WE LOOK OUT FOR THE SOUTHERN CROSS
The wind blew a hurricane all that night, and was still a full gale
when dawn broke. To say that no man among us slept is to put down a
very obvious thing. The roaring of the breakers on the reefs below us,
the showers of stones which the heights rained down, the dreadful
noises like wild human voices in the hills, drove sleep far from any
man's eyes. And more than that, there was the ship to think of. What
had become of the ship? Where did she lie? When should we see her
again? Aye, how often we asked each other that question when the blast
thundered and the lightning seemed to open the very heavens, and the
spindrift was blown clean over the heights to fall like a salt spray
upon our faces. Was it well with the ship or ill? Mister Jacob we knew
to be a good seaman, none better. With him the decision lay to run for
the open water or to risk everything for our sakes. If he made up his
mind that the safety of the Southern Cross demanded sea-room he would
take it, and let to-morrow look after itself. But I was anxious, none
the less; for, if the ship were gone, "God help us on Ken's Island," I
said.
Now, the old Frenchman was the first to be moving when the day came,
and no sooner did all the higher peaks show us a glimmer of the
dawn-light--very beautiful and awesome to look upon--than he set up
the ladder and began to show us the way to the mountain-top.
"You make signal; you fetch ship. Sailormen go down where landman
afraid. Little boat come in; shipmate go out. Old Clair-de-Lune he
know. Ah, messieurs, the wind is very dreadful to-day--what you call
harriken. Other day, all quite easy plan--but this day not so, great
water, all white--no go, no man."
It was queer talk, and we might have laughed at him if we'd have
forgotten that he saved our lives last night and was waiting to save
them again this morning. But you don't laugh at a friend, talk as he
may, and for that matter we were all too excited to think of any such
thing, and we made haste to scramble up out of the pit and to follow
him to the heights where the truth should be known--the best of it or
the worst. For the path or its dangerous places we cared nothing now.
The rocks, upstanding all about us, shut in the view as some great
basin cut in the mountain's heart. You could see the black sky above
and the bottomless chasms below--but of the water nothing. Imagine,
then, how we raced for the summit: now up on our feet, now on all-fours
like dogs; now calling, man to man, to hasten; now saying that haste
wouldn't help us. And no wonder--no wonder our hearts beat high and our
hands were unsteady, for beyond the basin we should find the sea, and
the view might show us life or death.
Old Clair-de-Lune was the first to be up, but I was close upon his
heels, and Dolly Venn not far behind me. Who spoke the first word I
don't rightly recollect; but I hadn't been on the heights more than ten
seconds when I knew why it was spoken, and what the true meaning of it
might be.
The ship was gone!
All the eyes in the wide world could not have found her on that angry
sea below us, or anywhere on the black and looming horizon beyond. The
night had taken her. The ship was gone. Hope as we might, speak up as
we might, tell each other this story or tell each other that--the one
sure fact remained that the Southern Cross had steamed away from Ken's
Island and left us to our fates.
"He'll be running for sea-room, and come in when the gale falls," said
Peter Bligh, when we had stood all together a little while, as
crestfallen a lot as the Pacific Ocean could show that day; "trust
Mister Jacob to be cautious--he's a Scotchman, and would think first of
the ship. A precious lot of good his wages would do him if the ship
were down in sixty fathoms and he inside her!"
"That's true," cried Dolly Venn, "though your poor old father didn't
say it, Mister Bligh. The ship's gone, but she'll come back again." And
then to me he said, very earnestly, "Oh, she must come back, captain."
"Aye, lad," said I, "let her ride out the gale, and she'll put back
right enough. Mister Jacob isn't the one to desert friends. He'll have
learned from Harry Doe how it stands with us, and he'll just say,
''Bout ship'; that's what Mr. Jacob will say. I've no fear of it at
all. I'm only wondering what sort of shore-play is to keep us amused
until we sight the ship again."
Well, they looked doleful enough; but not a man among them complained.
'Tis that way with seamen all the world over. Put them face to face
with death and some will laugh, and some will curse, and some talk
nonsense; but never a man wears his heart upon his sleeve or tells you
that he's afraid. And so it was that morning. They understood, I do
believe, as well as I did, what the consequences of the gale might be.
They were no fools, to imagine that a man could get from Ken's Island
to San Francisco in any cockleshell the beach might show him. But none
of them talked about it; none charged me with it; they just put their
hands in their pockets like brave fellows who had made up their minds
already to a very bad job; and be sure I was not the one to give a
different turn to it. The ship had gone; the Lord only knew when she
would come back again. It was not for me to be crying like a child for
that which neither I nor any man could make good.
"Well," said I, "the ship's gone, sure enough, and hard words won't
bring her back again. What Mister Jacob can do for his friends, that, I
know, will be done. We must leave it to him and look after ourselves
far as this place is concerned. You won't forget that the crew
downstairs will be ready enough to ask after our health and spirits if
we give them a look in, and my word is for lying-to here until night
comes or the ship is sighted. It must be a matter of hours, anyway. The
gale's abating; a landsman would know as much as that."
They said, "Aye, aye," to it, and Peter Bligh put in a word of his
humour.
"The ship's gone, sure enough," said he; "but that's more than you can
say for my appetite! Bear or dog, I'm not particular, captain; but a
good steak of something would come handy, and the sooner the better.
'Twere enough to bring tears to a man's eyes to think of all the good
grub that's gone aboard with Harry Doe. Aye, 'tis a wonderful thing is
hunger, and the gift of the Lord along with good roast beef and pork
sausages. May-be you find yourself a bit peckish, captain?"
I answered "Yes," though that was far from the truth, for what with
watching through the night and thinking about the ship and little Ruth
Bellenden's loneliness in this place of mystery, and far worse than
mystery, I'd forgotten all about meal-times, and never once had asked
myself where breakfast was to come from. But now the long faces of my
shipmates brought me to a remembrance of it, and when little Dolly Venn
cried, "Oh, captain, I am so hungry!" I began to realize what a parlous
plight we were in and what a roundabout road we must tread to get out
of it. Lucky for us, the old Frenchman, who had stood all this time
like a statue gazing out over the desolate sea, now bobbed up again,
good Samaritan that he was, and catching Master Dolly's complaint, he
spoke of breakfast on his own account.
"Ah! you hungry, you thirst, messieurs; sailor-man always like
that. Your ship gone? Never mind, he shall come back again, to-day,
to-morrow, one, two, three day--pray God it be not longer, shipmate,
pray God!"
[Illustration: A picturesque old figure standing there.]
I thought him a fine, picturesque old figure, standing there on the
headland with his long hair streaming in the wind like a woman's, and
his brawny arms outstretched as though he would call the ship back to
us from the lonely ocean. Truth to tell, the place was one to fill any
man with awe. Far as the eye could see, the great waste was white with
the foam of its breaking seas; the headland itself stood up a thousand
feet like some mighty fortress commanding all the deep. Far below us
were the green valleys of the island, the woods we had raced through
last night; pastures with little white houses dotted about on them; the
bungalow itself wherein Ruth Bellenden lived. No picture from the
gallery of a high tower could have been more beautiful than that
strange land with the wild reefs lying about it and the rollers
cascading over them, and the black glens above which we stood, and the
great circle of the water like some measureless basin which the whole
earth bounded. I did not wonder that old Clair-de-Lune was silent when
he looked down upon a scene so grand. It seemed a crime to speak of
food and drink in such a place; and yet it was of these that Peter
Bligh must go on talking.
"We'll do the prayin', shipmate, if you'll do the cookin'," cried he,
hopefully; "as for that--you speak like a wise man. 'Tis wonderful easy
to pray on a full stomach! There isn't a hunger or a thirst this side
of 'Frisco which I would not pray out of this same island if you'll be
pleased to bring 'em along. Weigh anchor, my man," says he, "and we'll
pipe down to dinner."
Well, the old man laughed at his manner of putting it, and, without
further ado, we all went down to the bird's nest in the hollow,
and there we lighted a fire in the shelter of the pit, and old
Clair-de-Lune going away in search of rations, he returned presently
with victuals enough to feed a missionary, and more than that, as
pretty a trio to serve them as any seaman could hope for. For what
should happen but that the three young girls we'd seen yesterday in
the woods came romping up the hill together; and one bringing a great
can for the coffee, and another a basket of luscious fruit, and a
third some new-made bread and biscuit--they ran down the ladder to us
and began to talk in their pretty language, and now and then in
English which did not need much understanding.
"I am Rosamunda," says one.
And the second, she says:
"I am Sylvia--Sylvia--Sylvia."
And the third, she chimes in with:
"I am Celestine, and I have brought you bread."
And they all stood together, shy and natural, looking now at one, now
at another of us; but most often, I thought, at little Dolly Venn, who
had a way of making them understand which an older man might have
envied.
"And wonderful pretty names, too, young ladies, though a seaman doesn't
often hear the likes of 'em," cries Peter Bligh, gallant enough, as all
Irishmen are. "They're all Pollies in our parts, and it do come easier
to the tongue and more convenient if you know many of 'em. Whereby did
you hitch up names like those?" asks he; "which, askin' your pardon,
seem to me to be took out of a picture-book."
They giggled at this; but old Clair-de-Lune, who was mighty proud of
them, and justly, answered Peter Bligh as though the question were
serious.
"Monsieur, in my own country I am artiste; I play the drama, the
comedy, the tragedy. Clair-de-Lune they call me at the theatre. To the
daughters of my master I give the artiste's name--why not? Better the
good name than the bad name! It was long year ago, shipmate; the Belle
Ile was wrecked on these reef; the maitre is drowned, but I and the
young ladies are save. We come, we go, none interfere. The Governor is
angry, we hide in the hill; the Governor laugh, we go down to the
valley. When the sleep-time comes, we go to the house under the sea:
you shall find him a dangerous time, but we hide far down. None
frighten Clair-de-Lune; they frighten of him. He become the father
according to his best."
It was touching, I must say, to hear this old man's broken story; and
prettier still to see the affectionate eyes with which these little
girls watched every movement of one to whom, I am sure, they were
beholden for all that they got out of Ken's Island. For the rest, the
tale was plain enough. The father had been wrecked and drowned on the
sword-fish reef; the servant had saved the children and himself from
the ship, and his own natural cleverness had done the rest. No one
interfered with him, he said; and this was true. I verily believe that
the devils in the valley below believed that he and the children with
him were nothing more or less than spirits.
I say his story was plain, and yet there was something in it which was
Greek to me. He had named a house under the sea, and what that meant,
or how any man could build such a house, lay beyond my understanding. I
should have asked a question about it there and then, and have sought
light on the matter if it hadn't been that the food was already cooked,
and, the others being mighty anxious, we sat down to steaming coffee
and broiled kid's flesh and good bread and sweet fruit, and I was very
willing to keep my curiosity. Once, it is true, the young girl who
called herself "Rosamunda" came and sat by my side and wished to talk
to me; but, prettily as she spoke our tongue, her measure of it was
limited, and we did not get very far, in spite of good intentions.
"Do you like the island, do you like living here?" I asked her.
She answered me with a doubting shake of her pretty head.
"In the sun-months, yes, I like it; but not in the sleep-time. You will
go away before the sleep-time, monsieur?"
"Really, young lady," said I, "it seems to me that it depends upon
Mister Jacob and the ship. But, supposing I cannot go away--what then?
How does the sleep-time concern me?"
"You must not stay," she said, quickly; "for us it is different; we--we
live in the house under the sea, but no stranger may live there--the
Governor would not permit it. On the island all things sleep. If you do
not go to the house under the sea--ah, monsieur, but you will sail
away, you will sail in your ship."
She put it very childishly, the same cock-and-bull story that the old
Frenchman had been at last night. What to make of it, I knew no more
than the dead. Here we seemed to be on as fair an island as the whole
Pacific might show you; and yet these odd folk could talk of sun-months
and sleep-time, and other stuff which might have been written in a
fairy-book. Do you wonder that I laughed at them and treated it as any
sane man, not given to fables, would have done?
"Sleep-time or sun-time, I'll be away before then, please God,
mademoiselle," said I; "do not fear for Jasper Begg, who was always
fond of his bed and won't grumble overmuch, be it sleep or waking. For
the rest, we'll take our chance, as others must do here, I fancy. Mme.
Czerny, for instance--do you know Mme. Czerny, young lady?"
She nodded her head and said that she did.
"Yes, yes, we know Mme. Czerny; she is the Governor's wife. I think she
is unhappy, Monsieur Captain. In the sun-months I see her, but in the
sleep-time she lives in the house under the sea, and no one knows. You
are her friend, perhaps; you would know that she is unhappy?"
I knew it well enough; but I wished to lead this little talker on, and
so I said I did not.
"Unhappy, young lady! Why should she be unhappy?"
I asked it naturally, as though I was very surprised; but you could not
deceive Mlle. Rosamunda. A more artful little witch never played at
fairies in a wood.
"If she is not unhappy, why have you come here, Monsieur Captain? You
come to help her--oh, I know! And you say that you do not."
"Perhaps so, young lady; perhaps I do--that I will tell you by-and-bye.
But I am curious about the Governor. What sort of a man is he, and
where does he happen to be at this particular moment? I'm sure you
could say something nice about him if you tried."
[Illustration: She looked at me with her big, questioning eyes.]
She looked at me with her big, questioning eyes, as though the question
were but half understood. Presently she said:
"You laugh at me. M. Czerny has gone away to the world. Of course he
would go. He has gone in the ship. What shall I tell you about him?
That he is kind, cruel; that we love him, hate him? Every one knows
that; every one has told you. He is the Governor and we are his people
who must obey: When he comes back he will ask you to obey him too, and
you must say 'yes.' That will be at the sleep-time: eight, nine, ten
days. But why do you ask, Monsieur Captain? Has not Mme. Czerny said it
because you are her friend? I know that you tease me. Sailors love to
tease little girls, and you are no better than the other ones."
She cast down her eyes at this, and looked for all the world the taking
little coquette that she was. Her odd speech told me something, enough
at least to put a hundred questions into my head and as many useless
answers. The Governor was away. The island alternately hated and feared
him. The sleep-time, whatever it was, might be looked for in ten days'
time. We must be away and on board the ship by then or something
dreadful would happen to us. Ruth Bellenden's unhappiness was known
even to these little girls, and they surmised, as the others had
surmised, that we were on shore to help her. For the rest, the men on
Ken's Island, I imagined, would hunt us night and day until we were
taken. Nor was I mistaken in that. We'd scarcely finished our meal when
there was the sound of a gunshot far down in the valley, and, old
Clair-de-Lune jumping up at the report, we were all on our feet in an
instant to speak of the danger.
"Halloa, popguns," cries Peter Bligh, in his Irish way; "what for now
would any man be firing popguns at this time of the morning?"
"It's to ask after your health, Peter," said I, when we'd listened
awhile, "what else should a man be firing after, unless he takes you
for a rabbit? Will you run down and thank him kindly?"
He hitched up his breeches and pulled out his briar-pipe.
"If this is track-running, take down my number. I'm through with it,
gentlemen, being not so young as I was."
A gunshot, fired out at sea, cut short his talk. Old Clair-de-Lune,
nipping up the ladder, bade us follow him, while to the girls he cried,
"_Allez-vous en!_" All our quiet talk and content were gone in an
instant. I never answered little Dolly Venn when he asked me, "Do you
think there's danger, sir?" but, running up the hill after the
Frenchman, I helped him to carry the ladder we'd dragged out of the
pit, for I knew he'd need of it.
"What is it, Clair-de-Lune? Why are they firing?" I asked him, as he
ran.
"Governor home," was his answer--"Governor home. Great danger,
_capitaine_."