Kitabı oku: «The Lonely Island: The Refuge of the Mutineers», sayfa 9

Reaching the edge of Brown’s garden, and seeing the four Otaheitans standing as we have described, Adams stopped and called out to know what was the matter.

“Silence,” shouted one of them, pointing his gun. Being unarmed, and observing the body of Brown on the ground, Adams at once leaped into the bush and ran. He was hotly pursued by the four men, but being strong and swift of foot, he soon left them behind. In passing Williams’s house, he went towards it, intending to snatch up some thick garments, and, if possible, a musket and ammunition, for he had no doubt now that some of his countrymen must have been killed, and that he would have to take to the bush along with them. An exclamation of horror escaped him when he came upon the armourer’s body. It needed no second glance to tell that his comrade was dead. Passing into the house, he caught up an old blanket and a coat, but there was no musket. He knew that without arms he would be at the mercy of the savages. Being a cool and courageous man, he therefore made a long détour through the bush until he reached his own house, and entered by a back window. His sick wife received him with a look of glad surprise.

“Is it true they have killed some of the white men?” she asked.

“Ay, too true,” he replied, quickly; “and I must take to the bush for a while. Where can I find a bag to hold some yams? Ah, here you are. There’s no fear o’ them hurting you, lass.”

As he spoke a shot was heard. The natives had seen and followed him. A ball, coming through the window, entered the back of his neck and came out at the front. He fell, but instantly sprang up and leaped through the doorway, where he was met by the four natives.

Besides being a powerful man, Adams was very active, and the wound in his neck was only a flesh one. He knocked down Timoa, the foremost of the band, with one blow of his fist, and grappling with Nehow, threw him violently over his prostrate comrade; but Menalee, coming up at the moment, clubbed his musket and made a furious blow at Adams’s head. He guarded it with one hand, and in so doing had one of his fingers broken. Tetaheite and Menalee then both sprang upon him, but he nearly throttled the one, tripped up the other, and, succeeding by a violent wrench in breaking loose, once more took to his heels.

In running, the Otaheitans were no match for him. He gradually left them behind. Then Timoa called out to him to stop.

“No, you scoundrels,” he shouted back in reply, “you want to kill me; but you’ll find it a harder job than you think.”

“No, no,” cried Nehow, vehemently, “we don’t want to kill you. Stop, and we won’t hurt you.”

Adams felt that loss of blood from his wound was quickly reducing his strength. His case was desperate. He formed a quick resolve and acted promptly. Stopping, he turned about and walked slowly but steadily back towards the natives, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed sternly upon them.

“Well, I have stopped, you see,” he said, on coming up. “I will take you at your word.”

“We will do you no harm if you will follow us,” said Timoa.

They then went together to the house of Young. Here they found its owner, just roused by the noise of the scuffle with Adams, listening to the explanations of the women, who were purposely trying to lead him astray lest he should go out and be shot. The entrance of the four natives, armed and covered with blood, and Adams unarmed and wounded, at once showed him how matters stood.

“This is a terrible business,” he said in a low tone to Adams, while the murderers were disputing noisily about going into the woods to hunt down McCoy and Quintal. “Have they killed many of our comrades?”

“God knows,” said Adams, while Quintal’s wife bound up the wound in his neck. “There has been firin’ enough to have killed us all twice over. I thought some of you were spending the ammunition foolishly on hogs or gulls. Williams is dead, I know, and poor Brown, for I saw their bodies, but I can’t say—”

“Fletcher Christian is killed,” said Quintal’s wife, interrupting.

“Fletcher Christian!” exclaimed Adams and Young in the same breath.

“Ay, and Isaac Martin and John Mills,” continued the woman.

While she was speaking, the four Otaheitans, having apparently come to an agreement as to their future proceedings, loaded their muskets hastily, and rushing from the house soon disappeared in the woods.

We shall not harrow the reader’s feelings by following farther the bloody details of this massacre. Let it suffice to add, briefly, that after retiring from a fruitless search for the white men in the bush, Menalee quarrelled with Timoa and shot him. This roused the anger of the other two against Menalee, who fled to the bush and tried to make friends with McCoy and Quintal. This he appeared to succeed in doing, but when he was induced by them to give up his musket, he found out his mistake, for they soon turned it on himself and killed him. Then Young’s wife, Susannah, was induced to kill Tetaheite with an axe, and Young himself immediately after shot Nehow.

When McCoy and Quintal were told that all the Otaheitan men were dead they returned to the settlement. It was a terrible scene of desolation and woe. Even these two rough and heartless men were awed for a time into something like solemnity.

The men now left alive on the island were Young, Adams, Quintal, and McCoy. In the households of these four the widows and children of the slain were distributed. The evidences of the bloody tragedy were removed, the murdered men were buried, and thus came to a close the first great epoch in the chequered history of Pitcairn Island.

Chapter Sixteen
Matt Quintal makes a Tremendous Discovery

Upwards of four years had now elapsed since the mutiny of the Bounty, and of the nine mutineers who escaped to Pitcairn Island, only four remained, with eleven women and a number of children.

These latter had now become an important and remarkably noisy element in the colony. They and time together did much to efface the saddening effects of the gloomy epoch which had just come to a close. Time, however, did more than merely relieve the feelings of the surviving mutineers and widows. It increased the infantry force on the island considerably, so that in the course of a few years there were added to it a Robert, William, and Edward Young, with a little sister named Dolly Young, to keep them in countenance. There also came a Jane Quintal and an Arthur Quintal, who were closely followed by a Rebecca Adams and a James Young. So that the self-imposed cares and burdens of that pretty, active, and self-denying little creature, Otaheitan Sally, increased with her years and stature.

Before the most of these made their appearance, however, the poor Otaheitan wives and widows became downcast and discontented. One cannot wonder at this. Accustomed though they no doubt had been to war and bloodshed on their native island, they must have been shocked beyond measure by the scenes of brutality and murder through which they had passed. The most of them being now without husbands, and the men who remained being not on very amicable terms among themselves, these poor creatures seem to have been driven to a state of desperation, for they began to pine for their old home, and actually made up their minds to quit the island in one of the Bounty’s old boats, and leave the white men and even the children behind them.²

The old boat turned out to be so leaky, however, that they were compelled to return. But they did not cease to repine and to desire deliverance. Gentle-spirited and tractable though they undoubtedly were, they had evidently been tried beyond their powers of endurance. They were roused, and when meek people are roused they not unfrequently give their friends and acquaintances, (to say nothing of those nearer), a considerable surprise.

Matthew Quintal, who had a good deal of sly humour about him, eventually hit on a plan to quiet them, at least for a time.

“What makes you so grumpy, old girl?” he said one day to his wife, while eating his dinner under the shade of a palm-tree.

“We wiss to go home,” she replied, in a plaintive tone.

“Well, well, you shall go home, so don’t let your spirits go down. If you’ve got tired of me, lass, you’re not worth keeping. We’ll set to work and build you a new boat out o’ the old un. We’ll begin this very day, and when it’s finished, you may up anchor and away to Otaheite, or Timbuctoo for all that I care.”

The poor woman seemed pleased to hear this, and true to his word, Quintal set to work that very day, with McCoy, whom he persuaded to assist him. His friend thought that Quintal was only jesting about the women, and that in reality he meant to build a serviceable boat for fishing purposes. Young and Adams took little notice of what the other two were about; but one day when the former came down to the beach on Bounty Bay, he could not help remarking on the strange shape of the boat.

“It’ll never float,” he remarked, with a look of surprise.

“It’s not wanted to float,” replied Quintal, “at least not just yet. We can make it float well enough with a few improvements afterwards.”

Young looked still more surprised, but when Quintal whispered something in his ear, he laughed and went away.

The boat was soon ready, for it was to some extent merely a modification of the old boat. Then all the women were desired to get into it and push off, to see how it did.

“Get in carefully now, old girls,” said Quintal, with a leer. “Lay hold of the oars and we’ll shove you through the first o’ the surf. Lend a hand, McCoy. Now then, give way all—hi!”

With a vigorous shove the two men sent the boat shooting through the surf, which was unusually low that day. Young and Adams, with some of the children, stood on the rocks and looked on. The women lay to their oars like men, and the boat leaped like a flying-fish through the surf into deep water. Forgetting, in the excitement of the moment, the object they had in view, the poor things shouted and laughed with glee; but they dipped their oars with sad irregularity, and the boat began to rock in a violent manner. Then Young’s wife, Susannah, caught what in nautical parlance is called “a crab;” that is, she missed her stroke and fell backwards into the bottom of the boat.

With that readiness to render help which was a characteristic of these women, Christian’s widow, Mainmast, leaped up to assist the fallen Susannah. It only wanted this to destroy the equilibrium of the boat altogether. It turned bottom up in a moment, and left the female crew floundering in the sea.

To women of civilised lands this might have been a serious accident, but to these Otaheitan ladies it was a mere trifle. Each had been able to swim like a duck from earliest childhood. Indeed, it was evident that some of their own little ones were equally gifted, for several of them, led by Sally, plunged into the surf and went out to meet their parents as they swam ashore.

The men laughed heartily, and, after securing the boat and hauling it up on the beach, returned to the settlement, whither the women had gone before them to change their garments.

This incident effectually cured the native women of any intention to escape from the island, at least by boat, but it did not tend to calm their feelings. On the contrary, it seemed to have the effect of filling them with a thirst for vengeance, and they spent part of that day in whispered plottings against the men. They determined to take their lives that very night.

While they were thus engaged, their innocent offspring were playing about the settlement at different games, screaming at times with vehement delight, and making the palm-groves ring with laughter. The bright sun shone equally upon the heads that whirled with merriment and those that throbbed with dark despair.

Suddenly, in the midst of her play, little Sally came to an abrupt pause. She missed little Matt Quintal from the group.

“Where’s he gone, Charlie?” she demanded of her favourite playmate, whose name she had by that time learned to pronounce.

“I dunno,” answered Charlie, whose language partook more of the nautical tone of Quintal than of his late father.

“D’you know, Dan’l?” she asked of little McCoy.

“I dunno nuffin’,” replied Dan, “’xcep’ he’s not here.”

“Well, I must go an’ seek ’im. You stop an’ play here. I leave ’em in your care, Toc. See you be good.”

It would have amused you, reader, if you had seen with your bodily eyes the little creatures who were thus warned to be good. Even Dan McCoy, who was considered out and out the worst of them, might have sat to Rubens for a cherub; and as for the others, they were, we might almost say, appallingly good. Thursday October, in particular, was the very personification of innocence. It would have been much more appropriate to have named him Sunday July, because in his meek countenance goodness and beauty sat enthroned.

Of course we do not mean to say that these children were good from principle. They had no principle at that time. No, their actuating motive was selfishness; but it was not concentrated, regardless selfishness, and it was beautifully counteracted by natural amiability of temperament.

But they were quite capable of sin. For instance, when Sally had left them to search for her lost sheep, little Dan McCoy, moved by a desire for fun, went up behind little Charlie Christian and gave him an unmerited kick. It chanced to be a painful kick, and Charlie, without a thought of resentment or revenge, immediately opened his mouth, shut his eyes, and roared. Horrified by this unexpected result, little Dan also shut his eyes, opened his mouth, and roared.

The face that Charlie made in these circumstances was so ineffably funny, that Toc burst into uncontrollable laughter. Hearing this, the roarers opened their eyes, slid quickly into the same key, and tumbled head over heels on the grass, in which evolutions they were imitated by the whole party, except such as had not at that time passed beyond the staggering age.

Meanwhile Sally searched the neighbouring bush in vain; then bethinking her that Matt Quintal, who was fond of dangerous places, might have clambered down to the rocks to bathe, she made the best of her way to the beach, at a place which, being somewhat difficult of access from above, was seldom visited by any save the wild and venturesome.

She had only descended a few yards when she met the lost one clambering up in frantic haste, panting violently, his fat cheeks on fire, and his large eyes blazing.

“Oh, Matt, what is it?” she exclaimed, awestruck at the sight of him.

“Sip!—sip!” he cried, with labouring breath, as he pointed with one hand eagerly to the sea and with the other to the shore; “bin men down dare!—look, got suffin’! Oh!”

A prolonged groan of despair escaped the child as he fumbled in a trousers-pocket and pushed three fingers through a hole in the bottom of it.

“It’s hoed through!”

“What’s hoed through?” asked Sally, with quick sympathy, trying to console the urchin for some loss he had sustained.

“De knife!” exclaimed little Dan, with a face of blank woe.

“The knife! what knife? But don’t cry, dear; if you lost it through that hole it must be lying on the track, you know, somewhere between us and the beach.”

This happy thought did not seem to have occurred to Matt, whose cheeks at once resumed their flush and his eyes their blaze.

Taking his hand, Sally led him down the track.

They looked carefully as they went, and had not gone far when Matt sprang forward with a scream of delight and picked up a clasp-knife. It was by no means a valuable one. It had a buckhorn handle, and its solitary blade, besides being broken at the point, was affected with rust and tobacco in about equal proportions.

“Oh, Matt, where did you find it?”

“Come down and you see,” he exclaimed, pointing with greater excitement than ever to the beach below.

They were soon down, and there, on the margin of the woods, they found a heap of cocoa-nut shells scattered about.

“Found de knife dere,” said Matt, pointing to the midst of the shells, and speaking in a low earnest voice, as if the subject were a solemn one.

“Oh!” exclaimed Sally, under her breath.

“An’ look here,” said Matt, leading the girl to a sandy spot close by. They both stood transfixed and silent, for there were strange foot-prints on the sand.

They could not be mistaken. Sally and Matt knew every foot and every shoe, white or black, in Pitcairn. The marks before them had been made by unknown shoes.

Just in proportion as youth is more susceptible of astonishment than age, so was the surprise of those little ones immeasurably greater than that of Robinson Crusoe in similar circumstances. With awestruck faces they traced the foot-prints down to the water’s edge. Then, for the first time, it struck Matt that he had forgotten something.

“Oh, me forget de sip—de sip!” he cried, and pointed out to sea.

Sally raised her eyes and uttered an exclamation of fresh astonishment, as well she might, for there, like a seagull on the blue wave, was a ship under full sail. It was far-off, nearly on the horizon, but quite distinct, and large enough to be recognised.

Of course the gazers were spellbound again. It was the first real ship they had ever seen, but they easily recognised it, being familiar with man’s floating prisons from the frequent descriptions given to them by John Adams, and especially from a drawing made by him, years ago, on the back of an old letter, representing a full-rigged man-of-war. This masterpiece of fine art had been nailed up on the walls of John Adams’s hut, and had been fully expounded to each child in succession, as soon after its birth as was consistent with common-sense—sometimes sooner.

Suddenly Otaheitan Sally recovered herself.

“Come, Matt, we must run home an’ tell what we’ve seen.”

Away they went like two goats up the cliffs. Panting and blazing, they charged down on their amazed playmates, shouting, “A sip! a sip!” but never turning aside nor slacking their pace until they burst with the news on the astonished mutineers.

Something more than astonishment, however, mingled with the feelings of the seamen, and it was not until they had handled the knife, and visited the sandy cove, and seen the foot-prints, and beheld the vessel herself, that they became fully convinced that she had really been close to the island, that men had apparently landed to gather cocoa-nuts, and had gone away without having discovered the settlement, which was hid from their view by the high cliffs to the eastward of Bounty Bay.

The vessel had increased her distance so much by the time the men reached the cove, that it was impossible to make out what she was.

“A man-o’-war, mayhap, sent to search for us,” suggested Quintal.

“Not likely,” said Adams. “If she’d bin sent to search for us, she wouldn’t have contented herself with only pickin’ a few nuts.”

“I should say she is a trader that has got out of her course,” said Young; “but whatever she is, we’ve seen the last of her. I’m not sure that I wouldn’t have run the risk of having our hiding-place found out, and of being hung, for the sake of seeing once more the fresh face of a white man.”

He spoke with a touch of sadness in his tone, which contrasted forcibly with the remark that followed.

“It’s little I would care about the risk o’ bein’ scragged,” said Quintal, “if I could only once more have a stiff glass o’ grog an’ a pipe o’ good, strong, genuine baccy!”

“You’ll maybe have the first sooner than you think,” observed McCoy, with a look of intelligence.

“What d’ye mean?” asked Quintal.

“Ax no questions an’ you’ll be told no lies,” was McCoy’s polite rejoinder, to which Quintal returned a not less complimentary remark, and followed Young and Adams, who had already begun to reascend the cliffs.

This little glimpse of the great outer world was obtained by the mutineers in 1795, and was the only break of the kind that occurred during a residence of many years on the lonely island.