Robert Michael Ballantyne
The Lonely Island: The Refuge of the Mutineers
If Sally had been a few years older she would have bounded after him like a goat, but she had only reached that period of life which rendered petrifaction possible. She stood ridged for a few moments with heart, head, and eyes apparently about to burst. At last her voice found vent in a shriek so awful that it made the heart of Young, high on the cliffs above, stand still. It had quite the contrary effect on the legs of Brown. That cautious man chanced to be climbing the cliff slowly with a fresh basketful of eggs. Hearing the shriek, and knowing full well that it meant imminent danger, he leaped up the last few steps of the precipice with a degree of heedless agility that equalled that of Nehow himself. He was just in time to see Charlie coming straight at him like a cannon shot. It was really an awful situation. To have received the shock while his footing was still precarious would have insured his own destruction as well as that of the child. Feeling this, he made a kangaroo-like bound over the edge of the cliff, and succeeded in planting both feet and knees firmly on a grassy foundation, just in time. Letting go his burden, he spread out both arms. Charlie came into his bosom with extreme violence, but he remained firm, while the basket of eggs went wildly downward to destruction.
Meanwhile, Sally stood there with clasped hands and glazed eyes, sending up shriek after shriek, which sent successive stabs to the heart of Edward Young, as he scurried and tumbled, rather than ran, down from the upper cliffs towards her.
In a few minutes he came in pale and panting. A minute later and Nehow ran round a neighbouring point like a greyhound.
“All right?” gasped Young.
“All right,” replied Brown.
“Wheeaow-ho!” exclaimed Nehow, expanding his cavernous mouth with a grin of satisfaction.
It is worthy of record that little Sally did not revisit these particular cliffs for several years after that exciting and eventful day, and that she returned to the settlement with a beating and grateful heart.
It must not be supposed that Charlie Christian remained for any great length of time “the babby” of that infant colony. By no means. In a short time after the event which we have just described, there came to Pitcairn a little sister to Charlie. She was named Mary, despite the earnest suggestion of Isaac Martin, that as she was “born of a Wednesday,” she ought to be called by that name.
Of course Otaheitan Sally at once devoted herself to the newcomer, but she did not on that account forsake her first love. No; her little brown heart remained true to Charlie, though she necessarily gave him less of her society than before.
Then Mrs Quintal gave her husband the additional burden, as he styled it, of a daughter, whom he named Sarah, for no other reason, that any one could make out, than the fact that his wife did not like it, and his friend McCoy had advised him on no account to adopt it. Thus was little Matthew Quintal also provided with a sister.
Shortly after that, John Adams became a moderately happy father, and called the child Dinah, because he had never had a female relation of that name; indeed, he had never possessed a relation of any kind whatever that he knew of, having been a London street-boy, a mere waif, when he first became aware, so to speak, of his own existence.
About the same time that little Dinah was born, John Mills rushed one day into the yam-field of Edward Young, where the midshipman was at work, seized his hand, and exclaimed—“I wish you joy, sir, it’s a girl!”
Not to be out-done in civility, Young carefully watched his opportunity, and, only four days later, rushed into the yam-garden of John Mills, where he was smoking, seized his hand, and exclaimed—“I congratulate you, Mills, it’s a boy!” So, Young called his daughter Folly, because he had an old aunt of that name who had been kind to him; and Mills called his son John, after himself, who, he said, was the kindest friend he ever had.
By this time poor Otaheitan Sally became overburdened with care. It became evident that she could not manage to look after so large a family of helpless infants, even though her services should only be required when the mothers were busy in the gardens. Mrs Isabella Christian, alias Mainmast, was therefore relieved of part of her field duties, and set apart for infantry drill.
Thus the rising generation multiplied and grew apace; and merry innocent laughter and gleeful childlike shouts began to resound among the cliffs and groves of the lonely refuge of the mutineers.
Chapter Eleven
Sporting, Schooling and Moralising
Time flew by with rapid wing, and the infant colony prospered in many ways, though not in all.
One day John Adams took down his gun from the pegs on which it rested above the door of his hut. Saying to his wife that he was going to shoot a few cats and bring home a pig for supper, he sallied forth, and took the footpath that led to one of the darkest recesses of the lonely island.
Lest the reader should imagine that Adams was a cruel man, we must explain that, several years having elapsed since the landing of the mutineers on Pitcairn, the cats had by that time multiplied excessively, and instead of killing the rats, which was their duty, had taken to hunting and devouring the chickens. For this crime the race of cats was condemned to death, and the sentence was put in force whenever opportunity offered.
Fortunately, the poultry had also multiplied quickly, and the hogs had increased to such a degree that many of them had been allowed to take to a wild life in the woods, where they were hunted and shot when required for food. Sporting, however, was not often practised, because the gunpowder which had been saved from the Bounty had by this time sensibly diminished. Strange to say, it did not seem to occur to any of the men that the bow and arrow might become of use when guns became useless. Probably they looked upon such weapons with contempt, for they only made little bows, as playthings for the children, with harmless, blunt-headed arrows.
On turning from the clearing into the bush, Adams came on a sight which amused him not a little. In an open place, partially screened from the sun by the graceful leaves of palms and bananas, through which was obtained a glimpse of the sea, Otaheitan Sally was busily engaged in playing at “school.” Seated on the end of a felled tree was Thursday October Christian, who had become, as Isaac Martin expressed it, a great lout of a boy for his age.
Thursday was at the head of the class, not in virtue of his superior knowledge, but his size. He was a strong-made fellow, with a bright, intelligent, good-humoured face, like that of his father. Next to him sat little Matt Quintal, rather heavy and stupid in expression, but quiet and peaceable in temperament, like his mother. Next came Daniel McCoy, whose sharp sparkling countenance seemed the very embodiment of mischief, in which quality he resembled his father. Fortunately for little Dan, his mother was the gentlest and most unselfish of all the native women, and these qualities, transmitted to her son, were the means of neutralising the evil which he inherited from his father. After him came Elizabeth Mills, whose pretty little whitey-brown face was the counterpart of her mother’s in expression. Indeed, all of these little ones inherited in a great degree that sweet pliability of character for which the Otaheitan women were, and we believe still are, famous. Last, but not least, sat Charlie Christian at the bottom of the class.
“Now, hol’ up your heads an’ pay ’tention,” said the teacher, with the air of authority suitable to her position.
It may be observed here, that Sally’s knowledge of schooling and class-work was derived from Edward Young, who sometimes amused himself and the children by playing at “school,” and even imparted a little instruction in this way.
“Don’t wink, Dan’l McCoy,” said Sally, in a voice which was meant to be very stern, but was laughably sweet.
“P’ease, Missis, Toc’s vinkin’ too.” Thus had Dan learned to express Thursday’s name by his initials.
There was a touch of McCoy senior in this barefaced attempt to divert attention from himself by criminating another.
“I know that Toc is winking,” replied Sally, holding up a finger of reproof; “but he winks with both eyes, an’ you does it with only one, which is naughty. An’ when you speaks to me, sir, don’t say vink—say wink.”
“Yis, mum,” replied little Dan, casting down his eyes with a look of humility so intense that there was a sudden irruption of dazzling teeth along the whole class.
“Now, Toc, how much does two and three make?”
“Six,” replied Thursday, without a moment’s hesitation.
“Oh, you booby!” said Sally.
“P’ease, mum, he ain’t booby, him’s dux,” said Dan.
“But he’s a booby for all that, sir. You hold you tongue, Dan’l, an’ tell me what three and two makes.”
“P’ease, mum, I can’t,” answered Dan, folding his hands meekly; “but p’r’aps Charlie can; he’s clebber you know. Won’t you ax ’im?”
“Yes, I will ask ’im. Challie, what’s three an’ two?”
If Charlie had been asked how to square the circle, he could not have looked more innocently blank, but the desire to please Sally was in him a sort of passion. Gazing at her intently with reddening face, he made a desperate guess, and by the merest chance said, “Five.”
Sally gave a little shriek of delight, and looked in triumph at Dan. That little creature, who seemed scarce old enough to receive a joke, much less to make one, looked first at Charlie and winked with his left eye, then at Thursday and winked with his right one.
“You’re winkin’ again, sir,” cried Sally, sharply.
“Yis, mum, but with bof eyes this time, vich isn’t naughty, you know.”
“But it is naughty, sir, unless you do it with both eyes at once.”
“Oh, with bof at vunce!” exclaimed Dan, who thereupon shut both eyes very tight indeed, and then opened them in the widest possible condition of surprise.
This was too much for Sally. She burst into a hearty fit of laughter. Her class, being ever ready to imitate such an example, followed suit. Charlie tumbled forward and rolled on the grass with delight, little Dan kicked up his heels and tumbled back over the log in ecstasy, and Thursday October swayed himself to and fro, while the other two got up and danced with glee.
It was while the school was in this disorganised state that John Adams came upon them.
“That’s right, Sall,” he said, heartily, as he patted the child’s head. “You keep ’em at it. Nothin’ like havin’ their noses held to the grindstone when they’re young. You didn’t see anybody pass this way, did you?”
“No,” replied the child, looking earnestly up into the seaman’s countenance.
It was a peculiarity of these children that they could change from gay to grave with wonderful facility. The mere putting of the question had changed the current of their minds as they earnestly and gravely strove to recollect whether any one had been seen to pass during the morning.
“No,” repeated Sally, “don’t think nobody have pass this mornin’.”
“Yis, there vas vun,” said little Dan, who had become more profoundly thoughtful than the others.
“Ay, who was that, my little man?” said Adams.
“Isaac Martin’s big sow,” replied Dan, gravely.
The shout of laughter that followed this was not in proportion to the depth but the unexpectedness of the joke, and John Adams went on his way, chuckling at the impudence of what he called the precocious snipe.
In a short time the seaman found himself in a thicket, so dense that it was with difficulty he could make his way through the luxuriant underwood. On his left hand he could see the sky through the leaves, on his right the steep sides of the mountain ridge that divided the island.
Coming to a partially open space, he thought he saw the yellow side of a hog. He raised his gun to fire, when a squeaky grunt told him that this was a mother reposing with her family. He contented himself, therefore, with a look at them, and gave vent to a shout that sent them scampering down the hill.
Soon after that he came upon a solitary animal and shot it.
The report of the musket and the accompanying yell brought the Otaheitan man Tetaheite to his side.
“Well met, Tighty,” (so he styled him); “I want you to carry that pig to Mrs Adams. You didn’t see any cats about, did you?”
“No, sar.”
“Have you seen Mr Christian at the tanks this morning?”
“Yis, sar; but him’s no dere now. Him’s go to de mountain-top.”
“Ha! I thought so. Well, take the pig to my wife, Tighty, and say I’ll be back before dark.”
The native threw the animal over his broad shoulders, and Adams directed his steps to the well-known cave on the mountain-top, where the chief of the mutineers spent so much of his leisure time.
After the murder of the two natives, Talaloo and Ohoo, Fletcher Christian had become very morose. It seemed as if a fit of deep melancholy had taken entire possession of him. His temper had become greatly soured. He would scarcely condescend to hold intercourse with any one, and sought the retirement of his outlook in the cave on the mountain-top, where few of his comrades ventured to disturb him, save when matters of importance claimed his immediate attention.
Latterly, however, a change had been observed in his demeanour. He had become gentle, almost amiable, and much more like his former self before the blighting influence of Bligh had fallen on him. Though he seldom laughed, he would chat pleasantly with his companions, as in days gone by, and frequently took pains to amuse the children. In particular, he began to go frequently for long walks in the woods with his own sons—little Charlie on his back, and Thursday October gambolling by his side; also Otaheitan Sally, for that careful nurse refused to acknowledge any claim to the guardianship of Charlie as being superior to her own, not even that of a father.
But Fletcher Christian, although thus changed for the better in many respects, did not change in his desire for solitude. His visits to the outlook became not less but rather more frequent and prolonged than before.
He took no one into his confidence. The only man of the party who ever ventured to visit him in his “outlook” was Edward Young; but his visits were not frequent, though they were usually protracted when they did take place, and the midshipman always returned from them with an expression of seriousness, which, it was observed, never passed quickly away. But Young was not more disposed to be communicative as to these visits than Christian himself, and his comrades soon ceased to think or care about the matter.
With his mind, meditating on these things, John Adams slowly wended his way up the mountain-side, until he drew near to the elevated hermitage of his once superior officer, now his comrade in disgrace and exile.
Stout John Adams felt his blunt, straightforward, seafaring spirit slightly abashed as he thus ventured to intrude on the privacy of one for whom, despite his sins and their terrible consequences, he had never lost respect. It felt like going into the captain’s cabin without orders. The seaman’s purpose was to remonstrate with Christian for thus daily giving himself up, as he expressed it, “to such a long spell o’ the blues.”
Drawing near to the entrance of the cavern, he was surprised to hear the sound of voices within.
“Humph, somebody here before me,” he muttered, coming to an abrupt pause, and turning, as if with the intention of retracing his steps,—but the peculiarity of the sounds that issued from the cave held him as if spellbound.
Chapter Twelve
Converse in the Cave—Cruelty, Punishment, and Revelry
It was Fletcher Christian’s voice,—there could be no doubt about that; but it was raised in very unfamiliar tones, and it went on steadily, with inflections, as if in pathos and entreaty.
“Can he be praying?” thought Adams, in surprise, for the tones, though audible, were not articulate. Suddenly they waxed louder, and “God be merciful to me, a sinner!” broke on the listener’s ear. “Oh bless and deliver the men whom I have led astray—poor Edward Young, John Adams, Isaac Martin—”
The tones here sank and again became inarticulate, but Adams could not doubt that Christian was praying, by name, for the rest of his companions. Presently the name of Jesus was heard distinctly, and then the voice ceased.
Ashamed to have been thus unintentionally led into eavesdropping, Adams coughed, and made as much noise as possible while stooping to pass under the low entrance to the cave. There was no door of any kind, but a turn in the short passage concealed the cave itself from view. Before entering, Adams stopped.
“May I come in, sir?” he called out.
“Is that you, Adams? By all means come in.”
Christian was seated, partly in the shadow, partly in the light that streamed in from the seaward opening. A quiet smile was on his lips, and his hand rested on an open book. It was the old Bible of the Bounty.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said Adams, touching his hat. “Hope I don’t intrude. I heard you was—was—”
“Praying,” said Christian. “Yes, Adams, I have been praying.”
“Well, sir,” said Adams, feeling rather awkward, but assuming an air of encouragement, “you’ve got no reason to be ashamed of that.”
“Quite true, Adams, and I’m not ashamed of it. I’ve not only got no reason to be ashamed of praying, but I have strong reason to be thankful that I’m inclined to pray. Sit down, Adams, on the ledge opposite. You’ve got something on your mind, I see, that you want to get rid of. Come, let’s have it.”
There was nothing but good-natured encouragement in Christian’s look and tone; nevertheless, John Adams felt it extremely difficult to speak, and wished with all his heart that he had not come to the cave. But he was too bold and outspoken a man to be long oppressed with such feelings. Clearing his voice, he said, “Well, Mr Christian, here’s what I’ve got to say. I’ve bin thinkin’ for a long time past that it’s of no manner of use your comin’ up here day after day an’ mopin’ away about what can’t be mended, an’ goin’ into the blues. You’ll excuse me, sir, for bein’ so free, but you shouldn’t do it, sir. You can’t alter what’s bin done by cryin’ over spilt milk, an’ it comes heavy on the rest of us, like. Indeed it do. So I’ve made so bold as to come an’ say you’d better drop it and come along with me for a day’s shootin’ of the cats an’ pigs, and then we’ll go home an’ have a royal supper an’ a song or two, or maybe a game at blind-man’s-buff with the child’n. That’s what’ll do you good, sir, an’ make you forget what’s past, take my word for it, Mister Christian.”
While Adams was speaking, Christian’s expression varied, passing from the kindly smile with which he had received his friend to a look of profound gravity.
“You are both right and wrong, Adams, like the rest of us,” he said, grasping the sailor’s extended hand; “thank you all the same for your advice and good feeling. You are wrong in supposing that anything short of death can make me forget the past or lessen my feeling of self-condemnation; but you are right in urging me to cease moping here in solitude. I have been told that already much more strongly than you have put it.”
“Have you, sir?” said Adams, with a look of surprise.
“Yes,” said Christian, touching the open Bible, “God’s book has told me. It has told me more than that. It has told me there is forgiveness for the chief of sinners.”
“You say the truth, sir,” returned Adams, with an approving nod. “Repenting as you do, sir, an’ as I may say we all do, of what is past and can’t be helped, a merciful God will no doubt forgive us all.”
“That’s not it, that’s not it,” said Christian, quickly. “Repentance is not enough. Why, man, do you think if I went to England just now, and said ever so earnestly or so truly, ‘I repent,’ that I’d escape swinging at the yard-arm?”
“Well, I can’t say you would,” replied the sailor, somewhat puzzled; “but then man’s ways ain’t the same as God’s ways; are they, sir?”
“That’s true, Adams; but justice is always the same, whether with God or man. Besides, if repentance alone would do, where is the need of a Saviour?”
Adams’s puzzled look increased, and finally settled on the horizon. The matter had evidently never occurred to him before in that light. After a short silence he turned again to Christian.
“Well, sir, to be frank with you, I must say that I don’t rightly understand it.”
“But I do,” said Christian, again laying his hand on the Bible, “at least I think I do. God has forgiven me for Jesus Christ’s sake, and His Spirit has made me repent and accept the forgiveness, and now I feel that there is work, serious work, for me to do. I have just been praying that God would help me to do it. I’ll explain more about this hereafter. Meanwhile, I will go with you to the settlement, and try at least some parts of your plan. Come.”
There was a quiet yet cheerful air of alacrity about Fletcher Christian that day, so strongly in contrast with his previous sad and even moody deportment, that John Adams could only note it in silent surprise.
“Have you been readin’ much o’ that book up here, sir?” he asked, as they began to descend the hill.
“Do you mean God’s book?”
“Yes.”
“Well, yes, I’ve been reading it, off and on, for a considerable time past; but I didn’t quite see the way of salvation until recently.”
“Ha! that’s it; that’s what must have turned your head.”
“What!” exclaimed Christian, with a smiling glance at his perplexed comrade. “Do you mean turned in the right or the wrong direction?”
“Well, whether right or wrong, it’s not for me to say but for you to prove, Mr Christian.”
This reply seemed to set the mind of the other wandering, for he continued to lead his companion down the hill in silence after that. At last he said—
“John Adams, whatever turn my head may have got, I shall have reason to thank God for it all the days of my life—ay, and afterwards throughout eternity.”
The silence which ensued after this remark was broken soon after by a series of yells, which came from the direction of Matthew Quintal’s house, and caused both Christian and Adams to frown as they hastened forward.
“There’s one man that needs forgiveness,” said Adams, sternly. “Whether he’ll get it or not is a question.”
Christian made no reply. He knew full well that both McCoy and Quintal were in the habit of flogging their slaves, Nehow and Timoa, and otherwise treating them with great cruelty. Indeed, there had reached him a report of treatment so shocking that he could scarcely credit it, and thought it best at the time to take no notice of the rumour; but afterwards he was told of a repetition of the cruelty, and now he seemed about to witness it with his own eyes. Burning indignation at first fired his soul, and he resolved to punish Quintal. Then came the thought, “Who was it that tempted Quintal to mutiny, and placed him in his present circumstances?” The continued cries of agony, however, drove all connected thought from his brain as he ran with Adams towards the house.
They found poor Nehow tied to a cocoa-nut tree, and Quintal beside him. He had just finished giving him a cruel flogging, and was now engaged in rubbing salt into the wounds on his lacerated back.
With a furious shout Christian rushed forward. Quintal faced round quickly. He was livid with passion, and raised a heavy stick to strike the intruders; but Christian guarded the blow with his left arm, and with his right fist knocked the monster down. At the same time Adams cut the lashings that fastened Nehow, who instantly fled to the bush.
Quintal, although partially stunned, rose at once and faced his adversary, but although possessed of bulldog courage, he could not withstand the towering wrath of Christian. He shrank backward a step, with a growl like a cowed but not conquered tiger.
“The slave is mine!” he hissed between his teeth.
“He is not; he belongs to God,” said Christian. “And hark ’ee, Matthew Quintal, if ever again you do such a dastardly, cowardly, brutal act, I’ll take on myself the office of your executioner, and will beat out your brains. You know me, Quintal; I never threaten twice.”
Christian’s tone was calm, though firm, but there was something so deadly in the glare of his clear blue eyes, that Quintal retreated another step. In doing so he tripped over a root and fell prone upon the ground.
“Ha!” exclaimed Adams, with a bitter laugh, “you’d better lie still. It’s your suitable position, you blackguard.”
Without another word he and Christian turned on their heels and walked away.
“This is a bad beginning to my new resolves,” said Christian, with a sigh, as they descended the hill.
“A bad beginning,” echoed Adams, “to give a well-deserved blow to as great a rascal as ever walked?”
“No, not exactly that; but—Well, no matter, we’ll dismiss the subject, and go have a lark with the children.”
Christian said this with something like a return to his previous good-humour. A few minutes later they passed under the banyan-tree at the side of Adams’s house, and entered the square of the village, where children, kittens, fowls, and pigs were disporting themselves in joyous revelry.
