An exclamation of horror burst from Harvey as the boat, with its panting
crew, dashed up alongside that of the chief mate.
“For God's sake, Tessa, do not look!” he cried hoarsely.
For the half-sunken boat was a shambles, and of her nine occupants
only three were alive--the second steward Jessop, Morrison, and Oliver
himself. The latter lay in the stern sheets with a bullet hole through
his chest, and a smashed hip; he had but just time to raise his hand in
mute farewell to Harvey and Atkins, and then breathed his last.
Morrison, whose spine was broken by a Winchester bullet, but who was
perfectly conscious, was at once lifted out and placed in Atkins's boat,
and Tessa, with the tears streaming down her pale face, and trying hard
to restrain her sobs, pillowed his old, grey head upon Atkins's coat.
Then Jessop, who was evidently still in agony from his broken ribs,
one of which, so Morrison said in a faint voice, had, he thought, been
driven into his lungs, was placed beside him.
Poor Studdert and the five native seamen were dead, some of them having
received as many as five or six bullet wounds. Studdert himself had been
shot through the head, and lay for'ard with his pale face upturned to
the sky, and his eyes closed as if in a peaceful sleep.
The boat had been pierced in several places below the water-line by
Snider bullets, and by the time Morrison and Jessop had been removed,
and Harvey and Atkins had satisfied themselves that the other seven men
in her were dead, she was nearly full of water--not the clear, bright
water of the ocean alone, but water deeply stained with the blood of the
murdered men.
“We must cast off,” said Atkins in a low voice, “we can do no more.”
As he spoke a bullet from Chard's Snider struck the water about thirty
yards away, and springing up, he seized his own rifle again.
Huka placed his hand on the officer's arm, and then turned to Harvey
and spoke in Samoan, gravely and with solemn emphasis, though his brown
cheeks were wetted with tears.
“Let us take no heed of the bullets that come. Here be six dead men
whose souls have gone to God for judgment. Let us pray for them.”
Atkins, his blazing eyes fixed on the captain's boat, from which every
few seconds a bullet came humming overhead, or striking the water within
a few yards, laid down the rifle and took off his cap.
“Go ahead, Huka. You're a better Christian than me. Sling out a prayer
for these poor chaps as quick as you can. We can't bury them in a
decent, shipshape fashion.”
Two men stepped into the sinking, shot-torn boat, and then Huka stood
up amidships among his comrades, with bowed head, and his hands crossed
upon his great naked chest. He prayed in Samoan.
“_O Jehovah, who holdeth the great sea in the hollow of Thy hand, we
commit to its depths these the bodies of our shipmates who have been
slain. O Father', most just and most merciful, let them become of Thy
kingdom. Amen_.”
Then, one by one, the bodies of Studdert and of the five natives were
dropped overboard by the two seamen as reverently as circumstances
permitted, and in silence broken only by the suppressed sobbing of the
two girls.
Such stores as were in poor Oliver's boat were next taken out, and then
the wrecked and bloodstained craft was cast adrift and left to fill.
As the second mate grasped the haft of the steer-oar again another shot
from the captain's boat fell some distance ahead.
“He's running away from us as fast as he can,” said Harvey; “look, he's
hauled up a couple of points!”
“Ay, so he has. And our short Sniders won't carry any further than the
one he's firing with, so we have no chance of hitting him, I'm afraid.
However, just let us try. How many Sniders have we?”
“Seven.”
“Avast pulling, lads. We'll give him a parting shot together. Maybe we
might drop a bullet into him. Get out the other five Sniders, Harvey;
the Winchesters are no use at such a range.”
The boat was swung broadside on, and the two white men and five natives
fired a volley together. Tessa stood up on the after-thwart, and watched
through Atkin's glasses; the heavy bullets all fell short.
“Never mind, lads,” said Atkins. “God Almighty ain't going to let those
two men escape. Now, Harvey, what about ourselves? What is it to be?
Ponape, or the nearest land?”
“The nearest land, tor Gawd's sake,” sobbed Jessop. “I ain't got long to
live, and for Christ's sake don't chuck me overboard to be chawed up by
the sharks like a piece o' dead meat.”
“Man,” said a faint voice beside him, “ye're ower particular, I'm
thinking. And it would be a verra hungry shark that wad hae the
indecency to eat such a puir chicken-hearted creature as yourself, ye
miserable cur! Are ye no ashamed to be whining before the two lasses?”
It was the dying Morrison who spoke. Tessa bent over him. “Do not be
angry with him,” she whispered, “he is in great agony.”
“Ay, I hae no doubt he's in verra great pain; but ye see, my dear, I'm
auld and crotchety, and the creature's verra annoying wi' his whining
and moaning and fearsome blasphemy.”
Tessa, who knew as well as the brave old man knew himself that he was
dying, placed her soft hand on his rugged brow in silent sympathy; he
looked up at her with a cheerful smile.
Harvey and Atkins consulted. Ponapé was between four and five hundred
miles distant, a long voyage for a deeply-laden boat without a sail. Two
hundred miles to the westward was Pikirami Atoll (the “Greenwich Island”
of the charts), and a hundred and eighty miles north of that was Nukuor,
the most southerly of the vast archipelago of the Caroline Islands.
“I don't know what is best for us to do, Atkins,” said the trader. “At
this time of the year we can count upon every night being such as it was
last night, perhaps a great deal worse; and we must either turn tail
to the squalls or put out a sea anchor and drift. This means that
we'll make no headway at all at night time, and be set steadily to the
westward, and out of our course for Ponapé. If we had a sail it would
be right enough, as we could lay up for there--within a couple of points
anyway. But we have no sail, and willing as the men are to pull, it will
be terribly exhausting.”
Atkins nodded. “Just so, Mr. Carr. If, as you say, we had a sail it
would be different. Without one it may take us a fortnight or more to
get to Ponapé.”
“Quite. Now on the other hand, Pikirami Lagoon lies less than a hundred
and fifty miles dead to leeward of us. It is low, but I don't think we
shall miss it if we steer W. by S., as on the south end there is a coral
mound about a hundred feet high. If we do miss it we can steer south for
New Ireland; we can't miss _that_ if we tried to, and would get there
sooner than we could reach Ponapé. Then there is another advantage in
our making for Pikirami--we can run before the night squalls, and the
harder they blow the better it will be for us--we'll get there all the
sooner.”
Then Harvey went on to say that at Piki-rami--which he knew well--they
would meet with a friendly reception from the few natives who inhabited
two islets out of the thirty which formed the atoll. Twice every year
the place was visited by a small German trading schooner from Blanche
Bay, in New Britain, and possibly, he thought, they might either find
her there loading a cargo of copra; or, if not, they could wait for her.
In the latter case he would on Tessa's behalf charter the vessel to take
them all to Ponapé, for her father's name and credit were well known
from one end of the Pacific to the other, and there would be no
difficulty in making terms with the master.
Atkins agreed willingly to Harvey's suggestions, for he well knew the
great risks that would attend the attempt to reach Ponapé under such
circumstances as were theirs; and the native crew, much as they wished
to pursue the captain and wreak their vengeance upon him and the
supercargo, readily acquiesced in Harvey's plan of steering for Pikirami
Lagoon in when he pointed out to them the difficulties and dangers that
lay before them by making for Ponapé, or, indeed, any other island of
the Caroline Group.
“And those men there,” said Harvey, speaking in Samoan, and pointing
to the captain's boat, which was now more than a mile distant, “cannot
escape punishment for their crimes; for is not this the word of God:
'Thou shalt do no murder'? And those two men have done murder, and God
will call them to account.”
Roka, the big Manhikian native, whose brother had been killed, answered
for himself and his comrades in the same tongue.
“Ay, that is true. But yet it is hard that I, whose brother's blood is
before my eyes and the smell of it in my nostrils, cannot see these men
die. How can we tell, master, that men will judge them for their crimes?
They are sailing away, and may reach some country far distant, and so be
safe.”
Harvey partly assented. “They may escape for a time, Roka, but not for
long. Rest assured of that.”
Then a tot of rum was served out to each man, and the boat's head put
W. by S. for Pikirami Lagoon, while Tessa and Maoni set to work under
Atkins's directions to sew together some odd pieces of calico and navy
blue print, which Latour the steward had fortunately thrust into the
sack containing the firearms. When it was completed it made a fairly
sized squaresail, which could always be used during light winds.
The captain's boat had disappeared from view, when Jessop the second
steward beckoned to Harvey to come to him.
“Ask the young lady to go for'ard, mister, will you?” he said, turning
his haggard eyes upon the trader's face. “I feel as 'ow I'm goin', an' I
said I would make a clean breast of it. But I don't want 'er to 'ear; do
ye twig, mister, though I'll tell you and Mr. Hatkins?”
Harvey nodded, and whispered to Tessa to go for'ard. “The poor little
beggar is dying, Tessa, and has something to tell me.”
Tessa and Maoni went for'ard and sat down under the shade of the
newly-made mainsail, which was hoisted upon an oar with a bamboo yard.
There they were quite out of hearing of the vile confession of Jessop's
complicity with Chard and the captain made by the wretched man, who
was now sinking fast, and knew that his hours were numbered, for, as
Morrison had surmised, one of his lungs was fatally injured. And when he
had finished the low-spoken tale of his villainy even the rough-natured
Atkins was filled with pity when he saw how the poor wretch was
suffering, both physically and mentally.
“You've done right, Jessop, in telling us this; it'll be all the better
for you when you have to stand before the Almighty, won't it, Mr. Carr?”
“Yes, indeed, Jessop,” said Harvey kindly; “and I wish we could do
something to alleviate your pain, poor fellow!”
“Never mind, sir. You're a gent if ever there was one, and you 'as taken
away a lot o' the pain I've 'ad in me 'eart by forgivin' me. And perhaps
the young lady will just let me tell 'er I'm sorry, and give me 'er 'and
before I go.”
Atkins beckoned to Tessa, who came quickly aft and knelt beside the
dying man, who looked into her soft, sympathetic face longingly yet
fearfully.
“I'm a bad lot, miss, as Mr. Carr will tell you when I'm dead. It was
me that give you and Monny the drugged coffee, and I want you to forgive
me, an' give me your 'and.”
Tessa looked wonderingly at Harvey, who bent towards her and whispered a
few words. In an instant she took Jessop's hand between both of hers.
“Poor Jessop,” she said softly, “I forgive you freely, and I do hope you
will get better soon.”
He looked at her with dimmed, wistful eyes. “Thank you, miss. You're
very kind to a cove like me. Will you 'old me 'and a bit longer,
please.”
Early in the afternoon, as the boat slipped lazily over the gentle ocean
swell, he died. And though Atkins and Harvey would have liked to have
acceded to his last wishes to be buried on shore, stern necessity
forbade them so doing, for they knew not how long it would be ere they
reached Pikirami; and so at sunset his body was consigned to the deep.
*****
For the rest of that day, and during the night, when the white rain
squalls came with a droning, angry hum from the eastward and drenched
the people with a furious downpour, flattening the heaving swell with
its weight, the boat kept steadily on her course; and, but for the
shadow of death which hourly grew darker over poor Morrison, the
voyagers would have talked and laughed and made light of their sodden
and miserable surroundings. Morrison himself was the most cheerful man
in the boat, and when Atkins and Harvey rigged an oilskin coat over him
to keep the rain from his face at least he protested as vigorously as
he could, saying that he did not mind the rain a bit, and urging them
to use it to protect “the two lassies” from the blinding and deafening
downpour.
*****
Dawn at last.
The misty sea haze lifted and scattered before the first breath of the
gentle breeze, a blood-red sun leapt from the shimmering water-line to
windward; a frigate bird and his mate swept swiftly through the air
from the westward to view the dark spot upon the ocean two thousand feet
below, and day had come again.
Tessa had the engineer's old, grey head pillowed on her lap. Harvey held
his right hand, and Atkins, who knew that the end was near, had taken
off his soddened cap, and bent his face low over the haft of the
steer-oar.
“Do you feel any pain, Mr. Morrison?” asked Tessa, as she stroked the
old man's face, and tried to hide her tears.
“Well, I wouldna be for saying no, and I wouldna be for saying yes, my
dearie,” replied the brave old fellow; “I'm no complaining aboot mysel',
but I'd like to see ye 'saft and warm,' as we Scots say, instead of
sitting here wi' my auld, greasy head in your lap, and your ain puir
body shivering wi' cauld. Gie me your hand, Harvey Carr... and yours
too, Miss Remington.... May God guide ye both together; and you too,
Atkins, for ye are a guid sailor man, and a honest one, too. And if ye
can get to this lagoon in time--ye know what I mean--ye'll pit my auld
bones under God's earth and no cast me overboard?”
Atkins was beside him in a moment. “Brace up, Morrison, old man, you're
a long way off dead yet,” he said, with rough sympathy.
“Nay, Atkins, I'm verra near... verra near. But I hae no fear. I'm no
afraid of what is to come; because I hae a clean sheet o' my life to
show to the Almighty--I'm no like that puir devil Jessop. Harvey man,
listen to me. Long, long ago, when I was a bairn at my mother's knee, I
read a vairse of poetry which has never come to my mind till now, when
I'm verra near my Maker, I canna repeat the exact words, but I think it
goes like this,” he whispered,
“'He who, from zone to zone,
Guides o'er the trackless main the sea-bird's flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone
Will guide my steps aright.'”
“May God guide us all as He guides the sea-bird, and as He has guided
you,” said Tessa sobbingly, as she pressed her lips to his cheek.
Morrison took her hand and held it tightly,
“God help and bless ye, lassie. May ye and Harvey never see the shadow
of a sorrow in your lives. Atkins, ye'll tak' guid care to remember that
there is a hundred and sixty-three pounds due to me frae Hillingdon and
MacFreeland, and that if ye do not care to take it yoursel', it must go
to auld John Cameron, the sailors' parson in Sydney. Ye hae ony amount
of witnesses to hear what I'm now telling ye. I'm no for being long wi'
ye, and I dinna want yoursel' nor auld Jock Cameron to be robbed.”
“I'll see that the old parson gets it, Morrison,” said Atkins huskily;
“he'll do more good with it than a man like me.”
“Man,” said the old engineer, as he lifted his kindly grey eyes to the
second mate, “ye're welcome to it. I wish it were a thousand, for ye're
a grand sailor man, wi' a big heart, and maybe ye hae some good woman
waiting for ye; and a hunner and sixty pound is no sma' help to----”
His voice failed, but his lips were smiling still as he gave his last
sigh; and then his head lay still in Tessa's arms.