“Twenty dollars is not much of a stand-by in a town like Apia or
Levuka,” I said gravely, as I looked at her now animated features.
“Living there is very expensive--as I know to my sorrow--and unless you
have friends at either place, you would have to go to an hotel in the
first place.”
“I am not afraid, Mr. Sherry. And I am not jesting about the hat-making.
All of my mother's family were very expert at it, and quite often I have
seen as much as twenty-five or thirty Mexican dollars paid for one of
our hats. We could have sold ten times the number had we been able to
have made more.”
“Where was this?” I asked, with interest.
“At Agana, in the Marianas. My father lived there for many years. He was
a very poor man, and had a hard struggle to get along with such a
large family. So we all had to help him as much as we could. He was
an Englishman named Arundel, and was in some Government employment
in Rangoon. I do not remember exactly what it was, but think he was
connected with maritime matters, for I remember that he had many
nautical books, and used to go away frequently in the Government
steamers to Perak and Singapore. I can scarcely remember my mother, for
she died when I, who was the youngest of the family, was about six years
old. But I think she was of Dutch-Javanese parentage, for sometimes she
would speak to us children in both languages, and I remember her being
very dark. Soon after she died, my father--who was always of a restless
disposition I suppose--either gave up, or lost his employment in
Rangoon, and taking us with him, settled on Tinian, in the Marianas,
where he had something to do with cattle. But we did not remain
there permanently; we were always moving about from one island to
another--sometimes we would be living at Saipan, sometimes at Rota, and
sometimes at Agana, in Guam. At this last place--which I love dearly--we
were very happy, although we were so poor.”
She stopped somewhat abruptly, and added that it was at this place she
had met Krause, who came to the Marianas from Manila, on behalf of his
firm, who had a large establishment at the latter city.
“I should like to see the Marianas--or the Ladrones, as we traders call
them,” I said. “There is a very dear friend of mine now living at San
Anlaccio in Guam----”
“What is his name?” she asked quickly.
“José Otano. He was mate of a New Bedford whaler.”
“I know him, I know him,” she cried excitedly, “he and his mother, and
his two sisters--Nicolacoa and Maria. Oh, how I should love to see them
again! I remember going to San Anlaccio with my father and an elder
sister, and staying there for two or three months. My father was buying
cattle for _tasajo_, and we lived with the Otano family. They were very
kind to as, and we three little girls used to ride together on the water
buffaloes, and one day their brother José, who I remember was a sailor,
had to come and search for us, for we were lost in a great swamp between
Punta de los Amantes and the stone cross of Padre Sanvitores.”
“Those are the people,” I said, feeling pleasurably excited myself that
we should have mutual friends. “I have often heard him speak of his
mother and two sisters. And often, very often he has urged me to pay
him a visit, and settle down with him. He says that I should not want to
leave the Marianas once I could see what a beautiful country it is.”
“No, indeed! Ah, Mr. Sherry, 'tis indeed a beautiful country. I wonder
if I shall ever see it again! My father, two brothers, and three of my
sisters died of fever just before I married Krause, and there are but
two of us left now--myself and another sister who is married to the
Spanish doctor at San Ignacio de Agana. Oh, shall I ever see her face
again?”
Her eyes sparkled, and her pale face flushed as she bent towards me with
clasped hands: “Oh, the mere thought of it makes me feel a young girl
again.”
“Why should you not?” I began, then I ceased speaking, and walked up and
down the room thinking, and I felt my cheeks flush as a project, daring
enough, came to my mind.
“Have you a big sheet chart of the Pacific--the large blue-backed one?”
I asked.
“Yes, there it is in the corner beside you, with some others. But it is
old.”
“It will do.”
I spread it out on the table, and weighted down each of the four ends by
means of books, so as to get a good view.
[Illustration: I spread the chart out on the table 092]
“Come here, Mrs. Krause, and look.”
She came over to me, and then her thin little hand followed my
forefinger as I made a pencilled mark on the chart to the south-east.
“Here is Tarawa; here is Apia in Samoa, nearly fifteen hundred miles
distant. Here is the island of Ovalau in Fiji, about the same distance.
Do you see?”
“Yes, I see.”
“And here, north-west from Tarawa, is your home on Guam--more than two
thousand miles away. 'Tis a long, long way--but it could be done.”
“A long, long way indeed.” She lifted her eyes to me--and then she
placed her hand on mine. “Why do you smile, Mr. Sherry; and yet why say
'it could be done'?”
“Let us sit down and talk the matter over quietly;” and I led her to a
seat.
“Why should we go to Fiji or Samoa?” I said quickly, my blood afire with
my new project. “There is nothing to draw you thither, is there?”
“Nothing. I know no one at either place. But you----”
“I! It matters but little to me where I go. But I am sick to death of
this island, and long to be doing something. I am a man without a home,
without ties, a wandering South Sea deadbeat--no friends.”
“You must not say that,” she said softly. “I am sure you have many
friends. Just now you spoke of one--José Otano.”
“Aye, I did; but I meant friends in Europe, in the outer and greater
world--people who care for, who even give me a passing thought.”
“That is sad, indeed. Oh, it must be sad to be alone, quite, quite alone
in the world. And I am very, very sorry for you, Mr. Sherry.”
The deep ring of sympathy in her voice warmed my heart to the little
woman.
“Mrs. Krause,” I said--and I spoke quietly, “you are a brave woman, else
you would not dare to come with me in a small boat to so distant a place
as Fiji or Samoa. But will you be braver still, and risk your life in a
still more dangerous enterprise?”
“I will, indeed, Mr. Sherry. I have no sense of the fear of death--none,
absolutely none,” she replied.
“Then let us give up the idea of Fiji,” I cried, catching her hand, “let
us go to the north-west--to Guam, to your own home.”
“Oh,” and she gave a low gasp of pleasure. “Oh, yes, indeed, it will be
a wonderful voyage.”
“Yes, if we ever get there,” I said. “But we can try.”
“You will not fail. Of that I am as sure as I am of my own existence.”
Again we turned to the chart, and were poring over it together when the
messenger returned to say that the natives had arrived with the boat. I
hurried down to the beach, and saw the native owners, and then the boat
itself, which, after very little trouble, I bought for ten muskets, a
couple of tierces of tobacco, and a hundred fathoms of red turkey twill.
Then, after giving them some instructions, I went back to the house.
[Illustration: I hurried down to the beach 096]
“Well, Mr. Sherry, what do you think of the boat?”
“Fairly well, Mrs. Krause. Anyway, I've bought her, and if you look out
of the window, you'll see the crew getting her under way again to sail
her over to Utiroa. Now I must get home, for there will be much to do.
The first thing that I must get done is to alter my own boat's mainsail
and jib, and make them large enough for my new ship, whose sails are
quite rotten. Then I shall make an extra new suit as well. I'll set
Niâbon to work to-night.”
“Ah, let me help! _Do_. It would give me such real pleasure.”
“Indeed, I shall be very glad of your assistance. I can cut out the new
suit, and you and Niâbon sew them. It will only be very light material,
but, for all that, may make your fingers suffer.”
“I don't mind if it does--neither of your sail-makers will grumble,” she
said brightly. “When shall I come?”
“To-morrow. I'll send the whale-boat for you. You will find mine an
untidy house, and Tepi a great cook--as far as size goes. He stands six
feet.”
And so with a laugh, and lighter hearts than had been ours for many a
long day, we said goodbye till the morrow.