Kitabı oku: «The Ebbing Of The Tide», sayfa 6

After the Indiana had cruised through the Line Islands she headed back for Rotumah and Fiji. The girl came up on deck after supper. It was blowing freshly and the barque was slipping through the water fast. Lunumala walked to the binnacle and looked at the compass, pointing to S.S.W. She gazed steadily at it awhile and then said to the Rotumah boy in his own tongue—“Why is the ship going to the South?”

Tom, the Rotuman, grinned—“To Fiji, my white tropic bird.”

Just then Chaplin came on deck, cigar in mouth. The girl and he looked at each other. He knew by her white, set face that mischief was brewing.

Pointing, with her left hand, to the compass, she said, in a low voice—

“To Fiji?”

“Yes,” said Chaplin, coolly, “to Fiji, where you must remain awhile, Lunumala.”

“And you?”

“That is my business. Question me no more now. Go below and turn in.”

Standing there before him, she looked again in his hard, unrelenting face. Then she slowly walked forward.

“Sulky,” said Chaplin to Denison.

Steadily she walked along the deck, and then mounted to the to’gallant fo’c’s’le and stood a second or two by the cathead. Her white dress flapped and clung to her slender figure as she turned and looked aft at us, and her long, black hair streamed out like a pall of death. Suddenly she sprang over.

With a curse Chaplin rushed to the wheel, and in double-quick time the whaleboat was lowered and search was made. In half an hour Chaplin returned, and gaining the deck said, in his usual cool way, to the mate: “Hoist in the boat and fill away again as quick as possible.” Then he went below.

A few minutes afterwards he was at his accustomed amusement, making tortoise-shell ornaments with a fret-saw.

“A sad end to the poor girl’s life,” said the supercargo.

“Yes,” said the methodical ex-Honolulu black-birder, “and a sad end to my lovely five hundred dollars.”

HICKSON: A HALF-CASTE

“Mauki” Hickson and I were coming across from the big native town at Mulinu’u Point to Apia one afternoon when we met a dainty little white woman, garmented in spotless white. Hickson, touching his hat, walked on across the narrow bridge that crosses the creek by the French Mission, and waited for me on the other side.

This tiny lady in white was a lovable little creature. There was not a man in Samoa but felt proud and pleased if she stopped and spoke to him. And she could go anywhere on the beach, from respectable Matautu right down to riotous, dissolute Matafele, and make her purchases at the big store of Der Deutsche Handels Plantagen und Sud See Inseln Gesellschaft without even a drunken native daring to look at her. That was because every one, dissolute native and licentious white, knew she was a good woman. Perhaps, had she been married, and had she had a yellow, tallowy skin and the generally acidulated appearance peculiar to white women long resident in the South Seas, we wouldn’t have thought so much of her, and felt mean and contemptible when she taxed us in her open, innocent fashion with doing those things that we ought not have done. But she had a sweet, merry little face, set about with dimples, and soft cheeks hued like the first flush of a ripening peach; and when she spoke to us she brought back memories of other faces like hers—far-away faces that most of us would have liked to have seen again.

Just by the low stone wall, that in those days came close down to the creek, the little lady stood under the shade of some cocoanuts, and spoke to me.

“Who is that horrible, sulky-looking half-caste?” she said, jerking her sunshade towards my late companion.

“That is Hickson, Miss Milly,” I said—a very decent, steady fellow, with a white man’s heart.

“Decent! steady! and with a white man’s heart!” and Miss Milly’s pink-and-white cheeks reddened angrily. “How I hate that expression! No wonder all sorts of horrible things happen in these dreadful islands when white men will walk down the road with a cruel, remorseless wretch like Hickson—the man that murdered his sister.”

“You should not say that, Miss Milly,” I said. “Of course that is the common report, spread about by the captain of the German brig–. But that is because Hickson nearly killed him for calling him a nigger. And you must remember, Miss Milly, that I was there at the time. Hickson was our second mate. His sister was killed, but it is a cruel thing to accuse him of murdering her; he was very fond of her.”

“Oh dear! I am so glad to hear some one say it isn’t true,” and the bright eyes filled. “They say, too, she was such a pretty little thing. How ever did she get to such a terrible place as Ponape? Come up and see uncle and me before you go away again. Good-bye now, I’m going to buy a water-bag at Goddeffroy’s.”

I think that Hickson must have guessed that he had formed the subject of the conversation between the little lady and myself, for after we had walked on a bit he said, suddenly—

“I think I’ll go aboard the Menchikoff and ship; she wants some hands, and I would like to clear out of this. Except two or three that have known me for a long time, like yourself, every one looks crooked at me.”

“I think you are right, Hickson, in going away. Samoa is a bad place for an idle man. But won’t you come another trip with us The old man³ thinks a lot of you, and there’s always a second mate’s berth for you with him.”

Hickson’s eyes flashed fire. “No! I’d as lief go to hell as ship again with a man that once put me in irons, and disgraced me before a lot of Kanakas. I’ve got White Blood enough in me to make me remember that. Good-bye,” and he shook hands with me; “I’ll wait here till the Menchikoff’s boat comes ashore and go off and see Bannister.”

Poor Hickson. He was proud of his White Blood, and the incident he alluded to was a bitter memory to him. Could he ever forget it? I never could, and thought of it as I was being pulled off on board.

It was at Jakoits Harbour—in Ponape—that it happened. Hickson and I were going ashore in the long boat to buy a load of yams for our native crew, when he began to tell me something of his former life.

His had been a strange and chequered career, and in his wanderings as a trader and as a boatsteerer in a Hobart Town whaler, he had traversed every league of the wide Pacific. With his father and two sisters he had, till a few years or so before he joined us, been trading at Yap, in the Western Carolines. Here the wandering old white man had died. Of his two sisters, one, the eldest, had perished with her sailor husband by the capsizing of a schooner which he commanded. The youngest, then about nine years old, was taken care of by the captain of a whaler that touched at Yap, until he placed her in charge of the then newly-founded American Mission at Ponape, and in the same ship, Hickson went on his wanderings again, joining us at Tahiti. And I could see as he talked to me that he had a deep affection for her.

“What part of Ponape is she living on?” I asked.

“I don’t know, I’m sure. Here, I suppose; and if you don’t mind, while you’re weighing the yams, I’ll go up to the mission-house and inquire.”

“Right you are, Hickson,” I said, “but don’t forget to get back early, it’s a beastly risky pull out to the ship in the dark.”

We went into a little bay, and found the natives waiting for us with the yams, and Hickson, after inquiring the way to the Mission, left me.

Ponape in those days was a rough place. It was the rendezvous of the American whaling fleet, that came there for wood and water and “other supplies,” before they sailed northward along the grim coasts of Japan and Tchantar Bay to the whale grounds of the Arctic Seas.

And sometimes there would be trouble over the “other supplies” among the savagely licentious crews of mixed men of all nations, and knives would flash, and the white sand of the beaches be stuck together in places with patches and clots of dull red. It was the whalers’ paradise—a paradise of the loveliest tropical beauty, of palm-shaded beach and verdure-clad mountain imaginable; a paradise of wonderfully beautiful and utterly, hopelessly immoral native women; and, lastly, a paradise of cheap native grog, as potent and fiery as if Hell had been boiled down and concentrated into a small half-pint.

It was dark, and the yams had all been brought and stored in the boat before Hickson returned. By the flickering light of a native fire in a house close by I could see that something was the matter with him. His face was drawn, and his black eyes gleamed out like dully burning coals from the thick wavy hair that fell about his temples.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, and the moment he had spoken I knew by the dangerous huskiness of his voice that he had been drinking the native grog.

Staggering into the boat, he sat down beside me and took the tiller.

“Give way, fanau seoli (children o hell),” he growled to our crew of Samoans and Rotumah boys, “let us get these yams aboard, and then I’m coming back to burn the – mission-house down.”

Slowly the heavily-laden boat got way on her, and we slid away from the light of the native fire out into the inky blackness of night. Beyond a muttered curse at the crew, and keeping up that horrible grinding of the teeth common enough to men of violent passions when under great excitement, Hickson said nothing further till I asked—

“Hickson, what’s the matter? Couldn’t you find your sister?”

He sat up straight, and gripping my knee in his left hand till I winced, said, with an awful preliminary burst of blasphemy—

“By God, sir, she’s gone to hell; I’ll never see poor little Kâtia again. I’m not drunk, don’t you think it. I did have a stiff pull of grog up in the village there, but I’m not drunk; but there’s something running round and round in my head that’s drivin’ me mad.”

“Where is she?” I asked.

“God knows. I went to the mission-house and asked for the white missionary. The – dog wasn’t there. He and his wife are away in Honolulu, on a dollar-cadging trip. There was about three or four of them cursed native teachers in the house, and all I could get out of them was that Kâtia wasn’t there now; went away a year ago. ‘Where to?’ I said to one fat pig, with a white shirt and no pants on him. ‘Don’t know,’ says he, in the Ponape lingo; ‘she’s a bad girl now, and has left us holy ones of God and gone to the whaleships.’”

Coming from any other man but Hickson I could have laughed at this, so truly characteristic of the repellent, canting native missionary of Micronesia, but the quick, gasping breath of Hickson and his trembling hand showed me how he suffered.

“I grabbed him and choked him till he was near dead, and chucked him in a heap outside. Then I went all round to the other houses, but every one ran away from me. I got a swig of grog from a native house and came right back.” Then he was silent, and fixed his eyes on the ship’s lights seaward.

I could not offer him any sympathy, so said nothing. Lighting our pipes we gazed out ahead. Far away, nearest the reef, lay our brig, her riding light just discernible. A mile or two further away were three or four American whalers, whose black hulls we could just make out through the darkness. Within five hundred yards of us lay a dismantled and condemned brig, the Kamehameha IV. from whose stern ports came a flood of light and the sounds of women’s voices.

We were just about abeam of her when Hickson suddenly exclaimed—

“Why, sir, the boat is sinking. Pull hard, boys, pull for the brig. The water’s coming in wholesale over the gunwale. Hadn’t you fellows enough sense to leave a place to bale from?” and he slewed the boat’s head for the brig.

She had two boats astern. We were just in time to get alongside one and pitch about two tons of yams into her, or we would have sunk.

The noise we made was heard on the brig, and a head was put out of one of the ports, and a voice hailed us. This was the brig’s owner and captain, W–.

“Come on board and have a cigar!” he called out.

Leaving the crew to bale out and re-ship the yams, we clambered on deck.

Now, this brig and her captain had a curious history. She was, two years before, as well-found a whaleship as ever sailed the Pacific, but by some extraordinary ill-luck she had never taken a fish during a cruise of seven months, although in the company of others that were doing well. The master, one of those fanatically religious New Englanders that by some strange irony of fate may be often met with commanding vilely licentious crews of whaleships, was a skilled and hitherto lucky man. On reaching Ponape the whole of his officers and crew deserted en masse and went off in other ships. Utterly helpless, W– was left by himself. There were, of course, plenty of men to be had in Ponape, but the ship’s reputation for bad luck damned his hopes of getting a fresh crew.

Whether the man’s brain was affected by his troubles I know not, but after living like a hermit for a year, alone on the brig, a sudden change took place in his character and conduct. Sculling ashore in one of his boats—she was a four-boat ship—he had an interview with Nanakin, the chief of the Jakoit’s district, and returned on board with five or six young girls, to whom he gave permanent quarters on board, selling from time to time his sails, whaling gear, and trade to keep his harem in luxury. At the end of a year the brig was pretty well stripped of all of any value; and W– went utterly, hopelessly mad.

The brig’s cabin was large and roomy. The table that had once nearly filled it had been taken away, and the floor covered with those peculiarly made Ponape mats which, by rolling up one-half of either end, forms a combined couch and pillow. As Hickson and I, following the crazy little captain, made our appearance, some four young girls, who were lolling about on the mats, started up, and looked at us with big, wondering eyes, ablaze with curiosity.

Both Hickson and myself—and he had roved throughout Polynesia from his boyhood—were struck by the extraordinary beauty of these four young creatures; so young and innocent in looks; in sin, as old as Ninon d’Enclos.

Placing one hand on the shoulder of the girl nearest to him, and fixing his big, blue, deep-set eyes on us, W–waved the other towards the girls, and said—

“Welcome, gentlemen, welcome. Behold these little devils, who in the guise of sunburnt angels are the solace of a man forgotten by his God, and the father of a family residing in Martha’s Vineyard, United States of America.”

Then he gave us each a cigar and told us to be seated while he got us a glass of New England rum.

Hickson, with a contemptuous smile, sat with folded arms on a short, heavy stool. One of the girls, unshipping one of the two lights from the hook on which it hung, followed W–into a state-room to get the rum. Presently we heard them coming out, W– carrying a wickerwork-covered five-gallon jar; but two girls came out instead of one. The stranger kept close to W–, one hand holding the sleeve of his shirt.

Stooping as he set the jar on the floor, I had a good view of the new-comer, and a deadly fear seized me. I knew at once that she was Hickson’s sister! He was coarse and rough-looking, but yet a handsome man, and this girl’s likeness to him was very striking. Just then Hickson, not even noticing her, rose and said he was going on deck to see if the boat was ready, when the strange quavering tones of W– arrested him.

“Be seated, sir, for another minute. Nijilon, get some glasses. You see here, gentlemen, the fairest and choicest or all my devil-vestals, one that–”

Hickson looked at her, and with a terrified wail the girl clutched W–‘s arm, and placed her face against his breast. With lips drawn back from his white teeth the half-caste sprang up, and his two clenched hands pawed the air. Then from his throat there came a sound like a laugh strangled into a groan.

Scarce knowing what I did I got in front of him, He dashed me aside as if I were a child, and seized the stool. And as he swung it round above his head the girl raised a face like the hue of death to his; then the blow fell, and she and W– went down together.

******

Hickson rushed on deck and tried to spring overboard. I think he must have struck the main boom, for one of our crew who was on deck heard him fall. We got a light, and found him lying senseless. Two of the “vestals” held him up while I went below for some rum and water. W– was lying where he had fallen, breathing heavily, but not seriously injured as far as I could see. But one look at the closed eyes of the girl told me she was past all help. The heavy stool had struck her on the temple.

Placing Hickson in the boat with two men to mind mm, I took the other two with me into the cabin of the brig. W– was seated on the floor, held up by two of his harem, and muttering unintelligibly to himself. The other two were bending over the figure on the floor, and placing their hands on her bosom.

“Come away from here, L–,” said Harry, one of our Rotumah boys, to me; “if the Ponape men come off, they will kill us all.”

We could do nothing, so we got back into the boat, and with the still senseless body of Hickson lying at our feet, pulled out to the ship.

******

When he came to he was a madman, and for his own safety our captain put him in irons. We put to sea next day, our skipper, like a wise man, saying it would go hard with us if W– died, and four Yankee whalers in port.

The day after we got away Hickson was set at liberty, and went about his duties as usual. At nightfall I went into his deck cabin. He was lying in his bunk, in the dark, smoking. He put out his hand, and drew me close up to him.

“Harry says she is dead?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Poor little Kãtia; I never meant to hurt her But I am glad she is dead.”

And he smoked his pipe in silence.

A BOATING PARTY OF TWO

I

The prison gate opened, and Number 73 for a minute or so leaned against the wall to steady himself. The strange clamour of the streets smote upon his ear like dagger strokes into his heart, and his breath came in quick, short gasps.

Some one was speaking to him—a little, pale-faced, red-whiskered man with watery eyes—and Challoner, once “Number 73,” staring stupidly at him, tried to understand, but foiled. Then, sidling up to him, the little man took one of Challoner’s gaunt and long hands between his own, and a stout, masculine female in a blue dress and poke bonnet and spectacles clasped the other and called him “brother.”

A dull gleam shone in his sullen eyes at last, and drawing his hands away from them, he asked—

“Who are you?”

The stout woman’s sharp tongue clattered, and Challoner listened stolidly. Sometimes a word or two in the volley she fired would cause him to shake his head wearily—“happiness in the life heternal,” “washed in the blood of the Lamb,” and “cast yer sins away an’ come an’ be saved without money an’ without price.”

Then he remembered who he was and who they were—the warders had told him of the Prison Gate Brigade. He turned to the man and muttered—

“I want to get away from here,” and stepped past them, but the woman laid her fat, coarse hand on his sleeve.

“Come ‘ome with us, brother. P’r’aps yer ‘ave a mother or a wife waitin’ to ‘ear from yer, an’ we–”

He dashed her hand aside savagely—“Blast you, no; let me go!”

Then with awkward, shambling gait he pushed through the curious crowd at the prison gate, crossed the street, and entered the nearest public-house.

“Another soul escaped us, Sister Hannah,” squeaked the little man; “but we’ll try and rescue him when he comes out from the house of wickedness and abomination.”

“Better leave him alone,” said a warder in plain clothes, who just then came through the gate, “he won’t be saved at no price, I can tell yer.”

“Who is the poor man?” asked Sister Hannah, in a plaintive, injured voice.

“Sh! Mustn’t ask them questions,” said the little man.

But he knew, all the same, that the tall, gaunt man with the sallow face and close-cropped white hair was Harvey Challoner, once chief officer of the ship Victory, sentenced in Melbourne to imprisonment for life for manslaughter, but released at the end of ten years.

The Victory murder trial had not attracted much public attention, and the prisoner had been defended at the public expense. On the voyage from London to Australia the crew had become discontented. They had reason for their discontent. Captain Cressingham, for all his suave, gentlemanly shore manners, was an adept at “hazing,” and was proud of the distinction of making every ship he commanded a hell to the fo’c’s’le hands. Sometimes, with sneering, mocking tongue, he would compliment Challoner upon the courteous manner in which he “addressed the gentlemen for’ard.” As for the other two mates, they were equally as brutal as their captain, but lacked his savage, methodical vindictiveness.

When only a few weeks out, Harman, the second mate, one day accused one of the men of “soldiering,” and striking him in the face, broke his nose, and as the man lay on the deck he kicked him brutally. Challoner, who was on deck at the time, jumped down off the poop, and seizing Harman by the arm, called him a cowardly hound.

“And you’re a d–d old woman,” was the retort.

Challoner’s passion overpowered him, and at the end of five minutes Harman was carried below badly knocked about, and à stormy scene ensued between Challoner and the captain.

“You have all but killed Mr. Harman. I could, and should, put you in irons for the rest of the voyage,” the captain had said.

There was a steely glitter in the mate’s dark eyes as he answered—

“In dealing with ruffians such as Harman and yourself one doesn’t stop at an extra blow or two.”

From that time Cressingham was his bitter enemy; but Challoner did his duty as chief officer too faithfully to give the captain a chance against him.

Day after day had passed. The sullen discontent of the crew had changed into outspoken hatred and a thirst for revenge upon the captain and Harman and Barton—the latter the third mate—and Challoner, who knew what was brewing, dared not open his mouth to any one of the three upon the subject. Between himself and Cressingham and the other two there had now sprung up a silent yet fierce antagonism, which the crew were quick to perceive, and from which they augured favourably for themselves.

One night, just as Challoner had relieved the second mate, some of the hands from both watches marched boldly aft and asked him if he would take command of the ship. He had only to say the word, they said. They were tired of being “bashed” and starved to death by the skipper and two mates, and if he would navigate the ship to Melbourne they would keep him free from interference, and take the consequences, &c.

“Go for’ard, you fools,” said Challoner, with assumed harshness, “don’t talk mutiny to me.”

A step sounded on the deck behind him, and Cressingham’s sneering tones were heard.

“Discussing mutiny, are you, Mr. Challoner? By God, sir, I’ve suspected you long enough. Go below, sir; or go for’ard with these fellows. You’ll do no more mate’s duty aboard of this ship. Ah, Colliss, you’re one of the ringleaders, are you?” And in an instant he seized a seaman by the throat, and called loudly for Barton and Harman to help him.

Before they could respond to his call the poop was black with struggling men. Cressingham, mad with passion, had Colliss down trying to strangle him, and Challoner, fearing murder would be done, had thrown himself upon the captain and tried to make him release his grip of the man’s throat. At that moment a sailor called out—

“Stand by, chaps, for Barton and Harman, and drop ‘em the moment they shows up. Mr. Challoner’s got the old man safe.”

But Messrs. Harman and Barton were tough customers. The loud cries on deck and heavy tramping of feet told them that a crisis had occurred, and they dashed up, each with a revolver in hand—only to be felled from behind ere they could fire a shot. Challoner, letting the captain free, sprang to their aid. But he came too late, for before, with blows, kicks, and curses, he could force his way through the swaying, surging mass of men that hid the fallen officers from his view, he heard a sound—the sound of a man’s skull as it was smashed in by a heavy blow.

“He’s done for,” said a voice, with a savage laugh, “scoot, chaps, scoot. This shindy will keep the old man quiet a bit, now one of his fightin’ cocks is gone,” and the men tumbled down off the poop as quick as their legs could carry them, leaving Challoner and the two prone figures behind them. Cressingham had gone below for his revolver.

“Steward,” called Challoner, “bring a light here, quick, and see where the captain is,” and, stooping down, he tried to raise Harman, then laid him down with a shudder—his brains were scattered on the deck. Barton was alive, but unconscious.

As Challoner was about to rise, Captain Cressingham stood over him and raised his arm, and dealt him a crashing blow with a belaying pin. When he regained consciousness he was in irons.

A month later and he stood in the dock charged with murder. The principal witnesses against him were his captain and Barton, the third mate. The crew, who, of course, were also witnesses in the case, didn’t worry much about him. It wasn’t likely they would run their necks into a noose if it could be placed round any one else’s. And in this instance—superinduced by a vision of the gallows—fo’c’s’le hands stuck to one another and lied manfully together. None of them “had hurt Mr. Harman.”

But it was upon Cressingham’s evidence that his fate hung; and Cressingham, suave, handsome, and well-dressed, told the court how Challoner had once attempted to murder Harman in the earlier part of the voyage. Barton, with his arm in a sling, corroborated the lie with blunt cheerfulness.

His Honour summed up dead against the prisoner, and the jury, impressed by the calm, gentlemanly appearance of Captain Cressingham, and the haggard, unshaven, and guilty look of the man whose life they held in their hands, were not long in considering their verdict.

The prisoner was found guilty, but with a recommendation to mercy.

And then the judge, who was cross and tired, made a brief but affecting speech, and sentenced him to imprisonment for life.

He went into his prison cell with hair as black as night, and came out again as white as a man of seventy.

******

In a back room of the public-house he sat and waited till he had courage and strength enough to face the streets again. And as he waited, he gave himself up to visions of the future—to the day when, with his hand on Cressingham’s lying throat, he would see his face blacken and hear the rattling agonies of his gasps for breath. He leaned back in his chair and laughed hoarsely. The unearthly, hideous sound startled him, and he glanced round nervously as if he feared to betray his secret. Then he drank another glass of brandy, and with twenty-six shillings of prison money in his pocket and ten years of the blackest hatred in his heart, he went out again into the world to begin his search—for Cressingham and revenge.