A long time after the events narrated in the last chapter, John Adams
and Edward Young sat together one evening in the cave at the top of the
mountain, where poor Fletcher Christian had been wont to hold his lonely
vigils.
"I've bin thinkin' of late," said Young, "that it is very foolish of us
to content ourselves with merely fishing from the rocks, when there are
better fish to be had in deep water, and plenty of material at hand for
making canoes."
"You're right, sir; we ought to try our hands at a canoe. Pity we
didn't do so before the native men was all killed. They knew what sort
o' trees to use, and how to split 'em up into planks, an' all that sort
o' thing."
"But McCoy used to study that subject, and talk much about it, when we
were in Otaheite," returned Young. "I've no doubt that with his aid we
could build a good enough canoe, and the women would be as able as the
men, no doubt, to direct us what to do if we were in a difficulty.
McCoy is a handy fellow, you know, with tools, as he has proved more
than once since the death of poor Williams."
Adams shook his head.
"No doubt, Mr Young, he's handy enough with the tools; but ever since
he discovered how to make spirits, neither he nor Quintal, as you know,
sir, are fit for anything."
"True," said Young, with a perplexed look; "it never occurred to me
before that strong drink was such a curse. I begin now to understand
why some men that I have known have been so enthusiastic in their outcry
against it. Perhaps it would be right for you and me to refuse to drink
with Quintal and McCoy, seeing that they are evidently killing
themselves with it."
"I don't quite see that, sir," objected Adams. "A glass of grog don't
do me no harm that I knows of, an' it wouldn't do them no good if we was
to stop our allowance."
"It might; who can tell?" said Young. "I've not thought much about the
matter, however, so we won't discuss it. But what would you say if we
were to hide the kettle that McCoy makes it in, and refuse to give it up
till the canoe is finished?"
Again Adams shook his head.
"They'd both go mad with DT," said he, by which letters he referred to
the drunkard's awful disease, _delirium tremens_.
"Well, at all events, we will try to persuade him to go to work, and the
sooner the better," said Young, rising and leaving the cave.
In pursuance of this plan, Young spoke to McCoy in one of his few sober
moments, and got him persuaded to begin the work, and to drink less
while engaged in it.
Under the impulse of this novelty in his occupation, the unhappy man did
make an attempt to curb himself, and succeeded so far that he worked
pretty steadily for several days, and made considerable progress with
the canoe.
The wood was chosen, the tree felled, the trunk cut to the proper length
and split up into very fair planks, which were further smoothed by means
of a stone adze, brought by the natives from Otaheite, and it seemed as
if the job would be quickly finished, when the terrible demon by whom
McCoy had been enslaved suddenly asserted his tyrannical power.
Quintal, who rendered no assistance in canoe-building, had employed
himself in making a "new brew," as he expressed it, and McCoy went up to
his hut in the mountain one evening to taste.
The result, of course, was that he was absolutely incapable of work next
day; and then, giving way to the maddening desire, he and his
comrade-in-debauchery went in, as they said, for a regular spree. It
lasted for more than a week, and when it came to an end, the two men,
with cracked lips, bloodshot eyes, and haggard faces, looked as if they
had just escaped from a madhouse.
Edward Young now positively refused to drink any more of the spirits,
and Adams, although he would not go quite to that length, restricted
himself to one glass in the day.
This at first enraged both Quintal and McCoy. The former cursed his
comrades in unmeasured terms, and drank more deeply just to spite them.
The latter refused to work at the canoe, and both men became so
uproarious, that Young and Adams were obliged to turn them out of the
house where they were wont occasionally to meet for a social evening.
Thus things went on for many a day from bad to worse. Bad as things had
been in former years, it seemed as if the profoundest depth of sin and
misery had not yet been fathomed by these unhappy mutineers.
In all these doings, it would have gone hard with the poor women and
children if Adams and Young had not increased in their kindness and
consideration for them, as the other two men became more savage and
tyrannical.
At last matters came to such a crisis that it became once more a matter
of discussion with Young and Adams whether they should not destroy the
machinery by which the spirits were made, and it is probable that they
might have done this, if events had not occurred which rendered the act
unnecessary.
One day William McCoy was proceeding with a very uncertain step along
the winding footpath that led to his house up in the mountain. The
man's face worked convulsively, and it seemed as if terrible thoughts
filled his brain. Muttering to himself as he staggered along, he
suddenly met his own son, who had grown apace by that time, being nearly
seven years of age. Both father and son stopped abruptly, and looked
intently at each other.
"What brings you here?" demanded the father, with a look of as much
dignity as it was in his power to assume.
The poor boy hesitated, and looked frightened. His natural spirit of
fun and frolic seemed of late to have forsaken him.
"What are 'ee afraid of?" roared McCoy, who had not quite recovered from
his last fit of _delirium tremens_. "Why don't 'ee speak?"
"Mother's not well," said Daniel, softly; "she bid me come and tell
you."
"What's that to me?" cried McCoy, savagely. "Come here, Dan." He
lowered his tone, and held out his hand, but the poor boy was afraid to
approach.
Uttering a low growl, the father made a rush at him, stumbled over a
tree-root, and fell heavily to the earth. Little Dan darted into the
bush, and fled home.
Rising slowly, McCoy looked half-stunned at first, but speedily
recovering himself, staggered on till he reached the hut, when he wildly
seized the bottle from its shelf, and put it to his lips, which were
bleeding from the fall, and covered with dust.
"Ha ha!" he shouted, while the light of delirium rekindled in his eyes,
"this is the grand cure for everything. My own son's afraid o' me now,
but who cares? What's that to Bill McCoy! an' his mother's ill too--
ha!--"
He checked himself in the middle of a fierce laugh, and stared before
him as if horror-stricken.
"No, no!" he gasped. "I--I didn't. Oh! God be merciful to me!"
Again he stopped, raised both hands high above his head, uttered a wild
laugh which terminated in a prolonged yell, as he dashed the bottle on
the floor, and darted from the hut.
All the strength and vigour which the wretched man had squandered seemed
to come back to him in that hour. The swiftness of youth returned to
his limbs. He ran down the path by which he had just come, and passed
Quintal on the way.
"Hallo, Bill! you're pretty bad to-night," said his comrade, looking
after him. He then followed at a smart run, as if some new idea had
suddenly occurred to him. Two of the women met McCoy further down, but
as if to evade them, he darted away to the right along the track leading
to the eastward cliffs. The women joined Quintal in pursuit, but before
they came near him, they saw him rush to the highest part of the cliffs
and leap up into the air, turning completely over as he vanished from
their sight.
At that spot the cliff appeared to overhang its base, and was several
hundred feet high. Far down there was a projecting rock, where
sea-gulls clustered in great numbers. McCoy, like the lightning-flash,
came in contact with the rock, and was dashed violently out into space,
while the affrighted sea-birds fled shrieking from the spot. Next
moment the man's mangled body cleft the dark water like an arrow,
leaving only a little spot of foam behind to mark for a few seconds his
watery grave.
It might have been thought that this terrible event would have had a
sobering effect upon Matthew Quintal, but instead of that it made him
worse. The death of his wife, too, by a fall from the cliffs about the
same time, seemed only to have the effect of rendering him more savage;
insomuch that he became a terror to the whole community, and frequently
threatened to take the lives of his remaining comrades. In short, the
man seemed to have gone mad, and Young and Adams resolved, in
self-defence, to put him to death.
We spare the reader the sickening details. They accomplished the
terrible deed with an axe, and thus the number of the male refugees on
Pitcairn was reduced to two. The darkest hour of the lonely island had
been reached--the hour before the dawn.