On a sultry tropic day, when the last flicker of the far southeast trade
was fading out and the seasonal change for the northwest monsoon was
coming on, the _Kittiwake_ lifted above the sea-rim the jungle-clad
coast of Francis Island.
Grief, with compass bearings and binoculars, identified the volcano that
marked Redscar, ran past Owen Bay, and lost the last of the breeze at
the entrance to Likikili Bay. With the two whaleboats out and towing,
and with Carl-sen heaving the lead, the _Kittiwake_ sluggishly entered a
deep and narrow indentation. There were no beaches. The mangroves began
at the water's edge, and behind them rose steep jungle, broken here and
there by jagged peaks of rock. At the end of a mile, when the white scar
on the bluff bore west-southwest, the lead vindicated the “Directory,”
and the anchor rumbled down in nine fathoms.
For the rest of that day and until the afternoon of the day following
they remained on the _Kittiwake_ and waited. No canoes appeared. There
were no signs of human life. Save for the occasional splash of a fish or
the screaming of cockatoos, there seemed no other life. Once, however, a
huge butterfly, twelve inches from tip to tip, fluttered high over their
mastheads and drifted across to the opposing jungle.
“There's no use in sending a boat in to be cut up,” Grief said.
Pankburn was incredulous, and volunteered to go in alone, to swim it if
he couldn't borrow the dingey.
“They haven't forgotten the German cruiser,” Grief explained. “And I'll
wager that bush is alive with men right now. What do you think, Mr.
Carlsen?”
That veteran adventurer of the islands was emphatic in his agreement.
In the late afternoon of the second day Grief ordered a whaleboat into
the water. He took his place in the bow, a live cigarette in his mouth
and a short-fused stick of dynamite in his hand, for he was bent on
shooting a mess of fish. Along the thwarts half a dozen Winchesters were
placed. Albright, who took the steering-sweep, had a Mauser within reach
of hand. They pulled in and along the green wall of vegetation. At times
they rested on the oars in the midst of a profound silence.
“Two to one the bush is swarming with them--in quids,” Albright
whispered.
Pankburn listened a moment longer and took the bet. Five minutes later
they sighted a school of mullet. The brown rowers held their oars. Grief
touched the short fuse to his cigarette and threw the stick. So short
was the fuse that the stick exploded in the instant after it struck the
water. And in that same instant the bush exploded into life. There were
wild yells of defiance, and black and naked bodies leaped forward like
apes through the mangroves.
In the whaleboat every rifle was lifted. Then came the wait. A hundred
blacks, some few armed with ancient Sniders, but the greater portion
armed with tomahawks, fire-hardened spears, and bone-tipped arrows,
clustered on the roots that rose out of the bay. No word was spoken.
Each party watched the other across twenty feet of water. An old,
one-eyed black, with a bristly face, rested a Snider on his hip, the
muzzle directed at Albright, who, in turn, covered him back with the
Mauser. A couple of minutes of this tableau endured. The stricken fish
rose to the surface or struggled half-stunned in the clear depths.
“It's all right, boys,” Grief said quietly. “Put down your guns and
over the side with you. Mr. Albright, toss the tobacco to that one-eyed
brute.”
While the Rapa men dived for the fish, Albright threw a bundle of
trade tobacco ashore. The one-eyed man nodded his head and writhed his
features in an attempt at amiability. Weapons were lowered, bows unbent,
and arrows put back in their quivers.
“They know tobacco,” Grief announced, as they rowed back aboard. “We'll
have visitors. You'll break out a case of tobacco, Mr. Albright, and a
few trade-knives. There's a canoe now.”
Old One-Eye, as befitted a chief and leader, paddled out alone, facing
peril for the rest of the tribe. As Carlsen leaned over the rail to help
the visitor up, he turned his head and remarked casually:
“They've dug up the money, Mr. Grief. The old beggar's loaded with it.”
One-Eye floundered down on deck, grinning appeasingly and failing to
hide the fear he had overcome but which still possessed him. He was lame
of one leg, and this was accounted for by a terrible scar, inches deep,
which ran down the thigh from hip to knee. No clothes he wore whatever,
not even a string, but his nose, perforated in a dozen places and each
perforation the setting for a carved spine of bone, bristled like a
porcupine. Around his neck and hanging down on his dirty chest was a
string of gold sovereigns. His ears were hung with silver half-crowns,
and from the cartilage separating his nostrils depended a big English
penny, tarnished and green, but unmistakable.
“Hold on, Grief,” Pankburn said, with perfectly assumed carelessness.
“You say they know only beads and tobacco. Very well. You follow my
lead. They've found the treasure, and we've got to trade them out of it.
Get the whole crew aside and lecture them that they are to be interested
only in the pennies. Savve? Gold coins must be beneath contempt, and
silver coins merely tolerated. Pennies are to be the only desirable
things.”
Pankburn took charge of the trading. For the penny in One-Eye's nose he
gave ten sticks of tobacco. Since each stick cost David Grief a cent,
the bargain was manifestly unfair. But for the half-crowns Pankburn gave
only one stick each. The string of sovereigns he refused to consider.
The more he refused, the more One-Eye insisted on a trade. At last, with
an appearance of irritation and anger, and as a palpable concession,
Pankburn gave two sticks for the string, which was composed of ten
sovereigns.
“I take my hat off to you,” Grief said to Pankburn that night at dinner.
“The situation is patent. You've reversed the scale of value. They'll
figure the pennies as priceless possessions and the sovereigns as
beneath price. Result: they'll hang on to the pennies and force us to
trade for sovereigns. Pankburn, I drink your health! Boy!--another cup
of tea for Mr. Pankburn.”