THE CAPTAIN OF THE BANDOLIER
Nearly two long months had passed since Tom had lit that fateful fire on
Misty Head, and Mr. Wallis, his hair somewhat greyer, and his face more
deeply lined, was sitting with the captain of the Bandolier upon the
grassy side of the bluff overlooking the bar. Both were smoking, and
watching the figures of Jack and the little girl, who were on the beach
below, Jack fishing, and the child wandering to and fro, busied in
picking up seaweed and shells, and running up every few minutes to show
them to the lad. Away to the northward, the headlands showed grey and
soft through the misty sea haze which floated about the shore, and as
Mr. Wallis let his gaze rest upon them, he leant his face upon his hand,
and sighed heavily.
'Wallis,' said the seaman presently, and speaking in a low voice, as he
resumed the desultory conversation they had begun when they first sat
down on the bluff to wait until Jack and little Nita returned to them,
'I want you to believe me when I say that there is not an hour of my
life in which I do not feel that but for me this heavy blow would never
have fallen on you.'
'Do not say that, Casalle. It was to be, and you do wrong to reproach
yourself for the calamity with which it has pleased the Almighty to
afflict me, and for which you are in no way responsible. And your
sympathy has done much to help me. Heavy as is the sorrow which has come
upon us both, we should yet reflect that we have no right to cry out in
bitterness of spirit: for even though your wife was taken from you in
that night of horror with awful suddenness, your little one was spared
to comfort you; my boy was taken from me, but his brother is left. And
as time goes on we shall begin to understand, Casalle, and even the
dreadful manner of their deaths will in God's own time cease to be such
an ever-present and heart-breaking reflection as it is to us now.'
The master of the Bandolier made no answer. He had not that hope which
to some men is a source of such sublime strength, when all the sweetness
and joy and sunshine of life is snatched suddenly away, and the whole
world becomes dark to the aching heart. But although he made no
response to his companion's fervid speech, he felt its truth, and envied
him the possession of such a deep-seated fount of calm, unquestioning
faith.
During the two months that had elapsed since he and his men had landed
at Port Kooringa, a warm feeling of friendship had grown up between him
and his host; and now that the time was drawing near for them to
part--for he was to leave the quiet hospitable house under the bluff on
the following day--he had tried to express his gratitude for the
unceasing kindness and generosity which he, his child, and his officers
and men had received at the hands of the owner of Kooringa Run.
Presently Wallis rose. 'Come, let us go down to Jack and Nita. They
have forgotten our existence, I believe; Jack is too busy pulling in
whiting and sea-bream to even turn his head to see where we are, and
Nita won't leave him, you may be sure.'
Casalle laughed softly. 'Yes, they get on well together, don't they? I
wonder how long it will be before I see her again,' he added wistfully.
'Not very long, I hope,' said the squatter, cheerfully, 'not long--for
all our sakes. And, although I know what a wrench it will be for you to
leave her, I am sure you are doing wisely in giving her to us until she
is old enough to manage your house in Samoa, when you give up the sea
altogether, and settle down a prosperous planter. And I do not think
that you will be long absent from her at a time. I shall certainly
expect to see you again in less than two years.'
The captain shook his head. 'I lost all I had in the world in the
Bandolier, except her insurance. That will enable me to buy a small
schooner to begin trading again; but I shall have to get long terms from
the Sydney merchants for my trade goods. And I don't see how I am
likely to see Kooringa again in two years--I'll have to make Samoa my
headquarters for the next five, I fear.'
'My dear fellow,' said the squatter, 'you shall do no such thing--I mean
that I am determined not to lose sight of you for five years. Make
Samoa your headquarters if you will, but I might as well tell you now
what I want you to do for me. I want you to let me be your banker. I
am not a very wealthy man, but I can well spare four or five thousand
pounds. And I have written to Sydney to have that sum placed to your
credit in the Bank of Australasia. Look upon it, if you have luck in
your trading ventures, as a loan; if, unfortunately, you should meet
with further misfortune, consider it as a gift, given freely and with
sincere pleasure by one friend to another. With this sum you can get at
least one of the vessels you need, and have enough capital left to buy
all the trade goods you require, and pay for them, instead of
handicapping yourself by giving bills to the Sydney merchants. There is
nothing more harassing and deterrent to a man's energies, than to know
that his credit and reputation are in the hands of people thousands of
miles away. Therefore, my dear Casalle, don't give a bill to any one.
If you find that five thousand pounds will not pull you through, my
agent in Sydney will come to your assistance.... There, there, don't
say another word. 'Twould be "a moighty poor wurruld, indade," as Kate
Gormon says, if we can't help one another. And then I don't want you to
touch the Bandolier's insurance money. A thousand pounds is not much;
leave it to accumulate for little Nita. Then again, as to your crew's
wages, which you were intending to pay out of the insurance--that is all
settled too.'
The seaman's eyes filled. 'Wallis, what can I say? How can I tell you
what I feel? I never had a friend in my life till I met you. My
father, who was a native of Funchal, was killed in a boat accident when
I was a boy of ten. He was a rough Portuguese whaler, and after his
death my mother was left in poverty, and died when I was away at sea, on
my first voyage. My one brother, who was seven years older than me,
also went to sea. I have never seen him since, but heard that long
after he had passed as second mate, he returned to our native island,
only to find that our mother was dead, and that I had gone. Until I met
my wife, who was a native of the New England States, I led the wildest,
the most dissolute----'
The master of Kooringa held up his hand. 'Never mind that, old man.
There are not many--men such as you and I, wanderers on the face of the
earth--who can show a clean sheet. Like you, I was sent out into the
world when a mere boy; but I was less fortunate than you, for instead of
a life of honourable hardship, I was led to look forward to--by my
parents' influence--to one of ease. You, perhaps, were driven to
dissipation when on shore, by the rough life of a whaleship's fo'c'sle.
I led a dissipated and worthless existence, because I was cursed with
ample funds, and but few of my many associates in India, during all the
time I was in the Company's service, had any other thought but of
leading a short life and a merry one, or else making as much money as
possible and returning to England to live upon it. And like you, a good
woman came to my rescue. Now, my dear fellow, let us say no more on this
subject. Come, let us see what Jack has caught.'
Too overcome to find words to express his gratitude for such
unlooked-for generosity from a man who, two months before, had been an
utter stranger, the captain could only wring his companion's hand in
silence.
In another day or two he would have to say good-bye to little Nita and
the master of Kooringa; for the antiquated paddle-wheel coasting steamer
William the Fourth, which called at Port Kooringa every three months,
was then in harbour loading with hides and timber for Sydney, and he had
taken passage by her. Brooker, the chief mate, and the whole of the
crew, had preceded him some weeks by a sailing vessel, and were awaiting
him in Sydney, for no one of them but wanted to sail with him again--and
indeed the feeling that existed between captain and crew was something
more like comradeship than aught else.
But here I am again, drifting away to leeward, and never a word about
the Bandolier herself, and how she came to such mishap, and what
happened between the time of that unlucky fire and now--when the two men
and Nita and Jack are walking slowly home to spend their last night
together in the old house which faced the restless bar.
* * * * *
When the missing boat had sailed past Misty Head at dawn on the day
following the fire, Mr. Wallis had told the officer that they should
reach the boat-harbour just below his house in another three or four
hours; but misfortune overtook them. Twice was the boat, despite the
officer's careful handling of her, filled with lumping seas and swamped,
and in this dangerous situation furious rain-squalls burst upon them,
and lasted almost without cessation for two hours. So darkness had set
in ere they landed at the little boat-harbour, drenched and exhausted,
and the first intimation Captain Casalle had of the safety of the
missing men was by being awakened out of a deep slumber by his American
mate, who was standing at his bedside wringing his hands. He was soon
followed by Mr. Wallis, who congratulated the master of the Bandolier
most warmly upon his escape, and then added a few words of sympathy for
the loss of his wife--the mate already having given him some particulars
of the disaster to the ship and the manner of the poor lady's death.
The moment he had entered the house, old Foster had told him of Tom's
departure the previous day, and expressed some alarm when he found that
his father had not seen him, and Mr. Wallis himself could not repress a
feeling of anxiety. This he tried to put away, by thinking that the lad
would be sure to turn up early on. the following morning. Many things,
he knew, might have happened to delay Tom's return--primarily the fire,
which might have caused him to make a wide detour, or else ride on hard
to Kooringa Cape to avoid it; or perhaps--and this he thought very
probable--the boy had had to take to the beach and wait till the fire
burnt out before going on to the Cape. Nothing, however, could be done
until morning, and in the morning they would be sure to see Tom safely
back, none the worse for his adventure. He was a brave lad, and the
bush and its ways were a second nature to him.
Late that night, as the father and son were talking over the exciting
incidents of the previous day, the captain of the Bandolier tapped at
the dining-room door and then entered, followed by his mate. In a
moment Mr. Wallis was on his feet and making his visitors comfortable,
whilst big red-haired Kate brought in liquor, cigars, and pipes. Then
until long past midnight the three talked, and solemn-faced Jack
listened with devouring interest to the full tale of the wreck of the
Bandolier.
She was a barque of nearly four hundred tons, and Casalle's own vessel.
He, from the time he was a lad of fifteen till he was nearly forty years
of age, had sailed in American whaleships. From 'green hand' he had
risen step by step from boat-steerer to junior officer, then to first
mate, and finally to master; and then, having saved enough money to
embark on a venture of his own, and believing that a fortune awaited him
in the South Seas as a trader, he had bought the Bandolier, and sailed
her out to Samoa. Here he purchased land from the natives for a trading
station, and refitted the barque for her future voyages among the island
groups. His wife, a young American girl, whom he had married in New
London, Connecticut, six years before, had accompanied him with their
little daughter; and whilst he was away in the Bandolier cruising
through the New Hebrides and Solomon Islands, she remained in charge of
the trading station. From the very first he had been fortunate, and at
the end of two years he decided to take a cargo of coco-nut oil and
other island produce to Sydney, sell it there, instead of disposing of
it in Samoa, and invest the proceeds in a fresh supply of goods, which
would practically give him a monopoly of the island trade from Samoa to
the far-away Marshall Islands. But, as he expected to remain in Sydney
for some months whilst the Bandolier underwent extensive repairs, he
determined that his wife and child should accompany him. Then, as he
thought it very likely he would be able to pick up for a low price in
Sydney a small schooner of about a hundred tons, which he intended to
use as a tender to the barque, he shipped ten extra native
sailors--Tahitians, Savage Islanders, and Rotumahans--just the sort of
men he wanted for the work in which the new vessel would be engaged.
'We made a splendid run from Samoa till we were, as I thought, fifty or
sixty miles north of Lord Howe's Island,' Casalle went on to say. 'Then
the weather became squally and generally dirty, and at four o'clock on
the afternoon of the following day I decided to heave-to for the night,
not wishing to attempt to run by the island in the dark, my chronometer
being unreliable. Just before sunset a big, full-rigged American timber
ship, with her decks piled high with lumber, came racing up astern.
Just as she was abreast of the Bandolier, the squall before which she
and my own vessel had been running died away, and as we were within easy
hailing distance I spoke her, and asked the captain for his approximate
position. Much to my satisfaction, it agreed with mine within a mile or
two, so I kept on, expecting to pass Lord Howe's Island about midnight.
The American ship, which was keeping the same course, soon drew away
from us when the next squall came, for the Bandolier was under short
canvas.
'About ten o'clock we were running before what appeared to be a steady
breeze, although the sky was dull and starless. My wife and I were
having a cup of coffee in the cabin, and little Nita was fast asleep,
when, without a word of warning, the ship struck heavily. The moment I
got on deck I saw that there was no hope of saving the ship, for her
bows were jammed into a cleft of a reef, and she was tearing her bottom
to pieces aft, for every sea lifted her, and she soon began to pound
violently upon the rocks. The native crew worked well--we carried but
two white seamen exclusive of my first and second mates--and we got two
of the boats away safely, under the chief mate and boatswain, each one
with a fair amount of provisions and water. Most unfortunately, my poor
wife refused to leave the ship in either of these boats, declaring she
would not leave till I did, in the third and last boat; she, however,
permitted Mr. Brooker here--my chief mate--to take the little girl with
him. Then the child's nurse--a young Samoan native girl--satisfied that
her charge was in safety, begged to remain with her mistress. Poor
Solepa, her affection cost her her life. Five minutes after we struck,
the ship began to fill very rapidly, and I to fear that, before we could
get clear of her in the third boat, she would swing round, slip off into
deep water, and founder, for, although she was still bumping aft with
every sea, she had worked free for'ard.
'Despite the darkness, however, we managed to get the boat ready for
lowering, the second mate and two native sailors jumping into her, so as
to cast her clear of the falls, and bring her astern the moment she
touched the water. This they succeeded in doing, and at that moment,
and whilst the steward, a sailor, and myself, were standing by ready to
lower my wife and the native girl into the boat, the ship gave a sudden
heavy roll to starboard and crashed over on her bilge. Then a black
wall of sea towered high over the buried rail, and fell upon us. What
happened immediately after will never be known, for I was knocked almost
senseless by the sea, which tore my wife from my arms, and then swept us
all over the side together.
[Illustration: THE SHIP GAVE A SUDDEN ROLL AND CRASHED OVER HER BILGE.]
'When I came to, many hours later, I was lying in the mate's boat, and
learnt from him that not only had my wife and those who stood with me on
deck perished, but my young second mate and his two hands as well; for
the same sea which carried us overboard, doubtless capsized the boat,
then hanging on under the counter on the port side, and drowned them
all. When morning broke we were about five miles off the southern end
of Middleton Reef. A wild hope that some of them might yet be alive
impelled me to head back for the reef itself, although I knew it was
generally covered at high water. With the two boats we pulled right
round it--nothing, nothing, Wallis, but the leap and roar of the
thundering surf upon the coral barrier. As for the old Bandolier, she
had slipped off into deep water and disappeared.
'My own escape from death was marvellous. The waiting boats had, in the
darkness, been actually carried over the reef through the surf into
smooth water beyond; then they pulled out through a narrow passage on
the lee side, and returned to the scene of the wreck to look for the
third boat. Suddenly the mate's boat fouled the wreckage of the
deckhouse, mixed up with some of the for'ard spars and canvas, and in
getting clear of it I was discovered lying dead, as was thought, on the
side of the house. Whether I was washed there, or managed to swim
there, I cannot tell. One of the South Sea Islanders jumped overboard,
got me clear, and swam with me to the boat. Then when daylight came ...
as I have said ... we went back to the reef.'
He ceased, for he could speak no longer, and Brooker, the rough American
mate, with a soft, kindly light in his usually stern eyes, took up the
tale.
'And then, yew see, Mr. Wallis, we had nothing to do but to keep away
for Australia. So I went into the small boat, and for about ten days we
kept together; then one night it came on to blow mighty hard from the
south'ard, and when daylight came the captain's boat was not in sight,
and I hed nothin' else to do but keep right on. And now here we are all
together again, and thet little Nita sleepin' as sound and happy as if
there was no sich things as misery and death in the world.' Then he
added savagely, 'I should just like to come across that galoot of a
skipper who was the cause of it all. Why, mister, instead of our being
where we thought we were, we were just running dead in for Middleton
Reef. I guess he had a narrow shave himself, but, anyway, I hope to see
the feller piled up somewhere before I quit sea-goin'.'
Then the two men rose and retired to their rooms, leaving the squatter
and his son to pace to and fro on the verandah and watch for daylight
and Tom.
And then when daylight came, and the sea mist lifted from the long, long
line of curving beach, and Foster, glass in hand, joined his master to
scan the yellow sand, and they saw naught to break its outlines but the
whitening bones of a great fin-back whale, cast ashore a year before,
the master of Kooringa Run turned to the old sailor with trouble in his
eyes.
'Foster, I fear something has gone wrong with the lad. Even if he had
lost his horse, he should have turned up by now. He is too smart a boy
to have let the fire head him off into the ranges. And yet where else
can he be? Anyway, there is no time to lose. Jack, you and Wellington
must saddle up at once, cross the river high up, and work down from the
range till you come to the edge of the burnt country, then follow that
right along to Kooringa Cape. I'll take Combo and Fly, and go along the
beach between the bar and Misty Head. Most likely I'll meet him footing
it home. But hurry, lad, hurry.'
Before noon that day Jack and Wellington were searching the country at
the foot of the ranges, and Mr. Wallis and his party were examining the
beaches beyond Misty Cape.
But never a trace of Tom could be found, though his horse came home next
day. The heavy rain-squalls had obliterated any tracks made on the
beach itself: and so when, after a week's steady search, in which all
the surrounding settlers joined Tom's shirt and trousers were found
lying buried in the sand, by the action of the sea, the heart-broken
father bent his head in silence, and rode slowly home.
And that night, as he and Jack sat with hands clasped together, looking
out upon the wide expanse of the starlit ocean, and thinking of the face
they would never see, and the voice they would never hear again, they
heard poor Kate Gorman, who had just laid her little charge to sleep,
step out into the darkened garden, and, crouching on the ground, wail
out the sorrow her faithful heart could no longer suppress.
Oh, Tom, Tom! the babby that was your mother's own darlin' an' mine, an'
mine, an' mine!'
Old Foster came softly over to her. 'Hush, Kate, hush! The master will
hear you; don't make it harder for him than it is.'