"THE ATOLL"
During the night the south-east trades came upon them in a squall, and
the whaleboat was soon bowling along merrily.
In a short while they found themselves in the midst of a choppy,
foam-flecked sea, making good headway before the gradually
strengthening breeze.
As daylight crept over the east, Jack, with a horrible sinking feeling
of dismay, felt his returned eyesight gradually fail again.
As the deep indigo of the night gave way before the rosy beams of the
morning sun and the moon lost its glitter, Jack saw a mist of grey
slowly spreading before him; then, as the light of day increased, the
grey merged into a black, which grew darker and darker, until the rover
felt as if he was being pressed down by an awful pall of ink, pierced
by tiny shafts, glinting flickers, and hovering waves of flashing,
scintillating light, which splashed through the black curtain for all
the world like the Northern Lights.
Great was the distress of his companions on hearing of this return of
the evil.
Jack took his misfortune very quietly, and stretched himself in the
bottom of the boat with a great show of fortitude and resignation.
"Keep a look-out for the island," he murmured, and then lay silent with
closed eyelids, which he found afforded him some relief from the shafts
of light which leaked in through the black shroud of his blindness and
burnt his aching eyeballs.
A heavy feeling of depression weighed down upon the boat's crew, and
Broncho's many attempts to break it only served to increase it.
Jim felt cowed and frightened; Tari, always of a singularly silent
disposition, remained mute in the bows, and whilst Jack tried hard to
respond to Broncho's sallies, his tortured brain refused to follow the
thread of the discourse, and he found himself answering at random and
listening without hearing.
About noon, Jim, who was on look-out duty forward, sang out excitedly
that he saw something ahead, sticking out of the sea.
"Looks like a ship's mast," he cried, "but there don't seem no yards or
sails on it, 'cept what looks like a flag flying at the truck."
Eagerly they all, except Jack, strained their eyes on the distant
object.
"Appears to me like one o' them Sitka Indian totem-poles," called
Broncho to the rover. "It's a cert it ain't got no fixin's."
"No hull in sight yet?" asked Jack, with the low, subdued voice which
had come upon him with his blindness.
"Nary a thing. It shore looks some queer an' lonely out thar,
a-stickin' out o' the scenery like a burnt pine."
Suddenly Jim began shouting with all the strength of his lungs.
"Land ho! Land! Land! Land! Hurray! The island at last!"
Sure enough the boy was right. Away a point to starboard of the
mysterious mast a long clump of palms was appearing in view.
"Him Low Island" asserted Tari, after a short look.
"An atoll, certainly," said Jack from aft; "but we're rather far south
for the Low Archipelago. It must be one of the Gambier group."
"Why, it's quite close," cried Jim. "I can see the surf now all along,
and the mast is sticking right out of the middle of it."
"Inhabited, then!" exclaimed Jack uneasily. "Get those Winchesters
loaded, Broncho. One can't trust Paumotu Islanders; they're a
treacherous lot, and have cut off many a ship before now."
Swiftly the rushing whaleboat approached before the strong trades.
Here and there to right and left the white water, flashing in the
sunshine, swirled and thundered on half-covered reefs, round which
countless numbers of shrieking, swooping seabirds hovered and darted as
they fished.
Round these reefs the deep blue of the Pacific changed to a translucent
emerald green, such as is given to the submerged part of an iceberg
when the bright sun is upon it.
The island was evidently but the smallest of coral reefs, studded with
a thin growth of cocoanut palms, which seemed thickest at the point
where Jim had first sighted them.
Like all atolls, its highest point was but a few feet above the
sea-level, and it hung, but a floating speck of shining white sand and
green foliage, in the midst of the immense space of blue sea and sky.
But for the screaming birds, no sign of life showed, no habitations,
no smoke, nothing but the green brush, the gleaming sand, and shining,
flashing surf.
And yet, set in the very midst, rose a gigantic palm, bare as a ship's
spare topgallant mast, entirely denuded of its cluster of yellow fruit
and waving, fernlike branches.
From its top fluttered a small, small flag, undistinguishable at the
distance, but without possible doubt a signal of some importance, put
there by human hands.
As the whaleboat drew nearer the hoarse grumble of the surf could be
heard as it cast itself in long rollers upon the narrow, fragile strip
of beach, with the whole weight of the Pacific behind it.
And now, as every feature of this fairy isle unrolled itself before
their anxious eyes, keenly they surveyed it all, watching grimly for
the dreaded human.
"Nary a sign o' man thar," muttered Broncho. "It shore looks lonesome a
whole lot."
"The inhabitants of atolls always live on the lagoon," explained Jack.
"They shun the sea strand and consider it the abode of evil spirits and
devils."
"Can we land through that surf?" asked Jim uneasily, as he scanned the
boiling white water ahead.
"Want a Pitcairn Islander to take us in if it looks as bad as it
sounds," declared the rover.
"Me boat-steerer, go in allee-lightee," said Tari quietly.
"We'd better skirt round the island first, and see if we can't find an
opening into the lagoon," advised Jack.
The boat's head was turned, and skimming along just outside the
breakers, they commenced to circle the island.
All of a sudden as they came opposite the big palm, a man appeared
through the brush and walked slowly on to the beach.
He stopped at the water's edge, and stood there watching them, his form
standing clear-cut and lonely against the dazzling whiteness of the
sand.
Jim drew his breath with a long hiss of apprehension, and Broncho
fumbled his Winchester uncertainly as he gazed at the apparition.
Tari, at the steering-oar, gave a queer grunt of alarm, and with a
rapid gesture, murmured in dialect to the rolling-stone, who, helpless
in his blindness, lay silent and worried.
"Carryin' a war club!" exclaimed the cowpuncher significantly, in a low
voice.
It was a moment of great suspense. Who knew what lurking savages lay
hid behind the ambush of that brushwood, ready as the boat's keel
grated on the shore to shower a flight of poisoned arrows upon the
strangers?
What would be the next move of the decoy in the foreground? Was he
about to entice them ashore with friendly gestures? What blood-thirsty
design had he planned for their entrapping? They could not tell. They
could only trust to Providence and await the issue.
Suddenly the solitary figure moved, flourished an arm, and hailed them.
"Boat ahoy!" came thundering down the wind.
The effect of the two English words was electrical.
Jim sprang wildly on to the thwart and cheered. The cowpuncher laid
down his Winchester, and bent his eagle eye upon the man with renewed
keenness.
"He's white, shore enough!" he exclaimed, and burst into a strange
laugh of relief.
The Kanaka gave a short, expressionless grunt, whilst Jack clambered to
his feet, and with one hand round the mast to balance himself, shouted
out the question:
"Can we get into the lagoon?"
"No; better land here. Look out for the surf, though. Where you from?"
"Shipwrecked!" replied Jack.
Acting on the stranger's advice, Tari turned the boat's head
shorewards. The sail was lowered and mast unstepped, whilst Jim and
Broncho shipped two oars and prepared to pull or backwater, according
as the Kanaka should direct.
Skilfully Tari ran her in, and then waited just outside the broken
water for a good opportunity.
Picking out the last of three big waves, he signed to Jim and Broncho
to give way, and off went the whaleboat, swooping forward on the crest
of the roller.
Straight as an arrow Tari kept her head, and the boat danced along
without shipping more than a cupful or two of water; then, judging his
time to a nicety, the Kanaka backed her off as the breaker toppled
and fell crashing; again, with wild cries of encouragement, he bade
them pull, and the boat was hurled towards the beach in the midst of a
raging mass of foam, which kept Jack busy baling as it boiled around
and lipped in over the gunwale.
The beach shelved gradually, and the whaleboat was carried far up it
before the undertow began to take hold.
At a word from Tari, all hands leaped overboard, and, helped by the big
stranger, who had run into the surf to their aid, they ran the boat
high and dry.
Weakened and cramped by their long spell of hardships and privations
since leaving the _Ocmulgee_, this last effort used up every remaining
ounce of strength, and utterly exhausted, the castaways threw
themselves full length upon the sand and lay there.
Before them stood the stranger, tall and muscular. His burly figure and
square, resolute face were those of that unmistakable type, the British
bluejacket, and he hardly required the bell-bottomed navy trousers to
identify him.
Virile strength, trained and disciplined to a fine perfection, showed
in every line of his active form.
"You're on British soil, lads," he began, squatting down beside the
worn-out boat's crew, and he jerked his thumb up at the small flag
straining in the strong breeze from the top of the bare palm.
They now perceived it to be a very minute Union Jack, faded and
somewhat ragged.
"This island is called H.M.S. _Dido_," he went on. "I named her after
the gunboat I belong to. My name's Bill Benson, bosun's mate. I fell
overboard about a month back. Got picked up by that black-'arted
scoundrel 'Awksley, of the _Black Adder_."
At these words, Jack, who was listening indifferently, suddenly leant
forward to attention with a strange new look on his tired face;
noticing which the man exclaimed,
"Know him, governor?"
"I do," returned Jack slowly, with a deep note of sternness in his
voice.
"Know no good, I'll be bound; but he's ashore here somewheres. His
blighted crew o' yellow-skinned beachcombers got fed up with him, an'
they just popped the three of us ashore 'ere--marooned us, as they say."
"Who was the third, do you say?" broke in Jack again, a strange
excitement in his eyes.
"Why, that pretty little wife o' his to be sure, who's a mighty sight
too good and 'andsome for the likes of 'im. We've been 'ere more'n a
week now. That's my yarn, an' when you've had your siesta, I'll hear
yours. Your landin' party was a kind o' surprise-packet to me, an' I
just piped to clear decks for action when I see'd you fust; an' you can
bet I just sweated pure joy when you hailed back in the old chin-chin."
"Wall," said Broncho slowly, sitting up and looking round, "you shore
had us shorthorns some fretted an' scared likewise when you jumps out
on the scenery so gay an' easy; but it's that 'ere flag o' yours which
has us some distrustful an' on the scout for ambushes at the first turn
of the kyards."
"Oh, that's my pocket 'andkercher. I shinned up that old palm, trimmed
his spars offen him, an' nailed it wi' wooden pegs to the masthead,
when I fust takes possession o' the island in the name of 'Er Majesty,
so as there shouldn't be no international hankypanky diplomatin' round
later," the navy man explained calmly.
"Where's this Hawksley gone to, do you say?" asked Jack, trying hard to
hide the excitement in his voice.
"Why, I h'expec' he's divin' in the lagoon fishin' up oysters,
a-lookin' for pearls; 'e puts in mos' of his time that way."
"And his wife?" queried Jack again, his voice shaking for all his
efforts to control it.
"Moonin' round somewheres, poor thing. I reckon he's mighty near
broke 'er heart. She don't seem to take no 'eed o' nothin', an' just
navigates along plumb indifferent; dumb as a bloomin' Thames barge,
with the look of a beaten dog in 'er big, mournful eyes."
A deep, half-smothered curse burst from Jack's pale lips, and
springing suddenly to his feet, he wandered off unsteadily with bent
head along the beach, feeling his way by the edge of the breakers.
The others watched him wonderingly. Jim got up, meaning to follow him;
but Broncho motioned him down again, saying:
"Let him be, sonny!" Then, turning to the bluejacket, explained, "Our
mate's blind, an' it kinder hits him on the raw at times."
But the anxiety in the cowboy's eyes robbed the easy tones of their
indifference. The man received his explanation with a nod of the head.
"Sorter moody, eh? An' I don't wonder----"
"Seein' as you-alls wants to savvy why we comes a-pirootin' in
disturbin' the ca'm salubrity o' your peaceful layout so abrupt an'
precip'tite-like," broke in Broncho hurriedly, with a sudden change of
conversation, "I'll just paw round in my mem'ry an' enlighten you some."
"Navigate ahead, governor, me ear-valves is open," said the bosun's
mate politely.
"It's this way," drawled Broncho. "My bunkie there"--pointing to Jack's
receding form--"me, an' the boy goes a-weavin' offen a ship into this
here toomultuous sea without stoppin' to count the chips, we're in
sech a hustle--some like the way you-alls vamooses the war-boat, I
surmise. That 'ere event occurs away down south, crowdin' hard on two
moons back. We-alls goes floatin' round in the swirlin' vortex o' them
tempestuous waters, till things begin to look scaly; but finally we
makes a landin' on what you-alls call a whaleship.
"It's there we meets up with Tari here, and another saddle-coloured
gent who's locoed. This same saddle-coloured gent, which his name is
Lobu, puts up sech a fervent play that we-alls has to corral him in a
kind of calaboose forward; but it shore don't give him no bliss, an'
he's that enraged an' indignant that he starts in to light a camp-fire
down thar, allowin' as how he'll call the turn on us that-away, an' he
mighty near rakes in the pot with that desp'rate play o' his. Though
we-alls busts in an' tries to down the flames with wet sails an' liquid
goods, it ain't no use; the deal goes agin us, an' we has to make
tracks.
"We saves our skins by scoutin' off in this here boat, which same play
has that paltry Lobu plumb disgusted to the core, an' he finally allows
he'll shore pull his picket-pin for good an' quit this vale o' tears.
"A-promotin' o' which idees, he goes jumpin' off into the sea, an'
though we-alls makes a sperited play to obstruct his little game, it's
no use; we're too late, an' the last the outfit sees of him is his
blood, whilst he goes p'intin' off under water a-wrastlin' with a shark.
"Right in the tracks o' this eepisode we-alls near bogs down likewise,
bein' some scarce in liquid refreshments, not to say entirely lackin'
in the same--our canteens havin' run out, an' things lookin' ugly an'
desp'rate, when rain comes.
"But we ain't out o' the wood yet, for Derringer Jack yonder, who's all
the time doin' range-boss an' playin' the leadin' hand with both sand
an' savvy, goes buttin' his head agin fate, an' one maunin' emerges
outer the racket plumb moon-blind.
"It's shore a low mean play the Fates puts up agin poor old Jack, but
I ain't out to give you-alls no sarmon tharon, nor yet to bewail the
abandoned an' ornery conduct o' Destiny.
"It's a paltry play it makes, for shore, a-debauchin' itself on Jack
that-away, an' plumb mortifies the whole outfit to death; but to
resoome this here narrative, it's yesti'd'y we-alls sees your island in
a mirage an' capers off on its trail, with what result you-alls knows."
"I'm a flat-foot if you unfort'nit jossers ain't been jammed in a
clinch proper," commented the naval Robinson Crusoe, as Broncho ceased.
There was a short pause, and then Jim broke in:
"Got any fresh water here?"
"I ain't see'd none; but there's milk, er course."
"Milk!" ejaculated Broncho in astonishment. "I don't see no cows
around."
"No, there ain't no cows a-muckin' around; but the milk here grows up
aloft, on them trees."
"Cocoanuts!" exclaimed the boy eagerly, with a watering mouth.
"That's what," replied Bill Benson heartily. "Like one, young 'un?"
"Aye, that I would."
At which the bosun's mate got good-humouredly to his feet and strolled
off into the low brush. Presently he reappeared with his arms full of
ripe, juicy fruit.
"Wot oh, Aunt Sally!" he cried cheerfully. "Two shies a penny! 'minds
one er 'ome, don't it?"
In a few moments they were all quenching their thirst with the
delicious milky juice.
"My! that's somethin' like a drink!" sighed Jim, drawing a long breath.
"It shore beats any bug-juice I ever pours down my throat," commented
Broncho appreciatively.
"It 'as its good p'ints," observed Bill Benson. "You can lap it down
till y'r back teeth are awash without acquirin' a cordite mouth,
but it falls considerable flat on the palate after a week o' nothin'
else. There ain't no bite to it. It's good enough for babbies, but I'm
gettin' that sick of it I'd as soon suck bilgewater."