Nuka Hiva once more—The Deserted Grog Shanty—Benbow’s Second
Home-coming—He hears the Truth—A Mournful Carouse—Knight-errants
in the _Bell Bird_—A Letter from Grimes—Another Fruitless Serenade
ONE can imagine that I did not weep when at last we sighted the wild
shores of Nuka Hiva and entered the beautiful rugged bay of Tai-o-hae.
Though I had signed on for the trip to San Francisco, no sooner had the
anchor dropped than I proceeded to make myself scarce. At first I had
thought of doing a bolt, but on reflection I made up my mind to be
straightforward with the skipper, so I went to him and revealed the fact
that I wanted to leave ship at once. He turned out a good sort, and even
gave me a month’s money, though according to sea agreements he need not
have given me a cent.
To pack up and leave the ship was nothing to me. I was leading the life
of primeval man, so I was always at home, wherever I happened to be, and
I was always in the best possible place that I could possibly be in at
that precise moment. My luggage consisted of my violin, a steel-toothed
hair-comb, two flannel shirts and the blue Chinese-cloth midshipman’s
suit that I lived in.
I see by my diary notes that I stopped on the s.s. _Rockhampton_ for the
first night in port and arrived at the grog shanty at Tai-o-hae on the
9th December.
I will make no attempt to describe my disappointment when I arrived at
the old place and missed the friendly faces of most of the rough men I
had known. The tale that Mrs Ranjo told me sounded more like some wild
romance than anything else.
My first inquiry was about Waylao. Had she turned up? I awaited Mrs
Ranjo’s reply with intense interest. She only shook her head and stared
at me seriously. Indeed she looked a bit spiteful, for Waylao had been
the cause of taking away her most generous and oldest customers from
Tai-o-hae, under circumstances which I will describe later.
It was a glorious starlit night when I strolled out of the grog shanty
with my head fairly humming with all the strange things that I had heard
from the Ranjos.
I would have given anything at that moment to have had old Grimes beside
me, but alas! it could not be.
As I strolled along the silent track by the shore, my steps
instinctively strayed in the direction of the old hulk, and ere long I
stood on that friendly derelict—alone. My heart was heavy with the
silence that had greeted me wherever I sought the sweet music of the
voices of comradeship. As I stood beneath the broken masts, and stared
on the old scenes, the changelessness of Nature’s face oppressed me.
The same stars shone over the mountains, the old figurehead still
stretched its hands to the dim western constellations and those far-off
worlds seemed as remote as my own hopes. I felt the loneliness of heaven
enter my heart. Inland, just over the rows of forest bread-fruit trees,
I could see the ascending smoke from the native villages and, near the
shore, the tiny light of the solitary window of Father O’Leary’s
mission-room.
Gazing on the dim sky-line, the old figurehead and I became dear
comrades who communed in the silence of some great twinship of sorrow.
We were both alone. Hardly a sound came from the grog shanty. I saw its
lights twinkling beneath the palms. No familiar sounds of rollicking
songs disturbed the silence. I felt like one who stood on some old shore
of far-away memories, the shores of some world that I had known ages
ago. Below the decks silence reigned, dark and deep. The tinkling of the
banjo and the wild encore yells were missing. Not one song or muffled
oath greeted my ears. Grimes, Uncle Sam, Benbow and all the men I had
known so well were far away at sea.
When Ranjo and his wife told me all, I had gone straight up to Father
O’Leary. He, too, depressed me as he described what had happened since I
left Tai-o-hae.
“Ah! my son,” he said, “I have known many troubles since I came across
the seas to these isles, but few of them have been so bad as the sorrow
that has come to me of late.”
“Did they not find out who was the cause of all this unhappiness,
Father?”
The old priest shook his head for reply, then said:
“My son, what matters it all, the how and why, since the girl has gone?
What use in trying to avert the evil when evil has done the worst that
it could do?”
“That’s so,” I responded. Then I took the Father aside and told him all
that I knew about Waylao since she left Tai-o-hae. The telling took a
long time. As I sat by that grey-bearded old priest the tears came to
his eyes.
“My lost sheep, my pretty Waylao, the best of all—and so, the easiest to
fall, the swiftest to lose!” Saying this, he pressed my hands.
“My son, have hope. I feel assured that she will come again,” said the
old Catholic as I bade him good-night, and went away feeling less
hopeful than ever. Ere I left the Father I had asked him if Pauline was
still on the island. To tell the truth, I half-expected to hear that she
had flown away to sea also. When the priest told me that Pauline still
roamed that spot by the mountains my heart leapt with a strange thrill
of joy. She at least is left on earth, I thought, as I wandered away
into the night.
Next day I went and saw Madame Lydia, and I shall never forget the
welcome of the old native woman when I walked into her cottage. She
almost jumped into my arms as I greeted her. I was pleased to find that
she was not quite alone. It so happened that one of her own relations
was staying with her till Benbow returned to Tai-o-hae with all the
shellbacks who had gone away as his crew.
* * * * *
I will now describe, as well as I am able, all that I heard from old
Lydia and the Ranjos about Benbow’s home-coming and why he went to sea
with the beachcombers.
It appeared that, about a week after the _Sea Swallow_, with Waylao and
me on board, left, Benbow arrived home. All the beachcombers had stopped
in the shanty instead of going down to the shore to greet him as was
their custom when he put into Tai-o-hae Bay. They anticipated trouble.
Possibly Benbow himself wondered why everyone looked so damnably serious
instead of greeting him in the usual boisterous fashion when he entered
the grog shanty. Not one dare tell him the truth about the trouble
awaiting him at home, but their hearts were pretty full, I am sure, when
he called for drinks all round. He must have thought that the hot
weather had affected them as the beachcombers lifted their mugs, clinked
and drank his health in a subdued voice.
When the burly old skipper had left the shanty, and passed away up the
little track that led to his home, the shellbacks all rushed to the
door, watched and listened. Though Benbow’s bungalow was several hundred
yards away, they waited the thunderous voice of the skipper, the
ejaculations that would escape from his lips when trembling old Lydia
told him all.
As Benbow entered the old parlour he looked around. What was the matter?
Why did his wife look at him like a whipped hound? Where was the
welcoming voice of his pretty Waylao?
“Waylao!” he shouted. Then he stared round him wildly. Had old Lydia
gone mad, he wondered, as he yelled once again.
“What the hell’s the matter? Where’s Waylao?”
As the sailorman yelled again and again, in his wild impatience, the old
woman only wailed. Suddenly the stricken sailor stared aghast. “Is she
dead?” came his husky query. For what else but the death of his
beautiful Waylao could make this terrible silence and that terrible look
in the eyes of his native wife? Ah! reader, you know all, but Benbow,
the British sailor who had left his daughter in the care of his wife,
knew nothing.
“She’s gone, Benbow; she go run away into forest, days and weeks ago!”
“Gone!” that was all the skipper could say as he stared at the woman and
stamped his foot.
“Some man deceive our pretty Wayee—she like THAT! She run! She run! O ze
great white Gods helps us!”
Old Lydia wailed out the foregoing information, and looked into the
haggard face of the white man, trembling the while like a dead leaf.
For a moment he stared like an idiot. Then he passed his hand across his
brow.
“Gone? Like what?” came his response in a clash of thunderous passion.
It sounded like the voice of doom to the native woman’s ears as the
sailor yelled forth his inquiry.
The shellbacks, who were all huddled by the grog shanty door, heard that
yell. They shivered as they looked into one another’s awestruck, staring
eyes.
“Gawd blimey! to fink that oive lived to see this ’ere day!” murmured
Grimes as the huddled shellbacks breathed heavily, swayed in their
sea-boots and listened.
When Lydia had at length told her husband all that she could tell, and
dared tell, she clung to his knees.
For a moment the cottage shook. It was even reported that the shellbacks
heard muffled screams. Indeed they had prepared to rush up the slopes to
see if old Lydia was being murdered. But they did not go, nor was their
presence needed, for it was only the cries of Lydia in hysterics at the
sight of the Britisher’s anguish-stricken face.
Then the reaction came. The white man sat down in his arm-chair by his
old grandfather clock and cried like a child.
While Lydia told me those things, that old grandfather clock still
ticked on like doom. As we sat there in the silence, and the woman wept
and wailed out all her sorrow to my sympathetic ears, the “tick! tick!
tick!” seemed to chant out in a terribly relentless monotone:
“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”
“What happened then?” I said, as the woman still wept on and I pressed
her hand. I hardly knew how to tell her all that I could tell: how
Waylao had stowed away on my ship, and then of her last disappearance
from the kind Matafas in Samoa. When at length I told her all that I
knew, she stared at me like a bronze statue; her nose looked brittle,
her eyes quite glassy. I cannot describe how affected I was by that
South Sea mother’s grief over her lost child, and how I raised her
hopes, swearing that I thought that Waylao was safe and sound, and would
soon return, while my heart, alas! belied all that my voice uttered.
She was a brown-skinned woman, born and reared up in a savage land, yet
I could see no difference between her grief and that of any other mother
of the civilised world.
When the distraught woman had at length somewhat recovered, she
continued to tell me about Benbow.
It appeared that as soon as the sailor had relieved his feelings he had
quietly put on his cap and gone back to the grog shanty. As he entered
the grog bar, the shellbacks faced him with steady eyes and silent lips.
He looked into their eyes and knew through one glance that he gazed on
honest men.
“Boys,” he said, “come up to my home. I want you to tell me all that you
know—then we will breach the rum cask!”
Saying this, without another word he walked away. The tense silence of
that rough crew of sympathetic men was dispelled by a huge sigh. Though
the rum cask was to be broached as usual, a fact quite outside their
expectations, they were sincerely sorry. That sigh came from the depths
of their hearts, that warmed at the thought of the rum, which was of the
very best brand.
As soon as the stricken father had departed, they all swallowed their
drinks and filed out into the dusk of the hot evening.
Following the little track by the colonnade of palms they soon arrived
outside Benbow’s cottage, and entered the little doorway in solemn
silence, like a funeral procession.
Each man hitched up the knees of his pants and sat down, half nervously,
in the old chairs to await events. The silence was broken only by the
tick of the grandfather clock and the small coughs of expectation as
Benbow stooped forward and, with tears in his eyes, broached the rum
cask. Benbow had by this time drunk several pick-me-ups to steady his
nerves, and he seemed more like himself again. Looking up at the crew as
he sat in the old arm-chair he said:
“Boys, you know all that’s happened during my absence; now, I want you
to tell me all that you know about this affair.”
For a moment all the beachcombers were silent. They remembered how
Waylao had slept in the hulk, and each one wondered what Benbow would
think when he heard about it all. Suddenly Ken-can, the ever-silent,
saturnine chum of Benbow’s, stared at them all and sneered. Uncle Sam
returned the gaze of those fixed, soulless eyes and muttered a fearful
oath beneath his breath. Uncle Sam knew the significance of that sneer,
but after a moment’s reflection determined to ignore it.
Under the influence of the same inspiration, each lifted his mug of rum
and relieved his feelings. Then Uncle Sam braced up his pants, coughed
as he looked round, and commenced in this wise:
“Captain, we feels right-down sorry about this ’ere business. We ain’t
going to hold nothing back about all that we knows. I guess I’ll tell
yer right here all that we know about your daughter, Waylao.”
He then slowly proceeded, with almost mathematical precision, to narrate
the whole story as far as he knew it.
“Ah, me,” said old Lydia to me. “He kind Melican man, Uncle Sams.”
It appeared that the good-hearted American shellback had put in many
little touches which were calculated to melt Benbow’s heart where his
old wife Lydia was concerned. Indeed Uncle Sam illustrated the native
woman’s grief over her daughter’s flight. He knew that it was well to do
this for Lydia’s sake, for she had wandered about the isle in a demented
condition screaming out: “I’ve driven my daughter Wayee away into the
forest for ever!” Of course, island scandal had made a lot out of the
native woman’s incoherent cries.
I’ve no doubt that it took Uncle Sam a long time to tell his story, and
much moistening of his throat with rum, but when the tale was told, and
Uncle Sam had described Waylao’s grief, Benbow pulled out his big red
pocket-handkerchief and blew his nose. All the beachcombers saw through
the ruse, for the British sailor slipped the corners to his eyes as
though he were ashamed of the tears. It appeared that they drank
considerably that night, and became emotional. I suppose the sight of
the old sailor’s grief was too much for them. There had been a regular
pandemonium of sorrowful expressions after that speech of Uncle Sam’s.
Some sneezed, some coughed and wiped their eyes with their sleeves. To
tell one the truth, even the jockey chap, who wore checked trousers and
made bets on the most sacred things, was overcome. He told me afterwards
that he’d never seen anything so sad since the “dead cert” came in last
and fell down dead. Then he said: “Well, I’ll never say that Bret
Harte’s characters were not taken from life again.”
Ere that renowned night of sorrow commingled with rum was old, Benbow
rose from his chair and called for volunteers who would go with him in
search of Waylao.
“I’ll search the b—— Pacific till I find her!” he roared.
Without any hesitation the whole assemblage of beachcombers had lifted
their mugs and, with voices thick with emotion as well as rum fumes, had
said: “Captain, put me down for one!”
Thus did Benbow get together his volunteer crew who would go and search
the seas for the missing Waylao.
As the old native woman rambled on, telling me these things in her
emotional, descriptive way, I saw that scene before my eyes, and even
regretted that I had been absent from so romantic a night. I knew those
rough men so well that I could easily imagine how the thought of going
away with Benbow after Waylao thrilled their hearts and struck some
dormant, romantic note of their souls!
Before the solemn meeting broke up, songs were sung. Perhaps it is best
to tell the whole truth—ere daybreak had painted the sea-line with grey,
only three beachcombers were able to creep back to the hulk without
immediate assistance. At least four of them slept under the palms, some
were carried back to the hulk with their feet dragging behind them, for
the rum cask in Benbow’s cottage was empty.
“Ah mees,” wailed old Lydia, as she continued. “The great white mans
were sorry for mees and so they did drink and drink.”
When I asked her about Bill Grimes her face became very sympathetic.
“Ah, good Grimes, it was he who put Benbows to beds. Benbow very ill, no
take boots off—feet pained!”
Then the old woman looked at me and said: “Ah, Glimes bad mans, but old
Lydia forgives him for stealing.”
“What did he steal?” said I, at hearing this strange accusation about my
honest Grimes.
“He steal my brass locket, with my pretty Wayee’s poto [photo] in it.”
As the woman told me of this slight indiscretion of my honest pal I felt
sorry for Grimes. I easily imagined the temptation, considering his
infatuation for the girl. I could almost see him slipping the image of
the girl off the bedroom toilet-table as he put Benbow to bed, and could
hear him unconsciously express the one great truth of modern
civilisation as he murmured: “What the eye don’t see the ’eart don’t
grieve abart!”
Suddenly Lydia ceased her tears and darted across the room to the pocket
of some old skirt. Then she returned to me and handed me a little note.
It was a letter from Grimes, left by him in the care of Lydia for me,
should I return ere he came back to Tai-o-hae. This is how it ran. I
copy it from the dirty bit of paper that lies before me on my desk as I
write:
“DEAR OLD PAL.—’Ave goned away on the Bell bird, hoff to find
Wayler, Benbow’s dorter, you knows. Opes to be back soone.
Missed you afully like. rote some fine poultry [poetry]. Aint
alf ad a spree since you went hoff on the Sea Swaller. If you
gets back to Ty-o-hae afore I comes back, wait for me. If I
finds Waylayer I moight marry ’er. You can come and stay wif us.
Good-bye pal, dont forgit Grimes, we’ll meet soone
“BILL GRIMES.”
When I had read this note I felt depressed, and a bit wild, too, that I
had not been back in time to tell them all that I knew about Waylao. I
gathered from Lydia that the _Bell Bird_ had gone to Fiji.
It appeared that, before the schooner sailed, Benbow had had a hint that
Waylao had been in Suva. I never found out how he got this information,
probably he had heard it from some sailor who called in at Tai-o-hae
when the _Sea Swallow_ came into port again.
After I bade the native woman good-night I went straight away towards
the grog shanty to see the Ranjos again. In their little bar parlour I
heard a full account of the sailing of the _Bell Bird_. It appeared that
the whole township had been agog with the excitement of the start. The
whole population had turned out to see the beachcombers off. Bill
Grimes, Uncle Sam and nearly all who had attended the council at
Benbow’s cottage were on board as the crew. Ranjo said: “There never was
such a hell of a pandemonium of farewell cheers down on the beach before
as when Benbow put to sea with my Tai-o-hae customers on his ship—and
fourteen casks of the best rum in the cuddy!”
Some of the island folk sneered and said Benbow had gone daft.
“What a fuss to make about a sinful girl!” said some.
Others shook their heads about the ways of the world and of Benbow’s
wisdom in sailing away on such a mad search with such a desperately bad
crew. The Tai-o-hae _Missionary Times_ devoted a special article to the
sailing of the _Bell Bird_. Its tone was sarcastic: it said something
about Helen of Troy in the Southern Seas and of the benefit she had
conferred on the island by ridding Tai-o-hae of so many wastrels.
Many ventured their opinions as to the ultimate result of the voyage.
Some said that they would safely return with Waylao, others shook their
heads as though they were dubious about it. But not one, I am sure,
prophesied or dreamed of the far-off port that Benbow and his crew had
set sail for.
But to return to my own immediate experiences. As soon as I saw a chance
of speaking to Mrs Ranjo alone I took her aside and asked for news of
John L——.
“Does L—— still come to the shanty and imbibe?” I asked.
I asked this question because I had walked under the palms to and fro to
that grog bar quite twenty times, hoping that I might meet Pauline. I
knew that so long as her father had a chance of getting drunk the
daughter would be seeking his whereabouts.
When Mrs Ranjo informed me that he was laid up, crippled with gout, I
felt truly sorry. I must confess that I was not so sorry about his gout
and suffering as at the thought that he could not get tight at the
shanty and so give me a chance of meeting his daughter.
What with the absence of Grimes, the death of Tamafanga, and various
other aids to depression, I felt that something must be done to dispel
my cloudy thoughts and make a little artificial sunshine. With this
idea, I went straight off that same night to L——’s little homestead by
the mountains. It may be remembered I had been up to that silent hamlet
in the hills long before, serenading the girl who haunted my mind.
I recall the very atmosphere of that night as I left the shanty full of
hopes that I should see Pauline. Even as I write, I can almost fancy
that I smell the rich, warm scents of the wild cloves and faded orange
blossoms that hung on the boughs as I strolled by that silent bungalow.
The night was thick with stars, staring as though pale with fright at
the rising moon on the eastern horizon.
I crept through the thickets of bamboos and went across the small
pathway that ran across the patch of garden. All was silent except for
the chirruping monotone of the locusts that haunted the taro and
pine-apples that grew in wild profusion around.
Peering through the branches, I saw a light glimmering through the crack
of the doorway. I knew that it came from the small compartment wherein
lay John L—— and his weird companion. As I drew nearer, I saw the shadow
figure of that eternal watcher. That shadow bobbed about the wall as the
patient groaned and asked, presumably, for just a little drop of spirit
to moisten his fevered lips.
I became brave, and crept closer, to within three feet of the little
room wherein Pauline slept. I suppose that it was the worry I had had
and the sound of the breath of heaven that roamed through the trees that
made me madly romantic. I whistled a soft melody that Pauline had once
admired. I listened and watched, but only the stars winked over the
giant trees.
Ah! how my heart beat as I looked up at that moonlit window-pane. I
fancied I saw the scarlet blossoms of the tangled vines quiver in the
brilliant night gleam. It seemed to me that the small window by the
coco-palms was some ghostly, glassy eye staring down at me and watching
over that sleeping girl. In the vivid inward light of a romantic boy’s
imaginings, I fancied I saw Pauline lying like a warm, white-limbed
angel between the sheets, her eyes closed in sleep as she dreamed of
what—me? Alas! why should she dream of me?
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