Kitabı oku: «The Ebbing Of The Tide», sayfa 10
“What are you doing here, Mrs. Lawson?” said Ballantyne, sharply; “we sent over for you; don’t you know what has happened?”
The strange hysterical “yes” that issued from her pallid lips caused Ballantyne to turn his keen grey eyes upon her intently. Then something of the truth must have flashed across his mind, for he walked up to the tree and looked into the tin.
“Good God!” he said, “poor little woman!” and then he called to Haughton. “Come here, and see what killed her!”
Haughton looked, and a deadly horror chilled his blood: lying in the bottom of the tin was a thick, brownish-red death adder. It raised its hideous, flatted head for a moment, then lowered it, and lay there regarding them with its deadly eye.
“How did it get there?” he asked.
Ballantyne pointed to Nell Lawson, who now stood and leant against a tree for support.
Haughton sprang to her side and seized her hands.
“Are you a murderess, Nell? What had she done to you that you should take her innocent life? She was nothing to me—she was Ballantyne’s wife.”
She looked at him steadily, and her lips moved, then a shrill, horrible laugh burst forth, and she fell unconscious at his feet.
That day Haughton left Mulliner’s Camp for ever.
Perhaps this story should have another ending, and Nell Lawson have met with a just retribution. But, as is the case of many other women—and men—with natures such as hers, she did not. For when old Channing lay dying she nursed him tenderly to the last, and perhaps because of this, or for that he could never understand why blue-eyed Kate had never come back, he left her all he had, much to the wondering admiration of honest, dull-witted Bob, her husband, who almost immediately after the old man’s death, when returning home one night from the “Booming Nugget,” filled with a great peace of mind and a considerable quantity of bad rum, fell down a shaft and broke his neck, after the manner of one of old Channing’s bullocks—and then she married Ballantyne.
Everything seems to come to him who waits—especially if he is systematic in his villainy, and has a confiding wife—as had Ballantyne in his first matrimonial venture.
AURIKI REEF
One evening, not long ago, an old island comrade and I sat on the verandah looking out upon the waters of Sydney Harbour, smoking and talking of the old wild days down there in the Marshall group, among the brown people who dwell on the white beaches under the shade of the swaying palms. And as we talked, the faces of those we had known came back one by one to our memories, and passed away.
In front of us, with her tall, black spars cutting out clearly against the flood of moonlight, that lit up the waters of the quiet little bay, lay the old Wolverene—to both of us a silent reminder of one night not long ago, under far-off skies, when the old corvette sailed past our little, schooner, towering up above us, a cloud of spotless white canvas, as she gracefully rose and sank to the long sweep of the ocean swell.
“Poor old Tierney,” said my friend, alluding to the captain of that little schooner. “He’s dead now; blew his hand off with dynamite down in the Gilbert Group—did you know?”
“Yes. What a good fellow he was! There are few like him left now. Aye, few indeed.”
“By the way, did he ever tell you about Jack Lester and his little daughter, Tessa?”
“Something of it. You were with him in the Mana that trip, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” said my friend, “Brayley and I both. He had been up to Honolulu, sick; and he came on board of the Mana and seemed so anxious to get back to his station on Maduro that Tierney—good old fellow as he was—told him to bring his traps aboard, and he would land him there on the way to Samoa. His wife had died five years before, and he had to leave his station in the care of his daughter, a child of twelve or so. Not that he fretted much about the station—it was only the little girl he thought of.”
We smoked on in silence awhile. Then my friend resumed—
“I shall never forget that voyage. It was a night such as this that it happened—I mean that affair of the boat on Auriki Reef.”
Fifteen years ago is a long time to try back, and although I had been told something of a strange incident that had occurred during one voyage of the Hawaiian schooner Mana (she is now a Sydney collier), I could not recall the circumstances.
So then my friend told me the story of the boat on Auriki Reef.
“I have told you that Brayley was a man of few words. But sometimes as we paced the deck together at night, as the schooner skimmed over the seas before the lusty trade-wind, he would talk to me of his child; and it was easy for me to see that his love for her was the one hope of his life.
“‘I am going back to England soon,’ he said to me one night; ‘there is but one of us left—my sister—and I would like to see her face again in this world. She is older than I—she is past fifty now.... And it is thirty years since I said good-bye to her… thirty years… thirty long years,’ and then he turned his face away and looked out upon the sea. ‘Just to see her, and then say good-bye again, for here I have cast my lot, and here I will die. If I were alone in the world perhaps I would take to civilisation again, but Tessa’—he shook his head—‘she would wither and die in cold England.’”
“Ten days out we ran in amongst the Radack Chain of the Marshall Islands, and the wind falling light, and being surrounded by reefs and low uninhabited coral atolls, Tierney brought to, and anchored for the night. You know the spot, about nine miles due west of Ailuk, and between two sandy atolls covered with a scant growth of cocoanuts and pan-danus palms.
“The ship being all right the hands turned in, leaving only one man on watch, while we three white men laid down aft to smoke and yarn. It was a bright moonlight night, as light as day—just such a night as this. Away on our port quarter, distant about a quarter of a mile, was a shallow patch on which the surf was breaking. It was merely one of those flat patches of coral that, rising up steep from the bottom, have deep water all round them, but are always covered on the surface by a depth of one or two fathoms—c mushrooms,’ we call them, you know. Well, it was such a wonderfully clear night that that shallow patch, with the surf hissing and swirling over and around it, was as clearly visible to us on the schooner as if it had been under our counter, not ten feet away.”
“Covering up my face from the vivid moonlight with a soft native mat, I laid down, and after awhile dropped off to sleep.
“How long I had been asleep I did not know then—I learnt afterwards that it was nearly four hours—when I was awakened by a loud hail of ‘Boat ahoy!’ called out by some one on board.
“I was awake in an instant, and sprang to my feet.
“‘What is it?’ I said to Tierney and Brayley, who were standing close to me, looking out towards the breaking reef. ‘Where is the boat that you are hailing?’
“Neither of them answered; Tierney, turning towards me for a second, made a curious half-commanding, half-imploring gesture as if to ask my silence, and then gripping Brayley by his shoulder, stared wildly at the white seeth of the breakers astern of us.
“A quick look along the decks for’ard showed me that all the native sailors were on deck and clustered together in the waist, as far aft as they dared come. Each man had hold of his fellow, and with open mouths and wildly staring eyes they stood like statues of bronze, in an attitude of horror and amazement.
“‘What is it?’ I commenced again, when Tierney slowly raised his clenched and shaking hand and touched me.
“‘Look,’ he said, in a strange, quivering whisper, ‘in the name of God, man, what is that?’”
“I followed the direction of his shaking hand. It pointed along the broad, golden stream of moonlight that ran from close under our stern right across to the low, black line that we knew was Ailuk Island. For a moment I saw nothing, then, suddenly, amid the wild boil of the surf in Auriki, I saw a boat, a white-painted boat with a black gunwale streak. One person seemed to be sitting aft with his face drooping upon his breast. The boat seemed to me to be in the very centre of the wild turmoil of waters, and yet to ride with perfect ease and safety. Presently, however, I saw that it was on the other side of the reef, yet so close that the back spray from the curling rollers must have fallen upon it.”
“Pushing Captain Tierney away from him, Brayley suddenly seemed to straighten himself, and taking a step in advance of us he again hailed—
“‘Boat, ahoy!’
“The loud, hoarse cry pealed over the waters, but no answer came from the silent figure, and then Brayley turned towards us. His bronzed features had paled to the hue of death, and for a moment or two his mouth twitched.
“‘For God’s sake, Tierney, call the hands and lower the boat. It is nothing from the other world that we see—it is my daughter, Tessa.’
“In a second the old man sprang into life and action, and in a shrill voice that sounded like a scream he called, ‘Man the boat, lads!’
“Before one could have counted twenty the boat was in the water, clear of the falls, and Tierney and Brayley, with a crew of four natives, were pulling swiftly for the other boat.”
“In a few minutes they reached her, just as a big roller had all but got her and carried her right on top of Auriki. I saw Brayley get out of our boat and into the other, and lift the sitting figure up in his arms, and then Tierney made fast a line, took the strange boat in tow, and headed back for the ship.
“When the boat was within speaking distance, Tierney hailed me—‘Get some brandy ready—she is alive.’”
“We carried her into the cabin, and as Brayley bent his face over the poor, wasted figure of his child, the hot tears ran down his cheeks, and Tierney whispered to me, ‘She is dying fast.’
“We all knew that as soon as we looked at her. Already the grey shadows were deepening on the face of the wanderer as we gathered around her, speaking in whispers. Suddenly the loud clamour of the ship’s bell, struck by an unthinking sailor, made the girl’s frame quiver.
“With a look of intense pity the captain motioned to Brayley to raise her head to try and get her to swallow a teaspoonful of water. Tenderly the trader raised her, and then for a moment or two the closed, weary eyelids slowly drew back and she gazed into his face.
“‘Thank God,’ the captain said, ‘she knows you, Brayley.’
“A faint, flickering smile played about her lips and then ceased. Then a long, low sigh, and her head fell upon his breast.”
“At daylight we hove-up anchor and stood on our course for Brayley’s Station on Arhnu. Just as we rounded the south end of Ailuk Island we saw the Lahaina, schooner, lying-to and signalling that she wanted to speak. Her skipper came aboard, and hurriedly shaking hands with us, asked if we knew that Jack Brayley’s little Tessa had gone adrift in his boat ten days ago.
“Silently Tierney led him to the open skylight and pointed down to where she lay with her father kneeling beside her.
“‘Poor man!’ said the skipper of the Lahaina. ‘I’m real sorry. I heerd from the natives that Tessa and two native girls and a boy took the whaleboat, for a joke like, and she said she was going to meet her father, as she had seen him in her sleep, an’ she reckoned he was close to on the sea somewhere. I guess the poor thing’s got swept to leeward by the current. They had a sail in the boat.’
“‘Aye,’ said Tierney, ‘a squall must have struck the boat and carried away the mast; it was snapped off short about a foot above the thwart.’”
“When we ran into Maduro Lagoon three days afterwards our flag was half-mast high for Tessa Brayley, and for her father as well—for we had found him the next morning on his knees beside her, cold and stiff in death, with his dead hand clasped around hers.”
AT THE EBBING OF THE TIDE
Black Tom’s “hell” was one of the institutions of Samoa. And not an unpleasant hell to look at—a long, rambling, one-storeyed, white-painted wooden building, hidden on the beach side from ships entering Apia Harbour by a number of stately cocoanuts; and as you came upon it from the palm-shaded track that led from the brawling little Vaisigago towards the sweeping curve of Matautu Point, the blaze of scarlet hibiscus growing within the white-paled garden fence gave to this sailors’ low drinking-den an inviting appearance of sweetest Arcadian simplicity.
That was nineteen years ago. If you walk along the Matautu path now and ask a native to show you where Tom’s house stood, he will point to a smooth, grass-covered bank extending from the right-hand side of the path to the coarse, black sand of Matautu beach. And, although many of the present white residents of the Land of the Treaty Powers have heard or Black Tom, only a few grizzled old traders and storekeepers, relics of the bygone lively days, can talk to you about that grim deed of one quiet night in September.
Tamasi Uliuli (Black Thomas), as he was called by the natives, had come to Samoa in the fifties, and, after an eventful and varied experience in other portions of the group, had settled down to business in Matautu as a publican, baker and confectioner, butcher, seamen’s crimp, and interpreter. You might go all over the Southern States, from St. Augustine to Galveston, and not meet ten such splendid specimens of negro physique and giant strength as this particular coloured gentleman. Tom had married a Samoan woman—Inusia—who had borne him three children, two daughters and one son. Of this latter I have naught to say here, save that the story of his short life and tragic end is one common enough to those who have had any experience of a trader’s life among the betel-chewing savages of fever-haunted New Britain. And the eldest daughter may also “stand out” of this brief tale.
Luisa was black. There was no doubt about that. But she was also comely; and her youthful, lissom figure as she walked with springy step to the bathing-place at the Vaisigago gave her a striking individuality among the lighter-coloured Samoan girls who accompanied her. Yet to all of us who lived in Matautu the greatest charms of this curly-haired half-caste were the rich, sweet voice and gay laugh that brightened up her dark-hued countenance as we passed her on the path and returned her cheerful “Talofa, alii!” with some merry jest. And, although none of us had any inclination to go into her father’s pub. and let him serve us with a bottle of Pilsener, Luisa’s laughing face and curly head generally had attraction enough to secure, in the course of the day, a good many half-dollars for the 50lb. beef-keg which was Black Tom’s treasury.
It gave us a shock one day to see Luisa emerging from the mission chapel with a white-haired old man by her side—married. The matter had been arranged very quietly. For about two months previously this ancient had been one of Black Tom’s boarders. He was from New Zealand, and had come to Samoa to invest his money in trade, and being, perhaps, of a retiring and quiet disposition the sight of Mr. Thomas Tilton’s innocent-looking dwelling attracted him thither. Anyhow, old Dermott remained there, and it was noticeable that, from the day of his arrival, Tamasi Uliuli exacted the most rigid performance of morning and evening devotions by his family, and that the nightly scenes of riot and howling drunkenness, that had theretofore characterised the “hotel,” had unaccountably toned down. In fact, burly old Alvord, the consular interpreter, who had been accustomed to expostulate with Tom for the number of prostrate figures, redolent of bad rum, lying outside on the path in the early morning, showing by the scarcity of their attire that they had been “gone through” by thieving natives, expressed the opinion that Tom was either going mad, or “was getting consairned” about his sinful soul.
The knowledge of the fact that old Dermott had so much worldly wealth stowed away in his camphor-wood trunk, may have had (doubtless it did) the effect of causing this remarkable change in Tom’s daily conduct. Dermott, in his way, was sourly religious; and, although not understanding a word of Samoan, was fond of attending the native church at Apia—always in the wake of Luisa, Toe-o-le-Sasa, and other young girls. His solemn, wrinkled visage, with deep-set eyes, ever steadily fixed upon the object of his affection, proved a source of much diversion to the native congregation, and poor Luisa was subjected to the usual Samoan jests about the toe’ina and ulu tula (old man and bald head), and would arrive from the church at her father’s hell in a state of suppressed exasperation.
The happy marriage had been celebrated by Tom and his clientèle in a manner befitting the occasion and the supposed wealth of the bridegroom, Then none of us saw Luisa for a week at the bathing-place, and her non-appearance was discussed with interest at the nightly kava-drinking at half-caste Johnny Hall’s public-house. Old Toi’foi, duenna of the kava-chewing girls, used to say solemnly that the old man had Luisa locked up in her room as she was vale (obstinate), and sat on a chair outside and looked at her through a hole in the wall.
An hour after midnight on one of those silent tropic nights when naught is heard but the muffled boom of the ocean swell on the outer reef, a shot rang out through the sleeping village, and then a long wail as of some one in mortal agony or terror. Léger, the Canadian carpenter at Macfarlane’s store, was, in company with Alvord the Swearer, and Pedro the Publican, and marry of us general sinners, up late at the kava-bowl when Leva, the prettiest girl on the Point, and the most notorious nymphe du beach in Apia (there are no pavements in Samoa), dashed in amongst its with the announcement that “Luisa was dead.” In another ten seconds we kava-drinkers, with unsteady legs but clear heads, were outside on our way to Black Tom’s house, which was within pistol-shot.
An old man with a throat cut from ear to ear is not a cheerful sight at any time, and we turned quickly away from where he lay on the once spotless white bed, now an ensanguined horror, to look at poor Luisa, who lay on a mat on the floor, gasping out her brief young life. Her head was pillowed on her mother’s bosom, and down her side the blood ran from the jagged bullet-hole. On a chair sat the herculean figure of Black Tom with his face in his hands, through which splashed heavy tears. Slowly he rocked himself to and fro in the manner of his race when strongly moved; and when he tried to speak there only struck upon our ears a horrible gasping noise that somehow made us turn again to the awful thing on the bed to see if it had aught to say upon the matter.
Luisa spoke but little. The kind-faced, quiet-voiced missionary doctor told her that which she already knew too well; and then we drew away while he spoke of other things, and we saw the look of dread and horror on the comely young face pass away and a faint smile part the lips that were already touched by the grim shadow of coming dissolution. Some of her village playmates and companions, with wet cheeks, bent their faces and touched her lips with theirs, and to each she sighed a low To Fa of farewell, and then she looked toward the shaking bent figure in the chair and beckoned him over. With noiseless tread he came, and then, with her very soul looking at him from her great, death-stricken eyes, she murmured, “Fear not, my father, my mouth is covered by the hand of Death; farewell!” *****
The sound of the soft lapping of the falling tide came through the open window as Luisa spoke again to Toë-o-le-Sasa, the Maid of Apia—“E Toe, e pae afea te tai?” (“When is the tide out?”) And the girl answered with a sob in her throat, “In quite a little while, O friend of my heart.”
“Ua lelei. (It is well.) And as the waters run out so does my soul float away!” and she turned her face to her mother’s bosom. And as we went softly out from the room and stood upon the path with the lofty palm-plumes rustling above us, we saw the first swirling wave of the incoming tide ripple round Matautu Point and plash on Hamilton’s beach. And from within the silent house answered the wail of Death.
