Man Ho!
Slowly, fitfully, broke the morning in the East, showing the desolate
brig forging heavily through the water, which sluggishly thumped under
her bows. While leaping from sea to sea, our faithful Chamois, like a
faithful dog, still gamboled alongside, confined to the main- chains by
its painter. At times, it would long lag behind; then, pushed by a wave
like lightning dash forward; till bridled by its leash, it again fell
in rear.
As the gray light came on, anxiously we scrutinized the features of the
craft, as one by one they became more plainly revealed. Every thing
seemed stranger now, than when partially visible in the dingy night.
The stanchions, or posts of the bulwarks, were of rough stakes, still
incased in the bark. The unpainted sides were of a dark-colored,
heathenish looking wood. The tiller was a wry-necked, elbowed bough,
thrusting itself through the deck, as if the tree itself was fast
rooted in the hold. The binnacle, containing the compass, was defended
at the sides by yellow matting. The rigging—shrouds, halyards and
all—was of “Kaiar,” or cocoa-nut fibres; and here and there the sails
were patched with plaited rushes.
But this was not all. Whoso will pry, must needs light upon matters for
suspicion. Glancing over the side, in the wake of every scupper- hole,
we beheld a faded, crimson stain, which Jarl averred to be blood.
Though now he betrayed not the slightest trepidation; for what he saw
pertained not to ghosts; and all his fears hitherto had been of the
super-natural.
Indeed, plucking up a heart, with the dawn of the day my Viking looked
bold as a lion; and soon, with the instinct of an old seaman cast his
eyes up aloft.
Directly, he touched my arm,—“Look: what stirs in the main-top?”
Sure enough, something alive was there.
Fingering our arms, we watched it; till as the day came on, a crouching
stranger was beheld.
Presenting my piece, I hailed him to descend or be shot. There was
silence for a space, when the black barrel of a musket was thrust
forth, leveled at my head. Instantly, Jarl’s harpoon was presented at a
dart;—two to one;—and my hail was repeated. But no reply.
“Who are you?”
“Samoa,” at length said a clear, firm voice.
“Come down from the rigging. We are friends.”
Another pause; when, rising to his feet, the stranger slowly descended,
holding on by one hand to the rigging, for but one did he have; his
musket partly slung from his back, and partly griped under the stump of
his mutilated arm.
He alighted about six paces from where we stood; and balancing his
weapon, eyed us bravely as the Cid.
He was a tall, dark Islander, a very devil to behold, theatrically
arrayed in kilt and turban; the kilt of a gay calico print, the turban
of a red China silk. His neck was jingling with strings of beads.
“Who else is on board?” I asked; while Jarl, thus far covering the
stranger with his weapon, now dropped it to the deck.
“Look there:—Annatoo!” was his reply in broken English, pointing aloft
to the fore-top. And lo! a woman, also an Islander; and barring her
skirts, dressed very much like Samoa, was beheld descending.
“Any more?”
“No more.”
“Who are _you_ then; and what craft is this?”
“Ah, ah—you are no ghost;—but are you my friend?” he cried, advancing
nearer as he spoke; while the woman having gained the deck, also
approached, eagerly glancing.
We said we were friends; that we meant no harm; but desired to know
what craft this was; and what disaster had befallen her; for that
something untoward had occurred, we were certain.
Whereto, Samoa made answer, that it was true that something dreadful
had happened; and that he would gladly tell us all, and tell us the
truth. And about it he went.
Now, this story of his was related in the mixed phraseology of a
Polynesian sailor. With a few random reflections, in substance, it will
be found in the six following chapters.