heartless
and wicked beyond anything I could have imagined
possible. You have helped to bring a noble name
to dishonour, and in place of remorse your only feelings
seem those of levity. I have the honour of wishing
you good day.’</p>
<p>“De Gonse and I met the following morning in the
Bois de Boulogne. His had been the choice of arms,
and he selected rapiers, knowing, like all men of the
world, that a pistol has the knack of killing. I ground
my teeth at his decision, for he had the reputation of
being a fine fencer, while I could boast no more than<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>
the average proficiency. He appeared to great advantage
on the field; so cool, so handsome, such a <i>grand
seigneur</i>—in every way so marked a contrast to myself.
It was not unnatural, however: he was there to
prick me in the shoulder, I to kill him if I could.
Small wonder that my face was livid, that my eyes
burned like coals in my head, that I was petulant with
my own seconds, insulting towards my adversary’s.
I looked at these with scorn, the supporters of a
scoundrel, themselves, no doubt, seducers and libertines
like him they served. My dear old colonel chid
me for my discourtesy—bade me be a <i>galant homme</i>
for his sake, if not for mine. I kissed his wrinkled
hand before them all; I said I respected men only
who were honourable like himself. Every one laughed
at my extravagance, at the poor old man’s embarrassment.
It was plain they considered me a coward.
They said things I could not help overhearing. But I
cared for nothing. My God, no! I was there to kill
de Gonse, not to pick quarrels with his friends.</p>
<p>“We were placed in position. Everything was <i>en
règle</i>. The doctors, of whom there were a couple, lit
cigarettes and did not even trouble to open their wallets.
They knew it to be an affair of scratches.</p>
<p>“The handkerchief fell. We set to, warily, cautiously,
looking into each other’s eyes like wild beasts.
More than once he could have killed me, so openly
did I expose myself to his attack, so unconscionably
did I force him back, hoping to give lunge for lunge,
my life for his. But in his adventurous past de
Gonse must often have crossed swords with men no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>
less desperate than myself; it was no new thing to
him to face a determined foe, or to guard himself
against thrusts that were meant to kill. His temper
was under admirable control; he handled his weapon
like a master in the school of arms, and allowed
me to tire myself out against what seemed a wall
of steel. Suddenly he forced my guard with a stroke
like a lightning-flash; I felt my left arm burn as
though melted wax had been dropped upon it.
Some one seized my sword; some one caught me in
his arms!</p>
<p>“My dizziness, my bewilderment, were the sensations
of a moment, and in a trice I was myself again.
The wound was nothing—a nicely calculated stroke
through the fleshy part of the arm. I laughed when
they talked of honour satisfied and of our return to the
barracks. I said I never felt better in my life. It
was true, for I was possessed with a berserker rage,
as they call it in the old Norse sagas; a bullet through
my heart could not have hurt me then. The seconds
demurred; they told me that I was in their hands;
that I was overruled; repeated, like parrots, that
honour was satisfied. This only made me laugh the
more. I went up to the marquis and asked him was
it necessary for me to strike him again? I called him
a coward, and swore I would post him in every salon
and club in Paris. I slapped him in the face with my
bare hand—my right, for my left felt numb and
strange. There was another scene. De Gonse appeared
discomposed for the first time; the seconds
were pale and more than perturbed. One had a sense<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>
of death being in the air. There were consultations
apart; appeals to which I would not listen; expostulations
as idle as the wind. De Gonse, trembling with
wrath, left himself unreservedly to his seconds, walking
up and down at a little distance like a sentinel
on duty. I also strolled about to show how strong
and fit I was—the angriest, the bitterest man in
France.</p>
<p>“At length it was decided that we might continue
the combat. De Gonse solemnly protested, bidding us
all take notice that he had been allowed no alternative.
My colonel was almost in tears. Repeatedly,
as a favour to himself, he besought me to apologise
for that second blow and retire from the field. But
I was adamant. ‘<i>Mon colonel</i>,’ I said to him, in a
whisper, ‘this is a quarrel in which one of us must
fall. Let me assure you it is not about a trifle.’</p>
<p>“Again we ranged ourselves; again we grasped our
rapiers, saluted, and stood ready for the game to begin.
The marquis’s coolness had somewhat forsaken
him. The finest equanimity is ruffled by a buffet in the
face; one cannot command calm at will. His friends
said afterwards that he showed extraordinary self-control,
but I should rather have described it as extraordinary
uneasiness. No duellist cares for a berserker
foe. De Gonse was, moreover, of a superstitious fancy.
There are such things, besides, as presentiments; I
think he must have had one then. God knows, perhaps
he was struggling with remorse. The handkerchief
fell; we crossed swords, and the combat was
resumed with the utmost vivacity. The air rang with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>
the shivering steel. The doctors smoked no longer, but
looked on with open mouths. A duel in grim earnest
is seldom seen in France, though I venture to say there
was one that morning. It lasted only a minute; we
had scarcely well begun before I felt a stinging in my
side, and saw, as in a dream, my enemy’s triumphant
face, red with his exertions. The exasperation of that
moment passes the power of words to describe. This
was my revenge, this a villain’s punishment on the
field of honour! He would leave it without a scratch,
to be lionised in salons, to relate in boudoirs the true
inwardness of the quarrel! Remember, I felt all this
within the confines of a single second, as a drowning
man in no more brief a space passes his entire life in
review. Imagine, if you can, my rage, my uncontrollable
indignation, my unbounded fury. What I did
then I would do now,—by God, I would,—if need be,
a dozen times! I caught his rapier in my left hand
and held it in the aching wound, while with my unimpeded
right I stabbed him through the body, again
and again, with amazing swiftness—so that he fell
pierced in six places. There was a terrible outcry;
shouts of ‘Murder!’ ‘Coward!’ ‘Assassin!’ on every
side looks of horror and detestation. One of the
marquis’s seconds beset me like a maniac with his
cane, and I believe I should have killed him too had
not the old colonel run between us.</p>
<p>“The other second was supporting de Gonse’s head
and assisting the surgeons to staunch the pouring
blood. But it was labour lost; any one could see that
he was doomed. From a little distance I watched them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>
crowding about him where he lay on the grass; for I
had drawn apart, sick and dizzy with my own wounds,
conscious that I was now an outcast among men. At
last one came towards me; it was Clut, the doctor. He
said nothing, but drew me gently towards the group
he had just quitted. They opened for me to pass as
though I were a leper. A second later I stood beside
the dying man, gazing down at his face.</p>
<p>“‘He wishes to shake hands with you,’ said the other
doctor, solemnly, guiding the marquis’s hand upward
in his own. ‘Let his death atone, he says; he wishes
to part in amity.’</p>
<p>“I folded my arms.</p>
<p>“‘No, monsieur,’ I said. ‘What you ask is impossible.’
With that I walked away, not daring to look
back lest I might falter in my resolution. I can say
honestly that de Gonse’s death weighs on me very
little; yet I would give ten years of my life to unsay
those final words—to recall that last brutality. In my
dreams I often see him so, holding out the hand, which
I try to grasp. I hear the doctor saying, ‘He wishes
to part in amity.’</p>
<p>“I fainted soon after leaving my opponent’s side.
I lay on the ground where I fell, no one caring to
come to my assistance. When consciousness returned
I saw them lifting the marquis’s body into a carriage,
and I needed no telling to learn that he was dead.
My colonel and Van Greef assisted me into another
cab, neither of them saying a word nor showing me
the least compassion. I suppose I should have been
thankful they did so much. Was not I accursed?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>
Were they not involved in my dishonour? They
abandoned me, wounded, faint, and parching with
thirst, to find my own way to Paris. Alone? No,
not altogether. On the seat beside me my colonel
laid a flask of brandy and a loaded pistol. The first
I drank; the revolver I pitched out of window. I
never thought to kill myself. For cheating at cards,
for several varieties of dishonour, yes. But not for
what I had done—never in all the world. My conscience
was as undisturbed as that of a little child;
excepting always that—why had I not taken his
hand!</p>
<p>“I was arrested, of course, and tried—tried for
murder. You see, there were too many in the secret
for it to be long kept. It was a <i>cause célèbre</i>, attracting
universal attention. The quarrel concerned
the Spanish Succession; as to that they could not
shake me. There were many surmises, many suspicions,
but no one stumbled on the truth. To a single
man only was it told—Maître Le Roux, my counsel.
Him I had to tell, for at first he would not take up my
case at all. There was a great popular outcry against
me, the army furious and ashamed, the bourgeoisie in
hysterics. I was condemned; sentenced to death; reprieved
at the particular intercession of the Marquise
de Gonse, the dead man’s mother, who threw herself
on her knees before the Chief Executive—reprieved
to transportation for life!</p>
<p>“You will be surprised I mention not my mother.
Ah, mademoiselle, there are some things which will
not permit themselves to be told—even to you. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span>
went mad. She died. My military degradation is
another of those things unspeakable. The epaulets
were torn from my shoulders, the <i>galons</i> from my
sleeves, my sword broken in two; all this in public
before my regiment in hollow square. Picture for
yourself, on every side, those walls of faces, scarcely
one not familiar; my colonel, choking on his charger,
the agitated master of ceremonies; my former friends
and comrades trying not to meet my eye; in the ranks
many of my own troopers crying, and the officers
swearing at them below their breath. My God, it
was another Calvary!</p>
<p>“At Havre they kept me long in prison, waiting for
the transport to carry me to New Caledonia. It was
there I heard of my sister’s death, the news being
brought to me by a young French lady, a friend of
Berthe’s. My sister had poisoned herself, appalled at
what she had done. There was no scandal, however,
no sensational inquiry. She was too clever for that,
too scientific; it was by no vulgar means that she
sought her end. Assembling her friends, she bade
them good-bye in turn, and divided among them her
little property, her money, jewels, and clothes. She
died in the typhus hospital to which she had volunteered
her services—a victim to her own imprudence,
said the doctors; a martyr to duty, proclaimed the
world. She was accorded the honour of a municipal
funeral (though her actual body was thrown into a pit
of lime): the <i>maire</i> and council in carriages, the
charity children on foot, the <i>pompiers</i> with their engine,
a battalion of the National Guard, and the band<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>
of the Ninth Marine Infantry! What mockery!
What horror!</p>
<p>“Here in New Caledonia I looked forward to endure
frightful sufferings, to be herded with the dregs of mankind
in a squalor unspeakable. But, on the contrary, I
was received everywhere with kindness. The rigours of
imprisonment were relieved by countless exemptions.
I found, as I had read before in books, that the sight
of a great gentleman in misfortune is one very moving
to common minds; and if he bears his sorrows with
manly fortitude and dignity, he need not fear for
friends. To my jailers I was invariably ‘Monsieur’;
they apologised for intruding on my privacy, for setting
me the daily task; they would have looked the
other way had I been backward or disinclined. I was
neither, for I was not only ready to conform to the
regulations, but something within me revolted at being
unduly favoured.</p>
<p>“At the earliest moment permissible by law I left
the prison to become a serf, the initial stage of freedom,
hired out at twelve francs a month to any one
who required my services. I fell into the hands of
Fitzroy, here, the mine-owner, who treated me with
a consideration so distinguished, so entirely generous,
that when I earned my right to a little farm of my
own I begged and received permission to settle near
him. The government gave me these few acres on
the hill, rations for a year, and a modest complement
of tools and appliances, exacting only one condition:
my <i>parole d’honneur</i>. It is only Frenchmen who could
ask such a thing of a convict, but, as I told you before,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span>
I was regarded as an exception, a man whose
word might safely be taken.</p>
<p>“Never was one less inclined to escape than myself;
my estates, which are extensive and valuable, would
have instantly paid the forfeit; and though I am
prohibited from receiving a sou of their revenues, I
am not disallowed to direct how my money shall be
used. You will wonder why I weigh possessions so
intangible against a benefit which would be so real.
But the traditions of an old family become almost a
religion. To jeopardise our lands would be a sacrilege
of which I am incapable; we phantoms come and go,
but the race must continue on its ancestral acres; the
noble line must be maintained unbroken. So peremptory
is this feeling that you will see it at work in
families that boast no more than three generations.
The father’s château is dear; the grandfather’s precious;
the great-grandfather’s a thing to die for!
Think what it is among those, like ourselves, whose
lineage and lands go back to Charlemagne! Though
I can never return to France myself, though I shall
die on my little hillside farm and be buried by
strangers, still, it is much to me that the estates will
pass to those of my blood. I have cousins, children
of my uncle, who will succeed me—manly, handsome
boys, whose careers are my especial care. Their children
will often ask,—their children’s children, perhaps,—of
that portrait of a man in chains, in the stripes of a
convict, that hangs in our great picture-gallery at
Nemours, beneath it this legend: ‘Paul de Charruel,
painted in prison at his own request.’ At the prompting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>
of vanity, of humility,—I scarcely know which to
call it,—I had this done before I quitted France for
ever, the artist coming daily to study me through the
bars; and ordered it hung amid the effigies of my race.
I suppose it hangs there now, slowly darkening in that
empty house. It shall be my only plea to posterity,
my only cry.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>“It is nearly sixteen years ago since these events
took place. For more than twelve I have lived like a
peasant on my little farm, the busiest of the busy; up
at dawn, to bed by nine o’clock. Blossoming under a
care so sedulous and undivided, it has yielded me a
rich return for my labour. My heart it has kept from
breaking; my hands it has never left empty of a task
to fill. There is a charm in freedom and solitude, a
solace to be found in the society of plants, beyond
the power of words to adequately express. Our
government is right when it gives the convict a piece
of land and a spade, leaving him to work out his own
salvation. I took their spade; I found their salvation.
On that hillside there I have passed from youth to
middle age; my hair has turned to grey; my talents,
my strength, all that I have inherited or acquired in
mind or body, have been expended in hoeing cabbages,
in weeding garden-beds, in felling the forest-trees
which encumbered my little estate. Yet I have not
been unhappy, if you except one day each year, a
day I should gladly see expunged from my calendar.
Once a year I receive from the Marquise de Gonse a
letter in terms the most touching and devout, written<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>
in mingled vitriol and tears. This annual letter is
to her, I know, a supreme sacrifice; every line of it
breathes anguish and revolt. To forgive me has become
the touchstone of her religion, a test to which
she submits herself with agony. I cannot—I do not—blame
her for hating me; I would not have her
learn the truth for anything on earth: but is it a pleasure
for me to be turned the other cheek? Is it any
consolation to be forgiven in terms so scathing? It
is terrible, that piety which deceives itself, which attempts
to achieve what is impossible. And she not
only forgives me: she sends me little religious books,
texts to put upon my walls, special tracts addressed
to those in prison. She asks about my soul, and tells
me she wearies the President with intercessions for
my release. Poor, lonely old woman, bereft of her
only son! In the bottom of her heart, does she not
wish me torn limb from limb? Would she not love
to see me in the fires of hell?</p>
<p>“This, mademoiselle, concludes my story. To-morrow,
in your father’s beautiful yacht, you leave our
waters, never to return. You will pursue your adventurous
voyage, encircling the world, to reach at
last that far American home, receiving on the way
countless new impressions that will each obliterate the
old. Somewhere there awaits you a husband, a man
of untarnished name and honour. In his love you will
forget still more; your memories will fade into dreams.
Will you ever recall this land of desolation? Will
you ever recall de Charruel the convict?”</p>
<p>He had not looked at the girl once during the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>
course of his long narrative. He felt that she had
been affected—how much or how little, he did not
know, a certain delicacy, a certain fear, withholding
him. When at last he sought her face he saw that
she had been crying.</p>
<p>“I shall never forget,” she said.</p>
<p>They walked in silence until, at a parting of the
paths, he said: “This one leads to my little cabin.
Come; it will interest you, perhaps—the roof that has
sheltered me for twelve irrevocable years. You are
not afraid?” he asked.</p>
<p>She made a motion of dissent, drawing closer to him
as though to express her confidence.</p>
<p>A few hundred yards brought them to a grassy paddock
fenced with limes, through which they passed to
reach a grove of breadfruit and orange trees beyond.
On the farther side the house itself could be seen, a
wooden hut embowered in a bougainvillea of enormous
size. It looked damp, dark, and uninviting.
Not a breath stirred the tree-tops above nor penetrated
into the deep shade below; except for the drone of
bees and a sound of falling water in the distance,
the intense quiet was untroubled by a sound. De
Charruel led the way in silence, with the preoccupation
of a man who had too often trod that path before
to need his wits to guide him. Reaching the hut, he
threw open the door and stood back to allow his companion
to enter before him. The little room was bare
and clean; a table, a book-shelf, a couple of chairs,
the only furniture; the only ornaments a shining
lamp and a vase of roses. Miss Amy Coulstoun took<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>
a seat in the long canvas chair which the convict drew
out for her. The air seemed hot and suffocating, the
perfume of the orange-blossoms almost insupportable.
She was possessed, besides, with a thought, a fancy,
that bewildered her; that made her feel half ashamed,
half triumphant; that brought the tears to her eyes repeatedly.
De Charruel did not speak. He was standing
in the doorway, looking down at her with a sort
of awe, as though at something sacred, something he
wished to imprint for ever in his mind.</p>
<p>“I wish to remember you as you are now!” he exclaimed—“lying
back in my chair, your face a little in
profile, your eyes sad and compassionate. When you
are gone I shall keep this memory in my heart; I shall
cherish it; it shall live with me here in my solitude.”</p>
<p>“I must go,” she said, with a little thrill of anger
or agitation in her voice. “I have stayed too long
already.”</p>
<p>He came towards her.</p>
<p>“I want first to show you this,” he said, drawing
from his pocket a jewel-case, which he almost forced
into her hands. “You will not refuse me a last favour—you
who have accorded me so many?”</p>
<p>She avoided his glance, and opened the box, giving,
as she did so, an exclamation of astonishment.</p>
<p>It was full of rings.</p>
<p>“They were my poor mother’s,” he explained. “By
special permission I was allowed to receive them here;
I feared they might go astray.”</p>
<p>There were, perhaps, ten rings in all, every one the
choice of a woman of refinement and great wealth—diamonds,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>
rubies, pearls, and opals, sparkling and
burning in the hollow of the girl’s hand. No wonder
she cried out at the sight of them, and turned them
over and over and over with fascinated curiosity.</p>
<p>“Each one has its history,” said de Charruel.
“This and this are heirlooms. This was a peace-offering
from my father after a terrible quarrel, the
particulars of which I never learned. This he gave her
after my birth—are the diamonds not superb? This
ruby was my mother’s favourite, for it was her engagement
ring, and endeared to her by innumerable recollections.
She used to tell me that at her death she
wished my wife to wear it always, saying it was so
charged with love that she counted it a talisman.”</p>
<p>Miss Coulstoun held it up to the light, turning it
from side to side.</p>
<p>“It is like a pool of fire,” she said.</p>
<p>“Won’t you try it on?” he asked.</p>
<p>She did so, and held out her hand for him to see.
The ring might have been made to the measure of her
finger.</p>
<p>“You will never take it off again,” he said. “You
will keep it for a souvenir—for a remembrance.”</p>
<p>She shook her head. “Indeed, I will not,” she returned,
with a smile. “Besides, is it not to be preserved
for your fiancée? You cannot disregard your
mother’s wish.”</p>
<p>“Why should we pretend to one another?” he broke
out. “You know why I offer it to you, mademoiselle.
It would be an insult for me to say I love you—I, a
convict, a man disgraced and ruined past redemption.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>
But I can ask you to keep my poor ring. Wear it as
you might that of some one dead, some one of whom
you once thought with kindness, some one who had
greatly suffered.”</p>
<p>The girl looked away.</p>
<p>“What you ask is impossible,” she said at length,
in a voice so low and sweet that it was like a caress.
“I don’t think you understand.”</p>
<p>“It is your pride that prevents!” he cried. “I
understand very well. If I left it you in a testament
you would not scruple to take it; you would see a difference!
Yet, am I not dead? Is this not my grave
you see around me? Am I not the corpse of the man
I once was? Trample on your pride for once, for the
sake of one that loves the very ground you tread upon.
Take my ring, although it is worth much money, although
the <i>convenances</i> forbid. If questions are asked,
say that it belonged to a man long ago passed away,
whose last wish it was that you should wear it.”</p>
<p>“I shall say it was given me by the bravest and
most eloquent of men, the Comte de Charruel!” she
exclaimed, with a deep blush. “You have convinced
me against my will.”</p>
<p>He cried out in protest, but even as he did so he
heard the sounds of footsteps on the porch, and turned
in time to see the door flung open by Fitzroy. Behind
the Irishman strode the tall figure of General Coulstoun,
his face overcast with anxiety.</p>
<p>“Thank God!” he cried when he saw his daughter.
“You’ve been gone an age, my dear, and I’ve been
uneasy in spite of Fitzroy, here. It’s very well to say<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span>
‘It’s all right, it’s all right’; but in an island full of
con—”</p>
<p>“I felt quite safe under M. de Charruel’s protection,”
interrupted Amy, striking that dreadful word
full in the middle. “I thought you knew I was with
this gentleman.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know that that made me feel any more—”
began the general, recollecting himself in the nick of
time. “Why, Amy, child, what are you doing with
that ring?”</p>
<p>“M. de Charruel has just presented it to me, papa,”
she returned. “Is it not beautiful?”</p>
<p>“Good God!” cried the general, “it is a ruby! I
could swear it is a ruby! It must be worth a fortune!”
Between each of these remarks he stared
de Charruel in the face with mingled suspicion, anger,
and surprise.</p>
<p>“I am told that it is worth about twelve thousand
francs,” said the Frenchman.</p>
<p>The general started. Fitzroy hurriedly whispered
something into his ear. “You don’t say so!” the
former was overheard to say. “In a duel, was it?
I didn’t know anybody was ever killed in a French—Oh,
I see—yes—lost his head—”</p>
<p>This little aside finished, the general came back
again to the attack, more civil, however, and more
conciliatory in his tone.</p>
<p>“You must be aware,” he said, addressing de Charruel,
“that no young lady can accept such a present
as this from any one save a member of her family or
the man to whom she is engaged. I can only think<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>
that my daughter has taken your ring in ignorance
of its real value, forgetful for the moment that the
conventionalities are the same whether in New Caledonia
or New York. You will pardon me, therefore,
if I feel constrained to ask you to take back your
gift.”</p>
<p>“It rests entirely with Miss Coulstoun,” returned
de Charruel.</p>
<p>“In that case, there can certainly be no question,”
said the general.</p>
<p>“I shall not give it back, papa,” said Amy.</p>
<p>Her father stared at her in amazement, and from
her distrustfully to de Charruel.</p>
<p>“Is he not a—convict?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“And you are going to accept a present from a
convict?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“A present said to be worth twelve thousand
francs?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“My God!” he cried, “I could not have believed it
possible.”</p>
<p>At this she burst out crying.</p>
<p>The general put his arm round her. “Come away,
my daughter,” he said. “For once in my life I am
ashamed of you.”</p>
<p>“I must first say good-bye to M. de Charruel,”
she said through her tears, holding out her hand—the
left hand, on which the ruby glowed like a drop of
blood.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>The convict raised it slowly to his lips. Their eyes
met for the last time.</p>
<p>“Good-bye,” he said.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>The next day, from a rocky cliff above his house,
de Charruel saw the yacht hoist her white sails and steal
out to sea. He watched her as long as she remained
in sight, and when at last she sank over the horizon,
he threw himself on the ground in a paroxysm of despair.
For an hour he lay in a sort of stupor, rising
only at the insistent whistle from the mine. This told
him that it was twelve o’clock, and brought him back
to the realities and obligations of life. Descending to
the farm, he once more took up the threads of his existence,
for the habits of twelve years are not to be
lightly disregarded. But it was with difficulty that
he brought himself to perform his usual tasks. His
heart seemed dead within his breast. He wondered
miserably at his former patience and industry as he
saw on every side the exemplification of both. How
could he ever have found contentment in such drudgery,
in such pitiful digging and toiling in the dirt!
What a way for a man to pass his days—an earth-stained
peasant, ignobly sweating among his cabbages!
Oh, the intolerable loneliness of those years! How
grim they seemed as he looked back at them, those
tragic, wasted years!</p>
<p>Tortured by the stillness and emptiness of his hut,
he spent the night at Fitzroy’s, lying on the bare
verandah boards till daylight. But he returned home
before the household was astir, lest he should be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>
invited to breakfast and be expected to talk. He
shrank from the thought of meeting any one, and
for days afterwards kept close within the limits of his
little farm, shunning every human being near him.
Every convict has such phases, such mutinies of the
soul. The malady runs its course like a fever, and if
it does not kill or impair the victim’s reason, it leaves
him at last too often a hopeless sot. But, fortunately
for himself, it was work, not cognac, that cured
Paul de Charruel. He came to himself one day in his
garden, as he was digging potatoes. He stood up,
drew his hand across his face, and realised that the
brain-sickness had left him. He went into the house
and looked at himself in the glass, shuddering at the
scarecrow he saw reflected there. He examined his
clothes, his rooms, his calloused hands, with a strange,
new curiosity, studying them all with the same speculation,
the same surprise. He stood off, as it were,
and looked at himself from a distance. He walked
about his tangled, weedy farm, and wondered what
had come over him these past weeks. He had been
starving, he said to himself many times over—starving
for companionship.</p>
<p>He sought out Fitzroy at the mine. It was good
again to hear the Irishman’s honest laugh, to clasp
his honest hand, to think there was one person, at
least, that cared for him. He hung about Fitzroy
all that day, as though it would be death to lose sight
of him—Fitzroy, his friend. He repeated that last
word a dozen times. His friend! He talked wildly
and extravagantly for the mere pleasure of hearing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span>
himself speak. He was convulsed with laughter
when an accident happened to a truck, and could
scarcely contain himself when Fitzroy had a mock
altercation with the engineer. No one could be more
humourous than Fitzroy, and the engineer was a
man of admirable wit! What a fool he had been to
sulk these weeks on his farm. His farm! It made
him tremble to think of it, so unendurably lonely and
silent it had become. It was horrible that he must
return to it,—his green prison,—with its ghosts and
memories.</p>
<p>He went back late, but not to sleep. He sat on the
dark porch of his hut and thought of the woman he
had lost. Like a shadow she seemed to pass beside
him, and if he shut his eyes he could feel her breath
against his cheek and almost hear the beating of her
heart. He closed his arms on the empty air and called
her name aloud, half hoping that she might come
to him. But she was a thousand miles at sea, and
every minute was widening the distance between them.
The folly and uselessness of these repinings suddenly
came over him. She was a most charming girl, but
would not any charming girl have captivated him
after the life he had been leading? Was he not hungry
for affection? Was he not in love with love?
He rose and walked up and down the porch, greatly
stirred by the new current of his thoughts. Yes; he
was dying for something to love—something, were it
only a dog. For twelve years he had sufficed for
himself, but he could do so no more.</p>
<p>By dawn he was at Fitzroy’s, begging the Irishman<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>
for a black boy and a horse. A little later his messenger
was galloping along the Noumea road, charged
with a letter to the Chef de l’Administration Pénitentiaire
to request that “le nommé de Charruel” be
permitted to leave his farm for seven days. The
permission was accorded almost as a matter of form,
for it was not the custom to refuse anything to “le
nommé de Charruel.”</p>
<p>The count went straight to the convent and asked
to see the Mother Superior. She was a stately old
lady, with silvery hair, an aristocratic profile, and a
voice like an ancient bell. She at once cut short his
explanations, closing her ears to his official number
and other particulars of his convict life.</p>
<p>“M. le Comte,” she said, “I knew your mother
very well, and your father also, whom you favour
not a little. I have often thought of you out there
by the strait—ah, monsieur, believe me, often.”</p>
<p>De Charruel thanked her with ceremony.</p>
<p>“Your errand cannot be the same as that which
brings the others,” she went on, half smiling. “<i>Mon
Dieu!</i>” she exclaimed, as she saw the truth in his reddening
face. “You, a noble! a <i>chef de famille</i>! It is
impossible.”</p>
<p>“I am only the convict de Charruel,” he answered.</p>
<p>The old woman looked at him with keen displeasure.</p>
<p>“You know the rules?” she said in an altered voice.
“You know, I suppose, that you can take your choice
of three. If you are not satisfied you can return in
six months.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>“Oh, madame,” he said, “spare me such a trial. I
stipulate for two things only: give me not a poisoner
nor a thief; but give me, if you can, some poor girl
whose very honesty and innocence has been her
ruin.”</p>
<p>“I can very easily supply you with such a one,” said
the Mother Superior. “Your words apply to half the
female criminals the government sends me to marry
to the convicts. When I weigh their relative demerits
I almost feel I am giving angels to devils, so heavy
is the scale in favour of my sex. I have several young
women of unusual gentleness and refinement, who
could satisfy requirements the most exacting. If you
like,” she went on, “I shall introduce you first to a
poor girl named Suzanne. In the beginning it was
like caging a bird to keep her here, but insensibly she
has given her heart to God and has ceased to beat her
wings against the bars.”</p>
<p>“Does she fulfil my conditions?” asked the count.</p>
<p>“Yes; a thousand times, yes!” exclaimed the Mother
Superior. “Shall I give orders for her to be
brought?”</p>
<p>“If you would have the kindness,” said de Charruel.</p>
<p>There was a long waiting after the command had
gone forth. All the womanliness and latent coquetry
of the nuns came out in this business of making ready
their charges for the ordeal; and when it was whispered
that the wooer was the Comte de Charruel himself,
a personage with whose romantic history there
was not a soul unfamiliar, great indeed was the excitement
and preparation. At last, with a modest knock,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>
the door opened and let in a young girl clothed in
conventual grey. She had a very pretty face, a touch
hardened by past misfortunes, a figure short, well
knit, and not ungraceful, and wild black eyes that
shrank to the ground at the sight of the count.</p>
<p>The Mother Superior motioned her to take a seat.</p>
<p>“This is Suzanne,” she said.</p>
<p>De Charruel rose to his feet and bowed.</p>
<p>There was a dead silence.</p>
<p>“Can you not say something?” said the old lady,
turning to the count with some asperity.</p>
<p>“Mademoiselle,” he said, with a sensation of extreme
embarrassment, “I have the honour to ask you
to marry me.”</p>
<p>“You need not commit yourself,” interrupted the
Mother Superior. “You can have the choice of two
more.”</p>
<p>“If I saw a hundred, madame,” he replied, “I could
find no one I preferred to this young lady.”</p>
<p>There was another prolonged silence.</p>
<p>“You must answer, Suzanne,” said the old lady.
“Yes or no?”</p>
<p>The girl burst into tears.</p>
<p>“Yes or no?” reiterated the Mother.</p>
<p>“I weep at monsieur’s extraordinary goodness,”
said the girl. “Yes, madame, yes.”</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>Ten days later de Charruel was resting in the taro-field
where he had been at work, when he felt
Suzanne’s arm around his neck and her warm lips
against his forehead. He leaned back with a smile.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>“Paul,” she said, with a little tremor in her voice,
“you have hidden nothing from me? You have done
nothing wrong, Paul?”</p>
<p>“Wrong!” he exclaimed. “Have I not told thee
repeatedly that I am the model convict, the hero of a
hundred official commendations, the shining star of
the penal administration? Wrong! What dost thou
mean?”</p>
<p>“The authorities—” she answered. “There has
been a messenger from the mine with a blue official
letter. Oh, Paul, it frightens me.”</p>
<p>“Thou needst not fear,” he said. “It is only some
matter of routine. I could paper my house (if it would
not be misunderstood) with blue official letters about
nothing.”</p>
<p>“I am so happy, Paul,” she said,—“so happy that
I tremble for my happiness!”</p>
<p>He smiled at her again as he reached his hand for
the letter. Nonchalantly he tore it open, but turned
deadly pale as he ran his eyes down the sheet inside.</p>
<p>“You must go back to prison?” she cried in a voice
of agony.</p>
<p>He could only shake his head.</p>
<p>“Speak!” she cried again. “Paul, Paul, I must
know, if it kills me!”</p>
<p>He gave her a dreadful look.</p>
<p>“I am pardoned,” he said. “I am free!”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">THE HAPPIEST DAY OF HIS LIFE</h2></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">
THE HAPPIEST DAY OF HIS LIFE</h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">HIS thirtieth birthday! His first youth was behind
him, with all its heartburnings, its failures,
its manifold humiliations. What had he done these
years past but drift, forlorn, penniless, and unattached,
over those shallows where others had stuck and prospered—a
gentle decline all the way from college in
hope and fulfilment? The army and civil service
had alike refused him. In the colonies he had toiled
unremittingly in half a hundred characters,—groom,
cook, boundary rider, steamer roustabout,—always
sinking, always failing. Then those last four years
in the Islands, and his tumble-down store in Vaiala!
Had life nothing more for him than an endless succession
of hot, empty days on the farthest beach of
Upolu, with scarcely more to eat than the commonest
Kanaka, and no other outlet for his energies than the
bartering of salt beef for coprah and an occasional
night’s fishing on the reef? On the other hand, he
was well in body, and had times of even thinking himself
happy in this fag-end of the world. The old store,
rotten and leaky though it was, gave him a dryer bed
than he had often found in his wandering life, and the
food, if monotonous and poor, was better than the
empty belly with which he had often begun an arduous
day in Australia. And the place was extraordinarily<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>
beautiful. Yes, he had always admitted that,
even in his blackest days of depression, though the
beauty of it seemed almost to oppress him at times.
But beautiful or not, this was a strange place for his
father’s son, a strange thirtieth birthday for one who
had begun the world with every prospect of faring
well and rising high in its esteem, and the sense of his
failure again seized him by the throat.</p>
<p>The noise of an incoming boat drew him to the door,
and he looked out to see the pastor’s old whaler heading
through the reef. They had made a night trip to
avoid the heat, and all looked tired and weary with
their long pull from Apia, and the song with which
they timed their paddles sounded mournfully across
the lagoon. A half-grown girl leaped into the water
and hastened up to the store with something fastened
in a banana-leaf.</p>
<p>It was a letter, which she shyly handed the trader.
Walter Kinross looked at it with surprise, for it was
the first he had received in four years, and the sight
of its English stamp and familiar handwriting filled
him with something like awe.</p>
<p>“The white man said you would give us a tin of
salmon and six <i>masi</i>,” said the little girl, in native.</p>
<p>Kinross unlocked the dingy trade-room, still in a
maze of wonder and impatience, and gave the little
girl a box of matches in excess of postage. Then he
opened the letter.</p>
<blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">My dear Nephew</span> [it ran]: Your letter asking me to send
you a book or two or any old papers I might happen to
have about me has just come to hand, and finds me at Long’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>
Hotel, pretty miserable and ill. Yours was a strange note,
after a silence of eight years, telling me nothing on earth
about yourself save that you are trading in some islands,
and seldom see a white face from one year’s end to another.
When a man is seventy years of age and is ill, and his nigh-spent
life unrolls before him like the pages of a musty old
book, and when he wonders a little how it will feel to be
dead and done with altogether, I tell you, my boy, he begins
to see the spectres of all sorts of old misdeeds rising before
him. Past unkindnesses, past neglects, a cold word here, a
ten-pound note saved there and an old friend turned empty
away—well, well! Without actually going the length of
saying that I was either unkind or negligent in your case, I
feel sometimes I was rather hard on you as to that mess of
yours in London, and that affair at Lowestoft the same
year. I was disappointed, and I showed it.</p>
<p>I know you’re pretty old to come back and start life afresh
here, but if you have not had the unmitigated folly to get
married out there and tied by the leg for ever, I’ll help you
to make a new start. You sha’n’t starve if three hundred
pounds a year will keep you, and if you will try and turn
over a new leaf and make a man of yourself in good earnest,
I am prepared to mark you down substantially in my will.
But mind—no promises—payment strictly by results.
You’re no longer a boy, and this is probably the last chance
you’ll ever get of entering civilised life again and meeting
respectable folk. I inclose you a draft at sight on Sydney,
New South Wales, for two hundred and fifty pounds, for
you will doubtless need clothes, etc., as well as your passage
money, and if you decide not to return you can accept it as
a present from your old uncle. I have told Jones (you
would scarcely know the old fellow, Walter, he’s so
changed) to send you a bundle of books and illustrated
papers, which I hope will amuse you more than they seem
to do me.</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="indentright">Affectionately yours,</span><br />
<span class="smcap">Alfred Bannock</span>.
</p></blockquote>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span>The trader read the letter with extraordinary attention,
though the drift of it was at first almost
beyond him—read it and re-read it, dazed and overcome,
scarcely realising his good fortune. He spread
out the bill on his knee and smoothed it as he might
have patted the head of a dog. It spelled freedom,
friends, the life he had been trained and fitted to lead,
a future worth having and worth dividing. The
elation of it all tingled in his veins, and he felt like
singing. London, the far distant, the inaccessible,
now hummed in his ears. He saw the eddying,
crowded streets, the emptying play-houses, the grey
river sparkling with lights. The smoke of a native
oven thrilled him with memories of the underground,
and he had but to close his eyes and the surf thundered
with the noise of arriving trains.</p>
<p>The house could not contain him and his eager
thoughts; he must needs feel the sky overhead and
the trades against his cheek, and take all nature into
his puny confidence. Besides, Vaiala had now a new
charm for him, one he had never counted on to find.
Soon, now, it would begin to melt into the irrevocable
past; its mist-swept mountains, its forests and roaring
waterfalls would fade into nothingness and become
no more than an impalpable phantom of his mind, the
stuff that dreams are made of. He wandered along
the path from one settlement to another, round the
great half-moon of the bay, absorbing every impression
with a new and tender interest.</p>
<p>There were a dozen little villages to be passed before
he could attain the rocky promontory that barred<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>
the western shore, pretty hamlets in groves of cocoanuts
and breadfruit, in each perhaps a dozen beehive
houses and as many sheds and boat-shelters. Between
village and village the path led him under rustling
palms and beside the shallow waters of the
lagoon and across a river where he surprised some
laughing girls at their bath. In the deep shade old
men were mending nets, and children were playing
tag and cricket with boisterous shouts, or marbles in
sandy places. From one house he heard the clapping
hands that announced the <i>’ava</i>; in another the song
and stamp of practising dancers. Hard and lonely
though his life had been, this Samoan bay was endeared
to him by a thousand pleasant memories and
even by the recollection of his past unhappiness.
Here he had found peace and love, freedom from
taskmasters, scenes more beautiful than any picture,
and, not least, a sufficiency to eat. A little money
and his life might have been tolerable, even happy—enough
money for a good-sized boat, a cow or two,
and those six acres of the Pascoe estate he had so
often longed to buy. Only the month before, the
American consul had offered them for two hundred
dollars Chile money, and here he was with two hundred
and fifty pounds in his pocket, seventeen hundred
and fifty dollars currency! Cruel fate, that had
made him in one turn of her wrist far too rich to care.
He would buy them for Leata, he supposed; he must
leave the girl some land to live on. But where now
were all the day-dreams of the laying out of his little
estate?—the damming of the noisy stream, the fencing,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>
terracing, and path-making he had had in mind;
the mangoes, oranges, and avocados he had meant to
plant in that teeming soil, with coffee enough for a
modest reserve? What a snug, cosy garden a man
could make of it! What a satisfaction it might have
been! How often had he talked of it with Leata, who
had been no less eager than himself to harness their
quarter-acre to the six and make of them all a little
paradise.</p>
<p>Poor Leata! whom he had taken so lightly from
her father’s house and paid for in gunpowder and
kegs of beef—his smiling, soft-eyed Leata, who would
have died for him! What was to become of her in
this new arrangement of things? The six acres would
provide for her, of course; in breadfruit, cocoanuts,
and bananas she would not be badly off: but where
was the solace for the ache in her heart, for her desolation
and abandonment? He sighed as he thought
of her, the truest friend he had found in all his wanderings.
He would get her some jewellery from Apia,
and a chest of new dresses, and a big musical box, if
she fancied it. What would it matter if he did go
home in the steerage? It would be no hardship to a
man like him. She would soon forget him, no doubt,
and take up with somebody else, and live happily ever
afterwards in the six acres. Ah, well! he mustn’t
think too much about her, or it would take the edge off
his high spirits and spoil the happiest day of his life.</p>
<p>By this time he had worked quite round the bay, and
almost without knowing it he found himself in front
of Paul Engelbert’s store. Engelbert was the other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span>
trader in Vaiala—a passionate, middle-aged Prussian,
who had been a good friend of his before those seven
breadfruit-trees had come between them. In his new-found
affluence and consequent good humour the bitterness
of that old feud suddenly passed away. He
recalled Engelbert’s rough, jovial kindness—remembered
how Paul had cared for him through the fever,
and helped him afterwards with money and trade.
How could he have been so petty as to make a quarrel
of those breadfruit-trees? He recollected, with indescribable
wonder at himself, that he had once drawn
a pistol on the old fellow, and all this over six feet of
boundary and seven gnawed breadfruits! By Jove!
he could afford to be generous and hold out the right
hand of friendship. Poor old Paul! it was a shame
they had not spoken these two years.</p>
<p>On the verandah, barefoot and in striped pyjamas,
was Engelbert, pretending not to see him. Kinross
thought he looked old and sick and not a little
changed.</p>
<p>“How do you do, Engelbert?” he said.</p>
<p>The German looked at him with smouldering eyes.
“Gan’t you see I’m busy?” he said.</p>
<p>“You might offer a man a chair,” said Kinross,
seating himself on the tool-chest.</p>
<p>“Dere iss no jare for dem dat issn’t welgome,” said
the German.</p>
<p>“I used to be welcome here,” said Kinross. “There
was a time when you were a precious good friend of
mine, Paul Engelbert.”</p>
<p>“Dat wass long ago,” said the trader.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>“I’ve been thinking,” said Kinross, “that I’ve
acted like a damned fool about those trees.”</p>
<p>“Dat wass what I wass dinking, too, dese two dree
years,” responded the other.</p>
<p>“Take them; they are yours,” said Kinross. “You
can build your fence there to-morrow.”</p>
<p>“So!” said Engelbert, with dawning intelligence.
“The Yerman gonsul has at last to my gomplaint
listened.”</p>
<p>“Hang the German consul! No!” cried Kinross.
“I do it myself, because I was wrong—because you
were good to me that time I was sick, and lent me the
hundred dollars and the trade.”</p>
<p>“And you want noding?” asked Engelbert, still
incredulous.</p>
<p>“I want to shake your hand and be friends again,
old man,” said Kinross, “same as we used to be when
we played dominoes every night, and you’d tell me
about the Austrian War, and how the Prince divided
his cigars with you when you were wounded.”</p>
<p>The German looked away. “Oh, Kinross,” he said,
with a shining look in his eyes, “you make me much
ashamed.” He turned suddenly round and wrung
the Englishman’s hand in an iron grasp. “I, too, was
dam fool.”</p>
<p>“A friend is worth more than seven breadfruits,”
said Kinross.</p>
<p>“It wass not breadfruid: it wass brincible,” said the
German. “Poof! de drees dey are noding; here it
wass I wass hurted,” and he laid a heavy paw against
his breast. “Ho, Malia, de beer!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>His strapping native wife appeared with bottles and
mugs; at the sight of their guest she could scarcely
conceal her surprise.</p>
<p>“Prosit!” said Engelbert, touching glasses.</p>
<p>“You know dem six agers of de Pasgoe estate,” he
said, looking very hard at his companion. “Very
nice leetle place, very sheap, yoost behind your store?”</p>
<p>Kinross nodded, but his face fell in spite of himself.</p>
<p>“I from the American gonsul bought him,” went
on the German, “very sheap: two hundred dollars
Chile money.”</p>
<p>Kinross looked black. Engelbert patted his hand
and smiled ambiguously.</p>
<p>“Dey are yours,” he said. “Pay me back when
you have de money. I buy dem only to spite you.
<i>My friend</i>, take dem.”</p>
<p>“Paul, Paul,” cried Kinross, “I don’t know what
to say—how to thank you. Only this morning I got
money from home, and the first thing I meant to do
was to buy them.”</p>
<p>“All de better,” said Engelbert; “and, my boy, you
blant goffee. Cobrah, poof! Gotton, poof! It’s de
goffee dat bays, and I will get you blenty leetle drees
from my friend, de gaptain in Utumabu Blantation.
You must go? So? Yoost one glass beer. Nein?
I will be round lader.”</p>
<p>Kinross tore himself away with difficulty and started
homeward, his heart swelling with kindness for the
old Prussian. He exulted in the six acres he had so
nearly lost, and they now seemed to him more precious
than ever. It was no empty promise, that of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>
coffee-trees from Utumapu; these would save him all
manner of preparatory labor and put his little plantation
six months ahead. Then he remembered he was
leaving Vaiala, and again he heard the hum of London
in his ears. Well, he would explain about the
trees to Leata, and would beg old Engelbert to help
and advise her a bit. Poor Leata! she had lots of
good sense and was very quick to learn. He could
trust Leata.</p>
<p>He was crossing the <i>malae</i>, or common, of Polapola,
when the sight of the chief’s house put a new
thought into his head. It was Tangaloa’s house,
and he could see the chief himself bulking dimly in
the shadow of a <i>siapo</i>. Tangaloa! He hadn’t
spoken with him in a year. The old fellow had
been good to him, and in the beginning had overwhelmed
him with kindnesses. But that was before
he had shot the chief’s dog and brought about the
feud that had existed between them for so long. It
was annoying to have that everlasting dog on his
verandah at night, frightening Leata to death and
spilling the improvised larder all about the floor,
not to speak of the chickens it had eaten and the eggs
it had sucked. No, he could not blame himself for
having shot that beast of a dog! But it had made
bad blood between him and Tangaloa, and had cost
him, in one way or another, through the loss of the
old chief’s custom and influence, the value of a thousand
chickens. But he would make it up with Tangaloa,
for he meant to leave no man’s ill will behind
him. So he walked deliberately towards the house,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>
and slipped under the eaves near the place where the
old chief was sitting alone.</p>
<p>“<i>Talofa</i>, Tangaloa,” he cried out cordially, shaking
hands.</p>
<p>The chief responded somewhat drily to the salutation
and assumed a vacant expression.</p>
<p>“That dog!” began the trader.</p>
<p>“That dog!” repeated the chief, with counterfeit
surprise.</p>
<p>“Thy dog, the one I shot near my house,” said Kinross,
firing up with the memory of its misdeeds, “the
dog that chased my chickens, and ate my eggs, and
plagued me all night like a forest devil—I want to
take counsel with your Highness about it.”</p>
<p>“But it is dead,” said Tangaloa.</p>
<p>“But thy high-chief anger is not dead,” said Kinross.
“Behold, I used to be like your son, and the
day was no longer than thy love for me. I am overcome
with sorrow to remember the years that are
gone, and now to live together as we do in enmity.
What is the value of thy dog, that I may pay thee for
it, and what present can I make besides that will turn
thy heart towards me again?”</p>
<p>“Cease,” said the chief; “there was no worth to the
dog, and I have no anger against thee, Kinilosi.”</p>
<p>“You mock at me, Tangaloa,” said Kinross.
“There is anger in thine eyes even as thou speakest
to me.”</p>
<p>“Great was my love for that dog,” said the chief.
“It licked my face when I lay wounded on the
battle-ground. If I whistled it came to me, so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>
wise was it and loving; and if I were sick it would
not eat.”</p>
<p>“Weighty is my shame and pain,” said the trader.
“Would that I had never lifted my gun against it!
But I will pay thee its worth and make thee a present
besides.”</p>
<p>“Impossible,” said Tangaloa. “When the cocoanut
is split, who can make it whole?”</p>
<p>“One can always get a new cocoanut,” said Kinross.
“I will buy thee the best dog in Apia, a high chief of
a dog, clever like a consul, and with a bark melodious
as a musical box.”</p>
<p>At this Tangaloa laughed for the first time. “And
what about thy chickens?” he demanded, “and thy
things to eat hung out at night?”</p>
<p>“It can eat all the chickens it likes,” returned Kinross,
“and I will feed it daily, also, with salt beef and
sardines, if that will make us friends again, your
Highness.”</p>
<p>“Cease, Kinilosi; I am thy friend already,” said
Tangaloa, extending his hand. “It is forgotten about
the dog, and lo, the anger is buried.”</p>
<p>“And the price?” inquired Kinross.</p>
<p>“One cannot buy friendship or barter loving-kindness,”
said Tangaloa. “Again I tell thee there is no
price. But if thou wouldst care to give me a bottle
of kerosene, for the lack of which I am sore distressed
these nights—well, I should be very glad.”</p>
<p>“I shall be pleased indeed,” said the trader, who of
a sudden assumed an intent, listening attitude.</p>
<p>“What is the matter?” demanded Tangaloa.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>“Sh-sh!” exclaimed the white man.</p>
<p>“There is nothing,” said the chief.</p>
<p>“Yes, yes,” said Kinross; “listen, your Highness!
A faint, faint bark like that of a spirit dog.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” said the chief, looking about uneasily.</p>
<p>“Dost thee not hear it?” cried Kinross, incredulously.
“To me it is clear like the mission bell, thus:
‘Bow-wow-wow-give-also-some-sugar-and-some-tea-and-some-tobacco-to-his-Highness-Tangaloa-bow-wow-wow!’”</p>
<p>The old chief fairly beamed. “Blessed was my
dog in life, and blessed in death also!” he cried.
“Behold, Kinilosi, he also barks about a few fish-hooks
in a bag, and for a small subscription to our
new church.”</p>
<p>“I think he says fifty cents,” said Kinross.</p>
<p>“No, no,” cried the chief; “it was like this—quite
plain: ‘One-dollar-one-dollar!’”</p>
<p>“That ends it,” said Kinross. “I must haste to obey
the voice of the spirit dog. Good-bye, your Highness.”</p>
<p>“Good-bye, Kinilosi,” returned the chief, warmly.
“I laugh and talk jestingly, but my heart—”</p>
<p>“Mine also,” added Kinross, quickly, again grasping
the old man’s hand.</p>
<p>He strode off with a light step, in a glow of enthusiasm
and high spirits. It would be hard to leave the
old village, after all. He might travel far and not
find hearts more generous or kindly, and he vowed he
would never forget his Samoans—no, if he lived a
thousand years. And if, after all, the new order of
things should fail to please, and he should find himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>
stifled by the civilisation to which he had been so
long a stranger, could he not always return to this
little paradise, and live out the number of his days in
perennial content? He would search for some savings-bank
in London, and place there to his credit a
sum large enough to ship him back to the Islands.
Whatever the pinch, it should lie there untouched and
sacred; and as he toiled in the stern, grey land of his
birth, the thought of that secret hoard would always
be a comfort to him. But what if the bank should
break, as banks do in those centres of the high civilisation,
and he should find himself stranded half the
world away from the place he loved so dearly? He
shivered at the thought. There should be two hoards,
in two banks, or else he would feel continually uneasy.
The line to the rear must be kept open at any
cost.</p>
<p>He found Leata sitting on the floor, spelling out
“The Good News from New Guinea” in the missionary
magazine. She was fresh from her bath, and her
black, damp hair was outspread to the sunshine to
dry. She rippled with smiles at his approach, and it
seemed to him she had never looked more radiant and
engaging. He sat down beside her, and pressed her
curly hair against his lips and kissed it. How was it
that such a little savage could appear to him more
alluring than any white woman he had ever seen?
Was he bewitched? He looked at her critically, dispassionately,
and marvelled at the perfection of her
wild young beauty, marvelled, too, at her elegance
and delicacy. And for heart and tenderness, where<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span>
was her match in all the seas? He threw his arm
round her and kissed her on the lips.</p>
<p>“Of all things in the world what wouldst thou like
the most, Leata?” he asked.</p>
<p>“To have thee always near me, Kinilosi,” she answered.
“Before, I had no understanding and was
like the black people in the missionary book, but now
my heart is pained, so full it is with love.”</p>
<p>“But there are other things than love,” persisted
Kinross. “Ear-rings, musical boxes, print for
dresses.”</p>
<p>“Yes, many things,” she said. “But I trouble not
myself about them, Kinilosi. But sometimes I think
of the land behind our house and the fine plantation
we will make there some day.”</p>
<p>“But if I gave you a little bag of gold shillings,”
he said, “and took thee to Apia, my pigeon, what
wouldst thou buy?”</p>
<p>“First I would give ten dollars to the new church,”
she began. “Then for my father I would buy an
umbrella, and a shiny bag in which he could carry
his cartridges and tobacco when he goes to war. For
my mother, also, an umbrella and a picture-book like
that of the missionary’s, with photographs of Queen
Victoria and captains of men-of-war. For my sister
a Bible and a hymn-book, and for my brother a little
pigeon gun.”</p>
<p>“O thou foolish Leata,” said Kinross, “and nothing
for thyself?”</p>
<p>“There is still more in my bag,” she answered,
“enough for a golden locket and a golden chain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>
And in the locket there will be your picture and a
lock of your hair—like the one the naval officer gave
Titi’s sister; and when I die, lo, no one shall touch it,
for it shall lie on my breast in the grave!”</p>
<p>“To-morrow we shall go to Apia and buy them,”
said Kinross. “This morning the pastor brought me
a letter from Britain with a present of many dollars.
The six acres I have already purchased, and in Apia
I shall get prickly wire for fencing, and many things
we need for the clearing and planting of the land.”</p>
<p>Leata clapped her hands for joy. “Oh, Kinilosi,”
she cried, “it was breaking my heart. I feared the
letter would make thee return to the White Country!”</p>
<p>Kinross looked at her with great gentleness. His
resolution was taken, be it for good or evil.</p>
<p>“I shall never go back,” he said.</p>
<p>Then in a rousing voice he cried, so loudly that
the natives in the neighbouring houses started at the
sound: “In Vaiala shall I live, and in Vaiala die!”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">FATHER ZOSIMUS</h2></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">
FATHER ZOSIMUS</h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">MANY years ago, before the steamers came to Samoa,
when the whites depended on sailing-ships
for their precarious supplies and their meagre news
of the outside world, the Rev. Wesley Cook reached
the Islands to take up the Lord’s work in that troubled
field. He was a good-looking young man with a
weak chin, rather regular features, and an abundance
of yellow, fluffy hair, who had trod since earliest infancy
the narrow path that leads to a missionary
career. An assiduous church-member, a devout Sunday-school
scholar, he had climbed, rung by rung, the
religious ladder, and his sanguine, sensitive nature
had flowered in an atmosphere which would have
stifled a bolder boy. At nineteen he was fed into a
sectarian college like corn into a mill, and at twenty-two
the machine turned him out into the world, an
undistinguishable unit of the church to which he
belonged. Then, after a quiet month with his old
mother, whose heart overflowed with the measure
of her son’s success, the Rev. Wesley was bidden to
marry and depart.</p>
<p>There were plenty to advise him at this juncture,
and half a dozen young ladies were entered, so to
speak, for the matrimonial steeplechase. But Wesley,
contrary to all expectation and not a little to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span>
chagrin of the narrow set in which he moved, showed
some determination to have his own way in this important
matter, and after a brief courtship he carried
Miss Minnie Chandler to the altar. She was the
proud and defiant beauty of the town, the self-willed,
high-spirited young woman whose name was in every
mouth, and whose rejected suitors numbered half the
bachelors in the neighbourhood. Many wondered at
her choice, until it was whispered about that she was
heartsick over her affair with Harry Jardine, the
manufacturer’s son, and that she preferred the missionary
wilds to life in the same country with the
man who had broken his troth. Be that as it may,
she was joined to Wesley Cook in the bonds of holy
matrimony, and after a quiet wedding, at which the
breakfast was frugal and prayer abundant, the young
couple bade farewell to their relations and departed
for the uttermost isles of the sea.</p>
<p>Six months later the <i>Morning Star</i> hove to off the
iron-bound coast of Savai’i, and her surf-boats landed
the Rev. Wesley on the shores of his new home,
together with a ton of provisions, some cheap furniture,
a box of theological books, and a Samoan grammar.
He found a concrete house already prepared
for him, a church with sand-bagged windows and a
plank door still studded with bullets,—an alarming
reminder of the unsettled state of his district,—and
an obsequious band of church elders, sticky with oil,
and, to his notion of things, almost naked in their kilts
of paper cloth. Bewildered and unhappy, with his
wife in tears beside him, he gazed despairingly at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>
fast-dwindling ship, which he could not hope to see
again for the space of a year.</p>
<p>The natives hung about like flies, buzzing through
the stuffy rooms of the old mission-house so long
closed to their little world, or bestirred themselves
with noisy good will to the task of bringing up the
freight and the pastor’s scanty boxes. He, poor fellow,
with haggard face and eyes smarting with sweat,
checked off the tally on an envelope, and strove to
bear himself like the picture of the martyr Williams
in “The Heroes of the Cross.” Numberless old men
shook him by the hand, and talked to him loudly as
though he were deaf, or drew him off to a distance
and, leaning on long sticks, barked orations at his
head. Bands of youths staggered in, singing, with
loads of squealing pigs, and unsavoury victuals in
baskets, while shaven-headed children tied chickens
to the verandah-posts, and women and girls unfolded
offerings of prawns and snaky eels. There was a live
turtle in the sitting-room, a bull-calf in the kitchen,
and at every turn veritable mountains of half-roasted
pork. It was a wild scene for a man new come from
quiet England, and the long, even days of life at sea;
the unceasing press and bustle of the multitude, the
squawking of chickens, and the screams of fettered
pigs, all wore on his nerves until his head was giddy
and his pulse throbbing. It was late in the afternoon
before the mob scampered off with the suddenness
and decision of a flock of birds, leaving the missionary
and his wife to the peace they so sorely needed.
The poor exiles, with sinking hearts, brewed their tea<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
beside a packing-case, and wondered (much in the
spirit of convicts who have left another world beyond
the prison door) whether the captain had won his
philopena of Mrs. McDougall, or if Miss Mossby had
made it up with young Sturgis.</p>
<p>A year later the new missionary found himself
somewhat at home in Fangaloa. He had preached a
halting sermon in the native tongue, which, though
no one could understand it, had evoked a respectful
admiration. The school was now on its feet, and the
children came eagerly, seemingly pleased with the rudiments
of learning he managed to teach them. His
parishioners, too, began to give evidence of their finer
and nobler qualities, and warmed his heart by their
kindness, generosity, and intelligence. Their laborious
talks, as they sat at night round the fires, or on mats
beneath the tropic moon, revealed to him a tenderness
and refinement he was little prepared to find; and,
from a task, these gatherings became an entertainment
to be prepared for by anxious study of the phrase-book,
and bewildering consultations with an old man who
was supposed to understand English. Cook liked the
admiration and deference of these ragged chiefs; he
loved to note the bustle that heralded his own approach;
the shaking out of the finest mats for his
special seat; the polite chorus of “<i>Maliu mai, susu
mai Tutumanaia</i>” (“You are high chief come, Cook
the Handsome”); the closing up of the ranks, and the
row of expectant faces. He was the little god of
Fangaloa Bay, and in a hesitating, humble way he
began to taste the sweets of power and authority.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>But with his wife it was very different. Her beautiful
face grew pale and sharp, as the days rolled on in
a blank succession of household tasks begun and
ended. In the long night hours, when the heat made
sleep impossible, and her heart turned to England and
those dear ones she could not hope to see again for
years, she would abandon herself to despair. She
never complained, but went about her duties with
sad-eyed patience, mixing very little with the many
servants provided for her—the young men who studied
for the ministry in the intervals of bread-making and
waiting at table, and the girls of rank whose fathers
were eager for them to keep pace with the strange
new times they lived in. She never chid them, as
most missionaries’ wives would have done, for trifling
faults or petty forgetfulnesses. She never realised
the enormity of breaking a plate, or the crime of tinting
the pudding with washing-blue to enrich the
colour; she allowed things to take their untroubled
course in a way that amazed her household. When
one’s heart is slowly breaking, it is hard to count the
sugar in the bowl or watch the soap with housewifely
care. In the hot afternoons she would take her
work and seek the shadow of a tall cocoanut-grove
which stood on a hill behind the town, and there remain
for hours, gazing out at the vast shining bosom
of the ocean, or at the blue mountains of Upolu, far
across the strait. So regular was her visit to this little
grove that her boys built a bench of <i>tamanu</i> wood
for her to sit on, and raised a roof overhead to protect
her from passing showers or the glancing rays of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>
the sun; and the place was called “<i>o le Nofoali’i o
Misi Mini</i>,” or the Throne of Mrs. Minnie, which
name it bears to the present day, though all the actors
in this story have long been laid beneath the sod.
Once, after a solitary vigil of more than usual length,
she returned and sought her room, now a little sanctuary
of her irrevocable life; for here were gathered
the treasures of her past; the photographs, mementoes,
and keepsakes that she had clung to in her exile.
Here she breathed again the air of home; here she
could caress the fading photographs that were so dear
to her, and indulge unstinted in passionate rebellion
against her fate. On the day of which we write she
found no comfort in her shrine. The faces of her
friends looked down mournfully at her from the walls,
tormenting her with a thousand recollections. Existence
was unbearable enough without such added bitterness.
These things, inanimate though they were,
devoured her while they pretended to comfort; they
broke her heart while she looked to them for solace.
For a moment she saw the truth and trembled for
herself. Madness lay on the road she had begun to
follow.</p>
<p>One by one, she gathered them together; the picture
of her father and mother, the photographs of
her relations and girl friends, old Christmas cards,
bits of ribbon, little odds and ends that had played
each a part in those bygone days. There were letters,
too, precious bundles of letters tied with ribbon,
which she kissed and cried over before consigning to
destruction; and from one such packet dropped the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>
likeness of a man in uniform, which she pressed to
her breast before tearing it into a hundred pieces.
When at last the room was stripped of everything,
she bore the heap of tender rubbish to the fire, and,
with a stony face, fed it to the flames.</p>
<p>The Rev. Wesley Cook and his wife were not the
only whites in their corner of Savai’i, as indeed they
had first imagined themselves to be. There was still
another in Fangaloa, an old, white-haired Irish priest
called Father Zosimus. No one could remember
how many years had passed since Father Zosimus
came to Fangaloa and built the tiny house and
chapel in the mango-grove; for he was an old, old
man, and had come to that sleepy hollow when his
hair was as black and his feet were as light as those
of the nimblest warrior of the bay. He had no followers
to speak of, for Fangaloa was Protestant to
the core, and his congregation numbered no more
than one family of eight, three transient young men
who had run away with as many girls from Upolu,
and Filipo, the aged catechist, who acted as his servant.
But Father Zosimus never faltered in the path
he had set himself to follow. For seven and forty
years he had daily broken the stillness of the grove
with the tinkle of his little bell, and never failed to
carry on the service of his church. He scarcely
heeded the new arrivals, and more than once he had
had to chide old Filipo for gossiping about the <i>papalangi</i>
on the hill. He never gave them a second thought,
in fact, until one day he happened to see Tutumanaia
passing on his way to church. The sight of that fresh,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>
clear-eyed youngster greatly moved the old priest.
He was troubled and uneasy as he walked home, and
his heart ached a little. The new missionary belonged
to his own race; he had the air of a scholar, and the
frank, open face and quick eyes of a man full of enthusiasms
and generous impulses; yet, so mused
Zosimus on his homeward way, this charity, this noble
purpose, were all for the aborigines alone. There
would be none to spare for an old man to whom no
music was so sweet as his mother-tongue, and whose
loneliness was intensified by the burden of advancing
years. For nearly half a century Father Zosimus
had lived in exile, and his soul continually thirsted
for the companionship which had been denied him all
his life. The few whites who had come his way before
had been scrubby traders, a priest or two a year, or
some nondescript beach-comber, rough and foul-mouthed,
begging brandy and food. True, he had
spent eighteen years within a furlong of the Rev.
Josiah Fison, Cook’s predecessor in Fangaloa; but
that gentleman’s Christian charity stopped short at
what he called a “rank Jesuit,” and they had never
exchanged even so much as a word. In Father
Zosimus there was a strain of Irish gaiety; he loved
talk, and laughter, and argument; and the humblest
white man who could speak English was welcomed
to his table and treated to the best that Fangaloa
afforded. Indeed, among the “squires of Savai’i” he
was honoured and respected, from Falealupo to the
strait. But these men were, most of them, gross and
common. In Wesley Cook he saw a being of another<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>
world, a young man of refinement and spirituality, a
fellow-missionary, a fellow-countryman, with whom
all intercourse was inexorably barred, with whom he
should live out the balance of his days and know no
more than if an ocean rolled between them. No
longer did he stem the tide of old Filipo’s gossip; on
the contrary, he could now never learn enough of the
new arrivals, and little passed in the mission-house
that was not reported to him at once. He learned,
with a singular feeling of delight, of the young minister’s
kindness and ability; how he had mastered the
language in less time than a foreigner had been ever
before known to take; how he had raised the dying,
nay, the breathless dead themselves, back to life with
the costly medicines he never stinted to the poorest.
“Oh, he is a minister wise and good,” said Filipo,
“and his heart is not stony against us Catholics like
the last pig-face; only yesterday he said that thou,
Zosimus, wert honourable, and deserving of respect as
a man who had trod the narrow road his whole life
long.”</p>
<p>The old priest hung upon his words as though
Filipo were inspired. The next day he went purposely
out of his way to gain another look at Tutumanaia,
and came back more affected than he had
been before.</p>
<p>“Had I not entered the priesthood, I might have had
a son like that,” he mused to himself, as he trudged
homeward. “But that I gave to God, scarce knowing
the sacrifice.” Then he rebuked himself for his
impiety.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>More than once, as time passed, he turned over in
his mind the possibility of calling at the Protestant
mission. But no young girl could have shown more
timidity than Father Zosimus. Many a time he brought
out his best cassock, and brushed his best hat, and
took a long look at himself in the cracked shaving-glass.
But he would sigh as he saw the image of that wrinkled,
shaggy-haired old man. “You’re nothing but a
frowsy old frump, Zosimus,” he would say to himself,
“nothing but the husk of what was once a man.
Sure, they would have little use for you, that handsome
boy and girl in their elegant home.” For to
Father Zosimus the whitewashed, coral-built mission-house,
with its shining windows and its trim garden
laid out in plots, was a fairy palace resplendent with
luxury and filled with a thousand treasures. In his
simple heart, half prepared as it was to believe anything
that redounded to the honour of his hero, he
had received with all confidence the glowing tales
the natives brought him; and the very glamour
with which his imagination endowed the spot helped
to keep him back. “If the boy cares to know me, he
will come himself,” he said; and the camphor-wood
chest would close, perhaps for the twentieth time, on
the father’s Sunday best.</p>
<p>But the boy never came. He, too, was timid, and
though he often noticed the gaunt old priest, and
longed also to speak his mother-tongue with the only
creature save his wife who could understand it in all
Fangaloa, the opportunity never came to break the
ice. A whole year passed, and the Rev. Wesley Cook<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span>
and the Rev. Father Zosimus, S. J., were no nearer
an acquaintance than before. Yet there was seldom
a day but they saw each other from afar, the one
shy and kind, half hoping to receive the first advances,
the other no less eager and no less restrained.</p>
<p>One day Filipo brought a rumour to his master
which the latter listened to with deep concern. For
a whole afternoon he gave up his usual digging in
the garden and paced his little verandah to and fro.
Once he even washed and dressed himself in his best,
and trimmed his ragged beard; but he took off his
clothes again and smoked another pipe instead of
paying the visit he had so nearly decided to make.
He called in Filipo from the taro-field, and bade him
waylay Misi’s girls every day and bring news of Mrs.
Cook’s condition.</p>
<p>Day by day the two old men discussed the coming
event, and Father Zosimus grew by turns glad and
fearful at the prospect. The news came to him one
morning in October, as he was kneeling to implore
divine aid in the hour of a woman’s agony. Dawn
was breaking as Filipo rushed into the chapel, coughing
and panting. “It is all over,” he cried,—“the
mother well and happy, and the child a little chief, of
a strength and beauty the like of which has never
been seen in Fangaloa.”</p>
<p>“God be thanked!” cried Father Zosimus, throwing
himself once more on his knees.</p>
<p>With the later hours there came less assuring news
of the mother and the little chief. There was a devil
in Misi, said Filipo; a devil that caused her to lie as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
dead, or to burst forth furiously into strange tongues,
so that all about her stood amazed and trembling.
The little chief lay helpless in old Sisimaile’s arms,
and the flame of its tiny life was that of a flickering
torch. Yes, the <i>papatisonga</i> had not been neglected.
Old Tuisunga and Leotele, the speaking-man, were the
godfathers at the font; and Tutumanaia read fast,
with tears in his voice, lest the babe should die before
it had been joined to the Tahitian religion. For
Master Wesley Chandler Cook was not destined long
to be a member of Christ’s church on earth. As they
bore him back to the room where his mother lay, he
closed his eyes for ever.</p>
<p>Father Zosimus was stunned when the news first
reached him, and the tears rolled down his cheeks as
he listened to Filipo. Then he went indoors and
rummaged the old chests where he kept his treasures,
turning out some trashy velvet with which he had
meant to decorate the chapel, a bottle of varnish,
some brass nails, and a bundle of well-seasoned, well-polished
<i>maalava</i> boards that he had laid away to
build himself a desk. He spread them out on the
rough table, and studied them long and earnestly.
In his youth he had been a joiner and a worker in
wood, and though his hand was palsied with age, and
his eye not so true as it once had been, he was still
more than a fair craftsman. He brought out his tools,
clamps, and measures, and asked Filipo what he judged
to be the bigness of the chief-son of Tutumanaia.</p>
<p>“Not very long,” said the old retainer,—“scarcely
more than the half of your Highness’s arm.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>Father Zosimus put on his spectacles, measured off
the velvet, scanned his materials and tools with a
workmanlike eye, and then, when all lay ready to his
hand, he went outside and began to pace up and down
his verandah. The devil of irresolution and doubt was
again gnawing at his heart. Unsought and unasked,
what business was it of his to make a coffin for the
dead child? There was not a soul in Fangaloa but
knew that Father Zosimus was skilled in such matters,
as his house and chapel so abundantly testified.
Were his help required, they would come and seek it.
Would it not look strange for him to make a coffin
unbidden? Would it not appear forward, grasping,
perhaps as though he expected payment for his work?
For an hour he wrestled with the problem. Finally
he told Filipo to spread the news about the village
that the old priest looked to undertake this task for
nothing, and was waiting only to be asked. With
that he shut himself up in the chapel, and spent the
forenoon in reciting prayers for the dead. But, devout
though he ordinarily was in everything touching
the services of his church, Father Zosimus found
it hard, on this occasion, to dwell on things heavenly
when all the while his body was quivering with suspense,
and his soul hearkened for that footfall on
the coral floor. Again and again he seemed to hear
the sound of voices, Filipo answering with soft deliberation,
the minister agitated and saying with
mournful earnestness, “Tell the <i>ali’i patele</i> I must
see him instantly.” But no message came; no discreet
cough or dog-like scratching against the door<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>
warned him that his attention was desired; and the
stillness of the chapel remained untroubled save
for the murmuring surf and the coo of wild pigeons
in the forest.</p>
<p>It was late in the afternoon, and the fierce heat of
day was already melting into the softness of night,
when the minister’s little son was borne to his rest.
Under the equator burial follows swiftly on the heels
of death, and life no sooner leaves the body than the
diggers must sweat and the hammers fly. There can
be no decorous pause to soften the blow or strengthen
the bereaved for that last farewell beside the grave.
Ashamed, he knew not why, with a desolate sense
of defeat, Father Zosimus was drawn to gaze on
the burial from afar, crouching on a knoll that
overlooked the spot. He watched, with an emotion
not to be expressed in words, the affecting scene
which played itself out before him. Across the strait
blue Upolu sparkled in the setting sun; the foaming
breakers outlined the coast like a fringe of silver, and
thrilled faintly on the ear; the evening star quivered
in the blackening sky, and the constellation of the
Southern Cross gleamed in the heavens, the bright
solace of many a Christian heart.</p>
<p>The coffin lay on a rough bier of mingled boughs
and flowers, borne in procession by eight solemn
little boys all of a size, who were tricked out in a
uniform of white cotton. Behind them, very pale
and handsome, walked Tutumanaia, in duck clothes
and a pith helmet. On his one hand was the smug-faced
native pastor from the next bay; on the other,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>
Tuisunga, the towering old chief, imperious of eye,
stately in manner, as befitted the occasion and the
man. Behind these again, and at the head of the
elders and speaking-men with their fly-flappers and
Bibles, strode the <i>taupou</i> of Fangaloa, in a striped
silk <i>apana</i> and a skirt made of a fine mat. The village
matrons made up the middle of the procession,
with their hands full of hibiscus, frangipani, stephanotis,
and <i>moso’oi</i>, followed by groups of young
girls and young men, decorously apart, as convention
demands; the former in bright <i>lavalavas</i> and
little shirts of flowers and leaves, or with their
brown bosoms glistening through entwined <i>laumaile</i>
and necklaces of scarlet <i>singano</i>; the latter with
lime-whitened heads and flaming <i>aute</i>-blossoms behind
their ears. Throughout swarmed the village
children, with shaven heads and eager faces, and ears
all unmindful of the click-click of their warning parents,
romping, quarrelling, and chasing one another
through the crowd.</p>
<p>The pall-bearers laid down their burden beside the
empty grave, and knelt on the grass in a little
semicircle. Tutumanaia and his two companions
threw themselves on a mat which a woman unrolled
and spread out for them. The <i>taupou</i> took her position
at the head of the coffin, and raised her silken
parasol, less to shade her eyes than to display a cherished
possession. At a respectful distance, the chiefs,
elders, and speaking-men formed the first rank of a
great circle, their deeply lined faces overcast and solemn.
The silence was first broken by a shrill hymn,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span>
and then Cook rose to his feet, drew a Testament
from his pocket, and began to address the village.
What he said was commonplace enough, and only the
echo of what he had said a hundred times before, but
the stress of a deep emotion ennobled his ready
phrases and impassioned the narrow vocabulary of
Samoan woe. It seemed to Father Zosimus that he
was listening to an angel, or to one of those inspired
beings on whom the church is founded; and,
indeed, a painter would have found a saint to his
hand in the tall, shining white figure of the young
minister, with his aureole of golden hair, his hand
uplifted to the sky, and his pale, rapt face raised
to God.</p>
<p>He faltered as he drew near the close of his address,
and when at last he looked down and pointed to the
little coffin, the stream of his eloquence suddenly ran
dry. He tried to go on, hesitated, and covered his
face with his hands, leaving it for the pastor to continue.
This the Rev. Tavita Singua did without further
loss of time. He expatiated on the godlike
virtues of Tutumanaia in a strain that would have
made an angel blush, and did not spare the poor clay
that had lived but to die. Another piercing hymn
preceded the third address. Old Tuisunga now
stepped forward, his battle-scarred chest naked to the
heavens, the bunching tapa round his loins his only
garment. Slowly, softly, with the tenderest deliberation,
he began to speak. He was a born orator, and
knew the way to men’s hearts, rugged old barbarian
though he was. His theme was the bond that this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>
little grave would for ever be between the missionary
and themselves, and his voice thrilled as he invited
Wesley into the fellowship of the bereaved, and told
of the tragedy that underlies the life of man. He
drew familiar instances from the village history; here
a cherished boy destined for a name renowned; there
a young maid struck down in all her bright promise.
He called to mind his own son Rafael, who had fallen
beside him on the battle-field, his Absalom, for whom
he would have died a thousand deaths. He spoke, he
said, as one man of sorrow to another, one whose
heart lay beneath a fathom of Samoan earth. He drew
to a close by declaring that no common hand should
touch the coffin of their beloved. He, the son of
chiefs, the father of famous warriors, would lay the
little body to its last repose, so that it should say
when its spirit reached the angels, “Behold, I am the
son of Tutumanaia, and my servant Tuisunga laid me
to rest in the house of sandalwood.” He tenderly
lifted the coffin in his arms, pressed his lips against
the unpainted boards, and lowered it into the grave.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>An hour later, a gaunt, black-robed figure made its
way through the trampled grass and fell on its knees
beside the grave. It was Father Zosimus, bowed in
supplication before the throne of grace.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>It was strange what a simple matter at last brought
about the acquaintance of the only two white men in
Fangaloa. Each had timidly waited for the other to
make the first advances, and each had gone his solitary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>
way, sick at heart, and hungering for the companionship
which would have been so eagerly accorded. It
befell that Cook’s well went dry, and there being no
other water in the village save the brackish fluid the
natives were content to drink, one of the mission boys
suggested that they apply to the old priest. So Tutumanaia
sat down and wrote a polite note, explaining
his predicament, and begging for a little water. The
note was sent by a messenger with a bucket. Father
Zosimus was overwhelmed when he opened and read
the letter; he was dazed by the suddenness of his
own good fortune; he bade Filipo feed the boy with
the best the house afforded, with sucking pig and
<i>palusami</i> unstinted, while he hurriedly made ready
for the visit that he was at last to pay.</p>
<p>Oh, that first meeting! It exceeded his wildest
expectations, his most sanguine dream! Wesley
Cook was so cordial, so frankly anxious to be friends,
so overflowing with pent-up confidences, that the
priest almost wept as he unbosomed himself of the
scruples that had kept him back. With innocent
craft, he left nothing undone to establish his footing,
and his bland and beaming smile hid a thousand
schemes for entangling Cook in a web of obligation.
Could he send some roses to madam, his beautiful
wife? It might distract her from the thought of her
terrible loss. He had so many roses—to give a few
would be such a pleasure, such an honour. Ah,
madam would be pleased with them, were she fond
of flowers. She, too, must come and see his garden,
his poor garden, where he grudged not the labour,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span>
as it seemed to bring him close to God. Could he
not provide her with some special seeds sent him all
the way from Ceylon—acclimated seeds from the
famous gardens of the lay brothers at Point de Galle?
Some guava jelly of his own making? Some smoked
pigeons that he ventured to say were delicious?
Would Cook accept some cherries in brandy that the
captain of the <i>Wild Cat</i> had presented to him years
ago—that headstrong naval captain who had come to
bombard Fangaloa, and ended by giving prizes to the
school-children?</p>
<p>Father Zosimus did not overstay his welcome. On
the contrary, he had to tear himself away almost by
force, so insistent was Cook to keep him. But he
knew how much depended on that first visit; he
would not jeopardise the precious friendship by remaining
too long; and he took early leave, exulting
like a child in the rosy vistas that opened before him.
This proved to be the first of many visits, and the beginning
of an acquaintance that ripened into the
closest intimacy. In the day each had his duties to
perform, his quiet routine of tasks to fulfil. Father
Zosimus sawed stone for the unfinished church he
had been ten years building with the perseverance
of an ant, or dug in the garden hard by the chapel
whose tinkling bell called him periodically to devotions.
Tutumanaia had his school, his Young Men’s
Institute, his medical practice, and the thousand
and one labours imposed upon him by his position
and the multitude of his flock. One hour daily he
devoted to the intricacies of the language, another<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>
to the translation of the “Peep o’ Day” and “Glimpses
of the Holy Land” into the Samoan tongue. But at
night, when all the village lay quiet on its mats, and
nothing broke the stillness save the drone of the surf
and the rustle of flying-foxes among the trees, then
it was that Father Zosimus would seek the mission
verandah and the society of the friend that had become
so dear to him.</p>
<p>Side by side, with their canvas chairs touching, the
strange pair would talk far into the night. The
world passed in review before them, that great world
of which they both knew so little; and from their
village on the shores of an uncharted sea they
weighed and examined, criticised and condemned it.
Or perhaps from such lofty themes their talk would
drift into the homelier channel of local gossip, or
stray into the labyrinths of Samoan politics. Or Origen,
Athanasius, George of Cappadocia, would be
drawn from their distant past to point an argument
or illustrate a deep dissertation on the primitive
church. And from these, again, perhaps to Steinberger’s
new poll-tax and the fighting in Pango
Pango.</p>
<p>On one subject they never spoke—the great barrier
reef of dogma that lay between them. Once only
was it in any way alluded to—once after a memorable
night when Wesley had opened his heart to the old
priest. In saying farewell the latter had raised his
hands, and was deeply chagrined when his companion
leaped back with a look of consternation.</p>
<p>“Oh, my son,” said Zosimus, “the blessing of an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>
old and not unworthy man cannot harm thee. Do
we not each serve God according to our lights?”</p>
<p>But if Father Zosimus had succeeded in winning
the young minister’s confidence and friendship, with
Mrs. Cook he had not fared so well. In the bottom
of his heart he felt that the woman’s ill will was the
rock on which the precious friendship might founder,
and he accordingly left no stone unturned to ingratiate
himself in her favour. But the lonely, wilful,
moody woman, with her health impaired by her recent
confinement, and her spirit warped by disappointment
and the consciousness of dimming beauty,
was in no state of mind to receive his advances.
Unhappy herself, she was in the tigerish humour
when one must rend, if one can, the happiness of
others. She had nothing in common with the
frowsy old priest who wore blue jeans under his
snuffy cassock and smelled of garden mould. Moreover,
her pride was wounded by her tacit exclusion
from the nightly company on the porch. Her presence
brought constraint and what seemed to her
disordered nerves a scarcely veiled resentment.
Though she yawned in her husband’s face when they
were alone together, and did nothing to seek his confidence,
she detested his intimacy with the old priest,
and the thought of it rankled perpetually within her.
At first she had ignored Father Zosimus’s very existence,
repelling his overtures with an indifference
quite unaffected, and treating him with the frank
rudeness that springs from unconcern. But as time
passed, and every fibre of her being revolted at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span>
narrowness and hopelessness of her imprisoned life;
as her spirit beat against the bars and her heart
seemed to burst within her breast; she began to perceive
in the priest the means of striking at her husband.
Not that she did not love Wesley, after a
fashion; if things had so fallen out, she could have
felt the most poignant jealousy; but she resented the
easy, contented nature that blossomed in that hot
hole where they lived, among those greasy, fawning
savages with whom their lot was so inexorably cast.
His prattle about the school, the progress of the
“Peep o’ Day,” his zeal for unearthing legends and
old Samoan songs, his whole innocent enjoyment in
his daily tasks and duties, all fanned the flame
of her revolt. If he, too, had risen against the
dreary confinement of their life; if he, too, had
faced each succeeding day with ineffable disgust,
and had lain weary and heartsick in her arms at
night; she would have comforted him, encouraged
him, strengthened him for the task he had so rashly
undertaken. What she could not bear, what she
could not forgive or condone, was his mild acceptance
of his fate; his zest in the pitiful drudgery of his
every-day existence; the petty nature that could thus
expand in the close air of a prison. With a malignity
that was crazed in its intensity, the outcome of
hysteria and the first gnawings of disease, she sought
to shatter the placidity which had grown as intolerable
to her as the Samoan sun at noon. In Father
Zosimus she perceived the dagger with which she
could stab her husband through and through; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>
in the maturing of her plot she enjoyed the nearest
approach to happiness that had ever come her
way in Fangaloa.</p>
<p>One evening, when Father Zosimus arrived as
usual, he was met on the verandah by Mrs. Cook, and
informed that the minister had been detained in the
village by some trifling errand. He felt a tone of
menace in her voice, and foreboded no good from her
high colour and quivering lips. He would have excused
himself had a lie come easily to his lips, but he
was not quick in such things, and took the offered seat
with a sinking heart. He searched nervously here
and there for some topic of conversation that might
be interesting and yet free from the slightest possibility
of offence, his ear, meanwhile, alert for the sound
of the minister’s footsteps. But Mrs. Cook was too
adroit for the old man, and, to his inexpressible chagrin,
he soon found himself stumbling into an argument,
and the target for humiliating and derisive
questions. He now thought only of escape, for his
hands were trembling, and he felt his cheeks flushing
with indignation. Every word he said seemed only
to land him deeper in the mire. When, at last, Mrs.
Cook began to taunt him with a recent scandal in
Upolu involving the good name of a nun, Father
Zosimus cried out inarticulately, and flung himself
past her into the darkness. Even as he did so, Wesley
Cook came swinging up the path, and instinctively
stepped aside to allow the flying figure to pass. He
looked back at it irresolutely, and then continued on
his way with a premonition of evil to come. His<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>
wife received him with vehement caresses, clinging
to him in an hysterical frenzy. Between her choking
sobs she overflowed with foolish, disjointed, and often
incoherent accusations against the old priest. “That
horrible old Jesuit!” she cried; “that sly, slinking,
wicked creature; never, never must he be permitted
to cross the threshold again.” Her cheeks flamed as
she continued her tirade; as she described the shame,
the humiliation she had secretly undergone; as she
affected, with passionated outbursts of indignation, to
keep back things that were too black even for utterance.
All the time she searched Wesley’s eyes for an
answering fire, and could read nothing but incredulity
and dismay. Then her wrath turned full upon him,
and with a hundred quotations from his own lips she
denounced his intimacy with a Jesuit, and bade him
choose between the priest and her.</p>
<p>She threatened to seek old Tuisunga’s protection
were he to persist in this unworthy friendship, and
drew in no uncertain colours the effect of the letter she
would write to the missionary authorities at Malua.
Wesley was frightened to the core, and quaked under
the lash of her denunciation. He saw himself disgraced;
dismissed from the Society; turned out into
the world, that most forlorn and helpless of human
beings, the discarded missionary. Abjectly he begged
for mercy, simulated an indignation against Father
Zosimus he could in no wise feel, and was in due course
forgiven on promising to break for ever with the old
priest.</p>
<p>He passed a troubled night; he felt he had made a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span>
mean capitulation, and, try as he would, he was unable
to gloss the matter to his conscience. He was
stung by the conviction of his cowardice and disloyalty,
and yet his common sense told him that he was
powerless in his wife’s hands. He could never outlive
the scandal of her desertion, or explain away those
letters which would write him down a pervert. In
the morning Wesley timidly expostulated with his
wife, quoting all the texts he could remember that
bore on charity and forgiveness. This was a course
little calculated to allay Mrs. Cook’s wrath. She burst
out upon him with a fury that completely crushed his
last effort at intercession. She stood over him as he
wrote the letter in which, with smooth and nicely balanced
sentences, interspersed with religious commonplaces
and trite expressions of regret, he raised a wall
of words between himself and the old man he had
called his friend. He knew, he said, that Father
Zosimus could have had no intention to offend, but
Mrs. Cook had taken the matter of overnight in such
a way that he felt unable to resume an intimacy
which had been very precious to him. No apologies
or explanations could avail, and he begged that none
be offered; but he trusted, he need not say how earnestly,
that in some future time (D. V.) the dark clouds
would roll away, and with them all memories of this
unhappy misunderstanding.</p>
<p>The letter was brought to Father Zosimus in the
garden, where he was digging furiously to drive away
the devils that beset him. He tore it open with his
grimy hands, and read it with a feeling of despair.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>
The few kindly allusions brought tears to his eyes,
and his first resentment against Tutumanaia passed
away as he re-read them; but against Mrs. Cook, the
author of his humiliation, his whole nature rose in
arms. Disciplined though he was by seven and forty
years of abnegation, the old Adam in him lay still
fiery and untamed. He was consumed with bitterness
towards the woman who had so cruelly wronged him.
What had he to hope “in some future time (D. V.),”
old and broken man that he was? In the fierceness
of his indignation he called down the vengeance of
God upon her until contrition overpowered him, and
he threw himself on his knees.</p>
<p>“Oh, Zosimus,” he said, “so old and still so
foolish!”</p>
<p>After such a blow it was hard to pick up the
threads of life once more, and interest himself in the
recurring tasks which rounded out each day. But in
Father Zosimus there was the stuff of which martyrs
are made. Sore of heart though he was, and spent of
body, his unremitting energy and indomitable faith
drove him to work and pray as he had never
worked or prayed before. His lacerated feelings
found an outlet in dazzling garden-beds, trellises of
bamboo, and in the stone wall he had so often
planned and as often given up, which was to inclose
the seaward side of his little plantation. And in
these tranquil and unexciting occupations, which
kept the hands busy while the mind was free to rove,
a certain scheme unfolded itself which found increasing
favour in his eyes; the means, in fact, by which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>
he might score a triumph over Mrs. Cook, and restore
himself once again in her good graces. Not that he
had forgiven her for the part she had taken against
him; his anger still smouldered beneath the blanket of
Christian charity with which he had sought to
smother it; but were he to gain again his footing in
that household on the hill; were he to renew the intimacy
that was the very salt of his life; he must
needs pay toll to the woman who held the key of his
happiness. As he dug, or weeded, or carried stones
to his wall, or climbed the ladder beside the shining
trellis-work, the old priest was never far from a sheet
of paper and a pencil. Sometimes it was a hammer
that kept these things in place, sometimes it was
the well-worn shovel-hat that guarded them from
the puffs of the trade or chance cat’s-paws from the
mountains, while Zosimus, his head economically
wrapped in banana-leaves, seized many an occasion
during the course of his labours to scribble another
word on the anchored sheet, or erase something already
written. It was a list of such delicacies as the
limited markets of Apia afforded, for which the old
man was intending to lay out the savings of a year.</p>
<p>It must not be supposed that the Rev. Wesley Cook
was having a particularly pleasant time of it during
the days that followed the breaking off with Father
Zosimus. For half a week, indeed, his wife exerted
herself to supply the old man’s place, and had never
before shown herself so agreeable or so helpful.
She interested herself in Wesley’s legends, listened
patiently to the story of Sopo’s misdoings, of the brilliant<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>
possibilities that lay in Popo would he only
apply himself in earnest, or lamented with her husband
the bad influences which were undermining the
character of a gentleman named O; she wrote to
his dictation a little essay on the “King-names of
Samoa,” which Cook intended sending to the Polynesian
Society of New Zealand; and, in fact, proved
herself a zealous, clever, and indefatigable comrade.
All thought of Father Zosimus would soon
have slipped from Wesley’s memory had this new-found
companionship been destined to endure; but it
was nothing more than a flash in the pan, due half to
remorse, half to policy, a means to gain time for the
breach to widen irrevocably between her husband
and the priest.</p>
<p>The sour, capricious woman could not long brook
the task she had set herself to perform; her spirit
soon flagged in the dull round which made up her
husband’s life, and her new part in it grew daily
more intolerable. She slowly lapsed again into the
dark humour which was fast becoming her second
nature, and took no further trouble to conciliate her
husband. Cook was slow to realise the change, but
when at last it dawned upon him that she listened
with unconcealed indifference to the tale of the day’s
doings, and made no further pretence of caring either
for his work in Fangaloa or for the literary labours
which were his only relaxation, he, too, grew gloomy
and dispirited. The essay languished; the “Peep o’
Day” stood still; and he spent solitary hours in his
study in a kind of stupor. A thousand times his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>
heart turned towards his old friend, and he longed to
throw himself at his feet and say, “Father, comfort
me! I am weak of spirit and sore distressed.” But
loyalty to the overwrought and nigh crazy woman he
called his wife, as well as the timidity which was
constitutional in the man, forbade an open reconciliation,
and he shrank from the thoughts of a clandestine
one. So he went his lonely way, bearing his
cross as best he might.</p>
<p>At last the time grew near for the execution of the
plan which had cost Father Zosimus so much trouble
and calculation, not to speak of many dollars from
his scanty hoard.</p>
<p>On Christmas morn, as the cannon at Faleapuni
pealed along the shore and roused the villages with its
joyful reverberations, Father Zosimus hastened to
transform his dwelling into a bower of ferns and
flowers. With Filipo to assist him, and <i>’afa</i> enough
to have built a chief’s house, the pair worked unceasingly
until there remained not an inch without its
flower nor a post unentwined with brilliant creepers
and fragrant <i>moso’oi</i>. He drew a breath of satisfaction
when it was all finished to his liking, and while
Filipo swept out the litter he sat down and wrote the
following letter:</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Fangaloa</span>, December 25, 186-.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Children</span>: On this blessed morning no Christian
can harbour any unkindness in his heart, nor cast up
another’s shortcomings against him. I am an old and a
failing man; the day of my release is close at hand, and you
both must be generous to me as one so soon to stand before<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>
his God. And if I have unwittingly offended you,—as I
know I have done,—I pray you to forgive me for the sake
of Him who was born to-day. I have ventured to prepare
a little feast in your honour, with which I hope we may
celebrate, in innocent gaiety, the renewal of our friendship.
At twelve o’clock I shall expect you both.</p>
<p>I remain, my dear children, with heartfelt wishes for
your good health and continued prosperity,</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="indentright">Your old friend,</span><br />
<span class="smcap">Zosimus</span>, S. J.</p></blockquote>
<p>He read the note several times to himself before
putting it into an envelope and addressing it to Mr.
and Mrs. Cook. Filipo was at hand, garlanded with
red <i>singano</i> and elegantly garbed in white, prepared to
make a good appearance before the young ladies of
the mission. He trotted off with the note carefully
wrapped in a banana-leaf, that it might be delivered
in all its virgin purity. Father Zosimus lit a pipe
and impatiently set himself to await his messenger’s
return.</p>
<p>“<i>Se’i ave le tusi lea ia Misi</i>,” said Filipo to the
young lady that met him at the door. “<i>Ou te fa’atali
i’inei mo le tali.</i>” (“Give this letter to Misi. I will
wait here for the answer.”) Now, in Samoa, the word
“Misi” is used to designate and address Protestant
missionaries of either sex, and the maid carried the
letter, not to Wesley Cook in his study, but to Mrs.
Cook, who was listlessly lolling in the sitting-room.
She tore it open, read it with attention, and putting it
hastily in her pocket, bade the girl send Filipo away.
“Tell him Misi says there is no answer,” she said.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>The old catechist skipped down the hill, and repeated
to his master the message that had been
given him.</p>
<p>Father Zosimus was painfully overcome.</p>
<p>“Filipo,” he said, “did you see the minister with
your very own eyes?”</p>
<p>“<i>Ioe</i>,” answered the catechist, cheerfully; “he was
writing in his room, and I saw him through the window,
looking very sad, and eating his pen like a cow
at a breadfruit-tree.” Filipo mimicked the action on
his finger.</p>
<p>Father Zosimus sat for a long time in a kind of
dream. A glass of wine served to rouse and
strengthen him, and the unaccustomed stimulant put
him in some sort of trim to carry on the duties of the
day. But a recurring dizziness and a sinking at the
heart soon drove him to take an enforced rest. He told
Filipo he did not care to eat, bidding him put away
the wine, and call Iosefo and his family to the feast
that had been made ready for such different guests.</p>
<p>With the passing of Christmas Father Zosimus
began to work harder than ever in his garden; early
and late he could be seen in the midst of its blooming
flower-beds, digging, weeding, or transplanting with
passionate intensity. A loutish fellow from the westward,
a heavy-featured son of Wallis Island, had been
engaged to divide the burden of these tasks, and for a
wage infinitesimally small toiled and sweated under the
father’s eye. To guard this creature from the prattle
of the passers-by, and to check his tendency to gaze
dreamily into the sun; to stifle his inclination to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>
drink, to smoke, to chatter, to explain how much better
they did things in Wallis Island; to keep his fat
face, in fact, on the weeds in front of him, became,
indeed, Father Zosimus’s constant study. Day by
day, he stood sentinel over his Uvean, applied the
man’s clumsy force to profitable ends, and kept his
own unconquerable heart from breaking.</p>
<p>It was not every day he could pursue the occupation
he loved best, and watch his plans take shape
with slow but appreciable success. January falls in
the depth of the wet season; furious rains and long
stretches of boisterous weather often interrupted the
Uvean’s labours, driving both him and his taskmaster
to the enforced idleness of the house—the former to
sleep on the floor or to smoke interminable <i>suluis</i>
with Filipo: the priest to read his breviary by dim
lamplight as the deluge pounded on the roof. It was
during one of these black days, when all the world
was awash outside, and a wild westerly wind was
tearing through the trees, bombarding the village
with crashing boughs and cocoanuts, that the priest’s
ancient barometer sank to 29°, and gave a quivering
promise of worse to follow. He was looking at the
mercury, and setting the gauge, when Filipo appeared
in the passage, his face bright with news.</p>
<p>“The partner of Tutumanaia is known to your
Highness?” he began, with a question that might well
have appeared superfluous.</p>
<p>Father Zosimus turned instantly.</p>
<p>“God is high-chief angry with her rock-like heart,”
went on Filipo, with the calm intonation of one vindicated.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>
“She was presumptuous and beautiful like
an angel; now she is pig-faced and torn of devils; and
her man, oh, he weeps like an <i>aitu</i> in the wilderness.”</p>
<p>“Whence didst thou get this <i>tala</i>?” asked the
priest, mindful of past mare’s nests on his servant’s
part.</p>
<p>“The <i>tala</i> is a true one, Zosimus,” he said. “Even
now the pastor of Faleapuni is praying with a loud
voice in the room of the sick, tussling with the devil,
while the family shrieks and is distracted. The hand
of God lies heavy upon her, and they say she will die;
her face scorches the touch like a hot lamp, and she
talks constantly the words of devils.”</p>
<p>Zosimus made a gesture of annoyance; at any
other time he would have reproved Filipo for retailing
such heathenish fables, and reopened a discussion
that had continued between them for upward of
thirty years; but his solicitude for Wesley Cook monopolized
every thought, and he allowed his servant’s
words to pass unchallenged.</p>
<p>“But her sickness?” he demanded. “How first
did it come upon her?”</p>
<p>“It was thus,” returned Filipo: “thy grieving heart
was known of God, and when he looked down at that
costly feast to which neither the minister nor his wife
would deign to come—”</p>
<p>“Stop!” cried the priest. “This is the talk of an
untattooed boy. Have I not told thee a thousand
times that sickness has invariably a cause?”</p>
<p>“The maids say that last week she had a long talk
with her husband,” said Filipo, “and together they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>
quarrelled until she talked loud and fierce, like a German,
and he cried and cried, and threw himself on
the mats. Then she went out of the house, and to
her there was neither umbrella nor coat, though it
rained; and she walked, uselessly, all the way to
Faleapuni, so burned her heart with anger; and when
she returned she was trembling with the cold so that
her teeth went thus. Then she went to bed, and
vomited terribly, and every time she breathed, it hurt
her chest so that she said, ‘Ugh! ugh!’ like a man
sorely wounded on the field. Then the minister came
to her and tried to talk and bedarling her; but she
mocked at him, and said her heart was in the White
Country. After that she began to talk the devil-stuttering
which is not understandable of man.”</p>
<p>Father Zosimus’s jaw fell, and he looked about him
like a man on the brink of some great resolve.</p>
<p>“She was never the same after the day of the
feast,” said Filipo.</p>
<p>The priest put on his yellow oilskin, and placing a
bottle of brandy in one pocket, he grasped the
bunched umbrella that was his inseparable companion.
Thus prepared to face the elements and carry
succour to the sick, he made his way into the open and
ascended the hill towards the mission-house. His
face tingled under the lash of the wind and rain as he
struggled on, dodging the nuts that occasionally shot
across his path like cannon-balls; and when at last
he reached his goal in safety, he was surprised to see
the curtains pulled down within, and to find no one
to answer his repeated knocks.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span>He was emboldened to turn the knob and enter,
which he did hesitatingly, not knowing what reception
awaited him. At the end of the hall a half-open
door let out a flood of lamplight, betraying one room,
at least, in which he might expect to find some member
of the household. On the bed beside the wall
Mrs. Cook lay in disordered bedclothes, her glassy
eyes upturned in delirium, her face yellow and
pinched almost beyond recognition, one thin arm on
the pillow beneath her head, the other thrown limply
across the sheet. Not far from her, in shabby dressing-gown
and slippers, Wesley himself was asleep in
a canvas chair, sunk in the deep oblivion that follows
an all-night watch. On the floor two native girls
slumbered in boluses of matting, their heads side by
side on a bamboo pillow. The priest stole softly to
the bed and looked down on Mrs. Cook’s face; but
there was no understanding in the bright, troubled
glance that met his own, no coherence in the whispered
words she repeated to herself. He was angered to
think of his own ignorance and helplessness as he
stood the brandy on the littered table beside the copy
of “Simple Remedies for the Home,” and studied the
woman with renewed anxiety. In truth, she looked
grievously ill. Sixty miles of wild water and mountainous
seas separated them from Apia and the only
doctor in the group; he shivered as he caught the
wail of the wind without, and saw in mind the
breakers that were thundering against their iron
coast.</p>
<p>He fell on his knees and prayed, and then went out<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>
into the air again, his mind made up to a desperate
measure. He now took another path, one that led
him across the village to Tuisunga’s stately house.
It was nearly filled with chiefs and speaking-men,
ranged round in a great circle, and the high-pitched,
measured periods of an orator could be heard above
the wind and the pelting rain. On his approach there
burst out a chorus of “<i>Maliu mai, susu mai, ali’i Zosimo</i>”;
and he bent under the eaves and made his
way, half crouching, to a place by Tuisunga’s side.
The eyes of all the party turned on him with surprise,
and there was a little burst of expectation, broken
only by the embittered hawking of the interrupted
orator.</p>
<p>“Your Majesty Tuisunga, chiefs, and speaking-men
of Fangaloa,” began Zosimus, “be not angry with
me for disturbing this meeting. I have just come
from the house of mourning, where God’s hand lies
heavy upon your pastor’s wife, so that she is like to
die. It is my thought that we take a boat and go with
all expedition for the German doctor in Apia.”</p>
<p>“Chief Zosimus,” answered Tuisunga, “the gentlemen
you see before you have been discussing this
very matter. We are agreed that if the lady is to
live, we must seek help at once from the wise white
man in Apia, though the storm is heavy upon us, and
the risk more than bullets in the fighting line. But
what boat can live in such a gale, save one that is
strong indeed, and well wrought? Our man-of-war
that pulls forty oars is with Forster to be mended;
my own whaler is too old and rotten for so bold a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span>
<i>malanga</i>; the others we possess are small and useless.”</p>
<p>“There is Ngau’s boat,” said the priest, with a flash
of his eyes towards a sullen-looking old chief. “It is
new, and strong like a ship of two masts.”</p>
<p>Ngau’s withered face hardened. A titter ran round
the assembled chiefs.</p>
<p>“That is the knot,” said Tuisunga; “it is not the
will of Ngau to give his boat, lest it be cast away.”</p>
<p>“Not to save the life of a dying woman?” demanded
Father Zosimus.</p>
<p>“Ngau is accustomed to the white man’s way,” said
Tuisunga. “He is mean, and his heart is like a
stone.”</p>
<p>All eyes turned to Ngau, who stared back, defiant
and unabashed.</p>
<p>“If he has a white man’s heart, we will treat him
to the white man’s law,” cried Zosimus. “We will
take his boat by force.”</p>
<p>“But it is Ngau’s boat,” said Tuisunga.</p>
<p>“It is Ngau’s boat,” echoed the chiefs.</p>
<p>“And thou wilt let the woman die?” cried Father
Zosimus.</p>
<p>“It is Ngau’s boat,” said Tuisunga.</p>
<p>“What dost thou want for the boat?” demanded
the priest.</p>
<p>“Five dollars and a tin of biscuit,” replied Ngau,
promptly; “and if it be wrecked, one hundred and
twelve dollars, a water-bottle, and a coil of rope as
thick as a man’s thumb.”</p>
<p>“I will take it on myself,” said Father Zosimus.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>
“I am poor; I belong to a faith that thou deridest;
yet my heart is not weak and fearful like thine. I
will answer for thy boat, Chief Ngau, before all these
gentlemen as witnesses.”</p>
<p>“<i>O le tino tupe lava</i> [hard money]” inquired Ngau,
“to be put in my hand before the young men touch
my boat?”</p>
<p>“I have not so much,” cried the priest. “I have
not money in my house like drinking-nuts. It comes
this month, and that a little at a time. But I tell thee
truly, I will pay thee every <i>seni</i>.”</p>
<p>The owner of the boat shook his head.</p>
<p>“I want one hundred and twelve dollars,” he said,
“a water-bottle, and a coil of rope as thick as my
thumb.”</p>
<p>“Why dost thou call thyself chief of this village,
Tuisunga?” demanded the priest. “The only chief I
see here is Ngau. He speaks: we obey. It matters
not what I want, or what thou wishest, or whether
the pastor’s wife lies dying. It is his Majesty Ngau
who is King of Fangaloa. Thy power is no stronger
than that of an untattooed boy.”</p>
<p>“But it is Ngau’s boat,” said Tuisunga, looking
very black.</p>
<p>“Zosimus,” said Ngau, “they tell me thou hast
costly things in thy church—cups of silver, two silver
candlesticks, each heavy as a gun, and a silver cross
on which there is the image of Jesus. Bring these
to me, together with five dollars of hard money and
the musical box that sounds so sweetly of an evening,
and I will hold them for the price of my boat. If it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>
be cast, thou shalt pay me, from time to time, one
hundred and twelve dollars, a water-bottle, and a coil
of rope as thick as a man’s thumb, and when the contract
is finished I will give thee back the precious
things. But if no harm befall the boat, I shall return
them at once, and the price of it will be five dollars
and a tin of biscuit.”</p>
<p>“Thou shalt have them,” cried Father Zosimus;
“and if thou hadst said, ‘Zosimus, take an axe and
strike off thy right hand,’ that also would I have done.
A life is more to me than dollars in a bag, Chief Ngau.
Of thee, Tuisunga, one only is the question I desire to
ask: When I bring back my precious things according
to the will of Ngau, how may I be sure, indeed,
that thou wilt not claim another price for the crew?”</p>
<p>The chief hung his head. “We are not all like
Ngau,” he returned.</p>
<p>In half an hour the priest was back, with Filipo at
his heels, the arms of both filled with well-wrapped
packages. Father Zosimus laid his burden on the
floor, and began to pluck away the <i>siapo</i> that enfolded
it.</p>
<p>“Stop!” cried Tuisunga.</p>
<p>The priest desisted with a look of angry wonder,
as though some fresh imposition were to be laid
upon him.</p>
<p>“Zosimus,” said Tuisunga, “since thou left us, these
gentlemen and myself have been looking down into
our hearts. They are black and pig-like, and we feel
ashamed before thee. It would be a mock and an
everlasting disgrace to Fangaloa wert thou to sacrifice<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>
thy holy things to the meanness of the pig-face
Ngau. We have taken counsel together in thine absence,
and this is our decision: The boat shall be
taken from Ngau, and not one <i>seni</i> shall be paid him,
nor shall a water-bottle be given, nor a coil of rope;
and if his boat be cast away, well, it is God’s will.
Furthermore, Ngau’s house shall be burned and his
plantation destroyed for a punishment, and thou shalt
have him (if thou shouldst so high-chief will) to make
of him a Catholic; for Ngau has been expelled from
the Protestant religion, and his communion ticket
has been taken from him as one unworthy.”</p>
<p>Father Zosimus said nothing, but his eyes gleamed
like coals of fire as he hurriedly put his treasures in
order for their return; in a trice Filipo was scudding
away with them down the hill, to the mirth of all the
chiefs, some of whom shouted after him derisively to
make haste.</p>
<p>“When are we to start?” asked the priest. “If it
be thy high-chief will, the sooner the better.”</p>
<p>“But thou canst not go,” said Tuisunga. “Thou
art old and unfit.”</p>
<p>“No man is too old to serve God,” returned the
priest.</p>
<p>There rose a murmur of dissent from the assembled
chiefs. The old man would be a dead weight in the
boat; by carrying a priest they would infallibly bring
down the anger of God upon them all; even the whites
who cared for naught but money dreaded to sail with
a <i>faifeau</i>.</p>
<p>“This is foolish talk,” said Tuisunga. “Do we not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>
need Zosimus to talk for us in Apia? Do we not
know the ways of whites, and their disdain and pride?
Who will speak to the German doctor? Everywhere
we shall be disregarded and mocked at. We will say
that the wife of Tutumanaia is dying, and behold,
they will answer with contumely. ‘There is no such
minister,’ for we know not his name in the foreign
stutter.”</p>
<p>“Let us start,” cried Father Zosimus. “We have
no time to waste.”</p>
<p>On the rocky beach they found the boat had already
been drawn from the shed and made ready by the
young men. Ngau’s house, which stood close by the
landing, was packed with his relatives and family,
who looked out from beneath the eaves with lowering
faces. The sea was white as far as the eye could
reach, and was bursting furiously against the coast
and into the half-moon of the bay, while overhead,
and against the obliterated sky-line, the wild clouds
drove stormily to leeward. The young men looked
troubled, and old Tuisunga himself was lost in gloom
as he studied the breakers that seemed about to engulf
them. Father Zosimus alone was calm and
unconcerned in the busy tumult of their making
ready; for was not God beside him, with the blessed
saints? Bidding Filipo tell the minister of their errand,
he took his seat without a tremor when the
young men lined themselves beside the gunwales, and
began to drive the boat slowly into the water.</p>
<p>There was a yell as she floated off. The young
men sprang to their paddles, while Tuisunga seized<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>
the steering-oar in his sinewy hands. They rode dry
over the first wave, then dug into the next bow foremost,
and rose half swamped. The third was a huge
comber, green as bottle-glass, steep as a park wall,
which shot up before them and raced shoreward with
a smoking crest. There was a convulsive scurry
among the crew; a roar from the crowded beach; as
Tuisunga, standing full upright in the stern, and
swaying with every jerk of the paddles, headed the
boat into the boiling avalanche. The whaler rose
like a cork, darted her nose high in air, and for
one awful moment seemed to stand on end. When
Father Zosimus opened his eyes, she was speeding
seaward on something like an even keel, sixteen
eager paddles driving her past the point where the
breakers sprang. But working out of the bight,
they lost the shelter it gave them, and began to
feel, for the first time, the unrestrained fury of the
gale. There was a frightful sea running; the boat
took in water at every turn; and though the wind was
favourable, they could not take advantage of it at
once. A rag of sail was raised at last, and a straight
course laid for Apia, while half the crew rested and
the other half baled. But no boat could run before
such a sea as followed them. They had one narrow
escape, then another by a hair’s-breadth; and as they
tried to turn, a great black wave suddenly caught
and smothered them beneath mountains of water.
The crew rose laughing and shouting to the surface,
but one grey head was missing. Father Zosimus had
received his martyr’s crown.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">FRENCHY’S LAST JOB</h2></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">
FRENCHY’S LAST JOB</h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">MY health at college having shown signs of giving
way, Uncle George had been kind enough to
advance the means for my passage to Brisbane, Australia,
and back, in order to carry out the doctor’s
recommendation for a long sea-voyage. I scarcely
think the good man intended me to go steerage in a
cargo-boat, which I did to make my money last; and
I imagine he would have been anything but pleased
if he could have seen me on the eve of starting from
Brisbane itself for the South Sea Islands with twelve
tons of assorted merchandise. Indeed, I was not a
little surprised at myself, and at times in the long
night watches I blubbered like a baby at my own
venturesomeness. But with me, though my people
at home did not know it, college had been a failure.
I sometimes wondered whether I was unusually dull,
or my companions at that inhospitable northern university
were above the normal intelligence; but
whatever the cause, I know only that I was unable to
keep the pace that was set me to follow.</p>
<p>And here I was, with my heart in my mouth, starting
on a career of my own choosing, the lessee of a
trading station on an island called Tapatuea! More
I knew not, beyond the fact that I was to receive a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span>
moiety of any profits I might earn, and had bound
myself to stay where I was put for the space of three
years. Considering my age and inexperience, this
was a most liberal arrangement, and I have never
ceased wondering since how my employers, Messrs.
John Cæsar Bibo & Co., were ever dragooned into
adding me to their forces. I say “dragooned” advisedly,
for it was due entirely to my good friend
Henry Mears, the shipping broker of Lonsdale Place,
that I happened to be engaged, in spite of the firm’s
most strenuous protest. Mears had taken to me
from the day I first wandered into his office by an
accident; and from that time down to the sailing
hour of the <i>Belle Mahone</i> there was nothing he would
not do to serve me. I am not sure that he was financially
interested in the firm of John Cæsar Bibo &
Co., but he always acted as though his was the controlling
voice in its affairs, and he was the only man
I ever knew who dared stand up to Old Bee, as we
called him. This last-named, the directing spirit of a
business that spread its net over half the islands of
the Pacific, was a grim, taciturn individual of an
indeterminable age,—it was variously reckoned from
seventy to a hundred and ten,—who made periodical
descents into Mears’s office, and sat closeted there for
hours. His presence always inspired constraint, and
the sight of his ancient, sallow cheek was enough to
thin the ranks of the broker’s clients—shipmasters
and supercargoes for the most part, not all of them
sober, and none, apparently, able to look Old Bee in
the eye.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>I shall never forget my introduction to the great
man.</p>
<p>“This is a nice boy, Mr. Bibo, sir,” said Mears, indicating
me with a cast of his eye.</p>
<p>“Oh!” said Old Bee.</p>
<p>“I want him to have that Tapatuea store,” said
Mears.</p>
<p>“You mean the easterly one, where Bob killed the
Chinaman?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“I’ll see him in hell first,” said Old Bee.</p>
<p>I thought this ended the matter for good, and said
as much to Mears when John Cæsar had departed.
But my friend was far from being cast down.</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s all right,” he said. “I count it as
good as settled.”</p>
<p>This was more than I could say, and I had no
cause to change my mind on my next meeting with
Old Bee.</p>
<p>“I’m putting twelve tons of stuff aboard for the
Tapatuea store,” said Mears, “and I’ve told Young
Hopeful, here, that you’ll keep a berth for him.”</p>
<p>“The devil!” said Old Bee, and went straight on
with the business he had in hand.</p>
<p>The next day the broker signed my contract by
virtue of some power of attorney he possessed for
Bibo & Co.</p>
<p>“If he backs out now, you can sue him for damages,”
he said cheerfully.</p>
<p>I was in a tremble when I next met my employer.
It was near our sailing time, and he was in a violent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>
hurry. He threw down a paper on the desk and told
Mears it was the list of things he had put by for the
last.</p>
<p>“Send some one along for them,” he said, “some
one that knows how to keep his mouth shut. I’ve
clean forgot all that business of the King of Pingalap’s:
the breech-loading cannon I promised him from
Hudson’s, and those damned guinea-fowls, and that
cylinder for his musical box!”</p>
<p>“Here’s one of your own men,” said Mears. “You
know young Bence?”</p>
<p>“Good God, that child!” cried the old man.
“Didn’t I tell you I wouldn’t have him?”</p>
<p>“Pity you hadn’t spoken before,” said the broker,
with surprise. “I only signed his contract yesterday.”</p>
<p>Old Bee regarded me sourly.</p>
<p>“I don’t understand the joke,” he said.</p>
<p>“Oh, come, come. He’s twenty-two if he’s a day,”
said Mears, adding four years to my age; “and as to
being young, I dare say he’ll get over it.”</p>
<p>“What’s he done, that you’re so keen to get him
off?” said Old Bee, still eyeing me with strong disfavour.
“However, as you have made it your business
to push him down my throat, I suppose I’ve got to
bolt him.”</p>
<p>“He’d sue you like a shot if you didn’t,” said
Mears. “With that contract in his pocket he’s regularly
got you in his power.”</p>
<p>This view of the situation made even Old Bee smile,
and caused Mears to laugh outright. For me it was
scarcely so entertaining; never in my life had I felt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>
so small or insignificant, though I plucked up courage
when the great man handed me his list and bade the
broker count me out sixty sovereigns. This showed
that in some small measure I must have won his good
opinion, a conviction that was still further strengthened
by his departure, when, in the excitement and
flurry of the moment, he even shook me by the hand.</p>
<p>A few days after this conversation I found myself
at sea, a regularly enrolled trader of the firm’s, and
one of the after-guard of the bark <i>Belle Mahone</i>, Captain
Mins. We were bound, according to the timehonoured
formula, “for the island of Guam or any
other port the master may so direct.” I presume
there are ships that actually do go to Guam,—if, indeed,
there be such a place at all,—but it has never
been my fate to come across one. Our Guam was
like the rest, a polite fiction to cover up our track and
leave a veil of mystery over our voyage. Besides
John Cæsar Bibo, with whom I have already made
you acquainted, there were three others in our little
company astern. Captain Mins was a short, bullnecked
man of fifty, with abrupt manners and a singularly
deliberate way of speech, due perhaps to some
impediment of the tongue. This lent to his utterance
a gravity almost judicial, and gave an added force to
the contradiction which was his only conversational
counter. Jean Bonnichon, or “Frenchy,” as we called
him, was one of the firm’s traders returning to the
Islands after a brief holiday. He, like Mins, was
short and thick-set, but with this ended all resemblance
between them. Bonnichon’s story was that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span>
had come of a wealthy family in Normandy; and it
was indubitable (from the papers he had in his possession)
that he had served as an officer of horse-artillery
in the French army. What he had done to
leave it no one precisely knew, nor was our curiosity
satisfied by the conflicting explanations he himself
was at pains to give. As a soldier of fortune in the
Old World, with the Turks, the Bulgarians, and
finally with the Arabs of Sus, he had sunk lower and
lower, until he had come at last to Australia, there to
sink lower still.</p>
<p>Six years of colonial life, followed by seven on the
island of Apaiang, had transformed Frenchy into one
of those strange creatures without a country. Under
the heel of adversity the Frenchman had been completely
stamped out of him; only some fragments of
the army officer remained; the bulging chest, the
loud, peremptory voice, the instant obedience to any
one he counted his superior. He annoyed Old Bee
excessively by leaping to his feet whenever our employer
addressed him, a military habit so ingrained
that he was quite unable to break himself of it. Intended
for deference, its effect on John Cæsar (the
most fidgety and preoccupied of patriarchs) was to
drive him into one of his sudden tempers, when
woe betide the man who dared to first address him.
Adam Babcock, a humble, silent creature, completed
the number of our mess. He was the mate of the
ship, and took his meals alone after we had quitted
the table, a forlorn arrangement that is usual in
small vessels. He was so completely null in our life<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>
that I have some difficulty in recollecting him at all.
He had seen misfortunes, I remember, and had certainly
come down very much in the world, for he was
the only person aft who treated me with the least
consideration. On one occasion he even called me
“sir,” and gave me a present of some shells.</p>
<p>With Frenchy I was soon on terms of shipboard
acquaintance, but for the others I might have been
invisible, for all they ever noticed me. Old Bee, for
the matter of that, seldom spoke to any one, and the
sight of his bilious cheek would have daunted, I believe,
the most incorrigible bore in London. We
saw little of him save at meal-times, for he was perpetually
busy in his cabin, adding up figures, or
stamping on his copying-book like a dancing dervish.
I am at a loss to say what his labours were all about;
they were, and always have been, to me the cause of
unceasing amazement. I was not sorry, however,
that Old Bee kept so much to himself, for I feared
him like the plague, and never felt comfortable within
the range of his bloodshot eyes. It fell to Frenchy
and the captain to keep the ball of conversation rolling,
which they did by disputing with each other on every
topic that came up. Were the captain, with some
warmth, to make a statement, it was just as certain
to be met by Frenchy’s great horse-laugh and shrill,
jeering contradiction. They could agree on nothing,
whether it was the origin of the Russo-Turkish war
or the way the natives cook devil-fish. No provocation
was too unimportant to set them at each other’s
throats, no slight too trivial to be ignored.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>Once, to my extreme embarrassment, they differed
on the subject of myself; the Frenchman saying that
I was the type of young ne’er-do-well under which the
colony of Queensland was sinking; while the captain
just as vehemently persisted (for the time being only)
that it was such as I who had made the British Empire!
The complimentary view of Captain Mins’s
made very little practical difference in his treatment
of me, which from the beginning had been marked
by coldness and dislike. In fact, I could not help
perceiving, for all their wrangling and apparent disagreement,
that the pair were fast friends. It was I,
not Frenchy, who was the outsider on that ship. Indeed,
I count some of those lonely days on the <i>Belle
Mahone</i> as the very bitterest part of my life, and I
wished myself at home a thousand times.</p>
<p>My only friend on board was Lum, the Chinese
cook, whose circumstances were so akin to mine that
we were drawn together by a common instinct. He,
too, was condemned to solitude, having little in common
with our crew of Rotumah Islanders, who
shunned him like a leper; while I, as the reader
knows, held a scarcely better position among the
after-guard. When his work was done, Lum and I
used to smoke cigarettes together under the lee of a
boat, or, if it rained, within the stuffy confines of his
cabin next the galley. He was a mine of worldly wisdom,
for there was nothing he had not done or had
not tried to do, from piracy to acting on the stage;
and he would unfold the tale of his experiences with
such drollery and artlessness that his society was to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>
me an endless entertainment. Poor Lum! there was
little of the seamy side of life he had not seen, scarcely
a treachery he had not endured, in the years he had
followed the sea.</p>
<p>Our first port was to be Lascom Island, an immense
atoll which had remained uninhabited until Bibo &
Co. took possession of it in the eighties. Their
intention had been to extend its few cocoanut-palms
into one vast grove, and for this purpose they maintained
a force of half a dozen indentured labourers
from Guadalcanar, who were superintended by a
white man named Stocker. It was for the purpose of
carrying this Stocker supplies and inspecting his
year’s work that we were here to make our first call.</p>
<p>We reached the island late at night, and lay off
and on till dawn. The daylight showed me a narrow,
bush-grown strip of unending sand, which
stretched in a great curve until lost to view beneath
the horizon. As far as the eye could reach, the
breakers were thundering against the huge horseshoe
with a fury that made one sick to hear them. Of all
forsaken and desolate places it has ever been my lot
to see, I search my memory in vain for the match of
Lascom Island. Once, however, that we had opened
its channel and made our hesitating way into the lagoon
beyond, I found more to please me. Skimming
over the lake-like surface, with every stitch drawing,
and the captain in the crosstrees conning the ship
through the gleaming dangers that beset us on every
hand, it was indeed an experience not to be recalled
without a thrill. We had need of a lynx eye aloft,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
for the lagoon was thick with coral rocks, and the channel,
besides, was so tortuous and so cramped that one
false turn of a spoke would have torn our bottom out.</p>
<p>I let myself down beside the dolphin-striker, and sat
there above our hissing bows, enjoying as I did so an
extraordinary sense of danger and exhilaration. At
times it seemed to me as though we were sailing
through air, so transparent was the medium through
which we moved, so clear the tangled coral garden that
lay below. From my perch I contemplated the gradual
unfolding of the little settlement towards which
we were tending: first of all a faint blur, which gradually
became transformed into a grove of cocoanuts;
bits of white and brown which resolved themselves
into houses and sheds; a dark patch on the lagoon
shore that I made out to be a sort of pier; then, last of
all, the finished picture, in which there was nothing
hid, or left to the imagination to decipher. There
was something most depressing in the sight of this
tiny village, with its faded whitewash, its general appearance
of lifelessness and decay, and above its roofs
the palm-tops bending like grass in the gusty breeze.
Nothing stirred in the profound shade; not a sound
came forth to greet us; and, except for a faint haze of
smoke above one of the trees, we might have thought
the place abandoned. I remembered that Stocker
was in likelihood planting cocoanuts with his men,
perhaps miles away on the wild sea-beach; in my
mind’s eye I could see him pursuing his monotonous
vocation, a miserable Crusoe toiling for a wage. My
thoughts were still running in some such channel<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>
when I was suddenly startled by the apparition of a
man who came running out of the shadow with a
bundle in his arms. It was a flag, which he fixed to
the halyards of the staff and slowly ran up. When
it was half-mast high he twitched it loose, displaying
the British ensign upside down. Then, as I was still
gazing at him, he made fast the ropes and hurried
down to the pier.</p>
<p>Realising that something must be wrong on shore,
I climbed back to the deck and hastened to where
Old Bee and Frenchy were standing aft. I think the
former must have seen the question on my lips, for
he gave me such a swift, angry look that I dared not
open my mouth, but slunk behind Frenchy in silence.
He, the trader, must have just endured some such rebuff
himself, for he was in a frightful ill humour, and
swore at me when I tried to whisper in his ear. To
learn anything from Babcock was impossible, for he
was jumping about the topgallant forecastle, clearing
the anchors and getting in the head-sails. When the
vessel had been brought to a standstill near a rusty
buoy, a boat was cleared and lowered, and we all got
into it with alacrity: Old Bee, Mins, Frenchy, and I,
and a couple of hands to pull.</p>
<p>We were met at the pier by some natives in singlets
and dungaree trousers, who gazed at us as solemnly
as we gazed back at them. One grizzled old
fellow was spokesman for the rest,—Joe, they called
him,—and he told us, with a great deal of writhing
(as though he had pain in his inside), that Stocker
was dead. He had died ten days before, “of some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span>
kind of sickness,” as Joe called it; and lest we had
any doubt about it, we were pressed to walk up to
Stocker’s house and see for ourselves. For, fearing
that they might subsequently be accused of making
away with him, they had left Stocker’s body untouched
in the bed where he had died. The fact was palpable
enough before we had gone a hundred yards in the
direction of a little house, which from the distance
looked very quaint and pretty. But I forbore to follow
the others any further in the investigation they
were obviously inclined to make, and I struck off from
them to examine the settlement alone.</p>
<p>I have good reasons for thinking that it had been
planned originally for other purposes than that of
merely sheltering a gang of indentured labourers. It
was to have been the entrepôt or hub of a huge South
Sea system, and from its central warehouses a whole
empire of surrounding groups was to have been supplied.
Indeed, the whole project had so far taken
shape that large sheds had even been erected for
the commerce that was destined never to come, and
commodious houses raised for the managers and
clerks whose contracts were still unwritten. I wandered
at will through those crumbling rooms, some of
which had never been occupied, though they were now
in decay; and along the grassy street on which they
had been made to face. I found a battery of four
small cannon covering the approach from the pier; a
dozen ship’s tanks filled with rain-water (the only
kind obtainable on the island); and in a shuttered
room I stumbled over a hundred Snyder rifles shining<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span>
in the dark. But what riveted my attention most was
the interior of a long, low warehouse full of wreckage.
Here, in mouldering, unsorted confusion, had
been thrown all that a dozen years had seen salvaged
from the sea: binnacles, hatches, yards and canvas,
old steering-wheels, blocks, and strange tangles of
gear and junk that seemed scarcely worth the saving.
Here were life-belts in the last stages of rottenness;
odds and ends of perished cargoes; barrels of tallow;
twisted drums of what had once been paint or varnish;
some cuddy-chairs of the folding kind; and a
quantity of boards, barnacled and water-worn. I
must have spent the better part of an hour turning
over all this stuff, and in reconstructing in my mind
the bygone ships from which they had been taken;
musing on the fate of those who had once sailed them
so unwisely that Lascom Island had been their final
port and its bursting seas their grave.</p>
<p>When at last I emerged again into the open air, I
perceived with relief that our boat still lay beside the
steps of the pier, for I had no desire to be left alone
on Lascom Island even for a single hour. I counted
for so little on board the ship that I had a panic fear
that they might go to sea again without me, and I accordingly
returned to the seamen who were smoking
under the lee of a palm. We waited there a long time
before we were aroused by the sound of voices and
the sight of Old Bee and Frenchy walking slowly
towards us. The old rogue looked pale and agitated;
he had his arm through Frenchy’s, and was
speaking to him with intense seriousness and a volubility<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span>
quite unusual. He seemed pleading with the
trader, urging him apparently to something distasteful,
something that was perpetually negatived by
Frenchy’s bullet-head and his reiterated “No, sare;
no, sare; it is eempossible.”</p>
<p>“I’ll make it seventy-five a month,” quavered Bibo,
“and all found.”</p>
<p>Again the Frenchman shook his head.</p>
<p>“Ask anysing else, sare,” he said; “but this, oh,
no. But why not the boy?” he added.</p>
<p>“That young ass!” cried Old Bee.</p>
<p>“I won’t stay here alone, if that’s what you mean,”
said Frenchy. “But if you’ll run down to Treachery
Island and let me get a girl there, I tell you, sare, I
will do it for the seventy-five. But alone? Good
Lord! I’d follow Stocker in ze mont’.”</p>
<p>Bibo groaned aloud. “It’ll take a day and a half
to run down there, and all of three to beat back,” he
said; “and you might be a week getting a girl.”</p>
<p>Frenchy shrugged his shoulders. “Old Tom Ryegate’s
there,” he said. “He’ll do ze thing quick
enough if I make it worth his while. They say, too,
that he’s in with the Samoan pastor there, Jimmy
Upolu. Brice of the <i>Wandering Minstrel</i> told me
he was at Treachery three years ago, and picked up
ze prettiest woman in the island for sixteen pounds.
Told me he gave four pounds to Tom, four to ze
pastor, and the rest to ze woman’s folks in trade. He
was in such a damned rush he couldn’t wait to
cheapen things—just paid his money and went. But
she was a tearing fine piece, he said.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span>Old Bee hardly seemed to listen to him. “I suppose
<i>you</i> don’t care,” he said bitterly, “but this business
is going to put me two weeks behind and maybe
lose me the shell at Big Muggin. Of all cursed luck,
who ever had the match of it? First to last, this
island has been a millstone round my neck, one everlasting
drain and bother. What with the rats, and
Charley Sansome’s D. T.’s, and the lawsuit with Poppenheifer,
and this business of Stocker’s, I tell you,
Frenchy, I’m clean sick of it. It’s just money,
money, money all the time, and I don’t believe I’ve
ever made enough out of it to buy me a suit of
clothes!”</p>
<p>He stopped speaking when he caught sight of me,
and stepped down into the boat without another word.
Frenchy, too, said nothing as we pulled back to the
ship, but chewed at his mustache in a moody, impatient
way. But once on board, the captain was called
below, and an animated discussion ensued in the
main cabin. Through the open skylight I could not
forbear overhearing a little of what was said, and I
gathered that Mins was joining with his employer in
trying to persuade Frenchy to remain on the island
in Stocker’s place. At least, I caught Frenchy’s explosive
remonstrances, and half-jeering, half-angry
efforts to extricate himself from their snares. Apparently
he succeeded only too well, for Old Bee,
somewhat half-heartedly, at last proposed Babcock’s
name. At this the captain himself was up in arms.
Wasn’t he doing with one white mate when he ought
by rights to have two? Nothing would induce him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>
he said, to surrender Babcock; nor would he, in such
a case, answer for the safety of the ship, nor for the
insurance were she lost. Then he turned the tables
completely by proposing that Old Bee himself should
stop on the island! This was received by Frenchy
with a roar of laughter and a blow of his fist that
shook the cabin. Old Bee did not take it with the
same good humour, but broke out furiously that he
might as well throw up the cruise at once. Mine, of
course, was the next name to come up, and Frenchy
was sent to bring me before the meeting. I am
ashamed to think what a fool they must have thought
me, for instead of offering me the seventy-five dollars
a month—not that I would have taken the job for a
million—Old Bee held out the inducement of ten a
week. From the manner in which he spoke to me,
and the bullying tone of his voice, it was not easy to
gather whether I was asked or ordered to go ashore
in Stocker’s shoes; and it is my belief that if I had
knuckled down in the slightest he would have
dropped the first formula altogether. But I had
overheard too much to be taken at a disadvantage.
Besides, I shrank from the proposal with every fibre
in my body, and was determined not to be put ashore
except by force. My repulsion was so unconcealed;
and it was so plain that I could be neither threatened
nor cajoled; that more than once Frenchy burst out
with his great laugh, and even Mins smiled sourly at
my vehemence. Old Bee did not long persist in the
attempt to override my resolution; he had always
taken an unflattering view of my capabilities, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>
even as a planter of cocoanuts I had perhaps excited
his distrust. Besides, I would not do it. There was
no getting over that!</p>
<p>I was thankful at last to be dismissed, even at the
price of a stinging word or two. What were words
in comparison with a year on Lascom Island! I
went and locked myself in my cabin, and blocked the
door of it with my trunk, so fearful was I that I
might in some way be tricked or dragged ashore. I
dared not emerge until long after the anchor had been
weighed and the sails set, and even then I came out
of my room with the utmost caution. When I reached
the deck, the settlement was already far astern and
the ship heading through the western passage for
the sea. Lum told me that we were running down
to Treachery Island, and gave me some hot bread
and tea in the galley in place of the lunch I had
lost.</p>
<p>I had read of South Sea paradises, but at Treachery
Island I was soon to see one for myself. After the
desolate immensity of Lascom, it was delightful to
reach this tiny isle, with its lagoon no bigger than
the Serpentine and its general appearance of fertility
and life. As we ran close along its wooded
shores, and saw the beehive houses in the shade, and
the people running out to wave a greeting to our
passing ship; as we saw the drawn-up boats, the little
coral churches, and the shimmering lagoon beyond,
on which there was many a white sail dancing, I
thought I had never in all my life imagined any place
more beautiful. Nor did I think to change my mind<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>
when we hove to off a glorious beach, and dropped
the ladder for a score of smiling islanders to swarm
aboard. I loved the sight of their kindly faces after
the sullen looks that had so long been my portion;
and my heart warmed towards them as it might to
some old and half-forgotten friends.</p>
<p>When a boat was lowered, I kept close at the heels
of Old Bee, Frenchy, and the captain as they descended
and took their places; and I followed their example
with so much assurance that it never occurred to any
one to say me nay. The captain swore at me for
jumping on his foot, but that was all the attention I
received. Frenchy was the hero of the hour, and his
gay sash and tie and spotless ducks were the occasion
of many pleasantries at his expense. Even Old Bee
condescended to tease our beau on the subject of the
future Mrs. Frenchy; and at the home thrusts and
innuendoes (not all of which I could understand) the
captain’s red face deepened into purple as he shook
with laughter and slapped his friend upon the back.
Frenchy pretended not to like it, and gave tit for tat
in good earnest; but it was evident that he was prodigiously
pleased with himself and the others. With
his chest thrown out, his black brush of a mustache
waxed to a point, and his military, dandified air,
Frenchy seemed more low, more indefinably offensive,
wicked, and dangerous than he had ever appeared to
me before.</p>
<p>Every one was in a high good humour when we
reached the beach, where special precautions had to
be taken in order to spare Frenchy’s finery the least<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>
contamination; and we were soon walking up together
through a crowd of islanders to the trader’s house.
Tom Ryegate was there to meet us, a benignant-looking
old man with a plenitude of grey hair, a watery
blue eye, and a tell-tale tremor of his hands. A closer
inspection revealed the fact that Tom Ryegate was
soaked and pickled in gin, a circumstance which perhaps
accounted for the depressing views he took of
life and for his somewhat snarling mode of address.
When the news had been passed, and Stocker’s demise
talked over, with some very unedifying reminiscences
of the deceased’s peculiarities, the conversation was
brought gently round to the business in hand.</p>
<p>But on the subject of girls Tom Ryegate was a
broken reed. We might be able to pick up a likely
young woman, or we might not. “It all depended,”
he said, without adding on what. The fack was that
things wasn’t as they used to be on Treachery; the
niggars had lost all respeck for whites; it was money
they cared for now, nothing but money. It made old
Tom Ryegate sick to think of it; it was all this missionary
coddling and putting ideas into their heads.
Why, he remembered the day when you could buy a
ton of shell for a trade gun; when a white man knew
no law but what seemed good to him. But it was all
changed now; them days was passed for ever; the
niggars had no more respeck for whites: it was all
money, all money.</p>
<p>This dreary and unsatisfactory monologue was the
preface to a recital of all his recent troubles. Mrs.
Captain Saxe had been kind enough to bring him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>
back his daughter Elsie. Captain Mins would remember
his little Elsie? No? Well, it didn’t much
matter; howsomever, as he was saying, she had been
educated in the convent at Port Darwin—for an island
girl there was no better place than a convent
(here’s luck, gentlemen). She was sixteen, and that
pretty and nice-behaved that he almost cried when he
saw her! And white? Why, you couldn’t have
told she was a quarter-carste, she was that white. At
first they had got along together very nicely, for she
was no slouch of a girl, and could cook and sew, and
play her little piece on the zither in the evening, and
sing! Sing? Why, you just orter hear that girl
sing! And to see her kneel down at night and pray
in her little shimmy, it made him feel what a bad old
feller he was—by God, it did—and so far to leeward
of everything decent and right. Well, well, it went
along so far nigh six months (drink hearty, gentlemen;
Mr. Bibo, sir, here’s my respecks), and he had
no more thought of what was a-coming than a babe
unborn.</p>
<p>There was a half-carste here named Ned Forrest,
who did a little boat-building and traded a bit besides.
Not a bad chap for a half-carste, only he fancied himself
overmuch, and thought because he could read
and drink square-face that he was as good as any
white man. It made him sick, the airs that feller put
on at times. Imagine his feelings, then, when this
Forrest up and asked him one day for permission to
marry Elsie, and said a lot of rot about their being in
love with each other! Just animalism, that’s what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>
he called it. His Elsie, who had been bred up a lady
in Port Darwin! Hadn’t he said that the niggars
were losing all respeck for whites? He booted the
swine off his verandah, that’s what he did, and he
gave Elsie such a talking to that she cried for three
days afterwards. He thought she had had a passing
fancy for the swine, but he bade her remember her
self-respeck and just let out a few things about the
feller to put her on her guard like. But though she
promised to give him up, she took it kind of hard.
He used often to find her crying and moping about
the house, and, like a fool, had thought little of it.
He did think enough of it, however, to go to Jimmy
Upolu—that’s the Summoan native pastor here—to
forbid him to marry the pair if they had in mind any
hanky-panky tricks.</p>
<p>By God, it was well he did so, for what was his surprise
to find that Forrest had been trying to get
round the pastor for that very purpose—mending his
boat, stepping a new mast in it, and lending a hand
generally with the church repairs. The pastor was a
crafty customer and had a considerable eye for the
main chance, but he was a sight too far in Tom’s
debt to go against him. Tom had only to raise his
hand and Jimmy was as good as bounced off the island,
for Jimmy’s no pay, and a complaint at headquarters
would settle his hash. So he didn’t mince
matters with Jimmy, but told him flat out that there
must be no marrying Elsie on the sly.</p>
<p>That done, he gave the girl another dressing down.
Pity he hadn’t thrashed her, like he had often done<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span>
her ma, but it wasn’t in flesh and blood to lash your
own daughter. So he let it go at that, and arranged
with Peter, the king, to run up some kind of a
charge against Ned Forrest, so that the next man-of-war
might deport him. Luckily Ned was a British
subject, and it would have been strange if the navy
captain wouldn’t have taken the word of a responsible
white merchant, not to speak of the king’s and
the missionary’s, against a dirty swine of a half-carste.
Howsomever, no man-of-war came,—they
never do when they’re wanted,—and things went on
from bad to worse.</p>
<p>One morning he awoke to find that Elsie had
skipped out. Yes, by God, gone with the half-carste!
At first he couldn’t believe it; but when he went off
in a tearing rage to see the pastor, he found a crowd
gathered round the church door, all chattering at
once, like niggars do. They made way for him, and
what do you think he saw on that door, so help him?
A regular proclamation in English and native, saying
as how Elsie Ryegate and Edward George Forrest had
taken each other for husband and wife, for better or
worse, for sickness or sorrow, until death should them
part, and a lot of stuff besides about the pastor and
the king both refusing to perform the marriage ceremony.
It was well written, that he would allow,
though it made him wild to read it. He tore it down
and put it into his pocket for evidence, and went on
to see Jimmy Upolu. Jimmy was in fits too, for if
people got to marrying one another in that church doorway,
what would become of Jimmy’s fees?</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span>But though Jimmy could talk, he wasn’t much of
a hand to do things. What missionary niggar is?
He wouldn’t hear of no trial, let alone a little idea
with a stick of dynamite. He could think of nothing
better than excommunication and talking <i>at</i> him
from the pulpit—a fat lot he’d care for either, would
Forrest! It seemed nothing could be done, for without
the pastor and the king where would be the use?
A man had to be keerful these days: the natives were
losing all respeck for whites, and them men-of-war
fellers were as likely to take a niggar’s word as his
own. Wasn’t it sickening! Well, so it all ended in
smoke, and Elsie and Ned set up housekeeping together.
He had never clapped eyes on her but once,
when she threw herself on her knees before him, right
there in the dirt, and said she’d die if he wouldn’t
forgive her, and please, wouldn’t he let the pastor
marry her and Ned? It was a tight place for a father—a
father as doted on that girl. But a filthy half-carste!
Who could stomach such a swine for his
daughter? He told her he’d rather see her stretched
dead at his feet; that’s what he said, just like that,
and walked on. It was hard, but a man must do his
dooty. That was the last he had seen of her—the last
he wished to see of her till she’d quit that feller. If
she’d do that, his poor, dishonoured girl, she’d never
find her father’s door closed against her; no, by God,
it stood open for her night and day.</p>
<p>I had become pretty tired of the old man and his
daughter long before he had reached the conclusion
of his tale; but the others listened readily enough, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span>
seemed genuinely to commiserate him. Captain Mins
remarked in his slow, deliberate tones, that wherever
you went, half-castes were the same—all swine. And
Old Bee said that he’d see that the matter was properly
represented to the next man-of-war that came
down that way. Frenchy went further and asked a
whole raft of questions; about the girl; about Forrest;
about the island generally. What sort of man might
the king be? Oh, Peter was all right, was he? Was
this Forrest a stranger, or had he been born on the
island? A stranger. Well, he couldn’t have much
of a poosh then—not many <i>kowtubs</i> to back him up
in case of a row? And the missionary niggar was
square, was he? Old Tom hadn’t any picture of that
there girl, had he? So this didn’t do her justice, eh?
Why, she was a perfect leetle beauty. Frenchy held
the photograph a long time in his hand, studying it
with close attention as he puffed at his cigarette. Finally
tossing it to one side, he looked earnestly at the
floor, and drummed in an undecided way with one foot.
Then he stretched out his arms and gave a great yawn.</p>
<p>“Let’s me and you go for a promenade, sonny,” he
said, addressing me. “We don’t want to sit here all
ze day, do we?”</p>
<p>Once in the open air, however, his desire to walk
seemed to vanish, for he began to ask for Ned Forrest’s
store, and offered a stick of tobacco to any
one that could guide us there. Pretty well the whole
village did that, and we were conducted in state to a
wooden house near the lagoon, about a mile distant
from the spot where we had first landed. Frenchy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>
stood on no ceremony on going in, and I followed close
behind him, much less at my ease than my companion.
It was dark within the house, and the hum of a sewing-machine
covered our approach; it was a minute
or two before we were discovered by the young girl
we dimly saw at work, who sprang up at last, with a
little cry, and came towards us.</p>
<p>Frenchy became suavity itself: begged Mrs. Forrest’s
pardon for our intrusion, but it was eempossible
to reseest the pleasure of calling upon a white lady.
Might he have ze honour of acquainting her with hees
friend, Mr. Bence?</p>
<p>The young lady, though somewhat fluttered by our
unexpected visit, betrayed no more than natural embarrassment.
She begged us to be seated, inquired the
name of our vessel, and acquitted herself with an ease
and self-possession that few young white women
could have rivalled. It was we, indeed, Frenchy and
I, who completely lost our heads; for Tom Ryegate’s
daughter was of such a captivating prettiness, and her
manners were at once so gentle, arch, and engaging,
that we could hardly forbear staring her out of countenance,
or restrain our admiration within the bounds
of ordinary politeness. She was no darker than a
Spaniard, with sparkling eyes, and the most glorious
black hair in the world. Her girlish figure was not
too well concealed by the flimsy cotton dress in which
we had surprised her, and it failed to hide altogether
her rich young beauty. From the top of her curly
head to the little naked feet she kept so anxiously
beneath her gown, there was not one feature to mar<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span>
the rest, not a curve nor a dimple that one would
have wished to change. I cannot recall much of what
we talked about, though the picture of her there in
that dark room is as vivid a memory as any I have.
We drank fresh cocoanuts, I remember; listened to
a cheap music-box; and looked at the photographs
in an album. With the practical gallantry of the
Islands, Frenchy begged her to ask for any favour
that we had it in our power to grant. The whole ship,
he said, was at her deesposal. Was she sure that she
needed nozing? Some ear-rings? A bolt of silk? A
really nice beet of lace he had intended for the queen
of Big Muggin?</p>
<p>But she would accept nothing. You see, her husband
did not like her to take presents from white
gentlemen. The supercargo of the <i>Lancashire Lass</i>
had given her two pairs of shoes, and some goldfish
in a bottle, but Ned was much displeased. Ned said
that people would talk and take away her character;
besides, it wasn’t for poor folks to have shoes and
goldfish. Ned was a very proud man and did not pretend
to be what he was not. She was still speaking
when Ned himself unexpectedly appeared at another
door. Amid laughing explanations, we were made
acquainted with the head of the house, a big, shy half-caste,
who welcomed us with a tremendous hand-shake
apiece. He was a powerful young man, and his muscular
throat and arms were still grimy with the blacksmithing
at which he had been engaged. I liked his
unshrinking, honest look, and as he turned his eyes
on his beautiful wife there was in them something of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span>
the tenderness and devotion of a dog’s. Elsie ordered
the great fellow about with a pretty imperiousness
that only lovers use, and with a peculiar softness of
intonation that did not escape me. It made me a little
envious and heartsick to see this happiness in which
I could have no share, and I was almost glad at last
when Frenchy rose to go. Lifting her little hand to his
lips, he begged her to please count him her friend and
serviteur to command, and regretted that the preessure
of affairs would preclude him from calling again
before the ship sailed. He had been so assiduous in
his attentions to the young beauty that I was at a loss
to understand this sudden renunciation; but I put it
down to his common sense, which must have told him
that in this quarter his gallantry could only be wasted.
Any one could see that our pretty quarter-caste was
head over heels in love with her own husband; and
however much she might laugh and talk with strangers,
and enjoy the impression her starry eyes indubitably
produced, her heart, at least, was in no uncertain
keeping. It was just as much Ned Forrest’s as the
clothes upon her back or the house in which she lived.
How I envied him his prize as Frenchy and I walked
back silently towards old Tom’s, and saw the bark’s
sails shining through the trees. I tried to say something
about the charming girl we had left, but Frenchy
hardly seemed to listen. For a long time he continued
in a deep study, puffing hard at his cigarette, and
looking, as it appeared to me, more than usually
reckless and devil-may-care. We found the others
exactly where we had left them,—though not perhaps<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>
so sober,—and they haled Frenchy in and bade him
report himself, the square-face meanwhile making
another round.</p>
<p>“What news of thy quest, O illustrious horse-soldier?”
demanded the captain, in his usual thick, loud
voice—a little louder and a little thicker for the gin.
“Hast thou found a damsel to thy taste on this thy
servant’s isle?”</p>
<p>“<i>Hein?</i>” said Frenchy, with a queer glance at
me.</p>
<p>“You must do something,” said Old Bee, “and do
that something soon, Frenchy my Bo, for I can’t stay
here for ever at seven pound a day!”</p>
<p>“Here’s luck!” said the gentleman thus addressed,
raising his eyebrows significantly over his glass.
There must have been further interchange of signals,
for Bibo turned to me and in a very kind and flattering
way requested me to go back to the ship. The
fact was, he said, that it was not right to leave her altogether
to Babcock, and it would go far to lessen his
own anxiety if there were another white man on board.
I ought to know pretty well by this time what Kanakas
were like, he continued, and how little the crew
would care if they laid the bark ashore or drowned
her in a squall. He put it to me, he said, as a personal
favour to himself. To such a request I could, of
course, make but one answer, though it went sorely
against the grain for me to return again on board; the
more especially when I found the reliable Babcock
snoring on a hatch. I had only to look from him to
the boatswain’s leathery, watchful face to realise how<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span>
completely I had been tricked. The ship was as safe
under Johnny’s care as she would have been in Brisbane
harbour, and I could see that he was handling her
with the most admirable skill. My only complaint
was that he acquitted himself far too well, for in the
humour that then possessed me I would gladly have
seen him pile her on the reef.</p>
<p>It was hot on board, and the day seemed endless,
so slowly did the hours drag on. Three or four times
the boat came off from shore and returned again. At
one time it brought out old Tom Ryegate, together
with our whole party, who at once went below. Afterwards
they sent the steward up for Johnny and two or
three of the hands to come down. I felt too sulky
and ill used to pay much attention to all this coming
and going, though in the bottom of my heart I could
not resist a certain pang of curiosity. I doubted not
that my companions were up to some mischief, the
nature of which I was at a loss to understand; but
the way they put their heads together was enough to
inspire me with alarm; and I did not like at all this
calling in of the crew. I tried to sound Johnny after
they had pulled back to the settlement, but he turned
a deaf ear to me and pretended not to understand my
questions. I tried Lum with like ill success, finding
him also (though from a different reason) cross and
uncommunicative.</p>
<p>“White man all same devil,” he said, and went on
kneading his dough.</p>
<p>Supper-time came, and Babcock and I had the table
to ourselves; he was very garrulous and tiresome, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>
I suspect he had been nipping on the sly, for he giggled
a lot, and sometimes talked foolishly to himself.
Altogether I was sick of the ship and of Babcock and
of my own company; and when I came on deck after
supper, and saw the shore lights twinkling through
the palms, and the torches of the fishers on the roof,
I felt I could no longer control my impatience.</p>
<p>Slipping down the gangway, I signalled to one of
the canoes that hung about the ship, and a few minutes
later I was landed for the second time near old
Tom Ryegate’s store. Needless to say, I gave it a wide
berth, for the last thing I wished was to run across
any of my shipmates. I was spied out by some little
children playing tag in the dark, who took me by the
hands and led me about the settlement. I was conducted
into half a dozen houses, and given green nuts
to drink, with here and there a present of a hat or a
mat or some pearl-shells. I do not know how long I
had been wandering about in this fashion—but it
must have been nearer two hours than one—when
I was suddenly startled by a roar of voices and a
sound of scurrying feet. In an instant we were all
rushing in the direction of the noise, falling and
stumbling over one another in our excitement. At
the church I found a crowd assembled, buzzing like
bees, and crushing frantically against the unglazed
windows for a sight of what was taking place within.
I jostled my way round to the door, where I was surprised
to find our brawny boatswain Johnny, together
with several of our men, keeping the other natives
at bay. They would have kept me out, too, if they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>
had dared, but I pushed boldly past them and entered
the building.</p>
<p>It was all but empty. At the farther end, by the
light of a tawdry hanging lamp, I perceived that some
sort of service or ceremony was in progress, and I was
thunderstruck to recognise in the little congregation
there assembled every member of the shore party.
Old Bee and the captain were standing on one side,
the latter smoking a cigar and spitting from time to
time on the coral floor; next them, his benignant hair
all awry, was Tom Ryegate, leaning unsteadily against
the wall, and wiping his eyes on a trade handkerchief.
A burly Kanaka whom I had no difficulty in recognising
as Jimmy Upolu, the native pastor, was reciting
something out of a book over the heads of Frenchy
and a woman, who both knelt before him. Frenchy’s
costume had suffered not a little since the morning;
it was dirty and stained, and the collar of his coat was
torn half-way down his back, as though some one had
seized him there with a smutty hand. In an instant
I seemed to see the whole thing. I ran forward with
my heart in my mouth, and even as I did so there
rose from the outside the strangled cry of a man, followed
by a scuffle and the noise of blows.</p>
<p>The woman beside Frenchy sprang to her feet, and
as she turned towards me I recognised the ashen face
of Elsie Ryegate. Frenchy caught her in his arms,
and swearing beneath his breath, forced her down
again beside him; while the pastor, not a whit abashed,
rattled on briskly with the service.</p>
<p>He soon came to an end, closing his book with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>
flourish, as much as to say the ceremony was over.
Frenchy rose to his feet, still with one arm round
Elsie’s waist.</p>
<p>“How much?” he asked.</p>
<p>Then old Tom Ryegate came staggering up, boo-hooing
like a great baby. He wrung Frenchy’s hand;
gave his daughter a slobbering kiss; and broke out
into a whole rigmarole of how pleased he was to see
her made an honest woman, by God, and married to
a gentleman she could respeck and look up to. The
girl herself might have been dead, for all the attention
she paid to him or any one; but for Frenchy’s enfolding
arm, I believe she would have fallen to the ground,
for she was stony white, and shaking in a kind of
chill. I could hear her teeth chatter, while Frenchy
haggled with the pastor, and the trader went on with
his endless gabble.</p>
<p>We all moved out of the church together, old Tom
Ryegate stumbling along in the rear, making very
poor weather of it in the dark. All at once he went
sprawling over something, and we could hear him
cursing to himself as he tried to get on his legs again.</p>
<p>“Now’s our chance, gentlemen all,” cried the captain,
and off we set running for the beach, old Tom’s
voice growing fainter and fainter in our rear. We
tumbled pell-mell into the boat that was waiting for
us, and shoved off into deep water amid a hullabaloo
of laughter and cheers. Far behind us we could still
hear the old fellow calling and swearing, and even
when we drew up under the bark, I thought I could
yet detect the faint echo of his voice. All this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span>
time Elsie herself had made no sound, and had submitted
like a terror-stricken child to be led where
Frenchy wished. But when she felt her feet on the
gangway ladder, and saw above her head the tangled
yards and rigging of the ship, she must have realised
all at once what fate had in store for her, for she uttered
a shuddering cry and began to sob. I stood up in
the boat; I tried to say something of what I felt; I
remember I called Frenchy a damned villain, and us
no better for helping him.</p>
<p>“Stop that row!” cried the captain, giving me a
punch in the ribs that made me gasp and turn sick.
“I won’t have a word spoken against Mr. or Mrs.
Bonnichon, and if I catch you at it again, you young
whelp, I’ll lick you within an inch of your life. I
won’t allow a mischief-maker on my ship, nor a dirty
scandal-monger. Just you remember that, young
gentleman.”</p>
<p>I went up the gangway in silence, humiliated and rebellious,
to spend a sleepless night in plans of revenge.
My heart seemed to burst with a sense of my powerlessness,
and I turned and turned on my pillow in a
fever. The morning found us beating up against a
stiff trade-wind and a heavy sea, and at breakfast the
captain had more than once to leave the table in order
to see us through a squall. He and Old Bee were the
only persons at that meal except myself, but neither
commented on Frenchy’s absence or said a word about
the events of yesterday. Indeed, I don’t think they
exchanged three remarks in all, and these were about
the weather. I could not help gazing from time to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>
time at the door of Frenchy’s state-room; and once,
in so doing, I encountered the captain’s baleful eye.
I looked away hastily, and, I am ashamed to add, I
trembled. Frenchy made no appearance at lunch, but
towards three o’clock of the afternoon I saw him steal
stealthily out and get a bottle of whisky and some
biscuits, and then close his door again on our little
world. I was struck afresh with his gross, evil look,
and shrank, as one might from a wild beast, at the
very sight of him.</p>
<p>The second day passed much as the first, though it
found us lying better up to windward. Frenchy still
kept away from the table, and I used to stare at his
closed state-room door with an awful curiosity. My
two companions were, if anything, more glum and
uncommunicative than ever; and when I tried to draw
out Babcock I found that his mouth also had been
sealed. He would give me only snapping answers,
and was painfully ill at ease in my presence. Lum
had scalded himself twice in the galley, and was in no
conversational mood; and when I tried to unbosom
myself to him he cut me short with the remark that
“white men were all same devil.”</p>
<p>We ran into Lascom in the morning of the third
day, and by ten o’clock were at anchor off the settlement.
Babcock at once hoisted out eight or nine tons
of Frenchy’s stuff, most of it food for his year’s sojourn
on the island, together with a lot of mess pork and biscuits
for the Kanakas; and all hands were busy getting
it into the whale-boat alongside. The captain and
Old Bee were sitting side by side on the top of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>
house, the latter with a pocket full of papers and a
portfolio desk across his knee. They were laughing
together, and Mins was holding the ink-bottle in one
hand. Lum was standing at the break of the poop,
peeling potatoes and watching his bread, which was
spread out on the hatch to rise. I could not stay still,
but kept moving about in a state of frightful agitation,
for I knew that Elsie and the Frenchman must
soon appear.</p>
<p>Suddenly I heard a half-smothered oath, the shattering
of glass, the rapid patter of naked feet. I
turned, and there was Elsie Ryegate poised on the
ship’s rail, her black hair flying to the wind, her bare
arms outspread. She was over like a flash, and her
feet had barely touched the water when Frenchy
leaped after her. We all shouted and ran aft, the
crew whooping like a pack of boys. The girl headed
as straight as an arrow for the shore, but she had not
swum twenty strokes before Frenchy was panting and
blowing close behind her. Seeing, apparently, that
she could not hope to escape, she turned and seemed
to resign herself to capture. But as Frenchy tried
to seize her by the hair, she swiftly threw both her
arms round his neck, and with a tragic look of exultation
she sank with him below.</p>
<p>Down, down they went, the puddled green water
showing them vaguely beneath the surface, sometimes
with a ghastly distinctness, sometimes with strange
distortions of feature and limb. They rose at last,
still struggling, still drowning each other, the girl’s
arms clinched round the man’s neck, he spluttering<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>
horribly and trying to strike at her with his fist.
Spellbound, we saw them sink again, their convulsed
faces almost touching, their bodies writhing in agony.
Mins let out a great roar and darted for the life-belt;
there was a rush forward to cast off the whaler in
which Frenchy’s stuff was being lightered; Old Bee
screamed out, “Jump! jump!” to our boatswain,
who was looking on transfixed, pointing madly at
the bubbles that kept rising to the surface. Johnny
made one step aft, and was just on the point of vaulting
over the rail when Lum caught him squarely
round the waist and held him like a vise. There
was a short, violent struggle between them, and
the Chinaman went down with a crash under the
Kanaka. But by the time the latter was on his feet
again the moment for his services had passed, for
Frenchy’s body, still locked in Elsie Ryegate’s arms,
drifted lifeless under our quarter. The captain pointed
at it with an awe-stricken finger, and signalled the
whale-boat where to pull.</p>
<p>The girl’s corpse was thrown on an old sail in the
waist, and left there, naked and dripping, for the crew
to gape at; while Frenchy was borne off by the captain,
who, with streaming tears, worked over him for
an hour in the trade-room. When Lum and I had
recovered our wits, we drew the poor drowned creature
into the galley, put hot bottles to her feet,
rubbed her icy body with our hands, and held her up
between us to the blazing fire. Lum blew into her
mouth, worked her arms up and down, and exhausted
a thousand ingenuities to call her back to life; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>
the little looking-glass he held so persistently to her
lips remained to the end untarnished by a breath.
We were compelled at last—though God knows how
reluctantly—to give up all hope; and laying her
gently in the Chinaman’s berth, we covered her beautiful
face. Then I took occasion to ask Lum why
he had prevented Johnny from diving overboard—Johnny
who was a powerful swimmer and certain to
have saved them.</p>
<p>“More better she die,” he said; and then, with a
dramatic gesture, he pointed to the shore, and asked
me in his broken English whether she could have endured
a year of it with that man.</p>
<p>“More better she die,” he repeated, and regarded
me with a deep solemnity.</p>
<p>There was not much dinner eaten that day, though
one must needs be cooked and served. I looked fearfully
into the trade-room, and saw Frenchy’s body
stretched out on the counter, a towel drawn over his
swarthy face. Lum and I closed the galley doors,
and smoked countless cigarettes together in the semi-darkness,
finding consolation in one another’s company.
The tragedy hung heavy upon us both; and
the knowledge that one of its victims lay but a yard
away seemed to bring death close to us all; so that we
trembled for ourselves and sat near together in a sort
of horror. Towards three o’clock some one pounded
violently at the door, and on Lum’s unlocking it, we
found ourselves confronted by Johnny the boatswain.</p>
<p>He told us bluntly he wanted the girl’s body, to bury
it ashore.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span>“Captain’s orders,” he said, with a nasty look at the
Chinaman.</p>
<p>“You make two hole?” queried Lum—“two
grave?”</p>
<p>“One, that’s all,” said Johnny, with a grin. “We
bury them together, you China fool.”</p>
<p>“No, that you will not!” cried Lum, with a sudden
flame in his almond eyes. “You can bury Frenchy,
but me and Bence make hole for the girl.”</p>
<p>“No, you won’t,” cried Johnny, making a movement
to force his way in; but Lum caught up the cleaver,
and stood there, looking so incensed and defiant
that the Kanaka was glad to move away. He went
off, swearing all kinds of things, and we saw him afterwards
complaining angrily to Old Bee.</p>
<p>But the Chinaman was in a fighting humour. It
would have taken more than mere words to cow his
spirit. He called me out on deck, and there, between
us, we got the dinghy off the beds and launched her
alongside the ship—without asking by your leave or
anything—and pulled her round to the gangway ladder.
Then, as I held her fast with the boat-hook, Lum
went back, and reappeared a minute later with Elsie’s
corpse in his arms. Settling it carefully in the bottom
of the boat, her comely head resting on a bundle tied
in yellow silk, the Chinaman took one of the oars
and bade me pull with the other. Even as I did so I
noticed the meat-cleaver bulging out his jumper and
a six-shooter in the hind pocket of his jeans.</p>
<p>We headed for the shore about a mile above the
settlement, and made a landing in a shallow cove. My<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>
companion lifted out the girl’s body and waded with
it ashore, carrying the yellow bundle by his teeth like
a dog. I followed him in silence as he passed into the
scrub and tramped heavily towards the weather side
of the island. We emerged on a wide and glaring
beach, on which, as far as the eye could reach, a furious
surf was thundering. Lum laid his burden down
beneath the shade of a palm, and set himself to dig a
grave with the cleaver. As he toiled the sweat rolled
off him in great beads and his saturated clothes stuck
to him as though he had been soaked in water. Once
or twice he rested, wiping his hands and face on my
handkerchief, and smoking the cigarette I rolled for
him. It must have been a couple of hours before the
grave was finished to his liking, for he was particular
to have it deep and well squared. Then he opened
the little bundle that had served so long for Elsie’s
pillow, and took from it a roll of magenta-coloured
silk, some artificial flowers, a packet of sweet-smelling
leaves, and a number of red tissue-paper sheets printed
with gilt Chinese characters. The silk he used to
partly cover the bottom of the grave; the flowers and
fragrant leaves were placed at the end where her head
would lie; and all being thus ready for her last bed,
the two of us lowered her sorrowfully into it. This
done, Lum shrouded her in the remnant of the silk,
and we filled up the grave together, shovelling the
sand in with our hands.</p>
<p>Lum took the pieces of red tissue-paper, and laid
some on the ground to mark the place, pinning a
dozen more to the neighbouring shrubs and trees,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span>
where they fluttered in the boisterous trade. Some
got away altogether and went scudding along the
beach or out to sea, and one blew high in the air like
a kite. Lum watched them for a while in silence, and
then, with a sigh, turned about to recross the island.</p>
<p>“A week ago she little thought this would be her
end,” I said, half to myself.</p>
<p>I shall never forget the look Lum gave me. The
self-reproach and shame of it was too poignant for
words.</p>
<p>“I think you and me all same coward,” he said.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">THE DEVIL’S WHITE MAN</h2></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">THE DEVIL’S WHITE MAN</h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">WE were all lying on the floor of Letonu’s big
house, Tautala and I side by side, our heads
both pillowed on the same bamboo. About us on the
mats the whole family lay outstretched in slumber,
save little Titi, who was droning on a jews’-harp, and
my coxswain, George Leapai, who was playing a game
of draughts with the chief. The air was hot and
drowsy, and the lowered eaves let through streaks of
burning sunshine, outlining a sort of pattern on an
old fellow who moaned occasionally in his sleep.</p>
<p>“In the White Country,” said Tautala, “didst thou
ever happen to meet a chief named Patsy?—a beautiful
young man with sea-blue eyes and golden hair?”</p>
<p>“What was his other name?” I asked.</p>
<p>Tautala could not recall it, the foreign stutter
being so unrememberable. Indeed, she doubted almost
if she had ever heard it. “We called him Patsy,”
she said, “and he used to tell us he was descended
from a line of kings.”</p>
<p>“Wasn’t it O’ something?” I inquired.</p>
<p>No, she couldn’t remember. It was long ago, when
she was a little child and knew nothing; but she had
loved Patsy, and it was a sad day to her when the
devil took him.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span>“Tell me about it,” I said. “I have never heard
that <i>tala</i>.”</p>
<p>“Oh, it is a true story,” she said; “for was not my
own sister Java married to Patsy, and did I not see it
all with my own eyes, from the beginning even to
the end? But thou must strengthen thyself to hear
it, for it is a tale of sadness.”</p>
<p>“I will strive to bear it,” I replied.</p>
<p>“Well, it was this way,” she began. “Many years
ago a steamer reached our bay, and it was neither a
man-of-war, nor a trading-vessel, nor a ship of pleasuring;
and the hold of it was filled with nothing but
rope, miles and miles of rope, all of a single piece like
a ball of great string; nor was the least piece of it for
sale; no, not even though a ton of coprah were offered
for a single fathom. The officers of the ship were
most agreeable people, and so polite that, except for
the colour of their skins, you would never think them
white men at all; and the captain gave my father his
photograph, and made for us a feast on board his ship,
of sardines and tea, so that we were soon very friendly
together and almost like members of one family.
Then the captain begged my father’s permission to
build a little house on the edge of the bay, which was
no sooner asked than done; for behold, it was in
measured pieces for the building. Farther inland,
near the old <i>vi</i>-tree, another house was raised, this also
of boards previously cut and prepared. Then the end
of the big rope was carried to the beach-house in a
boat, and made fast to all manner of strange <i>tongafiti</i>
within, some that ticked like clocks, and others that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span>
went ‘whir, whir,’ like a bird with a broken wing.
Here, in the middle of it all, a shining chair was prepared
for Patsy to sit in and a big desk for Patsy to
write at. But to the inland house was brought his bed,
and countless cases of sardines and pea-soup, and all
the many things needed for the comfort and well-being
of a white man.</p>
<p>“When all was thus ready to the captain’s liking, he
blew his whistle and sailed out of the bay, leaving
Patsy singly to take care of the end of the big rope.
This Patsy did with assiduity, so that there was never
a morning but found him sitting beside it, and seldom
an afternoon or evening he did not visit it at intervals.
Sometimes the rope would hold him there
the whole night, saying without end, ‘click, click, whir,
whir,’ as its manner was, so that I would fall asleep
with the light of Patsy’s lamp in my eyes, and wake
again at dawn to find it still burning; and if we went
down to the shore, as we often did at first in our curiosity,
we would see the white man lying asleep in his
chair, his cold pipe on the table beside him. People
asked one another the meaning of a rope so singular,
and wondered ceaselessly as to the nature of Patsy’s
concern with it. From all the villages expeditions
came in crowded boats to behold the marvel with their
own eyes, so that they, too, might hear it say ‘click,
click, whir, whir,’ as its manner was, and stare the
while at Patsy through the window. Songs were made
about the rope, some of them gay, others grave and
beautiful, with parables; it became a proverb hereabouts
to say ‘as long as Patsy’s rope,’ meaning a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span>
thing without end, as the perpetual crying of a child,
or the love of a maid for a man.</p>
<p>“Thou must not think, Siosi, that Patsy was not
often asked the reason of his strange employment, and a
thousand questions besides about the wonderful rope;
but at first he knew nothing of our language, and
when people would point at it and say, ‘click, click,
whir, whir,’ in mockery of what it uttered continually,
Patsy would only smile and repeat back to them,
‘click, click, whir, whir,’ so that nothing was accomplished.
But he was so gentle and well-mannered,
and so generous with his property, that one could
hardly count him a white man at all; and those who
had at first mistrusted his presence in our village
began soon to love him like a relation. No music-box
was sweeter than his voice, and often on a moonlight
night the whole village would gather round his house
to hear him sing, or to see him dance hornpipes on his
verandah.</p>
<p>“One day, in a boat from Safotulafai, there arrived
a native of this island who had long been absent, sailing
in the white men’s ships. This man being, of
course, familiar with the white stutter, it occurred to
Nehemiah the pastor (who had long been troubled by
the matter of the rope) that here, at last, was the
means of learning the truth from Patsy. Whereupon
a meeting of the village chiefs was summoned in the
house of Nehemiah; and after a great deal of speech-making
it was determined to wait on Patsy in a body,
Tomasi, the seaman, going with them to interpret.</p>
<p>“Patsy was at his usual place beside the big rope,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span>
smoking his pipe and hearkening to the voice as it
said ‘click, click, whir, whir,’ as its manner was. My
father, Letonu, was the first to speak; then Nehemiah
the pastor; Tomasi translating every word, as had been
previously agreed. They both asked for an explanation
of the great rope, and why it had been made
fast to our island, and where it went to underneath the
sea, and the reason of its continually saying ‘click,
click, whir, whir.’</p>
<p>“Patsy took some thought to answer, and when at
last he spoke, his words overwhelmed every one with
astonishment and fear. It seemed that the devil was
afraid that our village was becoming too good; for
being himself so busy in Tonga and Fiji and the White
Country, he could not give our place the proper oversight;
and was mortified to see that every Aunu’u
dead person went straight to heaven. Thereupon he
had run this cable from hell, and had hired Patsy for
a hundred dollars a month to warn him when anything
bad was happening. Patsy explained that the
great rope was like a dog: one pinched his tail here
and he barked there; thus signals were exchanged, as
had been earlier agreed upon, so that two barks meant
A, and three meant B, and so on through the <i>alafapeta</i>.</p>
<p>“Then Nehemiah asked him in a trembling voice
(for horror of the devil was upon them all) how dared
he serve the Evil One for the sake of a few dollars this
month and that, thus imperilling his own immortal
soul for ever. But Patsy answered that the White
Country was cold and barren, and fuller of men than<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span>
our beach of grains of sand. He said that the lands,
such as they were, belonged only to a few, and those
who possessed none must needs seek a living where
they could, or die of hunger in the road. All this was
borne out by Tomasi, who himself had seen old white
chieftainesses begging for food in the White Country,
and little children perishing unrelieved. Patsy said
that when a man was wanted to do a thing for hire, a
hundred offered themselves only to be turned away, so
great was the misery of the White Country, so mean
the hearts of those who were rich. Whereupon, said
Patsy, he had been glad to take the devil’s money
and do the devil’s work, for other choice there was
none.</p>
<p>“Then said Letonu, my father, ‘Patsy, thou must
leave the devil and cease to do his bidding; and
though we have no hundred dollars, we can give thee,
here in Aunu’u, everything else the heart of man
desires: <i>taro</i>, breadfruit, yams, pigs, <i>valo</i>, squid, and
chickens, wild doves in their season, and good fish for
every day of the year; and I will take thee to be my
son, to live with me in my fine house and share with
me everything I possess.’</p>
<p>“But Patsy only shook his head, and the rope, seemingly
terrified lest it were about to lose him, began to
click convulsively and without ceasing. Patsy kept
hearkening to it while he listened also to my father,
which he did with a divided face, like one hearing two
voices at once. He said he thanked my father very
much for his kindness, but the fact was, he liked the
devil, who was now to him almost a member of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span>
own family, and unfailing with the money, one hundred
dollars this month and that. Then Nehemiah
made another speech, full of piety and warning, and
thereupon finding that nothing could turn Patsy’s
rock-like heart, he rose slowly to his feet and led the
party out of doors. There a new discussion took
place, the pastor proposing to kill Patsy that night
and burn down his house; my father resisting him
and saying that he would permit no harm to come to
his friend the white man, whether he belonged to the
devil or not.</p>
<p>“I don’t know how it was, but from the day of that
meeting Patsy began greatly to love my father, and
half his time he spent in our house and near him, so
that the neighbours marvelled about it and were
crazed with envy. He gave my father a black coat
to wear on Sundays, and cartridges for his gun, and
nightly they took lessons together in our language,
Letonu teaching him to say our words, while Patsy
wrote them down on a sheet of paper. Nehemiah
preached against us in the church, and would have
stopped my father’s communion ticket, but Letonu
said he would shoot him, if he did, with both barrels
of his gun.</p>
<p>“One day my sister Java returned from Savalalo,
where she had been living in the family of my uncle.
She was a girl beautiful to look at, and so tall and
graceful that there was not a young man in the village
but whose heart burned at the sight of her. Of
them all Patsy alone seemed not to care; and in the
evenings, when his devil work was done and he would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span>
romp with us on the mats or talk with my father
about foreign countries, he never had as much as a
glance for my sister; while she, on her side, treated
him always with disdain, and often kept away from
the house when she knew him to be there. I think
Patsy must somehow have found this out, for one
night he told us that he would never come back again,
as Java hated him; and he kissed us all, and departed
sorrowfully into the darkness. After that, when he
was not busy in the devil-house, he took long walks
into the bush with his gun, or sat solitary on his
verandah, reading a book; at night he sang no more,
nor danced hornpipes, but read and read with a sad
face, like a person who mourned a relation.</p>
<p>“We were angry with Java for having driven Patsy
away, and told her to go back to Savalalo and let us
have our darling; but she seemed not to care for what
we said, and only answered that she hoped never to
see the devil’s white man again. My father, who
loved Patsy, was greatly vexed with her, though he
said little at first, thinking that our friend would soon
return and that Java would grow ashamed. But when
day after day passed and he stayed away continually,
my father talked to Java with severity, and bade her
go down to the devil-house and ask Patsy’s pardon for
her wickedness. She was very loath to obey, and only
went at last when Letonu threatened to send her lashed
like a pig to a pole, and pretended to call his young
men together for that purpose. I was told to go with
her, for thou knowest our custom forbidding a young
girl to go anywhere alone, lest people should talk and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span>
take away her reputation. But I felt sorry for Patsy as
I walked behind my sister down the path to his house,
for she carried herself defiantly, and there were tears
of anger in her beautiful eyes.</p>
<p>“We found Patsy sitting, as usual, in the devil-house,
the great rope tail clicking at his elbow with messages
from hell; and though he sprang up smiling when
Java opened the door, I thought his face looked sad
and changed. She bade me stay outside, and as she
seated herself in Patsy’s chair and began to explain
the errand on which she had come, I could see that
her lips were trembling. For a long time I heard
them talking in low voices, and then, growing weary
of waiting, I fell asleep on the warm door-step. I do
not know how long I slept, but when I at last awoke
I could still hear the unceasing murmur of their voices
inside the room, sweet and soft, as of pigeons cooing
in the mountains. I turned the knob of the door
and went in; and there, to my astonishment, I beheld
my sister in Patsy’s arms, her head buried in his
breast, her hands clasped thus about his neck, while
he was talking foolishly like a mother to her nursing
child. At the sight of me they sprang apart, laughing
loudly like children at play; and when I asked Java
if she had given her message, they both laughed more
than ever and caught each other’s hands.</p>
<p>“On our return, Java asked me to say nothing of
what I had seen; and told me, in answer to my questions,
that Patsy had been secretly breaking his heart
for her, though she had never known it; and that she,
no less, had been delirious for the love of him. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span>
said, too, that he was the most beautiful man in the
world, and wise and good above all others, and that
her love for him was so great that it almost choked
her. When I spoke doubtfully of the devil, she said
that was all a <i>pepelo</i>, a joke of Patsy’s; that the rope
was what she called a <i>telenafo</i>, which ran under the
sea from one country to another, telling the news of
each. She said that Patsy had explained everything
to her, and had even shown her the little pots of thunder
and lightning with which the <i>telenafo</i> was controlled.</p>
<p>“It was not long after this that Patsy and Java were
married by the pastor Nehemiah, my father giving
them a wedding feast the like of which had never
before been seen in Aunu’u, so innumerable were
the pigs, so gorgeous the fine mats and offerings.
Java went to live in the inland house, and wore a gold
ring on her finger and new dresses every day. Patsy
gave her another sewing-machine in the place of the
old one, and a present of two chests for her clothes;
and every day she ate sardines and salt beef like a
white person. At first she was pleased with everything,
and her face was always smiling with her happiness;
but as days grew on she began to tire of the
white way,—which, as thou knowest, Siosi, is relentless
and unchanging,—and of the work, which is continual.
A daughter of a chief lives easily in Rakahanga, and
little is expected of her, for there are girls to wait on
her and men to do the heavy labour. Java grew sad
in her elegant house, and cared less and less to paint
the stove with blacking and wash greasy dishes all
day, while the village maids were sporting in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span>
lagoon or fishing by torch-light on the reef. She
opened her distressed heart to Patsy, and old Ta’a
was called in, at a monthly wage of three dollars, to
carry the burden of these unending tasks. But old
Ta’a was a busybody and a thief, and the lies she said
with her tongue were worse to be endured than even
the loss of kerosene and rice which took place continually.
Every day something was taken, and when
Patsy wondered and complained, the old one said the
fault was Java’s for giving to her family like a delirious
person. Were I to get a biscuit, the old one
changed it into six; and were Letonu to beg a little
tea and sugar for his cough, it became transformed in
the telling into many basket-loads. On the other side,
Ta’a slowly embittered Java’s mind against her husband,
telling her that the marriage was no true marriage,
and that when Patsy saw a prettier face he
would not scruple to cast her off. So the old woman
stayed on and thrived, like a fat maggot in a breadfruit,
while Java cried in secret and Patsy grew daily
more downcast and silent.</p>
<p>“At last the storm burst which had so long been
gathering, and the little house that had been so
joyful now shook with the sound of quarrelling
voices. Java took her golden ring and threw it on
the floor, and with it her golden comb, her much-prized
ear-rings, and the brooch which in years gone
by had belonged to Patsy’s mother in the White
Country; she stripped off her dress, her shoes and
stockings, even the ribbon from her long black hair;
and then, half naked, she returned to our father’s house.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span>“Letonu was, of course, much concerned, and went
down immediately to see Patsy in order to make
things smooth again. But the white man was sullen
and proud, and would talk of nothing, except that
Java could do as she pleased, and that it was the
same to him whether she stayed or went. My father,
who had been a handsome man in his youth and knew
the ways of women, urged Patsy a thousand times to
make it up quickly with his wife, telling him to put
his arms round her and kiss her and all would be
well. ‘Thou mayest know much about the <i>telenafo</i>,
and how to keep thunder and lightning in pots,’ said
my wise father, ‘but assuredly, Patsy, thou art ignorant
of the hearts of women.’ He told him that Java
was already repentant and ashamed, and, like a person
on the top of a high wall, a push would send her either
way. But Patsy, like a little sulky child, sat in his chair
and refused to speak, while Ta’a rattled the dishes
and laughed sideways to herself. It was sad, when
my father returned, to see the look that Java gave
him. Her hot fit was already past, and her face
was full of longing and sorrow; and on his saying
that nothing could be accomplished, she lay down on
a mat, and remained there all day like a sick person.
She lay thus for nearly a week; and if we asked her
anything, she would only groan and turn away her
head. She was waiting for her man to come to her; but
to him there was no such intention; for he stayed shut
up in the devil-house, or wandered uselessly in the
bush by himself.</p>
<p>“At last she got up, more dead than living, so thin<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span>
she was and changed; and calling for food, she ate with
the voracity of a starving person; and then she bathed,
and did her hair with flowers, and put on the poor
clothes she had worn as a maid. ‘Behold,’ she said,
‘I am now one of the <i>aualuma</i> and no longer married.’
And from that day she who had been the
most circumspect girl in the village, and the best behaved,
became swiftly a run-wild-in-the-bush, going
everywhere unattended, and sitting up with the young
men at night, so that people called her a <i>paumotu</i>, and
her communion ticket was withdrawn.</p>
<p>“Patsy never lacked for news of her down-going, for
old Ta’a still kept house for him; and no tale was
ever told of Java but the old one brought it to him,
and more also, conceived by her lying heart. Patsy
never tried to see his wife or to do anything to bring
about peace between them; and if he passed her in
the path he would turn away his head, even if it were
night, and she alone with another man. Once, only,
he showed that he still remembered her at all, at a
time when she was possessed of a devil and like to
die; then he came to our house, and felt her hands,
and gave her medicines from a little box, and told my
father to do this and that. And when she grew better
and able to sit up, he sent us salt beef and sardines
for her well-being.</p>
<p>“Now it happened there belonged to Ta’a’s family a
girl named Sina, a thin, hungry piece with a canoe-nose
like a white man’s, and a face so unsightly that
it resembled a pig’s; and if she went anywhere the
children would cry after her, ‘Pig-face, Pig-face!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span>’
like that, so that her name of Sina was forgotten, and
even members of her family called her unmindfully
by the other. Compared to Java, who was tall and
beautiful like a daughter of chiefs, this little Sina was
no more than a half-grown child; and when she was
stripped for bathing, behold, you could count the ribs
of her body. But Ta’a brought her every day to
Patsy’s house, so that by degrees he became accustomed
to the sight of her; and all the time the old one kept
telling him that the little Pig-face loved him—which,
perhaps, indeed was true, for none of our young men
ever looked twice her way, except to laugh, and she
might have stayed out all night and no one would
have thought to speak against her character. Patsy
was kind and gentle to her, as he was to every one
save poor Java; and the little Pig-face followed him
like a dog, and lay at his feet at night, while he read
and read on his front verandah. So slavish was her
soul that she would have kissed his feet if he had
kicked her, and nothing pleased her so much as to
sit beside him when he slept and keep the flies from
off his face. In the end, of course, there happened
that which Ta’a had long been planning: Patsy
took the little Pig-face to live with him, and pacified
her father with two kegs of beef and fifteen silver
dollars.</p>
<p>“When the news reached Java she was consumed
with a frightful anger, and spoke wildly and murderously,
like a drunken white man, clinching her fists and
kicking with her legs. She set to sharpening a knife
upon a stone, and we saw that she meant to cut off<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span>
the little Pig-face’s nose; for, as thou knowest, Siosi,
such is our custom here when one woman wrongs another.
She called together all the old ladies of the
family, and they took counsel with one another in a
secret place, arranging between them a scheme for
Sina’s capture. But the little Pig-face was cowardly
beyond anything ever before known; she bathed not,
neither did she wash nor walk about, but lay all day,
trembling and noisome, at Patsy’s feet. Once, indeed,
she was nearly caught, when upward of a month had
passed and she had grown careless in her watching.
In the middle of the night the house was set on fire,
and as the two rushed out in confusion, Sina was
seized in the arms of a dozen women. Had it not
been for the darkness, which made seeing difficult, her
canoe-nose would have been swiftly lost to her; but
for light they had need to drag her to the burning
house, she screaming the while like a hundred pigs.
Patsy knew instantly what was happening, and began
to fire his pistol in the air as he ran to his partner’s
help, giving no thought at all to his perishing house.
It was well for the little Pig-face that he did so, for
the knife had already sunk below the skin, and a twist
would have left her noseless.</p>
<p>“As for the house, it burned and burned until nothing
was left of it, though the most of what it held was
carried out in safety. The next morning Patsy moved
everything down to the devil-house, making of it a
fort, with a high fence of wire all round, full of barbs
and points for the lacerating of flesh. And the little
Pig-face, with her nose tied up in cloths, ran this way<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span>
and that, helping him with nails, while Java and I lay
in a hiding-place and counted her ribs.</p>
<p>“Thou wouldst have thought that Java might now
have rested in her anger, for Patsy’s house was consumed
and her rival had felt the sharp edge of her
knife. But there was no appeasing Java’s heart; and
wicked though she was herself, and misconducted, she
still could not endure to be supplanted by another.
My father spoke to her with severity, saying that she
had done all that our custom demanded, and that
there must now be peace and forgetting. But the
blood came hotly into her face, and she answered not
a word, nor made the least sign to obey Letonu’s
words. Then I saw with a certainty that the war with
Sina, far from being finished, was only just beginning;
and my body quivered all over with the fear of what
was to come.</p>
<p>“For a long time, however, Java did nothing, and
went about as usual, seeming to take no further
thought. The old women of the family returned to
their ordinary occupations, and no longer lay banded
in places where Sina might pass. It would have mattered
nothing if they had, for the little Pig-face stuck
to her house like a barnacle to a rock; and except on
Sundays, when she went to church between Patsy and
Ta’a, we never saw the least hair of her head. But
Java knew of means more potent than knives for the
undoing of a worthless person, and she sought out
Malesa, the old wizard of Aleipata, to whom one
went ordinarily for love-philters and medicines. For
a dollar he gave Java a curse on a sheet of paper, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span>
told her to nail it to the church door on the following
Sunday. This she did, to the great indignation of
Nehemiah and the elders, though to no purpose so far
as concerned the little Pig-face, who happened that
day and all the Sundays after to keep away from
church, like a heathen in the Black Islands. For what
worth is a curse if thy enemy reads it not, nor goest
even near the door on which it is placed? Is it not
like firing a bullet in the air, hurting nothing?</p>
<p>“So Java returned again to Malesa the wizard, and,
for lack of better gifts, she carried with her the sewing-machine
she had possessed before her marriage.
But the old man said he must have more, and spoke
like one delirious, of a hundred dollars and a boat;
and when she cried out, he laid his skinny hand on her
shoulder and looked a long time into her eyes, and
then turned the wheel of the sewing-machine to show
that it was broken. But Java’s heart was stronger
than a man’s and full of hatred; so instead of shrinking
back, as most women would have done, she told
him boldly to name some other price, thinking, perhaps,
to give a finger, as Fetuao had done when her
husband was perishing with the measles.</p>
<p>“‘Thy long, curly hair,’ said Tingelau, slowly, ‘and
I will make of it a head-dress for my son.’</p>
<p>“‘I will give thee that and more, also,’ said Java,
with the tears in her eyes, for there was to her
nothing so beautiful as her hair.</p>
<p>“Then, behold, a strange thing happened, for as she
knelt before the wizard and undid the knot of her
hair, letting it tumble over her bosom like a cascade,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span>
the old man touched it not with the scissors in his
hand, no, not even cutting so much as a single hair.</p>
<p>“‘Java,’ he said, ‘thou art too beautiful to mar.
Some other girl must provide a head-dress for my son,
and thou shalt return perfect as thou camest; though
I shall retain the sewing-machine for my pains, and
from time to time, without fail, thou shalt give me a
silver dollar until five be reached. And for this small,
insignificant reward I shall prepare thee a curse the
like of which no wizard ever made before—a curse
which beside the other shall be as a man to a child,
so that the whole world shall tremble and the dead
turn in their graves.’</p>
<p>“Accordingly, in three days my sister returned to
Aleipata, where old Malesa, faithful to his word,
handed her the curse he had been so assiduously preparing.
Ah, Siosi, the reading of it was enough to
make one’s blood run cold, and palsy the hand that
held the written sheet. The little Pig-face was cursed
outside and inside, in this world and the next world,
part by part, so that nothing was forgotten, even to
the lobes of her ears and the joints of her toes. There
was nothing of her but what was to be scorched with
fire, torn away with pincers, scratched, pierced, and
destroyed with pointed sticks; lo, she would scream
for death while the sharks fought for her dismembering
flesh and squid sucked out her eyes, no one being
at hand to give her the least assistance. Java smiled
as she read the curse aloud, and took counsel with
Tu, the brave and handsome, who had agreed to nail
it to Patsy’s door.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span>“It was black night when Tu made the attempt,
holding the paper in his mouth like a dog as he
climbed the scratching wall of wire. At every moment
Java and I expected to hear the explosion of a gun or
some sudden sound of awakening from within the
devil-house; yet nothing reached our ears but the
beating of our own anxious hearts. After a long
while we heard Tu whispering in the darkness beside
us, and our first thought was that he had failed. But
we were wrong, for Tu had succeeded in every way,
and that with the utmost secrecy and skill. Then we
went and lay behind a big bush about a hundred
fathoms inland of the house, so that we might see
with advantage what was to happen in the morning;
and Java and I petted Tu, and talked to him sweetly,
for he had a brave heart, and his handsome body was
everywhere torn with the points of wire.</p>
<p>“<i>Panga!</i> Siosi, never was a dawn so slow to come
as the one we then waited for, nor any so bitter and
chill. Our teeth clicked in our heads, and though we
lay closer together than a babe to its nursing mother,
or soldiers to one another in the bush, we nearly died
with the cold, like people in the White Country.
When at last the sun rose in a haze like that of blood
and smoke commingled, we felt, indeed, that the curse
was already at work; for the air turned sultry beyond
all believing, so that we breathed suffocatingly, and
endured the taste of matches in our throats and
mouths. Tu said prayers—very good prayers and
long, which he had learned in the missionary college
before he had been expelled; all of them about the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span>
beauty of holiness and well-doing. But Java attended
to none of these things, nor seemed to care whether
we ourselves lived or died, for her eyes were ever on
Patsy’s house.</p>
<p>“Patsy himself was the first to come out, leaving the
door open behind him, so that the curse was unluckily
hidden from his view. He had clubs in his hands,
which he twirled in the air as his manner was every
morning for the strengthening of his arms. After a few
movements he called out to the little Pig-face, saying,
‘Sina, Sina,’ like that. ‘Come out to thy work, thou
idle one.’ Thereupon she too appeared, rubbing her
eyes, and in her hands were two clubs like those of
Patsy’s. But instead of leaving open the door, as her
partner had done, she closed it with a push of her
hand, and lo, the curse shone white upon it like a
splash of lime on a dark cloth. At the sight of it she
shrieked to Patsy, and together, side by side, they
read what was there written, clinging to each other
with fainting hearts.</p>
<p>“When Patsy had read it to an end, he uttered a
great, mocking laugh, and struck the paper with his
club, so that the whole house shook, and old Ta’a came
tumbling out like a scared rat. Then he laughed
again until the whole bay reëchoed round, and every
time he laughed his voice grew more shrill and screaming,
like that of a woman in a fit. But there was no
laughter at all in the little Pig-face, who went and lay
down in the sand, hiding her eyes with her hands.
And old Ta’a, the thief, the evil-hearted, the out-islander,
she tore down the curse with derisive shoutings,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span>
and danced on it a shameful dance which is
prohibited by the church. But for all that, we could
see that she and Patsy were greatly discountenanced,
as well they might have been; for who could read
such a curse without trembling, or regard with calm
the smoky air now thick with the smell of matches?
As for the little Pig-face, she was helped inside the
house like a drowning person from the sea, for her
legs would no longer carry her, and she could not
breathe for very terror. The clubs were left untouched
where they had fallen; and when Patsy and
Ta’a had carried Sina into the devil-house they shut
the door and locked themselves within.</p>
<p>“I don’t know how long it was after this that we lay
still spying from our <i>ti’a</i>, but it seemed to me like the
space of many hours. For my part, I should have
gladly returned home, for I was gnawed with hunger,
and stiff with the cold night watching; so also was
Tu, who spoke piteously of his love for Java, and how
it might be the means, through this lawless dabbling
with the unseen world, of cutting him off in his prime.
But so rock-like was Java’s heart, so fierce the
flame of her revenge, that she had no compassion for
this beautiful young man, nor a single word for the
comfort of his spirit. With her burning eyes fixed on
Patsy’s house, she lay motionless on the ground like
a dead person, her only thought to see the curse
accomplished.</p>
<p>“Suddenly we were startled by a peal of thunder;
low at first, and then tumultuously rising, which, with
repeated explosions like those of cannon, seemed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span>
shake the island to its bottommost roots. We
jumped to our feet, clinging wildly to one another,
while the earth shook under us like the sea, and the
skies above were rent with a thousand burstings.
Even as we stood there, swaying and horror-stricken,
I felt Java’s fingers tighten on my arm and heard her
voice in my ear, crying, ‘Look, look!’ And behold!
what did I see but Patsy’s house rising in the air and
darting seaward at the tail of the great rope, which,
hand over fist, the devil was now pulling in from hell.
The rope was covered with long, green sea-grass, and
all manner of curious shells, which sparkled and
twisted in the sun; and it went thus in jumps, like
the crackling of a mighty whip; and with every jerk
the house skimmed forward like a boatswain-bird,
showing us at a broken window the faces of the accursed,
who with frenzied movements climbed the one
above the other, striving to escape like a tangle of
worms in a pot, each one pushing away the other,
until at last the water closed over them all. And
from that day to this, Siosi, nothing has ever been
seen of Ta’a, nor of Sina, nor of the devil’s white
man.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">THE PHANTOM CITY</h2></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">THE PHANTOM CITY</h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">“GOD has sent you to the right place here,” said
Father Studby, solemnly, to the lay brother.
“Life in Lauli’i flows in the same channel, day by day,
year by year, so that we wonder to grow old and are
surprised to see our changing faces in the glass. When
we think, it is of the goodness of God; when we fear,
it is for the sick or for the machinations of the Evil
One. Our little bay is a monastery, remote from all
the passions and fevers of mankind; and the people
we live among are pleasant children, naïve, gay, and
pious.”</p>
<p>“You must not consider me a sick man,” said
Brother Michael, with his dark smile. “I am worn
out with teaching, and the hot bustle of Nukualofa.
The doctor said I needed rest, that I needed peace and
fresh air, and the bishop has sent me here to get them.”</p>
<p>“In Nukualofa,” said the old priest, who entertained
a partisan’s contempt for the neighbouring
island, “in Nukualofa they do not know the meaning
of those words. They exist in a frenzy of excitement,
amid the intrigues of three conflicting nationalities;
one’s ear is dinned with rumours; and one wearies with
the very names of consuls and captains. One cannot
take a walk without beholding a fresh proclamation
on a cocoanut-tree, or turn round without offending<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>
some preposterous regulation. The natives wear
trousers and drink whisky; they model themselves on
the dissolute whites set over them, and degenerate as
rapidly as their masters.”</p>
<p>“I never could see what people found to like in the
natives,” said the lay brother. “I dare say they are
good enough in their way, and fill a necessary place in
the world, but to me they are greasy and offensive.”</p>
<p>“Ah, but you have never seen the true Samoan,”
exclaimed the priest. “Here it is so different from
Nukualofa. Here our people are better born; here
they are self-respecting, honest, and kind; here you
will see at once an astonishing contrast to those you
have left.”</p>
<p>Once launched on his favourite topic, the superiority
of Lauli’i to all the villages of the group, the old
missionary knew not when to stop, and his interminable
tongue ran on in an unceasing harangue. The
new-comer listened with a sort of detachment, as he
might have done to some strange parrot screaming
in a zoo, assenting by perfunctory nods to that long
tale of Samoan virtue, religion, and generosity. His
black eyes ranged about the room and through the
open window at its back, where, within a distance of a
dozen yards, a little church half barred the vista of
peaks and forest. Still talking, Father Studby led him
away to see it, this scene of his professional life which
had been raised, stone upon stone, by his own assiduous
hands. The lay brother was shown the altar, with its
artless decoration of tissue-paper flowers; the pulpit
inlaid with pearl-shell; the sacramental vessels in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span>
their wrappings of tapa-cloth. The father seated
himself at a crazy harmonium, which was planted on
the sandy floor like some derelict cast up by the sea,
and ran his fingers over the yellow keys. He played,
after a manner, with considerable skill and vivacity,
his preference being for the sentimental ballads of his
youth, and the dance-music which had then been in
fashion. It was strange to hear these old waltzes, so
long dead and forgotten, coming to life again in that
darkened chapel and from the hands of such a player.
The lay brother leaned against an open window, from
which there was a wonderful view of wooded mountains
half screened in mist, and sighed moodily as he
gazed about him. Under the spell of those swaying
measures, his heart returned to the Australian plains
where he had been born, and he felt himself, indeed,
an exile.</p>
<p>On leaving the church, the father took him on a little
tour of the garden: showed him the cemented oven
where the bread was baked, the roofed-in spring, the
hives, the cow, the imported cock, everything, in fact,
down to the grindstone and the rusty scythe.</p>
<p>Michael followed as in duty bound; asked the
proper questions; showed everywhere a becoming
interest; endured it all with propriety. He asked
his host many questions, some of them the inspiration
of mere politeness, such as the best food for chickens,
and the precautions to be taken in handling bees;
others, in which he seemed more genuinely concerned,
as to the nature of the inland country and its
resources. He was surprised to hear that the island<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span>
had only once been crossed by whites; he was impatient
of the priest’s statement that it did not greatly
matter, as the natives suffered in social consideration
by living too far from the sea, and were, besides, better
off for the fish it afforded and the easy means of
communication.</p>
<p>“There are other things in Samoa besides Samoans,”
exclaimed Brother Michael, with a disdain that he
could but ill conceal. “Here is an island scarcely
forty miles wide, which apparently has only once
been crossed in the memory of living man. Why,
the thing stirs the imagination; it makes the blood
tingle in one’s veins; it makes one speculate on a
thousand possibilities. In those secluded depths there
may be the ruins of ancient cities; mouldering tombs
covered with hieroglyphs; perhaps even another race
still surviving in those inner valleys! There may
be whole forests of sandalwood, beds of fine coal, deposits
of rich ores. Who knows, but there may be
gold!”</p>
<p>Father Studby crossed himself.</p>
<p>“God forbid,” he said.</p>
<p>“You must remember,” he went on, “that every
village has some knowledge of the land behind it, and
if you could combine what they know you would find
that the interior is not such a mystery as you imagine;
though, of course, there may be tracts which have
never yet been penetrated by a white man. At one
time and another I have been many miles inland of
Lauli’i, but I never got so far but what every gully had
a name, every acre an owner. Why our people should<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span>
dispute among themselves for such blocks of worthless
forest and rock is a thing beyond my comprehension;
but as a matter of fact they do attach an
inordinate value to them, and it would astound you
to find how exactly the boundaries are remembered.”</p>
<p>“You interest me immensely,” said the lay brother.
“I see that you can tell me everything I want to
know, and I congratulate myself again that my lucky
star has brought me to your door. In Nukualofa
they could not answer half my questions.”</p>
<p>“In Nukualofa,” said Father Studby, bitterly, “they
know nothing,—less than nothing,—for they mislead
you and tell you lies. The natives there, besides, are
of a low stock, interbred with out-islanders and without
an ancestry among them. You will look in vain for
such a man as our Maunga, who goes back seventeen
generations to the legendary Fasito’o, or a family such
as the Sā; Satupaialā;, who have what you might
almost call a special language of their own. They
die, they spit, they moor a boat, they steal breadfruit,
they commit adultery, all in different words from those
commonly employed. It has been my pleasure, you
might almost call it my folly, to absorb myself in such
studies. I am afraid you will find me nothing more
than an old Kanaka pundit, with my cracked head
full of legends and ancient songs.”</p>
<p>The priest saw very little of his guest, who followed
the doctor’s prescription of fresh air with a literalness
that made him almost a stranger in the house.
Every morning, after participating in the service in
the little church, Brother Michael would take his gun<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span>
and disappear for the day, returning at sundown with
what pigeons he had shot, and an appetite that
played havoc with his host’s frugal housekeeping.
He would eat a pound of meat at a sitting, make
way with an entire loaf of bread, and thought nothing
of helping himself four times to marmalade, in
spite of the father’s disapproving looks, and the calculated
contrast of his bare plate. In the light of that
frightful inroad on his provisions, Father Studby’s
good opinion of the stranger began to change into
a sentiment approaching aversion, and it seemed to
him an added injury that the young man would no
longer eat his own pigeons, insisting, with gross self-indulgence,
on an unending succession of chicken,
ham, and costly preserves. He said that <i>taro</i> gave
him heartburn, evoked the physician’s ban on all
native food, and demanded, on the same shadowy
authority, a daily ration of brandy from the father’s
slender stock. It was hard on the old missionary,
who was abstemious to a degree and seldom allowed
himself the comfort of a dram, to pour his liquor
down that insatiable throat, and be condemned to hold
the bottle, while the other smacked his lips like a
beach-comber in a bar, in no wise ashamed to drink
alone. The bottle, too, until it was placed under lock
and key, showed a tendency to decline unduly, and
even biscuit and sardines were not exempt from a
similar and no less exasperating shrinkage. And
then, in his religious exercises the lay brother betrayed
a disheartening coldness, and what spiritual
fire had ever been in him seemed smothered over<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span>
with torpor and indifference. His vocation meant
no more to him than a means to live. He yawned
at mass, nodded intermittently through the priest’s
interminable sermons, and when it was proposed
that he should take temporary charge of the school he
did not hesitate for a moment to refuse.</p>
<p>Of course, a word to Nukualofa would have speedily
rid Father Studby of his guest; he had only to write,
to expostulate, and the thing was done. More than
once, under the influence of some particular indignation,
he had set himself to the task. But he had never
got beyond the first few lines before his natural generosity
reasserted itself. Who was he, that he should
make himself the young man’s judge; that he should
help, perhaps, to mar prospects none too bright, and
throw the last stone at one already tottering to his
fall? Besides, were the grounds of his objection as
sincere as he imagined? Was he not meanly condemning
the lay brother for his appetite, for the hole
that he was making in that dwindling larder, rather
than for his lack of religious conviction which at
times seemed so shocking? After all, was it not natural
for a young man to eat well, to help himself unchecked
to marmalade, to devour expensive tinned meats like
a wolf? It was the result of those immense walks,
ordered by the doctor, to which Michael so assiduously
applied himself. Was there not something even admirable
in so strict an obedience to hygiene, especially
in one constitutionally slothful and self-indulgent?</p>
<p>One afternoon Michael returned from his walk in a
state of high excitement. His black eyes were burning,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span>
and for once, contrary to his usual habit, he was extraordinarily
noisy and talkative. He kept breaking
out into wild laughter, even when not a word was said,
and seemed to possess, buried somewhere within him,
the secret of an unextinguishable entertainment. Instead
of dozing after supper in his chair, he grew, if
anything, wider awake than ever, and his hilarity
continued with a kind of violence. Father Studby
was carried off his feet by that wave of gaiety; he felt
the contagion of that singular fever which had so
transformed his companion; he, too, laughed at
nothing, and found himself talking with an animation
that he could not remember to have displayed for
years. But with it all he had an unaccountable sense
of suspicion, of being on his guard against something,
he knew not what, of some pitfall yawning for his unwary
feet. He felt that he was watched; that those
strange, mocking eyes of his companion were mutely
tempting him to evil; at times he almost wondered
whether the dark lay brother were not the devil himself.</p>
<p>The young man’s talk was rambling and inconsequent,
a mere rattle of autobiography, punctuated
with laughter. He had much to say of his college
days; his penury; his struggles; his shabby makeshifts;
the pranks he and his companions had played
on the professors. He roared as he recalled them,
and hammered the table with his fist. He spoke of
his mother and her hard life; the ne’er-do-well father;
the brother that drank; the sister with the hip disease.
And from that again to the price of native land, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span>
way to secure good titles, the need, as he had been
told, to buy the same property from a dozen conflicting
owners. Then he broke out about the power of
money, the unlimited power of money, the lawlessness
of money in unprincipled hands; the way it could buy
everything the world had to offer, social position, beautiful
women, the entrée to great houses. With money,
what could a man ask for in vain! In this world, he
meant, of course—in this world. In the next, thank
God, it would be different; the rich would pay through
the nose then for their pleasures. But some of them
perhaps would not repent it; the most would be as
bad again, if only the chance were offered; the dogs
would return to their vomit.</p>
<p>Father Studby listened to these confidences with
amazement; they depressed and angered him unspeakably;
they seemed to disclose in his companion a
cynicism and a moral deficiency that he had not
previously suspected. He felt, too, as he had never felt
before, the full horror of that brutal civilisation, so
merciless, so inexorable, its obliterating march whitened
with the bones of thousands; everything with its
price, even to the honour of shrinking women and the
corpses of the dead. If you had no money the wheels
rolled over you; if you had no money you sank and
died. There was no one to help, no one to pity; all
were scrambling horribly to save themselves on the
shoulders of those below. What a contrast to the calm
of that Samoan life, primitive, kindly, and religious,
in which accursed money was unknown! He was led
to declaim hotly on the high breeding and chivalry<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span>
of these misjudged people, and protested that they
had more to teach than to learn. Where, he demanded
of the lay brother, could one find such hearts as these?
where such brave men and compassionate women?
where else a land with neither rich nor poor? Here,
if one starved, all starved; here, if need be, the last
banana was divided into a hundred pieces; here they
would all take shame if a single child went hungry.</p>
<p>The old priest went on and on with his tale of
Samoan virtue, of Samoan superiority. God had
never made such a people; there was in them the seed
that would regenerate the world. There was nothing
in which they did not excel. He carried his reluctant
hearer into the mazes of native poetry; he repeated
hundreds of lines in his resounding voice, blowing out
clouds of tobacco smoke between each stanza. Where,
he asked, were the whites who could match such
things as these; who could bring the tears to your
eyes or convulse you with laughter at will? He
would repeat that last verse, if his companion did not
mind; it described how To, wandering on the sea-shore
at dawn, met Tingalau returning from his fishing,
and led on to twenty stanzas more of what To said to
Tingalau, and Tingalau to To!</p>
<p>Michael lay back in his chair, scarce heeding the
soft gibberish that to him meant nothing. He was
living in a tumult of his own thoughts—thoughts in
which Kanaka poetry had no part, though the priest
himself was sometimes present, but whether as a
friend or foe he could not yet determine; and while
he wondered and conjectured the old man himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span>
seemed to disappear in his own smoke, until nothing
remained of him but a faint, passionate buzzing, like
that of a bumblebee in a field.</p>
<p>The next day Michael was up and gone before daybreak,
and the little service in the church proceeded
for once without him. The father was vexed at such
remissness, and tolled the bell with pious indignation.
Was the young man no better than a heathen, thus to
scamp God’s morning hour—to attend so grossly to
the fleshly needs and let the soul go wanting? Depend
upon it, he had not left without something to
stay his stomach, though God’s claim on him might
wait. The priest turned a cold face to his guest when
the latter returned at dusk with the invariable pigeons
in his hand. But Michael was too tired to notice
these altered looks, nor did he seem concerned when
at last his delinquency was pointed out to him in
no uncertain words. His church, he answered, with
mocking defiance, his church was in the woods, at the
foot of a towering banyan, or in some dim recess beside
a stream; he knelt when the impulse came to
him, like some primitive monk wandering with God
in the wilds. The priest received this explanation
with a dubious silence; he was not at all satisfied with
its truth, and yet scarcely knew what to reply, feeling
himself helpless and outwitted. He was almost glad
that the pigeons, still lying on the floor, gave him an
obvious excuse to leave the room.</p>
<p>“The chief has done well to-day,” he said to Ngalo,
his servant.</p>
<p>The boy laughed.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span>“Excellency,” he said, “the Helper does not shoot
these pigeons. He buys them for sixpences from our
people.”</p>
<p>“Impossible!” cried the old man. “Thou talkest
like a delirious person.”</p>
<p>“Excellency,” said the boy, “saving thy presence,
the Helper lies. Behold in this pigeon the truth of
what I say. Does the chief use gravel in his gun, like
a Samoan, to whom there is no lead?”</p>
<p>“Perhaps he does,” said the priest. “Such a thing
had not occurred to me.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps he does <i>not</i>,” exclaimed Ngalo, meaningly.
“On Tuesday he bought eight birds of my mother’s
brother’s son; one was scented and had to be thrown
away.”</p>
<p>“Ngalo,” cried the priest, with a sudden change of
tone, “is there a woman in this hidden business? Is
there gossip in the village?”</p>
<p>Ngalo shook his head.</p>
<p>“He is blameless of such an evil,” he said. “But
the village talks continually, and the people ask,
‘What does the Helper in the bush?’”</p>
<p>Father Studby breathed a great sigh of relief.</p>
<p>“He walks about,” he explained, “this way and
that, according to the command of the wise doctor
in Nukualofa. The peace refreshes him and makes
him well. I, too, in my youth, used to wander in the
mountains and find consolation.”</p>
<p>Ngalo’s face showed that he had more to tell.</p>
<p>“The Helper does strange things,” he said. “He
goes along, even as you say, through the village and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span>
the outlying plantations like an uncaring child, with
no purpose in what it does. But when he reaches a
certain <i>ifi</i>-tree on the land we call Lefoa, behold, all
is changed. He stops, he looks about, he listens assiduously
like a warrior on the outpost. Then he puts
his gun in a hidden place, and with it his shot-bottle
and his powder-bottle; then he girds up his dress to
the knee, and runs into the bush with the swiftness of
a dog. When he returns, late in the afternoon, it is
with the same quickness until the tree is reached.
There he takes breath, composes himself, and with
slow steps returns seaward buying what pigeons he
can on the road.”</p>
<p>“Well, and what else, Mr. Make-the-News?” demanded
the father, as Ngalo hesitated.</p>
<p>“There are those in the village who know nothing,”
he went on, “mere worthless heathen of no family,
without consideration or land of their own, living
meanly like slaves on the bounty of others, who say
strenuously, with the persistency of barking dogs, that
the Helper is under the spell of Saumaiafe!”</p>
<p>The priest stamped his foot with anger. Was that
superstition never to die? Saumaiafe, the fabled
witch, who, in the guise of a beautiful woman, lured
men to ruin in the bush! Saumaiafe, that intolerable
myth with which he had been combating for more
than eighteen years! Saumaiafe!</p>
<p>“Thou art a fool!” he cried. “You are all fools.
Sometimes I feel as though I had spent my life in vain.
I, too, was a fool to ever think you teachable.”</p>
<p>“Your Excellency is right,” said Ngalo. “It is an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span>
unendurable village altogether, and ignorant beyond
anything before conceived. Indeed, so weak are
men’s hearts in this matter of Saumaiafe and the
Helper that none now go into the bush, even those
who are distressed for bamboo, or for red clay with
which to beautify their hair.”</p>
<p>The priest turned away without a word. He was
almost inclined to laugh as he went back to the other
room, and to tell the lay brother the commotion his
actions had excited. But the sight of Michael’s face
somehow daunted him; those suspicious, bloodshot
eyes suggested dangers that he was at a loss to name.
He remembered the hiding of the gun; the strange
deceit about the pigeons; he seemed to see the young
man kilting up his cassock and plunging furtively into
the dark forest. What did it all mean? he asked himself
again and again. Mercy of God, what did it mean?</p>
<p>That night he slept but little. He tossed on his
hot bed, and whether he lay on this side or on that,
the same question dinned in his ears without cessation.
He was tortured by thoughts of hidden wickedness
in the bush; mysteries of evil in rocky defiles, in
caves beside great waterfalls. He rose and went out
into the starlight, reproaching himself for his foolishness;
and even as he did so, Brother Michael’s even
breathing thrilled on his ears like a vindication.
When all was said, what was it that he feared for the
young man? What could an old priest fear but the
one thing—a woman? And what woman, he asked
himself, however dissolute or abandoned, would venture
alone into those haunted woods? He could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span>
trust superstition to keep the wickedest from such a
course. Had he indeed become such an old Kanaka,
that even he, Father Studby, was to credit the existence
of the witch, roving in her naked beauty, a peril
to white lay brothers? Perish the thought, so degrading
and childish! Assuredly it was not Saumaiafe he
had to fear.</p>
<p>He got to bed again, and waited with open eyes for
the approach of day. As the cocks began to crow,
he heard, with a sudden sinking of the heart, the
sound of the lay brother stirring in the next room;
heard him dress and go stealthily out, shaking the
verandah under his heavy tread.</p>
<p>Mercy of God, what did it all mean?</p>
<p>Morning after morning he asked himself the same
question, as the mysterious routine continued with unabated
regularity; and the thought of it haunted him
persistently throughout the day as he tried to fix his
mind on other things. Evening after evening he saw
the young man return with his tired face, the pigeons
so ambiguously obtained, the gun that had never been
fired. They would eat their silent meal together, and
then Michael would doze in his chair till bedtime.
On Sunday, the only day he remained at home, the lay
brother resigned himself to the unavoidable services
of religion, going with the father to mass, and assisting,
by his presence at least, the cause to which they
had both pledged their lives. The few hours of his
leisure were spent at a little lock-fast desk; and the
nature of this correspondence became the second mystery
of his singular and baffling life. Once, looking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span>
up from his half-written page, he asked the priest how
many feet went to a mile. On another occasion he
inquired as to the soundings of the bay, and the most
likely point for a steamship pier. Steamship piers,
and feet in miles! Miles of what? Whose steamships,
and what was there to bring them? Mercy of
God, what did it all mean?</p>
<p>In the beginning, when Father Studby had first
begun to suspect he knew not what, to worry, to ask
himself importunate questions, a way had occurred to
him—a way not altogether honourable nor dignified—which
could not fail to lead to some elucidation of the
mystery. He had put it behind him with decision, as
unworthy of himself and his reputation. What!
act the spy and follow the young man? See with his
own eyes, from the vantage of some thick fern or
bush, the nature of that strange tryst? No; let him
keep his honour, even if curiosity went unsatisfied—even
if that same curiosity were not wholly bad, but
inspired by a genuine regard for the young brother’s
welfare, for which, as the elder of the two, he was in
some degree responsible. It was only right to hold
out your hand to a sinking man. But could the lay
brother be called a sinking man? Ah, if one could be
sure of that, how much might be pardoned!</p>
<p>One morning Father Studby could bear it no
longer. As the boards creaked in the next room, he,
too, rose and dressed himself, trembling as he did so
with a sense of guilt. When the front door at length
closed on the lay brother, and his quick step was heard
on the path outside, Father Studby found himself on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span>
the verandah, looking after him in the dawn. He
would have followed; he even took a few steps down
the hill. But the folly of such a course was at once
apparent. To act the detective, one must one’s self
remain undiscovered. Yet how could he hope to elude
observation and keep on Brother Michael’s heels all
through the open village and the wide <i>malae</i>? It was
manifestly impossible. In the forest it might be different;
yes, in the forest, crouching in the thick undergrowth,
it would not be so hard to track a man down.</p>
<p>The next night, which happened to be one of a
moon almost full, the father lay down ready dressed
for a new adventure. A little after one o’clock, he
rose, crossed himself, and cautiously quitted the house,
making his way through the sleeping village to the
path across the swamp. This he followed, slipping on
the sodden tree-trunks that served as bridges, until he
attained the farther region of cocoanut, banana, and
breadfruit plantations. These were in a choking
tangle of weeds and lianas; trees thirty feet in height
bent under their weight of parasites; others, still
higher, were altogether overwhelmed and lost to view
in a wall of green; and in the forks of the giant
breadfruits orchids were sprouting like the scabs of
some foul disease. Keeping with difficulty on the half-obliterated
track, the priest toiled slowly and painfully
through this belt of so-called cultivation, from which,
indeed, the village drew no considerable portion of its
sustenance, until at last he reached the welcome shelter
of the forest. In contrast to the zone through
which he had just emerged, opened by man to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span>
furious energy of the sun, the forest floor itself,
densely shaded from this fecundating fire, was comparatively
open and easy to penetrate. It was dark,
of course, dark as the inside of a well; and the father
stopped and lighted the lantern he carried in his hand.
He peered about him, blinded by the glare, and uncertain
for the first time as to his road. Yes, he had not
been misguided; he could trust the instinct of eighteen
years to steer him through these labyrinths.
Here, indeed, was the <i>ifi</i>-tree of which Ngalo had told
him, with its low, spreading foliage that had so often
concealed Michael’s gun. At the thought of the lay
brother his heart began to beat, and he crossed himself
repeatedly.</p>
<p>He paced off seven, eight, nine, ten yards from the
trunk of the <i>ifi</i>; and his feet at that distance carried
him into a thicket of fern and wild bananas. He blew
out the lantern, and settled himself in the damp ambush
so providentially at hand, drawing the big leaves
over his head until he could no longer see the stars.
From two o’clock—for such he judged the hour when
he first took up his station in the ferns—from two
o’clock till five he remained huddled in his green
lair, praying at intervals, and counting the interminable
minutes to dawn. With the first peep of day his
impatience turned no less swiftly into dread. What
had tempted him to such madness, such dishonour?
What if he should be discovered in this shameful nest,
and incontinently revealed to the jeers and laughter
of the man he thought to track down? What if the
lay brother, turning a little aside, should stumble<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span>
over his cramped and aching body? Explain? How
could he explain? Mercy of God, what a position for
an old religious! He underwent spasms of panic;
he was of two minds whether or not to rise and run.
But the sound of a footstep, of a man’s hoarse breathing,
of rustling branches and snapping twigs, suddenly
brought the heart to his mouth. The wild
animal in him was instantly on the defensive, and he
flattened himself to the ground.</p>
<p>He lay like a log, not moving so much as an eyelash.
He heard the ring of metal as Michael apparently
fumbled with his gun in the lower branches of
the <i>ifi</i>-tree. The shot-flask fell with a crash, and the
brother swore—yes, said “damn” audibly, and picked
it up. Then there was a silence; an eternity of suspense;
then a faint crackling as of parting boughs.
The father peeped out, and saw a black figure disappearing
inland; an unmistakable black figure, bent
and furtive, speeding mysteriously through the gloom.
He was up and following in a second, half doubled
together, like the man he pursued, eager as a bloodhound
with his nose to the spoor. The way, with
few intermissions, ran steadily uphill, up and up,
faster and faster, until one’s side seemed to crack and
one’s heart to burst. Up and up, with a swing to the
right to avoid the splashing waterfalls of the Vaita’i;
through groves of <i>moso’oi</i> that stifled the air with
sweetness; under towering <i>maalava</i>-trees that seemed
to pierce the very sky.</p>
<p>Would he never stop?</p>
<p>But the lay brother, without once turning, without<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span>
once stopping either to rest or to look back, plunged
forward with the certainty of a man who knew his
way blindfold. They were, now, pursued and pursuer,
on the high ridge between two river valleys; on
the one hand was the Vailoloa, a tributary of the
Vaita’i, on the other the roaring Fuasou, both racing
tumultuously to the sea. The father wondered how
Michael meant to extricate himself from such a cul-de-sac,
unless (and the thought dashed his hopes to
the ground) he intended to assail the cloudy slopes of
Mount Loamu itself and make a circuit of a dozen
miles.</p>
<p>But his question no sooner suggested itself than it
was answered. Of a sudden the brother stopped on
the edge of the Fuasou ravine, dropped one leg over,
then the other, and began to disappear hand over
hand by means of a hidden ladder. The priest stood
where he was, transfixed with astonishment. To
hurry now seemed unwise. If he had come to ladders
he was not improbably near the goal itself. Patience!
A breath or two, a moment to cast one’s self full
length on the ground and wipe the acrid sweat from
one’s eyes, and then, having given the lay brother
a minute’s start, to descend the precipice in his
wake.</p>
<p>Father Studby approached the brink and looked
over. Below him, dropping, perhaps, sixteen feet, was
a roughly made ladder of bamboo which rested at
the bottom on a rocky buttress of the cliff. On the
edge of that, again, with its splintered ends appearing
through the trampled undergrowth, was a continuing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span>
ladder, the second of a series that dropped, one after
another, into the deep defile. With guarded steps, and
after a prolonged deliberation, the priest let himself
slowly down ladder number one; down number two;
down number three, which ran so long and straight on
the open face of the rock that he faltered, turned
dizzy, and had to close his eyes to recover himself;
down number four; down number five, at the base of
which there descended a zigzag path to the river.
Following this unhesitatingly, with the noise of rushing
water in his ears, he emerged at last on a basaltic
shelf not six feet above the bed of the Fuasou. From
this coign of vantage he gazed about in vain for any
sight of Michael, until, on creeping to the very edge
of the rock, he ventured to look below. There, immediately
beneath him, so close, indeed, that he might
have touched him with his hand, was the lay brother
himself, busy shovelling a bucket full of sand.</p>
<p>“Mercy of God!” exclaimed the priest below his
breath; and even as he did so, by that singular telepathy
which so often confounds us, Michael lifted his
head and looked his pursuer squarely in the face.
For an appreciable instant the pair challenged each
other’s eyes in silence; the lay brother’s were kindling
and fierce, the priest’s all abashed, like those of a girl.</p>
<p>“Come down here,” said Michael, peremptorily.
“I have something to tell you.”</p>
<p>The priest obeyed, with the mien of a man descending
to his execution.</p>
<p>“You old interloper,” cried Michael, with a mirthless
laugh. “So you are here at last, are you? I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span>
have seen it working in your silly old head for weeks.
I never looked up but I thought to see your bloody
boots!”</p>
<p>This unexpected address only served to add to the
old man’s confusion. He looked about him helplessly.
Such unrestrained language seemed to call for a sharp
rebuke. He was shocked and frightened; as much so
as a woman insulted on the street; and yet the consciousness
of his own position—that of the detected
spy—froze the words of correction on his lips.</p>
<p>“Of course, you want to know what I have been
doing here,” continued Michael, in his mocking tone.
“If you’ll look into that cradle you will see quick
enough. Why, man alive, don’t you know what it is?”</p>
<p>Amazed and ashamed, Father Studby touched the
dirty sediment with his finger.</p>
<p>“That’s gold!” cried the lay brother.</p>
<p>The priest hastily withdrew his hand and stared at
his companion in consternation.</p>
<p>Gold!</p>
<p>The priest’s head went round; his heart thumped
in his breast, with that word everything was forgotten—his
shame, his anger, his humiliation.</p>
<p>“Oh, Michael!” he broke out incoherently. “Oh,
Michael!”</p>
<p>“I am taking out about twenty ounces a day,” said
the lay brother. “Some days I have touched forty.”</p>
<p>“Mercy of God!” cried the old man, hoarsely.
“Mercy of God, show me how you do it!”</p>
<p>Michael had another cradle ready to hand. It was
the first he had made he said, and nothing like so good<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span>
as the other; but it would do for a day or two until
they made a new one—yes, it would do, though a lot
of the finer stuff was lost. You did it this way—so—just
rocking it like a baby’s cradle; the squares of
blanket screened the gold, and you washed them out
afterwards in a pan. A place? Oh, anywhere along
the stream. It was all rotten with gold.</p>
<p>The priest hurried off, and was soon shaking frantically
a hundred yards below. He had not been gone
an hour when he came hurrying back to where his
companion was still at work.</p>
<p>“Look at that!” he cried, holding out a trembling
hand. “Oh, Michael, what is it worth?”</p>
<p>“Three or four pounds, perhaps,” said the lay
brother, indulgently.</p>
<p>“Mercy of God!” cried the priest, and he was off
again at a run.</p>
<p>A little later he came back again. They were
watched, he said; he was certain they were watched.
He could hardly speak for agitation. He had heard
noises behind him, again, and again, like the laughter
of girls in the bush.</p>
<p>But Michael only derided his fears. The bush was
a creepy place, he said, when you were all alone in
it. He had felt the same way himself when he first
came, and was eternally peeping over his shoulder and
stopping his work to listen. One got used to it after
a while; he supposed it must be some kind of a bird.</p>
<p>All day long they worked together in the stream,
stopping only at noon for a bite of bread and a pipe.
So engrossing was the occupation that one seemed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span>
never to grow tired; the glittering reward was always a
fresh incentive to try one’s luck again. Five pounds, four
pounds, six pounds, three pounds! One lost all count,
and the level of the tobacco-tin in which the golden
sand was poured rose and rose in half-inch tides.
Father Studby was almost angry when his companion
declared it was time to go. He was hurt at such a
suggestion; he was disappointed; he almost cried.
Michael showed him his watch. Mercy of God, it was
past five o’clock! Then he remembered, for the first
time, his neglected duties: the morning service, the
school, the woman who lay dying in Nofo’s house;
the hundred calls, great and small, that kept his day
so busy. He wondered at his own unconcern, at his
own apathy and selfishness. He felt that his contrition
lacked the proper sting; he asked himself whether,
indeed, he cared. He was dizzy with the thought of
gold, of cradles and rich pockets, of those bright
specks that still stuck to his hands. He followed his
companion in a sort of dream, silent and triumphant,
trying to fasten on himself a remorse that would not
come.</p>
<p>“I’ll never forget the first time I got into that
valley,” said Michael, on the long road home. “It was
the hardest job of my life to follow up that river. I
climbed into places that would have scared a sea-faring
man; and I was no sooner up one than I would
have to risk my life shinning up another, hanging on
to lianas and kicking for my life. Tired? Why, I
would regularly lie down and gasp—when there was
anything big enough to lie on; and the noise of those<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span>
falls, those that I was on top of, and those that were
still to come—my word! it made me sick to hear
them. And when I at last got into the place, and sat
down by a big pool, and saw the black sand with the
shrimps wriggling in it, I simply said to myself, as
quiet as that: ‘Here’s gold.’”</p>
<p>When they reached home Michael called loudly for
brandy. The priest himself was glad of a little after
that day of days; placer-mining was a new experience,
even to that veteran of labour, and he felt extraordinarily
stiff and tired. He remembered with contrition
how often in the past he had grudged his companion
the stimulant, and he now blushed for those
trivial economies with a hot sense of impatience.
Could he not take out in a day what they represented
in a twelvemonth? With a new-found sense of freedom,
he helped himself again to the bottle, and, for
once in his frugal life, did not measure the allowance
with his thumb. Then Michael, with an elaborate
pantomime of secrecy, beckoned him into the other
room, and, after shutting and bolting the door, threw
open the top of his trunk. Beneath the rumpled
heap of clothes there were a dozen tin cans of all
shapes, some with their own original covers, others
capped with packing-paper like pots of jam. The lay
brother opened them one by one, lovingly, exultingly,
his face shining with satisfaction. Each was filled
to the brim with coarse gold-dust; each weighed down
the hand like an ingot.</p>
<p>“Take one, father,” said Michael. “It is a little
enough return for all your kindness.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span>The priest trembled and drew back.</p>
<p>“No, no!” he cried.</p>
<p>“As you like,” said Michael, with a tone of affected
indifference. “You will be doing as well yourself in
a few days.”</p>
<p>“God help me!” exclaimed the priest, and buried
his face in his hands.</p>
<p>The lay brother looked down at him strangely and
said nothing. He knew something of the hidden conflict
at that moment raging in the old man’s breast,
and he had too much at stake himself to venture an
incautious word. Everything depended now upon
the priest, for good or evil; it lay with him to
keep the secret inviolate, or to spread it to all the
world; to accept the partnership thus tacitly offered,
and allow them both to reap a colossal harvest; or,
standing coldly on the letter of his vows, to open the
door to a rush of thousands. The brother held his
breath and waited for that supreme decision on which
so much depended; he was afraid to speak, afraid even
to move, as he looked down at his companion in a
fever of suspense. The intolerable silence weighed
upon him like a nightmare. He felt that it was the
enemy of all his hopes; that every minute of it increased
the hazard of his fortunes; that he was being
tried, that he was being condemned.</p>
<p>“Father,” he broke out, “your name need not appear
in this; you need do nothing but hold your
tongue; you can be my partner without a soul to know
it. As God sees me, I will divide with you to the last
penny.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span>The old man lifted his head.</p>
<p>“I don’t know what to do,” he said.</p>
<p>“It’s just this,” said Michael, regaining a little
confidence. “If you spread the news broadcast—and
the merest whisper will do that—you will get nothing
at all and I will get no more than a beggarly claim.
Keep it to ourselves and we shall share tens of thousands
of pounds.”</p>
<p>“I am a Marist priest,” said Father Studby. “I am
a missionary. I am an old man nearing the end of
my days. My vows prevent me from withholding any
property from my Order. I should be acting dishonourably
in entering into such an enterprise. I have
no right to gain money for myself.”</p>
<p>“Who is asking you to keep it for yourself?” demanded
Michael. “What prevents you giving your
Order every ounce that falls to your share? Do you
really think Monseigneur would find fault if you
brought him a check for a hundred thousand pounds?
And I don’t even ask you to keep silence for ever. In
six months, or a year, or whatever it is,—when the
proper time comes,—you can make a clean breast of
it. Of course, if you choose the other thing, your
Order will get nothing, and somehow I don’t think
they will be as pleased as you seem to think. Why,
man, think what the money would do for the cathedral!
They could build the new mission-house to-morrow.
And remember for one moment what you
could do here!”</p>
<p>“No,” said the father, “you have put the matter in
a new light. I should fail in my duty if I let this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span>
money go from us. They would be right to reproach
me if I let the chance slip. I fear I was thinking
more of myself than of them.”</p>
<p>After supper they drew out their chairs on the
moonlit verandah, and sat for a while in silence.
The priest was conscious, amid the uneasy preoccupation
that settled on him like a cloud, that in some
manner their relative positions had changed. The
masterful young man, by reason of his great discovery,
on the strength, perhaps, of his more vigorous
and determined will, seemed now to arrogate to himself
the right to lead. It appeared natural to Father
Studby to acquiesce in this; to subordinate himself to
his companion and wait timidly for him first to speak;
even to feel a kind of gratitude for the partnership
that caused him such qualms. Self-effacing and
humble, it came easy to him to sink to a second place
and accept unquestioningly the orders of a superior.
Besides, what did he know of gold?</p>
<p>“The first thing we must consider,” began Michael,
“the first, because it is the most important, is the land.
It must all be ours, from the sea to the mountain-tops,
from one end of the bay to the other. In a small way
I have been already moving in the matter. I have
taken options from Maunga, Leapai, and George
Tuimaleali’ifano, the three principal chiefs here, for
what seems to cover more than the area of the group.
I paid them out of hand about twenty dollars each;
but the options, to make them good, will call for
twenty-eight thousand dollars in Chile money. Oh,
it’s all perfectly right and legal,” he broke out, forestalling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span>
an objection he saw on his companion’s lips.
“I had the forms drawn up in Nukualofa by a lawyer;
it cost me three pounds to do it. The only point is
how much of the land really belongs to these chiefs,
for there are bound to be half a hundred other claimants
whose consent will be needed to make the title
good; and it will be your part to ferret them out.
What you must bear in mind most is that we must
nail every inch of the beach. There will be a city
here in a month after the news is out; in a year there
will be tramways, and newspapers, and brick banks
and churches, and wharves with ships discharging.
Don’t you see, we must have our fist in all that; we
must have the lion’s share; every pound the others
bring must pay us toll.”</p>
<p>“The others!” cried the priest. “Mercy of God,
let us keep the thing to ourselves!”</p>
<p>“We couldn’t, if we would,” cried the lay brother.
“You might as well try and hide the island as to keep
them out. When I was a boy I was in the Kattabelong
gold rush with my father, and I know what I am
talking about. They rose up like waves in the sea—waves
and waves of men, bursting in with yells like
an invading army. Why, it won’t be any time before
we are holding our valley with a line of rifles; you
will see all hell loose and a thousand devils landing at
a time; you will see the horizon black with steamer
smoke, bringing in thousands more; you will see
men killed and their bodies rotting in the sun.
That’s the first stage of a gold rush—the pioneer
stage, the stage of murder and crime, of might for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span>
right. That will be the time for us to live through
as best we can. Bit by bit there comes a subsidence
into a kind of order. There is a rally of the better
sort; the inevitable leader rises to the top. You walk
out one morning, and you run across Billy This, the
terror of the camp, swaying peacefully at the end of a
rope. At another turn it is Tommy That, with his
toes turned up and a ticket on his breast. The third
period is the arrival of an official with a tin office
and blank forms. Who owns the land here? Why,
we do. Who claims that? Why, we claim it. Who
owns the beach from a point beginning at such and
such a place, to a point marked B on the new official
map? We again! Who owns the mountain lakes
they talk already of tapping for the water-supply? We
do. Who owns everything in sight? The same old
firm, if you please, sir. But I am not saying we can
hold the fort single-handed. God never made the two
men that could. But this is what we do. We grant
titles, concessions, half and quarter interests to men of
the right stamp, and make them our partners against
the mob. We take the money they bring, and reserve
a substantial profit in their future undertakings. As
I said before, we must have our fist in every pocket.”</p>
<p>Michael paused and slowly filled a second pipe.
The father remained silent, his head resting on his
trembling hand. He was staring into vacancy, seeing
through his half-shut eyes a myriad of changing pictures.</p>
<p>“Michael,” he said, “have you ever thought how it
will be with our people?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span>“Oh, the Kanakas!” said the lay brother.</p>
<p>“Yes, the Samoans,” said Father Studby. “What
is to become of them, Michael?”</p>
<p>“They will go,” said the young man, coolly, “where
the inferior race always goes in a gold rush. They
will go to the devil.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Michael,” exclaimed the priest, “I cannot bear
to think of them!”</p>
<p>“I am sure I am sorry, too,” said the lay brother.
“But there is no use blinking our eyes to facts, or
feeling miserable about what can’t be helped. The
men must learn to work like other people, and I look
to you, with your influence here, to line them up on
the right side. Fifty or sixty of them would be worth
everything to us at the start. As for the nigger
women, if they are young and pretty, I dare say a use
can be found for them, too. I am sorry, but what can
you do? You can’t put back the clock, old fellow.”</p>
<p>The priest groaned.</p>
<p>“I wish you had never found the gold!” he cried
out passionately.</p>
<p>“Well, it is too late now,” said Michael.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>The next day the old man was up at the first peep
of dawn. He had not slept all night, but had lain
with open eyes, in a fever of horror and remorse. He
walked down to the village and along the sandy beach,
and sat miserably for an hour on the bottom of an
upturned canoe. One by one, he saw the beehive
houses awaken; he saw the <i>polas</i> rise, disclosing dark
interiors and smoking lamps; he heard the <i>pāté</i>, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span>
most primitive of human signals, rousing the sluggards
to another day, its insistent tapping the prelude
to the morning prayer which rose here and there
as each household assembled its members. Grave old
chiefs appeared at the eaves, yawned, gazed at the
sun, and exchanged ceremonious greetings; children
trooped out sleepily to play; half-grown girls tripped
away for water, or sat on logs or strips of matting, in
twos and threes, staring out to sea. An imperious old
chief began to blow a conch-shell bigger than his head.
Bu, bu, bu! it sounded, rich and mellow, with faint
reëchoings on the woody hills. The young men assembled
about him, laughing and shouting, and taking up
the note of the conch in a lusty chorus as they called
out the names of those still to come. The father
remembered that they were to launch the new <i>alia</i>,
the huge double canoe, which belonged in common to
all Lauli’i.</p>
<p>He looked about him mournfully; he felt himself a
traitor through and through; he dropped his eyes as
every one saluted him and the little children ran up to
kiss his hands. He was about to sweep this all away,
this life of simplicity, peace, and beauty; he was going
to enslave these stalwart men; he was going to give
these women to degradation. Under the scorching
breath of what was called civilisation they would
wither and die. God help them! On the ground where
those houses now stood there would rise the brick
banks and churches of which Michael had spoken;
offices, stock exchanges, theatres, and roaring bars;
dance-halls full of shameless women, and dens where<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span>
men would be drugged and robbed. And what was he
to gain for it all? What was the price for so much sin
and misery? Wealth for his Order! The biggest account
in that brick bank, blocks of bonds and shares,
sheafs of mortgages! Good God, how had he dared
set his hand to such an infamy! And if, by way of penance,
he were to build a church, the great church of
which he had dreamed, with lofty windows of stained
glass, and an organ that would shake the very ground,
and bells tempered with hundredweights of silver,
who, indeed, would there be left to worship in it?
What had gold-seekers to do with Christ, with God,
with the Blessed Virgin? There might appear, perhaps,
a few brown faces, changed and heartbroken,
a few shrinking figures in the rags of the disinherited,
who would appeal to him for comfort in their
extremity. Ah, how could he look at them, these
that he had wronged?</p>
<p>Mercy of God, let the accursed gold lie undug!</p>
<p>In an agony of self-denunciation, he walked hither
and thither, without looking, without caring where
he went, treading the phantom streets of that city of
his dreams. He talked aloud and gesticulated to himself;
he knelt at the foot of a palm and prayed; he
was overwhelmed by his own powerlessness in the face
of that impending calamity. He could see no help, he
could find no solace. And yet, all the while he felt,
with an intense conviction that belied the supplicating
words on his lips, that it lay with him, and him alone,
to save his people. Thus writhing in the coil of his
perplexities, despairing and half mad at the unavertible<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span>
ruin he knew no way to avoid, he suddenly found
himself at his own door, confronting the man who
had brought them all to such a pass.</p>
<p>“My word, father!” cried Michael, “you don’t look
fit for another day up there. Why, if you could see
your face in the glass it would give you the shakes;
you ought to be in bed.”</p>
<p>He would have passed on, but the priest caught him
by the arm.</p>
<p>“Michael,” he broke out, “Michael, stop and listen
to me. I have something important to tell you—something
that must be said, however little you may like
to hear it. I—I find I cannot permit this to go any
further.”</p>
<p>The lay brother stopped short.</p>
<p>“You cannot permit what?” he demanded.</p>
<p>“This digging of gold,” cried the priest; “this crime
we have in mind against these people, this crime
against ourselves. Do you count our vows for nothing,
our holy vocation, the fact that God has set us apart
to guard the flocks he has confided to us? Fall on
your knees, miserable boy, and beg His pardon for
your impiety—here, even as I have done; down, down
with you!” The old priest’s voice rose to a scream;
he wound his skinny arms round his companion, and
calling on the saints for help, tried to force him to the
earth.</p>
<p>The lay brother grew suddenly pale, and, with a
violent movement, shook himself free.</p>
<p>“You old fool!” he exclaimed. “Keep your dirty
hands off me, I tell you. Leave me alone.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span>“I forbid you to take another step,” cried the priest.
“In the name of God I forbid you.”</p>
<p>“See here,” said Michael, somewhat recovering himself,
“I don’t want to quarrel with you. I would
rather cut off my right hand than quarrel with you.
I need you; and if you only had the sense to see it,
you would know that you need me. It would be a
rotten business if we ruined each other.”</p>
<p>“Why can’t you take the gold you have, and go?”
exclaimed the father. “Leave the island and content
yourself that you have got a competence. It is more
already than you could have gained by a lifetime of
honest work.”</p>
<p>“I mean to stay just where I am,” returned the lay
brother, “regardless of whether you like it or don’t
like it; I mean to stand by all my rights, with you if
I can, without you if I must. You can do me lots of
harm, and skim no end of cream off my milk; though
I don’t think you have much to gain by doing it, or
that the niggers you are so fond of will be greatly
benefited. You have every reason to stand in with
me, both for your sake and theirs; and if the money
cuts no figure with you, you can surely see the sense
of having some say in the subsequent developments.
That’s all I have time for now, though if you are
more in your right mind by evening I won’t mind
talking it over with you again.”</p>
<p>With that last word Michael passed on, with an air
of assurance implying that all would come right. The
old priest remained standing in the path, sullenly
looking after him; and he remained long in that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span>
attitude, even after the brother’s black figure had
dwindled and disappeared into the distance. He
felt utterly baffled, utterly conquered; he wondered
whether he had any more resistance in him; he asked
himself if God had forsaken him.</p>
<p>What was there now left for him to do, helpless and
despairing as he was, but to wait with what patience
he might for the concluding tragedy? After all, his
own soul was clean; except for the one day, when, in
the exultation of the discovery, in the madness that
had temporarily possessed him, he had soiled his hands
with the accursed thing. He remembered, with self-disdain,
how he had accepted the partnership held
out to him; how he had been dazzled, cajoled, swept
altogether off his feet by the importunity of the devil.
But that was all done with now. He would have
none of the blood-money; if the knell had sounded
for his people, he at least would not profit by their
ruin, he at least would not transmute their agony
into gold. The others could do that; Michael and
his white savages; the hosts that were to come. Had
the young man no conscience, no compassion? Was
he simply a wall of selfishness, against which one
might beat in vain? Oh, the hypocrite, the months
he had lived a lie! Oh, the remorseless devil and
his gold! How could God endure such things? A
man like that ought to be struck down by thunderbolts;
people ought to kill him like a mad dog.</p>
<p>The thought made him tremble. If Michael were
dead, who would ever know about the gold? Had it
not lain there all these years, latently evil in the earth,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span>
no one dreaming of its existence? Why should it not
continue to lie for ever, powerless for all mischief, or
until such a time, perhaps, when men would no longer
count it a thing of price; when it would be relegated
to museums for the curious to stare at, side by side
with the wampum of Indians, cowry-shells, and the
white beards that pass for money in the Marquesas.
Ah, were it not for Michael!</p>
<p>His hands shook and he began to pant for breath.
Were it not better that one should suffer than the
many? one rather than a thousand? one rather
than a whole race, with countless generations yet
unborn? He looked down on the roofs of the village,
a sight endeared to him by the recollections of so
many years; he saw, in the brilliant sunshine, amid
the houses that had sheltered them in life, the mossy
tombs he knew so well. There, under the shadow, lay
Soalu, his first friend; there, the black-browed Puluaoao,
the heathen, the libertine, who had first thwarted
and then had loved him; there, the earth that covered
Lala’ai, in whose bright eyes he had looked once
and never dared to look again, whose memory was
still as sweet to him as on the day she died; there
lay To, the silver-tongued; Silei, the poet; Lapongi,
the <i>muaau</i>, with a dozen bullets through his headless
corpse; Faamuina, Tupua, Sisimaile—how many there
were! He had loved those honest hearts now mouldering
in the grave; to some he had given messages to
carry beyond the unknown river to those dark comrades
who had already gone. He loved their children,
now men and women, who had been held out to him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span>
by dying arms, and whom he had led crying from the
house of bereavement to comfort as best he could.
For nigh twenty years he had been the ruler and lawgiver
of the bay, the trusted adviser of great chiefs,
the faithful priest, the ever-welcome friend. Should
he desert his people now?</p>
<p>He went into the cook-house, where Ngalo was
sitting on the steps playing hymns on his mouth-organ.</p>
<p>“Ngalo,” he said, “I want your rifle and some cartridges.”</p>
<p>The boy looked up at his master’s face with astonishment,—the
ways of whites were past all understanding,—and
it was not until he was asked a second
time that he rose and sought his gun.</p>
<p>The priest tried to say something by way of explanation,
but the words would not come. He could
do nothing but take the gun in silence, and charge
the magazine with an unsteady hand, while the boy’s
eyes grew bigger and bigger.</p>
<p>“Doubtless your Excellency has seen a wild cow in
the bush?” Ngalo at length inquired.</p>
<p>The father nodded and turned to go.</p>
<p>“Blessed be the hunting!” cried the boy after
him from the door, before resuming the strains of
“There’s a land that is fairer than day.”</p>
<p>“Blessed be the home-stayers,” returned the priest,
with conventional politeness.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>At last he was at the place—at the foot of the second
ladder, on the narrow ledge that overlooked the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span>
third. He scarcely knew why he had been led to
choose this spot, for the top would surely have done as
well. But the ladder there was shorter, and a desperate
man might let himself drop below, or rush up like
lightning before one could pull a second trigger.
The third ladder was immensely long; Michael himself
had once said that it was sixty feet or more; in
the middle of it a man was helpless. If he fell it
would be to smash to pieces on the rocks beneath; if
he elected to climb, it would be in the face of a dozen
bullets.</p>
<p>He threw himself on the ground, and sat cross-legged,
with the rifle resting in his lap. He was haunted
by a dread that the lay brother might still outwit him;
that he might burst on him from behind with a mocking
laugh; or dart up unexpectedly from the very edge
of the cliff. He wondered how Michael would look
with a bullet through his face. He remembered such
a wound in the Talavao war, when he had helped to
bury the killed; and the thought of it made him shudder.
He tried to pray, but the words froze on his lips.
What had a murderer to do with prayer? But he was
not yet a murderer—not yet. There was still time
to draw back; there was still time to save his soul
from everlasting hell. How dared he hesitate when
all eternity was at stake? He was shocked at himself,
at his own resolution, at his own courage and steadfastness.
He meant to kill the lay brother, even if the
skies were to fall. He was there to make a sublime
sacrifice for the sake of those he loved. Let hell do
its worst. He would say between the torments: “I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span>
saved them! I saved them!” His only dread was
that his hand might tremble on the trigger; that at
the supreme moment he might flinch and fail; that
he might throw his weapon from him in uncontrollable
horror.</p>
<p>Hark! what was that? Mercy of God, what was
that?</p>
<p>He peeped stealthily over the edge.</p>
<p>Michael was standing at the foot of the ladder.</p>
<p>The priest felt a sudden sinking in the region of
the stomach. Something seemed to say to him:
“But that’s flesh and blood; that’s a <i>man</i>!” He
would have given worlds to have dispossessed himself
of the rifle; lies and explanations crowded to his
lips; his teeth chattered in his head. Then, as he cowered
impotently to the ground, the ladder shook with
the weight of Michael’s feet on the lowest rung.</p>
<p>He tried to pull himself together; but under the
stress of that overwhelming agitation the mechanical
part of him seemed to stop. He had to tell himself to
breathe; his heart suffocated within his breast. He
gasped like a drowning man, drawing in the air with
great, tremulous sighs as his choking throat relaxed.
Suddenly he ceased altogether to be himself; he
became a phantom in a dream; a twitching, crazy
creature whom he saw through a sort of mist, dizzily
centred in a whirl of forest and sky.</p>
<p>He looked over and saw that Michael was more
than half-way up. The lay brother’s whole body
spoke of dejection and fatigue, of a long day’s work
not yet ended, and it was evident that the heavy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span>
can slung from his neck was for once more of a burden
than a satisfaction. He raised his weary eyes,
and with a kind of a shock encountered those of Father
Studby peering down at him from above. He cried
out inarticulately, and began to redouble his exertions,
smiling and panting as he did so.</p>
<p>Still as in a dream, the priest leaned boldly over the
precipice, and dropped the point of his rifle until its
farther sight was dancing across the lay brother’s face,
which, in swift gradations, underwent the whole
gamut of dismay, astonishment, and utter stupefaction.
For an instant Michael faltered and hung back;
he even slunk down a step, speechless and as white as
death. Then, of a sudden, he broke out into shrill
peals of laughter, followed by a torrent of gabble,
brisk, friendly, and tremblingly insincere, such as one
might address to a madman from whom it is dangerous
to run. He had struck a new place, he cried.
My word! there was no end to it—pockets upon
pockets only waiting to be washed out. It was at
the fifth waterfall, not far from the dam by the banyan-tree,
and he had worked there all day with extraordinary
success. The other place was good enough,
to be sure, with its average of three pounds and more,
but this at the fifth waterfall was the real McKay.
The father must positively come down and see it at
once; positively you could see the nuggets shining in
every spadeful; no matter if it were late, the father
must come. He had better leave his gun on the top,
for who was there to touch it?</p>
<p>Father Studby never turned from his position, nor<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span>
made the least pretence of answering the breathless
patter with which the brother tried to shield himself.
Like a rock he waited, while the miserable man below
him, sweating with fear, moved slowly into point-blank
range. Talk as he might, with a volubility that grew
increasingly anxious and incoherent, Michael realised
at last that his time had come. He stopped; he raised
his hand convulsively; he cried out in a broken voice:
“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t kill me!”</p>
<p>Even as he did so, the father pulled the trigger.</p>
<p>Then he turned, reclimbed the ladders, and went
home.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>That night the priest went outside the reef in his
canoe, and emptied Michael’s store of gold-dust into
the sea, scattering it like seed on the ocean floor at a
point where the tide ran swiftest. On his return, with
a cunning that seemed to him the inspiration of the
devil, he got out the lay brother’s spare hat and some
of the clothes that were in his chest, and left them, to
tell their own tale, on the sandy beach. At dawn he
made his way back to the valley, still sustained, in spite
of all his fatigue, by a consuming fire of activity.
He felt that the sands of his own life were running
out; that at any moment he might be struck down
himself by an unseen hand; that those strange, benumbing
premonitions in his brain bade him imperiously
to close the chapter of his crime. The horror
of dying with his purpose unfulfilled spurred him on
to desperate exertions. He stumbled again and again
on the path; he had recurring fits of giddiness, when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span>
the sun seemed darkened to his eyes, when for a space
he half forgot his dreadful errand, and wondered to
find himself in the bush. He expected, when he
reached the brink of the cliff and began to descend
the long, shaky ladders, to feel some recrudescence of
the emotions of the day before. But, to his own surprise,
he discovered in himself a callousness that set all
such qualms at defiance; he had exhausted, in the course
of those last forty hours, all his capacity for such paralysing
susceptibilities; like some soldier after the battle,
he was sated with the horrors through which he had
passed, and had become altogether deadened to those
about him. Even when he stood on the very place
from which Michael had made his last appeal, and,
looking in the air above, more than half expected to
see the protruding muzzle of another rifle, he felt,
indeed, no answering thrill or perturbation. The
burden of his own fatigue seemed of greater moment
than this reliving of a tragedy; and the thought of
how much there was for him still to do moved him
infinitely more.</p>
<p>At the foot of the ladder, shrunken and disordered,
the corpse of the dead brother lay tumbled in the
grass like a sack. With his face upturned to the sky,
his sightless eyes, filming with corruption, his tangled
hair in a slime of blood and dirt, he opposed a ghastly
barrier to the old priest’s further progress; and
seemed, even in death itself, to continue to resist and
defy him. But the father had passed the stage when
such a sight could turn him back, though he faltered
for a moment in the throes of an unconquerable disgust<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span>
before daring at last to set his foot across the
body. Even when he did so, driving off the swarming
flies with both his hands, it was with an agony of
precaution against the least contact with that dead flesh.</p>
<p>Descending into the valley, he drew together all the
tell-tale evidences of their work below, the cradles,
picks, and shovels, the tins and boxes and ends of
boards and scantlings, which had been carried, at one
time and another, into that secluded place, and buried
them in one of the deepest holes along the stream. He
broke down the dams that Michael had spent days in
building, the stones that had been piled aside to uncover
the ground of some new pocket, the rough
shelters he had raised here and there against the sun;
he obliterated with his knife the marks that had been
blazed upon the trees, and searched everywhere, with
a feverish pertinacity that took him again and again
over the same ground, for the least detail that he
might have overlooked.</p>
<p>Then, in a drip of sweat, and exhausted to such a
pitch that he wondered whether he should ever leave
the valley alive, he took the spade he had kept by him
to the last, and mounted the bottom ladder. As he
went he cut away the lashings that bound it to the
rock, and from the top sent it headlong behind him.
In the same manner, resting painfully at each stopping-place,
he detached the second ladder and the
third, arriving once more at the wide shelf where he
had meant to dig the grave. But his little strength
suddenly forsook him; he was overcome by a deadly
nausea; he could hardly stand, much less dig. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span>
cast the spade into a thicket, and with unflinching
resolution detached the can of gold-dust from the
dead man’s neck. That, at least, should not remain
to tell its tale, and he let the stuff dribble through
his fingers over the cliff.</p>
<p>To do more was impossible. His only thought now
was to escape; to climb up into the fresher air above;
to save himself while there was yet time. That unmoving,
silent thing in the grass, obscurely dissolving
into decay, must perforce be left as it was, to bear
its horrible witness against him. The declining margin
of his strength filled him with a frenzy of fear
that if he waited overlong he might wait for ever.
Between the two risks, the one of a possible detection,
the other of a doom unspeakable, he did not
venture to pause. He felt, indeed, an extraordinary
sense of relief as he began, rung by rung, to rise above
the narrow ledge; and with relief a strange fatalism,
in which it seemed to him that everything had been
predestined from the beginning of the world. As he
clung to the ladder, overcome at times by spells of
faintness which he knew might bring him to the point
of letting go his hold, he was always sustained by the
thought that the issue lay with destiny. He would
live, or he would fall, as it had been written.</p>
<p>In this singular humour, in which all human responsibility
for good or evil seemed to count for nothing,
the priest continued to mount the steep face of the
cliff. He rested at every second step; he struggled
against the recurring fits of giddiness that threatened
to dash him from his perch; he fought his way up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span>
inch by inch, wondering all the time with a grim composure
whether or not he was ever destined to reach
the top. When at last he drew himself into a coign
of safety and sent the great ladder crashing in his
wake, when at last he put his foot on the final goal
and lay down beneath the trees, then it was that he
began to realise the perils to which he had so nearly
succumbed, and to quake with a thousand belated
apprehensions.</p>
<p>For an hour he remained huddled in the grass,
starting at every sound, and altogether daunted by
the thought of returning to the village. How would
he dare encounter those familiar faces, take up the
threads of the old familiar life, endure those awful
days to come when the mystery of Michael’s disappearance
would be in every mouth? Could he trust
himself to simulate the concern he was bound to
show, the surprise, the alarm, the increasing astonishment
and horror as the days passed and there would be
still no news of the missing man? Ah, could he trust
himself? Had he in him the power to live such a
lie, to go as usual about his duties, to hear the confessions
of others when his own tortured heart was so
dark with guilt?</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>When, with faltering steps, he at length reached
the village, it was to find the whole place in a tumult.
Every canoe was afloat; a couple of whale-boats
were scouring the outer bay; and the <i>malae</i>, usually
so deserted on a hot afternoon, was overrun by an
excited throng. Had he not, then, heard the news?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span>
It was thought that the Helper had been drowned that
morning, and the boats were now searching for his
body! Behold, here were the unfortunate’s clothes,
found even as they were, and by order of the chief left
untouched for the priest himself to see; here, too, was
old Lefao, the shrill mother of Pa’a, who had seen the
young man go in to his death, and had heard his sinking
cry. “Lefao, make for his Excellency a repetition
of that mournful sound, and show how he cast
up his arms as thou watchedst him from the beach.”
The old impostor was enjoying all the importance of
having such a tale to tell, and the father winced
under a pang of shame as he listened to this unexpected
confederate.</p>
<p>It was afterwards thought that the sad affair must
have unhinged Father Studby’s mind, for he subsequently
began to show symptoms of serious mental
disturbance, which culminated a few months later in
his tragic suicide. A marble pillar, the outcome of a
public subscription in Sydney, was raised to the memory
of these two martyrs of the cross. In faded
letters, beneath their crumbling names, one can still
spell out the lies:</p>
<p class="center">
IN LIFE THEY WERE TOGETHER;<br />
IN DEATH THEY WERE NOT DIVIDED.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">AMATUA’S SAILOR</h2></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span></p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span>
<h2 class="nobreak">AMATUA’S SAILOR</h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap2">AMATUA was running down a beautifully shaded
road as fast as his little legs would carry him,
and close in chase, like a hawk after a sparrow, was a
grizzled man-of-war’s-man with a switch. The road
was long and straight; on both sides it was bordered
by prickly hedges bright with limes, and as impenetrable
as a tangle of barbed wire. At every step the
white man gained on the boy, until the latter could
hear the hoarse, angry breath of his pursuer. Amatua
stopped short, and before he could even so much as
turn he found himself in a grip of iron. Whish,
whish, whish! dashed the switch on his bare back and
legs, keen and stinging like the bite of fire-ants. It
took all the little fellow’s manliness to keep him from
bellowing aloud. The tears sprang to his eyes,—even
the son of a chief is human like the rest of us,—but
he would not cry.</p>
<p>“What’s all this?” rang out a voice, as a white
man reined in his horse beside them—a tall man in
spectacles, who spoke with an air of authority.</p>
<p>The sailor touched his hat. “Why, sir, you’d
scarcely believe it,” he said, “the fuss I’ve had with
this young savage! First he tried to lose me in the
woods. I didn’t think nothing of that; but when he
got me into a river for a swim, and then made off<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span>
with my clothes, and hid ’em under a tree—I might
have been looking for ’em yet, me that must be aboard
my ship at twelve o’clock. Why, it might have cost
me my stripe! I tell you, I never dreamed of such a
thing, for me and Am have been friends ever since
the first day I came ashore. He’s no better than a
treacherous little what-d’ye-call-’em!”</p>
<p>“The chief says thou hidst his clothes,” said the
stranger, in the native language. “He says thou
triedst to lose him in the woods.”</p>
<p>“Ask him if I haven’t always been a good friend
to him,” said the sailor. “Ask him who gave him the
knife with the lanyard, and who made him the little
spear to jug fish on the reef. Just you ask him that,
sir.”</p>
<p>“Your Highness,” said Amatua, in his own tongue,
“Bill doesn’t understand. I love Bill, and I don’t
want him to drown. I want to save Bill’s high-chief
life.”</p>
<p>“And so thou hidst Bill’s clothes,” said the stranger.
“That was a fine way to help him!”</p>
<p>“Be not angry,” said Amatua. “Great is the wisdom
of white chiefs in innumerable things, but there
are some little, common, worthless things that they
don’t understand at all.”</p>
<p>“Tell him I’m a leading seaman, sir,” went on Bill,
who of course understood not a word of what Amatua
was saying, and whose red, tired face still showed his
indignation.</p>
<p>“The old women say that a great evil is about to
befall us,” said Amatua, gravely, entirely disregarding<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span>
Bill. “Everybody is talking of it, your Highness, even
the wise minister from Malua College, Toalua, whose
wisdom is like that of Solomon. There’s to be a
storm from the north—a storm that will break the
ships into ten thousand pieces, and line the beach
with dead. Last night I could not sleep for thinking
of Bill. Then I said to myself, ‘I will lose Bill for
two days in the woods, and then he won’t be drowned
at all.’ But Bill is wise, and made the sun guide him
back to the right road. Then I made Bill bathe, and
tried to steal his clothes. But Bill looked and looked
and looked, and when he found them he thought I
was a very bad boy.”</p>
<p>The stranger laughed, and translated all this long
explanation to Bill.</p>
<p>“Goodness gracious!” said Bill. “Do you mean
that the kid believes this fool superstition, and was
trying to save me from the wreck?”</p>
<p>“That’s it,” said the stranger. “I’ve known
Amatua for a long time, and I think he’s a pretty
square boy.”</p>
<p>“Why, bless his little heart,” said the sailor, catching
up the boy in his arms, “I might have known he
couldn’t mean no harm! I tell you, we’ve been like
father and son, me and Am has, up to this little picnic.
But just you say to him, sir, that, storm or no storm,
Bill’s place is the post of duty, and that he’d rather
die there than live to be disgraced.”</p>
<p>But the white man had other work to do than
translating for Bill and Amatua. He rode off and
left them to trudge along on foot. Half an hour later<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span>
they reached the beach, and saw the ships-of-war
tugging heavily at their anchors. The weather looked
dark and threatening, and a leaden surf was pounding
the outer reefs. It appeared no easy matter to get
Bill into the boat that was awaiting him, for she was
full of men bound for the ship, and difficult to manage
in the ebb and sweep of the seas. Bill’s face
grew stern as he stared before him. He walked to
the end of the wharf, and took a long, hawk-like look
to seaward, never heeding the shaking woodwork nor
the breakers that wet him to the knees. There was
something ominous to Amatua in the sight of those
deep-rolling ships and the piercing brightness of their
ensigns and signal-flags. He was troubled, too, to see
Bill so reckless in wetting his beautiful blue trousers
and reducing his sliding feet, as the natives call shoes,
his lovely patent-leather, silk-laced <i>se’evae</i>, to a state of
pulp. He tried to draw him back, and pointed to the
shoes as a receding wave left them once more to view.
But Bill only laughed,—not one of his big hearty
laughs, but the ghost of a laugh,—and a queer look
came into his blue eyes. He walked slowly back to
the boat, which was still rising and falling beside the
wharf with its load of silent men. Suddenly he ran
his hand into his pocket, and almost before Amatua
could realise what it all meant, he felt Bill’s watch in
his hand, and a round heavy thing that was unmistakably
a dollar, and something soft and silken that could
be nothing else than the sailor’s precious handkerchief.
A second later Bill was in the boat, the tiller
under his arm, while a dozen backs bent to drive him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span>
seaward. Amatua stood on the wharf and cried. He
forgot the watch and the dollar and the silk handkerchief;
he thought only of Bill,—his friend Bill,—the
proud chief who would rather die at his post than
find a coward’s place on shore. “Come back, Bill,” he
cried, as he ran out to the end of the wharf, never
caring for the waves that were dashing higher and
higher. But the boat held on her course, dipping
into the seas or rising like a storm-bird on some cresting
comber until she vanished at last behind the towering
<i>Trenton</i>.</p>
<p>Amatua did not sob for long. He was a practical
boy, and knew that it could not help Bill,—poor
Bill!—who already had all the salt water he cared
about. So Amatua made his way back to land, and
sought out a quiet spot where he could look at his new
treasure and calculate on the most profitable way of
spending his dollar. You could not say that the
dollar burned a hole in his pocket, for Amatua did not
use pockets, and his only clothes consisted of a little
strip of very dingy cotton; but he was just as anxious
to spend it as an American boy with ten pockets. First
he looked at the watch. It was a lovely watch. It
was none of your puny watches such as white ladies
wear, but a thumping big chief of a watch, thick and
heavy, with a tick like a missionary clock. It was of
shining silver, and the back of it was all engraved and
carved with ships and dolphins. Bill had shown it
to him a hundred times when they had strolled about
the town, or had gone, hand in hand, in search of
many a pleasant adventure. It brought the tears to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span>
Amatua’s eyes to recall it all, and he pushed the watch
aside to have a look at the handkerchief. This was
another old friend. It was of the softest, thickest
silk, such as girls delight in, all red and green and
blue and yellow, like the colours of a rainbow.</p>
<p>There was nothing small about Bill. Even the
dollar seemed bigger and fatter than any Amatua had
seen; but then it must be remembered that dollars
had seldom come his way. Oh, that dollar! How
was he to spend it so that it would reach as far as two
dollars?—a financial problem every one has had to
grapple with at some time or another.</p>
<p>He was well up in the price of hardtack. The price
fluctuated in Apia—all the way from twelve for a
quarter up to eighteen for a quarter. Quality did not
count; at any rate, Amatua was not one of those boys
who mind a little mustiness in their hardtack, or that
slight suspicion of rancid whale-oil which is a characteristic
of the cheaper article. Hardtack was hardtack,
and eighteen were better than twelve. Here was one
quarter gone, and hardtack made way for soap. Yes,
he must have soap. Even yesterday old Lu’au had
said: “War is a terrible thing. It makes one’s heart
shake like a little mouse in one’s body. But lack of
soap is worse than war. You can get used to war;
but who ever got used to going without soap?” Yes,
there must be soap to gladden old Lu’au. This meant
another quarter.</p>
<p>As to the third purchase there could be no manner
of doubt; some <i>’ava</i>, the white, dry root which,
pounded in water and strained by the dexterous use<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span>
of a wisp of fibre, supplies the Samoan for the lack
of every comfort. Oh, how the <i>’ava</i> would rejoice his
father in those dismal woods, where he lay with the
famishing army, bearing hunger, cold, and misery
with uncomplaining fortitude. And it should be
none of that dusty, spotted stuff that so many traders
sell to unknowing whites, or natives in a hurry,
but the white <i>’ava</i> from Vaea, which grows the very
finest in the South Seas. And the last quarter? How
was that to go? Was it to be a new <i>lava lava</i>, or a
white singlet, or two rusty cans of salmon, or some
barrel beef? Amatua would have dearly loved some
marbles; but in the depressed state of the family’s
finances these were not to be thought of. The beef
was the thing; the strong, rank beef that comes in
barrels; you could get a slab of it for a quarter, and
Latapie, the French trader, would give you a box of
matches besides, or a few fish-hooks, for every quarter
you spent at his store.</p>
<p>Having finished his calculations, Amatua started off
to do his shopping. Even in the short time he had
spent in the corner of the ruined church the sea
had noticeably risen and was now thundering along
the beach, while on the reefs a gleaming spray hung
above the breakers like a mist. The stormy sky was
splashed with ragged clouds and streaked with flying
scud. At their moorings the seven ships rolled under
until they seemed to drown the very muzzles of their
guns; and the inky vapour that oozed from their funnels,
and the incessant shrill shrieking of the boatswains’
whistles, all told a tale of brisk and anxious<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span>
preparation. “Oh, poor Bill!” thought Amatua, and
looked away. The wharf from which he had seen
the last of his friend was already a wreck, nothing
showing of it but the jagged stumps as the seas
rolled back.</p>
<p>Two boys told him that a boat of Misi Moa’s had
been smashed to pieces, and that a big whaler from
Lufilufi that pulled fifty oars had shared the same
fate. Knots of white traders stood gazing solemnly
out to sea; the provost guards from the ships were
ransacking the town for the few men they still missed,
and they were told to hurry or their boats would never
live to carry them back. There was a general air of
apprehension and excitement; people were nailing
up their windows and drawing in their boats before
the encroaching ocean; and the impressiveness of
the situation was not a little heightened by the heavy
guard of blue-jackets lined up before the German
consulate, and the throngs of Tamasese’s warriors
that swarmed everywhere about, fierce of mien in
that unfriendly town, with their faces blackened for
war, and their hands encumbered with rifles and
head-knives. But Amatua had no time to think of
such things; the signs of war were familiar to him,
and the armed and overbearing adversaries of his
tribe and people were no longer so terrible as they
once had been.</p>
<p>The increasing roar of the sea and the wild sky
that spoke of the impending gale kept the thought
of Bill close to his heart, and he went about his
business with none of the pleasure that the spending<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span>
of money once involved. Not that he forgot his prudence
or his skill at bargaining in the anxiety for Bill
that tore his little heart. By dint of walking and
chaffering, he came off with twenty hardtack for his
first quarter; with the soap he extorted a package of
starch; and after he had sniffed beef all the way from
Sogi to Vaiala,—a distance of two miles,—he became
the proprietor of a hunk at least six ounces heavier
than the ruling price allowed. The <i>’ava</i> was of a
superb quality, fit for a king to drink.</p>
<p>It was late when Amatua got home and crept into
the great beehive of a house that had been the pride
of his father’s heart. The girls shouted as they saw
him, and old Lu’au clapped her hands as her quick
eyes perceived the soap. His mother alone looked sad—his
poor mother, who used to be so gay and full of
fun in that happy time before the war. She had
never been the same since her cousin, the divinity
student, had brought back her brother’s head from
the battle-field of Luatuanuu—that terrible battle-field
where the best blood of Samoa was poured out
like water.</p>
<p>She looked anxiously at Amatua’s parcels, and
motioned him to her side, asking him in a low voice
how and where he had got them.</p>
<p>“It was this way,” said Amatua. “Bill and I are
brothers. What is mine is Bill’s; what is Bill’s is
mine. We are two, but in heart we are one. That’s
how I understand Bill, though he talks only the white
man’s stutter. ‘Amatua,’ he said, just before he got
into the boat,—I mean what he said in his heart, for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span>
there was not time for words,—‘we are all of us in
God’s high-chief hands this day; a storm is coming,
and my place is on my ship, where I shall live or be
cast away, as God wills. Take you this dollar and
spend it with care for the comfort of all our family;
take my very valuable watch, that ticks louder than a
missionary clock, and my handkerchief of silk, the like
of which there is not in Samoa, and keep them for me.
My life is God’s alone, but these things belong to all
of our family. Stand firm in the love of God, and
strengthen your heart to obey his high-chief will.’”</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>It was late when Amatua awoke. The house was
empty save for old Lu’au, who was kindling a fire on
the hearth. A strange uproar filled the air, the like
of which Amatua had never heard before—the tramp
of multitudes as they rushed and shouted, deafening
explosions, and the shrill, high scream of the long-expected
gale. Amatua leaped from his mats, girded
up his loin-cloth, and ran headlong into the night. It
was piercing cold, and he shivered like a leaf, but he
took thought of nothing. He ran for the beach, which
lay at no great distance from his father’s house, and
was soon panting down the lane beside Mr. Eldridge’s
store. It was flaming with lights and filled with a
buzzing crowd of whites and natives; and on the front
verandah there lay the dripping body of a sailor with a
towel over his upturned face. The beach was jammed
with people, and above the fury of the gale and the
roaring breakers which threatened to engulf the very
town there rang out the penetrating voices of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span>
old war chiefs as they vociferated their orders and
formed up their men. Even as Amatua stood dazed
and almost crushed in the mob, there was a sudden
roar, a rush of feet, and a narrow lane opened to
a dozen powerful men springing through with the
bodies of two sailors.</p>
<p>Amatua turned and fought his way seaward, boring
through the crowd to where the seas swept up to
his ankles, and he could make out the lights of the
men-of-war. There was a ship on the reef; he could
see the stupendous tangle of her yards and rigging;
every wave swept in some of her perishing crew. The
undertow ran out like a mill-race; living men were
tossed up the beach like corks, only to be sucked
back again to destruction. The Samoans were working
with desperation to save the seamen’s lives, and
more than one daring rescuer was himself swept into
the breakers.</p>
<p>Amatua found himself beside a man who had just
been relieved, and was thunderstruck to find that it
was no other than Oa, an old friend of his, who had
been in the forest with Mataafa.</p>
<p>“How do you happen here, Chief Oa?” shouted
Amatua.</p>
<p>“The Tamaseses have retired on Mulinuu,” said Oa.
“It is Mataafa’s order that we come and save what
lives we can.”</p>
<p>“Germans, too?” asked Amatua, doubtfully, never
forgetful of his father’s wound, or of his uncle who
fell at Luatuanuu.</p>
<p>“We are not at war with God,” said the chief,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span>
sternly. “To-night there is peace in every man’s
heart.”</p>
<p>Amatua stood long beside his friend, peering into
that great void in which so many men were giving up
their lives. Sometimes he could make out the dim
hulls of ships when they loomed against the sky-line
or as the heavens brightened for an instant. Bodies
kept constantly washing in, nearly all of them Germans,
as Amatua could tell by their uniforms, or, if
these were torn from them in the merciless waters, by
the prevalence of yellow hair and fair skins. Amatua
shrank from the sight of these limp figures, and it was
only his love for Bill that kept him on the watch. Poor
Bill! How had he fared this night? Was he even now
tumbling in the mighty rollers, his last duty done on
this sorrowful earth, his brave heart still for ever?
Or did he lie, as so many lay that night here and there
about the town, wrapped in blankets in some white
man’s house or native chief’s, safe and sound, beside
a blazing fire?</p>
<p>Amatua at last grew tired of waiting there beside
Oa. The cold ate into his very bones, and the crowd
pressed and trampled on him without ceasing. He
cared for nothing so long as he thought he might find
Bill; but he now despaired of that and began to think
of his tired little self. He forced his way back, and
moved aimlessly along from house to house, looking
in at the lighted windows in the vain hope of seeing
Bill. Of dead men there were plenty, but he could
not bear to look at them too closely. He was worn
out by the horror and excitement he had undergone,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span>
and when his eyes closed, as they sometimes would,
he seemed to see Bill’s face dancing before him. He
was a very tired boy by the time he made his way
home and threw himself once again on the mats
in that empty house.</p>
<p>It was a strange sight that met Amatua’s gaze
the next day on the Apia beach. The wind had
fallen, and the mountainous waves of the previous
night had given way to a heavy ground-swell.
But the ships, the wreckage of ships, the ten thousand
and one things—the million and one things—which
lined the beach for a distance of two miles! One
German man-of-war had gone down with every soul
on board; another—the <i>Adler</i>—lay broken-backed
and sideways on the reef; the <i>Olga</i> had been run
ashore, and looked none the worse for her adventure.
The United States ship <i>Vandalia</i> was a total wreck,
and half under water; close to her lay the <i>Trenton</i>,
with her gun-deck awash; and within a pistol-shot of
both was the old <i>Nipsic</i>, her nose high on land.
The British ship, the <i>Calliope</i>, was nowhere to be seen,
having forced her way to sea in the teeth of the hurricane.</p>
<p>Amatua went almost crazy at the sight of what lay
strewn on the beach that morning. He ran hither and
thither, picking up one thing and then throwing it
away for another he liked better: here an officer’s full-dress
coat gleaming with gold lace, there a photograph-album
in a woful state, some twisted rifles, and
a broom; everywhere an extraordinary hotchpotch of
things diverse and innumerable. Amatua found an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span>
elegant sword not a bit the worse for its trip ashore,
an officer’s gold-laced cap, and a ditty-box, full of pins
and needles and sewing-gear and old letters. He
would also have carried off a tempting little cannon
had it weighed anything under a quarter of a ton;
as it was, he covered it with sand, and stood up the
broom to mark the place, which, strange to say, he has
never been able to find since. He got a cracked bell
next, a tin of pork and beans, a bottle of varnish, a
one-pound Hotchkiss shell, a big platter, and a German
flag! This he thought enough for one load, and
made his triumphant way home, where he tried pork
and beans for the first time in his life—and did not
like them.</p>
<p>It would have fared badly with him, for there was
nothing in the house for him to eat save a few green
bananas, had it not been for the Samoan pastor next
door. The pastor had hauled a hundred-pound barrel
of prime mess pork out of the surf, and in the
fulness of his heart he was dividing slabs of it among
his parishioners. Another neighbour had salvaged
eleven cans of biscuit-pulp, which, though a trifle salt,
was yet good enough to eat.</p>
<p>In fact, Amatua ate a rather hearty breakfast, and
lingered longer over it than perhaps was well for
the best interests of his family. By the time he returned
to the beach the cream had been skimmed
from the milk. True, there was no lack of machinery
and old iron, and mountains of tangled rope and
other ship’s gear; but there was no longer the gorgeous
profusion of smaller articles, for ten thousand<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span>
busy hands had been at work since dawn. Amatua
searched for an hour, and got nothing but a squashy
stamp-album and a musical box in the last stages of
dissolution.</p>
<p>He realised regretfully that he could hope for
nothing more, and after trading his album to a half-caste
boy for a piece of lead, and exchanging the musical
box for six marbles, he again bent his energies to
the finding of Bill.</p>
<p>For fear of a conflict, the naval commanders had
divided their forces. The Germans were encamped at
one end of the town, the Americans at the other, and
armed sentries paced between. Amatua had never
seen so many white men in his life, and he knew
scarcely which way to turn first. He was bewildered by
the jostling host that encompassed him on every side,
by the busy files that were marshalled away to work,
the march and countermarch of disciplined feet, the
shrill pipe of the boatswains’ calls, and the almost
ceaseless bugling. He looked long and vainly for Bill
in every nook and cranny of the town. He watched
beside the <i>Nipsic</i> for an hour; he forced the guard-house,
and even made his way into the improvised
hospital, dodging the doctors and the tired orderlies.
But all in vain. He trudged into Savalalo and Songi,
where the Germans were gathered, fearing lest Bill
might have been thrown into chains by those haughty
foemen; but he found nothing but rows of dead,
and weary men digging graves. He stopped officers
on the street, and kind-faced seamen and
marines, and asked them earnestly if they had seen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span>
Bill. Some paid no attention to him; others laughed
and passed on; one man slapped him in the face.</p>
<p>When he came back from the German quarter he
found a band playing in front of Mr. Moors’s store,
and noticed sentries about the place, and important-looking
officers, with swords and pistols. He was
told that the admiral was up-stairs, and that Mr.
Moors’s house was now the headquarters of the American
forces. A great resolution welled up in Amatua’s
heart. If there was one man on earth that ought to
know about Bill, it was the admiral. Amatua dodged
a sentry, and running up the steps, he crept along
the verandah, and peeped into the room which Kimberly
had exchanged for his sea-swept cabin. The
admiral sat at a big table strewn inches high with
papers, reports, and charts. He was writing in his
shirt-sleeves, and on the chair beside him lay his
uniform coat and gold-laced cap. At another table
two men were also writing; at another a single man
was nibbling a pen as he stared at the paper before
him. It reminded Amatua of the pastor’s school.
Half a dozen officers stood grouped in one corner,
whispering to one another, their hands resting on their
swords. It was all as quiet as church, and nothing
could be heard but the scratch of pens as they raced
across the paper. Suddenly a frowning officer noticed
Amatua at the door. “Orderly,” he cried, “drive
away that boy”; and Amatua was ignominiously
seized, led down-stairs, and thrown roughly into the
street.</p>
<p>Amatua cried as though his little heart would break.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span>
He sat on the front porch of the house, careless of the
swarming folk about him, and took a melancholy
pleasure in being jostled and trampled on. Oh, it was
a miserable world! Bill was gone, and any one could
cuff a little boy. More than one sailor patted his
curly head and lifted him in the air and kissed him;
but Amatua was too sore to care for such attentions.
It was cruel to think that the one man alone
in Samoa who knew where to find Bill, the great chief-captain
up-stairs, was absolutely beyond his power to
reach. This thought was unbearable; he nerved himself
to try again; he recalled the admiral’s face, which
was not unkindly, though sad and stern. After all,
nothing worse could befall him than a beating. Again
he dodged the lower sentry, and sprang up the stairs
like a cat. Again he gazed into that quiet room and
listened to the everlasting pens. This time he was
discovered in an instant; the orderly pounced at him,
but Amatua, with his heart in his mouth, rushed
towards the admiral, and threw himself on his knees
beside him. The old man put a protecting arm
round his neck, and the orderly, foiled in the chase,
could do nothing else than salute.</p>
<p>“Anderson,” said the admiral to an officer, “it is
the second time the boy has been here. I tell you he
is after something, and we are not in a position to
disregard anything in this extraordinary country. He
may have a message from King Mataafa. Send for
Moors.”</p>
<p>In a few moments that gentleman appeared, and was
bidden to ask Amatua what he wanted. The officers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span>
gathered close behind their chief, and even the assiduous
writers looked up.</p>
<p>“What does he want?” demanded the admiral, who
had no time to spare.</p>
<p>“He wants to find a sailor named Bill,” said Moors.
“He’s afraid Bill is drowned, and thought he would
ask you.”</p>
<p>Every one smiled save the admiral. “Are you sure
that is all?” he said.</p>
<p>“He says he loved Bill very much,” said Moors,
“and has searched the beach and the hospital and
even the lock-up without finding him. Says he even
waited alongside the <i>Nipsic</i> for an hour.”</p>
<p>“Half my men are named Bill,” said Kimberly;
“but I fear his Bill is numbered with the rest of our
brave fellows who went down last night. Moors,” he
went on, “take the lad below, and give him any little
thing he fancies in the store.”</p>
<p>Amatua did not know what might happen next,
but he bravely tramped beside Mr. Moors, prepared
to face the worst. He felt dizzy and faint when they
got below, and Mr. Moors popped him up on the
counter, and asked him whether he would prefer
candy or some marbles. “The great chief-captain
said thou wert a brave boy, and should have a present,”
said Mr. Moors.</p>
<p>Amatua shook his head. Somehow he had lost
interest in such trifles. “Thank his Majesty the admiral,”
he said, “but an aching heart takes no pleasure
in such things. With thy permission I will go
out and look again for Bill. Perhaps, if I change<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span>
my mind, I will come back and choose marbles,” he
added cautiously; and with that he scrambled off the
counter and made for the door.</p>
<p>“Oh, Bostock,” cried Moors to a naval officer lounging
on the front verandah, “if you have nothing better
to do, just take this kid along with you. He’s crazy
to find a sailor named Bill, and he isn’t sure but
that he was drowned last night. He must be pretty
well cut up if he won’t take any marbles.”</p>
<p>Bostock stopped Amatua, and took his hand in his
own. “We’ll go find Bill,” he said.</p>
<p>Again was the search begun for Bill, along the
main street; in the alleys, and through the scattered
native settlements behind the town as far as the
Uvea huts, at Vaimoso, and the slums of the Nieué
Islanders. Bostock let no seaman pass unnoticed;
a heavy fatigue-party coming back from work on
the wrecks—sixty men and four officers—were lined
up at his request, and Amatua was led through the
disciplined ranks in search of Bill. Even the <i>Nipsic</i>
was boarded by the indefatigable Bostock and the
weary little boy; and although repairs were being
rushed at a tremendous pace, and every one looked
overdriven and out of temper, the huge ship was
overhauled from top to bottom. From the grimy
stoke-hole, where everything dripped oil and the heat
was insupportable, to the great maintop where men
were busy at the rigging; from the crowded quarters
of the seamen to the sodden and salt-smelling
mess-room, in which the red came off the cushions like
blood, the pair made their way in search of Bill.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span>Bostock led the boy back to land, and said good-bye
to him at the corner of the Apia Hotel. He
tried to raise his spirits, and atone for their failure
to find Bill, by the present of a shilling. Amatua
accepted it with quiet gratitude, although the gift
had not the cheering effect that Bostock desired. The
little fellow was sick at heart, and all the shillings in
the world could not have consoled him for the loss of
Bill. The naval officer followed him with his eyes as
he trudged sorrowfully home. He, too, had lost a lifelong
friend in that awful night.</p>
<p>Amatua gave up all hope of ever seeing Bill again,
as time slipped away and one day melted into another.
He made friends with Bostock, and spent many a
pleasant hour in the company of that jovial officer,
following him about everywhere like a dog; but for
all that he did not love him as he had loved Bill.
Those were exciting times in Apia, and there was
much to amuse and distract a little boy. In the
day Bill often passed from his thoughts, for the incessant
panorama life had now become almost precluded
any other thought; but at night, when he
awoke in the early hours and heard the cocks calling,
then it was that his heart turned to Bill and overflowed
with grief for his lost friend.</p>
<p>Two days after the storm—two as men count, but
centuries in Amatua’s calendar—the British ship
<i>Calliope</i> returned to port, strained and battered by that
terrible hour when she had pitted her engines against
the gale and taken her desperate dash for freedom.</p>
<p>But Amatua’s little head was far too full of something<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span>
else for him to bother about another man-of-war.
Bostock had promised to take him to the raft
where men were diving for the <i>Trenton’s</i> treasure-chest.
He knew all about men-of-war by this time,
for he had the freedom of the <i>Nipsic’s</i> ward-room,
and he took breakfast regularly with his friends, the
officers. They had given him a gold-laced cap and a
tin sword, and the tailor had made him a blue jacket
with shoulder-straps and brass buttons and the stripes
of a second lieutenant. He had his own appointed
station when the ship beat to quarters; for the <i>Nipsic</i>
had been got safely off the reef and once more divided
the waters of the bay.</p>
<p>It was a beautiful morning when they pulled out in
a shore boat to the raft where the work was in progress.
As the Americans possessed no diving apparatus, Kane,
the British captain, had lent them the one he carried,
with six good men who had some experience in such
matters. Amatua was disappointed to find so little to
interest him. He examined the pump with which two
men were keeping life in the diver below; but he
could not understand the sense of it, and the continuous
noise soon grew monotonous. Except a tin pail
containing the men’s lunch, the brass-bound breaker
of drinking water, and some old clothes, there was
nothing in the world to attract a small boy. Amatua
stood beside Bostock and yawned; the little
second lieutenant longed to be on shore playing
marbles with his friends in civil life. He was half
asleep when Bostock plucked his arm and pointed
into the depths beneath. A glittering shell-fish of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span>
ponderous weight and monstrous size was slowly rising
to the surface. Every one rushed to the side of
the raft, save only the two men at the pumps, who
went on unmoved. Amatua clung to Bostock.
Higher and higher came the hideous shell-fish, until
its great, goggling-eyed head appeared horribly above
the water. Amatua turned faint. The crew behaved
with incredible daring, and seized the huge,
bulging thing with the utmost fearlessness. It was
frightful to see it step on the raft and toil painfully
to the centre, as though it had been wounded in
some mortal part. One of the men lifted a hammer
as though to kill it, and began to tap, tap, tap on
some weak spot in the neck. Then he threw down
the hammer, detached the long suckers which reached
from the beast’s snout, and started to unscrew its very
head from its body. Amatua looked on confounded;
he was shaking with horror, yet the fascination of
that brassy monster drew him close.</p>
<p>Suddenly the creature sank on its knees, and the
man gripped the head in both his hands and lifted it
up. And underneath, wonder of wonders! there was
the face of a man—a white man.</p>
<p>And the white man was Bill!</p>
<p>With a cry Amatua threw himself into his friend’s
arms, dripping though he was. What did he care for
the fine uniform, now that Bill was found again!</p>
<p>“And where have you been all this time?” asked
Bostock.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m the boatswain’s mate of the <i>Calliope</i>,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span>
Bill; “and what with the knocking about we got, I’ve
been kept hard at it on the rigging.”</p>
<p>“You have been badly missed,” said Bostock.</p>
<p>“Bless his old heart!” said the sailor, “I think a
lot of my little Am.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p> </p>
<div class="transnote">
<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:</p>
<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p>
<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p>
<p>Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 62875 ***</div>
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