Robert Michael Ballantyne
The Lonely Island: The Refuge of the Mutineers
“That’s just about what I do mean, Toc,” returned Adams, with a grim smile. “Moreover, I want you to make no bungle of it. Don’t let your narves come into play. Just take a grip like a brave man, heave away wi’ the force of a windlass, an’ don’t stop for my yellin’.”
Thus adjured, Thursday October took the pincers, and gazed with a look of great anxiety into the cavernous mouth that Adams opened to his view.
“Which one is it, father, asked Toc,” rolling up his shirt sleeves to the shoulder and displaying arms worthy of Vulcan.
“Man alive! don’t you see it? The one furthest aft, with a black hole in it big enough a’most to stuff my George into.”
Thursday applied the pincers gently. Adams, unable to use clear speech in the circumstances, said chokingly, “’At’s ’e un—’ool away!” which, interpreted, is, “That’s the one—pull away.”
Toc pulled, Adams roared, the children quaked, and the pincers slipped.
“Oh, Toc, Toc!” cried Adams, with a remonstrative look, such as martyrs are said to give when their heads are not properly cut off; “is that all you can do with your big strong arms? Fie, man, fie!”
This disparaging reference to his strength put poor Thursday on his mettle.
“I’ll try again, father,” he said.
“Well, do; an’ see you make a better job of it this time.”
The powerful youth got hold of the tooth a second time, and gave it a terrible wrench. Adams roared like a bull of Bashan, but Toc’s heart was hardened now; he wrenched again—a long, strong, and steady pull. The martyr howled as if his spinal marrow were being extracted. Toc suddenly staggered back; his arm flew up, displaying a bloody tooth with three enormous fangs. The “old ’ooman” shrieked, the child on the window-sill fell again therefrom in convulsions, and the others fled panic-struck into the woods, where they displayed their imitative tendencies and relieved their feelings by tearing up wild shrubs by the roots, amid yells and roars of agony, during the remainder of the day.
Chapter Twenty Five
Tells of an Important Matter
Not very long after this, Thursday October Christian experienced at the hands of John Adams treatment which bore some slight resemblance to a species of tooth-drawing. In fact, Adams may be said to have had his revenge. It happened thus:—
Adams was seated, one afternoon, in front of his house on a low stool, where he was wont to sun himself and smoke an imaginary pipe, while the children were at play in the grassy square. He was absorbed, apparently, in what he used to term a brown study. Thursday October, making his appearance from among the bushes on the opposite side of the square, leaped the four-foot fence like a greyhound, without a run, and crossed over.
Whether it was the leap or the rate at which he had walked home through the woods, we cannot say; but his handsome face was unusually flushed, and he stopped once or twice on nearing Adams, as if undecided what to do. At last he seemed to make up his mind, walked straight up to the seaman, and stood before him with folded arms.
“Hallo, Toc,” said Adams, rousing himself; “you’ve caught me napping. The truth is, I’ve bin inventin’ a lot of awful whackers to spin a yarn out o’ for the child’n. This is Friday, you know, an’ as they’ve bin fastin’, poor things, I want to give ’em what you may call mental food, to keep their bread-baskets quiet, d’ye see? But you’ve got somethin’ to tell me, Toc; what is it?”
“Father,” said Thursday,—and then followed a long pause, during which the youth shifted from one leg to the other.
“Well, now, Toc,” said Adams, eyeing the lad with a twinkling expression, “d’ye know, I have heard it said or writ somewhere, that brevity is the soul of wit. If that sayin’s true, an’ I’ve no reason for to suppose that it isn’t, I should say that that observation of yours was wit without either soul or body, it’s so uncommon short; too witty, in short. Couldn’t you manage to add something more to it?”
“Yes, father,” said Thursday, with a deprecating smile, “I have come to ask—to ask you for leave to—to—to—”
“Well, Toc, you have my cheerful leave to—to—to, and tootle too, as much as you please,” replied Adams, with a bland smile.
“In short,” said Thursday, with a desperate air, “I—I—want leave to marry.”
“Whew!” whistled Adams, with a larger display of eyeball than he had made since he settled on the island. “You’ve come to the point now, and no mistake. You—want—leave—to—marry, Thursday October Christian, eh?”
“Yes, father, if you’ve no objection.”
“Hem! no objection, marry—eh?” said Adams, while his eyebrows began to return slowly to their wonted position. “Ha! well, now, let’s hear; who do you want to marry?”
Having fairly broken the ice, the bashful youth said quickly, “Susannah.”
Again John Adams uttered a prolonged whistle, while his eyebrows sprang once more to the roots of his hair.
“What! the widdy?”
“Yes, Mr Young’s widow,” replied Thursday, covered with confusion.
“Well, I never! But this does beat cock-fightin’.” He gave his thigh a sounding slap, and seemed about to give way to irrepressible laughter, when he suddenly checked himself and became grave.
“I say, Toc,” said he, earnestly, “hand me down the Prayer-book.”
Somewhat surprised, the lad took the book from its shelf, and placed it on the sailor’s knees.
“Look ’ee here, Toc; there’s somethin’ here that touches on your case, if I don’t misremember where. Let me see. Ah, here it is, ‘A man may not marry his grandmother,’ much less a boy,” he added, looking up.
“But, father, Susannah ain’t my grandmother,” said Toc, stoutly feeling that he had got an advantage here.
“True, lad, but she might be your mother. She’s to the full sixteen years older than yourself. But seriously, boy, do you mean it, and is she willin’?”
“Yes, father, I do mean it, an’ she is quite willin’. Susannah has bin kinder to me than any one else I ever knew, and I love her better than everybody else put together. She did laugh a bit at first when I spoke to her about it, an’ told me not to talk so foolishly, an’ said, just as you did, that she might be my mother; but that made no odds to me, for she’s not one bit like my mother, you know.”
“No, she’s not,” said Adams, with an assenting nod. “She’s not like Mainmast by any means, bein’ a deal younger an’ better lookin’. Well, now, Toc, you’ve given me matter to put in my pipe, (if I had one), an’ smoke it for some time to come—food for reflection, so to speak. Just you go to work, my lad, as if there was nothin’ in the wind, an’ when I’ve turned it over, looked at it on all sides, gone right round the compass with it, worked at it, so to speak, like a cooper round a cask, I’ll send for you an’ let you know how the land lies.”
When Adams had anything perplexing on his mind, he generally retired to the outlook cave at the mountain-top. Thither he went upon this occasion. The result was, that on the following day he sent for Thursday, and made him the following oration:—
“Thursday, my lad, it’s not for the likes o’ me to fly in the face o’ Providence. If you still remain in earnest about this little matter, an’ Susannah’s mind ain’t changed, I’ll throw no difficulty in your way. I’ve bin searchin’ the Book in reference to it, an’ I see nothin’ particular there regardin’ age one way or another. It’s usual in Old England, Toc, for the man to be a deal older than the wife, but there’s no law against its bein’ the other way, as I knows on. All I can find on the subject is, that a man must leave his father and mother, an’ cleave to his wife. You han’t got no father to leave, my boy, more’s the pity, an’ as for Mainmast, you can leave her when you like, though, in the circumstances, you can’t go very far away from her, your tether bein’ somewhat limited. As to the ceremony, I can’t find nothin’ about that in the Bible, but there’s full directions in the Prayer-book; so I’ll marry you off all ship-shape, fair an’ above board, when the time comes. But there’s one point. Toc, that I feel bound to settle, and it’s this: That you can’t be married till you’ve got a good bit of ground under cultivation, so that you may be able to keep your wife comfortably without callin’ on her to work too hard. You’ve bin a busy enough fellow, I admit, since ever you was able to do a hand’s turn, but you haven’t got a garden of your own yet. Now, I’ll go up with you to-morrow, an’ mark off a bit o’ your father’s property, which you can go to work on, an’ when you’ve got it into something of a for’ard state, I’ll marry you. So—that’s a good job settled.”
When Adams finished, he turned away with a profound sigh of relief, as if he felt that he had not only disposed of a particular and knotty case, but had laid down a great general principle by which he should steer his course in all time to come.
It need scarcely be said that Thursday October was quite prepared to undertake this probationary work; that the new garden was quickly got into a sufficiently “for’ard state;” and that, ere long, the first wedding on Pitcairn was celebrated under circumstances of jubilant rejoicing.
Chapter Twenty Six
Treats of a Birth and of Devastation
More than eighteen years had now elapsed without the dwellers on that little isle of the Southern Sea having beheld a visitant from the great world around them. That world, meanwhile, had been convulsed with useless wars. The great Napoleon had run through a considerable portion of his withering career, drenching the earth with blood, and heaping heavy burdens of debt on the unfortunate nations of Europe. Nelson had shattered his fleets, and Wellington was on the eve of commencing that victorious career which was destined, ere long, to scatter his armies; but no echo of the turmoil in which all this was being accomplished had reached the peaceful dwellers on Pitcairn, who went on the even tenor of their way, proving, in the most convincing and interesting manner, that after all “love is the fulfilling of the law.”
But the year 1808 had now arrived, a year fraught with novelty, interest, and importance to the Pitcairners.
The first great event of that year was the birth of a son to Thursday October Christian, and if ever there was a juvenile papa who opened his eyes to the uttermost, stared in sceptical wonder, pinched himself to see if he were awake, and went away into the bush to laugh and rejoice in secret, that man was TOC.
“Boys and girls,” said Thursday, about a month after the birth, “we’ll celebrate this event with a picnic to Martin’s Cove, if you would like it.”
There was an assumption of fine paternal dignity about Toc when he said this, which was quite beautiful to behold. His making the proposal, too, without any reference to John Adams, was noted as being unusual.
“Don’t you think we’d better ask father first?” suggested Otaheitan Sally.
“Of course I do,” said Toc, on whose ear the word “father” fell pleasantly. “You don’t suppose, do you, that I’d propose to do anything of importance without his consent?”
It may strike the supercilious reader here that a picnic, even on Pitcairn, was not a matter of profound importance, but he must remember that that particular picnic was to be held in honour of Thursday’s baby. It may be that this remark is thrown away on those who are not in the position of Thursday. If so, let it pass.
“We will invite Father Adams to go with us,” continued Toc, ingeniously referring to Adams in a manner suggestive of the idea that there were other fathers on the island as well as he.
When Father Adams was invited, he accepted the invitation heartily, and, slapping Toc on his huge broad back, wished him joy of the “noo babby,” and hoped he might live to see it grow up to have “a babby of its own similar to itself, d’ye see?” at which remark Toc laughed with evident delight.
Well, the whole thing was arranged, and they proceeded to carry the picnic into effect. It was settled that some were to go by land, though the descent from the cliffs to the cove was not an easy or safe one. Others were to go by water, and the water-party was sub-divided into two bands. One band, which included Susannah and the amazing baby, was to go in canoes; the other was to swim. The distance by water might be about eight miles, but that was a mere trifle to the Pitcairners, some of whom could swim right round their island.
It turned out, however, that that charming island was not altogether exempt from those vicissitudes of weather which play such a prominent part in the picnicry of other and less favoured lands, for while they were yet discussing the arrangements of the day, a typhoon stepped in unexpectedly to arrest them.
It may be that there are some persons in Britain who do not know precisely what a typhoon is. If they saw or felt one, they would not be apt to forget it. Roughly speaking, a typhoon is a terrific storm. Cyclopaedias, which are supposed to tell us about everything, say that the Chinese name such a storm “Tei-fun,” or “hot-wind.” No-fun would seem to be a more appropriate term, if one were to name it from results. One writer says of typhoons, “They are storms which rage with such intensity and fury that those who have never seen them can form no conception of them; you would say that heaven and earth wished to return to their original chaos.”
Obviously, if this writer be correct, there would be no use in our attempting to enlighten those “who can form no conception” of the thing. Nevertheless, in the hope that the writer referred to may be as ignorant on this point as he is in regard to the “wishes” of “heaven and earth,” we will attempt a brief description of the event which put such a sudden stop to what may be called the Toc-baby-picnic.
For several days previously the weather had been rather cloudy, and there had been a few showers; but this would not have checked the proceedings if the wind had not risen so as to render it dangerous to launch the canoes into the surf on the beach of Bounty Bay. As the day advanced it blew a gale, and Toc congratulated himself on having resisted the urgent advice of the volatile Dan McCoy to stick at nothing.
About sunset the gale increased to a hurricane. John Adams, with several of the older youths, went to the edge of the precipice, near the eastern part of the village, where a deep ravine ran up into the mountains. There, under the shelter of a rock, they discussed the situation.
“Lucky that you didn’t go, Toc,” said Adams, pointing at the sea, whose waves were lashed and churned into seething foam.
“Yes, thanks be to God,” replied Thursday.
“It will blow harder yet, I think,” said Charlie Christian, who had grown into a tall stripling of about seventeen. He resembled his father in the bright expression of his handsome face and in the vigour of his lithe frame.
“Looks like it, Charlie. It minds me o’ a regular typhoon we had when you was quite a babby, that blew down a lot o’ trees, an’ almost took the roofs off our huts.”
As he spoke it seemed as if the wind grew savage at having been recognised, for it came round the corner of the rock with a tremendous roar, and nearly swept Adams’s old seafaring hat into the rising sea.
“I’d ha’ bin sorry to lose ’ee,” muttered John, as he thrust the glazed and battered covering well down on his brows. “I wore you in the Bounty, and I expect, with care, to make you last out my time, an’ leave you as a legacy to my son George.”
“Look-out, father!” shouted Matt Quintal and Jack Mills in the same breath.
The whole party crouched close in beside the rock, and looked anxiously upwards, where a loud rending sound was going on. Another moment and a large cocoa-nut palm, growing in an exposed situation, was wrenched from its hold and hurled like a feather over the cliffs, carrying a mass of earth and stones along with it.
“It’s well the rock overhangs a bit, or we’d have got the benefit o’ that shower,” said Adams. “Come, boys, it’s clear that we’re goin’ to have a dirty night of it, an’ I think we’d better look to our roofs an’ make all snug. If our ground-tackle ain’t better than that o’ the tree which has just gone by the board, we shall have a poor look-out.”
There was much cause for the anxiety which the seaman expressed regarding the roofs of the houses. Already, before they got back to the village, part of the roof of one of the oldest huts had been stripped off, and the women were beginning to look anxiously upwards as they heard the clattering overhead.
“Now, lads, all hands to work. Not a moment too soon either. Out wi’ the old tacklin’ o’ the Bounty. Get the tarpaulins up. Lash one over Toc’s hut. Clap some big stones on Quintal’s. Fetch the ladders, some o’ you youngsters. Out o’ the way, boys. Here, Mainmast; you get the little ’uns off to their bunks. Fetch me the big sledge-hammer, Charlie. Look alive, lads!”
While he shouted these directions, John Adams went to work as actively as the youngest among them. Every one wrought with a will. In a few minutes all moveables were carried under shelter, heavy stones were placed where they were required, tarpaulins and stout ropes were lashed over roofs and pegged to the ground, shutters and doors were made fast, and, in short, the whole village was “made snug” for a “dirty night” with almost as much celerity as if it had been a fully-manned and well-disciplined ship of the line.
As John Adams had said, it was not begun a moment too soon. They had barely finished, indeed, when the heavens appeared to rend with a blinding flash of lightning. Then came a thunder crash, or, rather, a series of crashes and flashes, that seemed to imply the final crack of doom. This was followed by rain in sheets so heavy that it seemed as if the ocean had been lifted and poured upon the island. To render the confusion worse confounded, the wind came in what may be called swirls, overturning trees as if they were straws, and mixing up rain, mud, stones, and branches in the great hurly-burly, until ancient chaos seemed to reign on land and sea.
“It’s an awful night,” said John Adams, as he sat beside his wife and listened, while the children, unable to sleep, peeped in awe and wonder from their several bunks round the room. “God save them that’s at sea this night.”
“Amen!” said Mrs Adams.
By midnight the typhoon had reached its height. The timbers of the houses appeared to groan under the strain to which they were subjected. The whole heavens seemed in a continual blaze, and the thunder came, not in bursts, but in one incessant roar, with intermittent cracks now and then. Occasionally there were louder crashes than usual, which were supposed to be only more violent thunder, but they were afterwards found to be the results of very different causes.
“Now, old ’ooman, you turn in,” said Adams, when the small hours of morning had advanced a little. “You’ll only be unfit for work to-morrow if you sit up bobbin’ about on your stool like that.”
Mrs Adams obediently and literally tumbled into her bunk without taking the trouble to undress, while her anxious husband trimmed the lamp, took down the Bounty’s Bible, and made up his mind to spend the remainder of the night in study.
Away at the other end of the village, near the margin of the ravine before referred to, there stood a cottage, in which there was evidently a watcher, for the rays of his light could be seen through the chinks of the shutters. This was the house occupied by Thursday October Christian and his wife and baby.
Thursday, like Adams, felt the anxieties of fatherhood strong upon him, and was unable to sleep. He therefore, also like Adams, made up his mind to sit up and read. Carteret’s Voyages claimed his attention, and he was soon deep in this old book, while his wife lay sound asleep, with the baby in her arms in the same condition. Both were quite deaf to the elemental turmoil going on around them.
The watchful husband and father was still poring over his book, when there came a noise so deafening that it caused him to start to his feet, and awoke his wife. “That can’t be thunder,” he exclaimed, and sprang to the door.
The sight that met his gale when he looked out was sufficiently terrible. Day had begun to dawn, and the grey light showed him a large mass of earth and trees moving down the ravine. The latter were crashing and overturning. As he gazed they went bodily over the cliffs, a mighty avalanche, into the sea. The whole had evidently been loosened from the rocks by the action of the wind on the trees, coupled with the deluges of rain.
But this was not the worst of it. While Thursday was gazing at this sight, another crash was heard higher up the ravine. Turning quickly in that direction, he saw the land moving slowly towards him. Immense masses of rock were borne along with slow but irresistible violence. Many cocoa-nut trees were torn up by the roots and carried bodily along with the tough stream of mud and stones and general débris. Some of these trees advanced several yards in an upright position, and then fell in dire confusion.
Suddenly Toc observed to his horror that the mass was slowly bearing down straight towards his hut. Indeed, so much had his mind been impressed with the general wreck, that he had failed to observe a few tons of stones and rubbish which even then appeared on the point of overwhelming him.
Without uttering a word he sprang into the hut.
“What’s wrong, Thursday?” asked his wife, in some alarm.
“Never mind. Hold your tongue, an’ hold tight to Dumplin’.”
The baby had been named Charles, after Toc’s young brother, and the inelegant name of “Dumplin’” had been given him to prevent his being confounded with Charlie, senior.
Susannah did as she was bid, and the young giant, rolling her and the baby and the bedclothes into one bundle, lifted them in his wide-spreading arms and rushed out of the house.
He had to pass a neighbour’s house on the way, which also stood dangerously near the ravine. Kicking its door open, he shouted, “All hands, ahoy! Turn out! turn out!” and passed on.
A few seconds later John Adams, who had gone to sleep with his nose flattened on the Bible, was startled by the bursting in of his door.
“Hallo, Toc!” he cried, starting up; “what’s wrong, eh?”
“All right, father, but the ravine is bearin’ down on us.”
Thrusting his living bundle into an empty bunk, the stout youth left it to look after itself, and rushed out with Adams to the scene of devastation.
The avalanche was still advancing when they reached the spot, but a fortunate obstruction had turned it away from the houses. It moved slowly but steadily downwards like genuine lava, and in the course of a few hours swept some hundreds of cocoa-nut trees, a yam ground, containing nearly a thousand yams, one of the canoes, and a great mass of heterogeneous material, over the cliffs into the sea. Then the stream ceased to flow, the consternation of the people began to abate, and they commenced to repair, as far as possible, the damage caused by that memorable typhoon.
