As the rising sun had just begun to pierce the misty tropic haze of
early dawn, a small, white-painted schooner of ninety or a hundred tons
burden was bearing down upon the low, densely-wooded island of Mayou,
which lies between the coast of south-east New Guinea and the murderous
Solomon Group--the grave of the white man in Melanesia.
The white population of Mayou was not large, for it consisted only of
an English missionary and his wife--who was, of course, a white woman--a
German trader named Peter Schwartzkoff and his native wife; an English
trader named Charlie Blount, with his two half-caste sons and daughters;
and an American trader and ex-whaler, named Nathaniel Burrowes, with his
wives.
Although the island is of large extent, and of amazing fertility, the
native population was at this time comparatively small, numbering only
some three thousand souls. They nearly all lived at the south-west end
of the island, the rendezvous of the few trading ships that visited the
place. Occasionally a surveying vessel, and, at longer intervals still,
a labour-recruiting ship from Hawaii or Fiji, would call. At such times
the monotony of the lives of the white residents of Mayou was pleasantly
broken. Once a year, too, a missionary vessel would drop anchor in the
little reef-bound port, but her visit was of moment only to the Rev. Mr.
Deighton, his wife, and their native converts, and the mission ship's
presence in the harbour was taken no notice of by the three white
traders; for a missionary ship is not always regarded by the average
trader in the South Seas as a welcome visitor.
Almost with the rising of the sun the vessel had been sighted from the
shore by a party of natives, who were fishing off the south end of the
island, and in a few minutes their loud cries reached other natives on
shore, and by them was passed on from house to house along the beach
till it reached the town itself. From there, presently, came a deep
sonorous shout, “_Evaka! Evaka!_” (“A ship! A ship!”), and then they
swarmed out of their thatched dwellings like bees from a hive and
ran, laughing and shouting together, down to the beach in front of the
village.
As the clamour increased, the Rev. Wilfrid Deighton opened the door of
his study and stepped out upon the shady verandah of the mission house,
which stood upon a gentle, palm-covered rise about five hundred yards
from the thickly clustering houses of the native village. He was a tall,
thin man with a scanty brown beard, and his face wore a wearied, anxious
expression. His long, lean body, coarse, toil-worn hands, and shabby
clothing indicated, too, that the lines of the Rev. Wilfrid had not been
cast in a pleasant place when he chose the wild, unhealthy island of
Mayou as the field of his labours. But if he showed bodily traces of the
hard, continuous toil he had undergone during the seven years' residence
among the people of Mayou, his eye was still full of the fire of that
noble missionary spirit which animated the souls of such earnest men
as Moffat and Livingstone, and Williams of Erromanga, and Gordon of
Khartoum. For he was an enthusiast, who believed in his work; and so did
his wife, a pretty, faded little woman of thirty, with a great yearning
to save souls, though at times she longed to return to the comforts
and good dinners of semi-civilisation in other island groups nearer the
outside world she had been away from so long.
The missionary stepped out on the verandah, and shaded his eyes from
the glare with his rough, sun-tanned hands, as he looked seaward at the
advancing vessel. Soon his wife followed him and placed her hand on his
shoulder.
“What is it, Wilfrid? Surely not the _John Hunt_. She is not due for
months yet.”
“Not her, certainly, Alice,” he answered, “and not a trading vessel
either, I should think. She looks more like a yacht Perhaps she may be a
new man-of-war schooner. However, we will soon see. Put on your hat, my
dear, and let us go down to the beach. Already Blount, Schwartzkoff, and
Burrowes have gone; and it certainly would not do for me to remain in
the background when the newcomers land.”
Mrs. Deighton, her pale face flushing with gentle excitement at the
prospect of meeting Europeans, quickly retired to her room, and making
a rapid toilette, rejoined her husband, who, white umbrella in hand,
awaited her at the gate.
* * * * *
“Good morning, gentlemen,” said the reverend gentleman, a few minutes
later, as, accompanied by Mrs. Deighton, he joined the three white
traders, “what vessel is it? Have you any idea?”
“None at all,” answered Blount, with a short nod to Mr. Deighton, but
lifting his leaf hat to his wife, “we were just wondering ourselves.
Doesn't look like a trader--more like a gunboat.”
Meantime the schooner had worked her way in through the passage, and,
surrounded by a fleet of canoes, soon brought up and anchored. Her
sails were very quickly handled, then almost as soon as she swung to her
anchor a smart, white-painted boat was lowered, and the people on shore
saw the crew haul her up to the gangway ladder.
Presently a white man, who, by his dress, was an officer of the ship,
followed by another person in a light tweed suit and straw hat, entered
the boat, which then pushed off and was headed for the shore. As she
approached nearer, the traders and the missionary could see that the
crew were light-skinned Polynesians, dressed in blue cotton jumpers,
white duck pants, and straw hats. The officer--who steered with a
steer-oar--wore a brass-bound cap and brass-buttoned jacket, and every
now and then turned to speak to the man in the tweed suit, who sat
smoking a cigar beside him.
“By jingo! she's a yacht, I believe,” said Charlie Blount, who had
been keenly watching the approaching boat; “I'm off. I don't want to
be bothered with people of that sort--glorified London drapers, who ask
'Have you--ah--got good shooting heah?'”
Then turning on his heel, he raised his hat to Mrs. Deighton, nodded to
the other white men, and sauntered along the beach to his house.
“I guess Blount's kinder set again meetin' people like these,” said
Burrowes, nodding in the direction of the boat and addressing himself to
Mr. and Mrs. Deighton. “Reckon they might be some all-powerful British
swells he knew when he was one himself. Guess they won't scare _me_ a
cent's worth.”
“Id was brober dadt he should veel so,” remarked the German; “if some
Yerman shentle-mans vas to come here und zee me dresd like vom dirty
sailor mans, den I too vould get me home to mein house und say nodings.”
“My friends,” said Mr. Deighton, speaking reproachfully, yet secretly
pleased at Blount's departure, “no man need feel ashamed at meeting his
countrymen on account of the poverty of his attire; I am sure that
the sight of an English gentleman is a very welcome one to me and Mrs.
Deighton.”
“Wal,” said Burrowes with easy but not offensive familiarity, “I guess,
parson, thet you and Mrs. Deighton hed better form yourselves inter
a committee of welcome, and tell them so; I ain't much in the polite
speechifying line myself, neither is 'Schneider' here,” nodding at the
German, “and you can sling in somethin' ornymental 'bout me bein' the
representative of the United States--a gentleman a-recrootin' of
his health in the South Sea Islands doorin' a perlitercal crisis in
Washington.”
By this time the boat had run her bows up on to the white, sandy beach,
and the straw-hatted, tweed-suited gentleman jumped lightly out Taking
off his hat with a graceful, circular sweep, which included every one on
the beach, white and native, he said with languid politeness--
“Good-day, gentlemen; I scarcely hoped to have the pleasure of meeting
Europeans at this place--and certainly never imagined that pleasure
would be enhanced by the presence of a lady,” he added as he caught
sight of Mrs. Deighton standing apart some little distance from the
others.
“I am pleased to meet you, sir,” said the missionary, constituting
himself spokesman for the others; “you are welcome, sir, very welcome to
Mayou, and to anything that it lies in our power to furnish you with
for your--schooner, or should I say yacht, for such, by her handsome
appearance, I presume she is.”
The visitor, who was a handsome, fair-haired man, with a blonde
moustache and blue eyes, bowed his thanks, and then said, “May I have
the honour to introduce myself. My name is De Vere.”
“And I am the Rev. Wilfrid Deighton, missionary in charge of this
island. My two----” (here he hesitated a moment before the next word)
“friends are Mr. Peter Schwartzkoff and Mr. Nathaniel Burrowes.”
“Delighted to meet you,” said Mr. de Vere, bowing politely to the lady,
but extending a white, shapely hand to the men; “and now I must tell you
that I shall be very glad to avail myself, Mr. Deighton, of your kind
offer. We are in want of water, and anything in the way of vegetables,
etcetera, that we can get. We intend, however, to stay here a few days
and refit. Having been in very bad weather coming through the southern
part of the Solomon Group we must effect repairs.”
“Might I inquire, mister,” asked Burrowes, “ef your vessel is a trader,
or jest a pleasure schooner, as the parson here says?”
“Mr. Deighton is quite correct,” said Mr. de Vere, with another graceful
bow; “the _Starlight_ is a yacht I can quite understand your not being
able to make her out She was originally built for the navy as a gunboat,
but was sold in Sydney, after some years' service. I bought her and had
her altered into a yacht to cruise about these delightful and beautiful
South Sea Islands. My friend, the Honourable John Morcombe-Lycett,
accompanies me. Our English yachting experience had much to do with our
determination to make a cruise down here. In fact,” and here Mr. de Vere
showed his white, even teeth in a smile, and stroked his drooping blonde
moustache, “we left London with the intention of chartering a vessel in
Sydney for a cruise among the islands. Mr. Morcombe-Lycett is, however,
very unwell to-day, and so has not landed, but here am I; and I am very
happy indeed to make your acquaintance.”
Then, turning towards the boat, he called out to the officer who had
brought him, “Come ashore for me at dinner-time, Captain Sykes.”