BRISTOL BOB.
“Well, this here be a queer craft, and no mistake,” said our new friend,
who told us his name was “Bristol Bob,” or “Bob” for short, when he had
squatted down on the after-deck alongside of Tom, who was steering.
“Now, mates, fighting’s thirsty work; haven’t you ever a drop to drink,”
asked Bristol Bob, “and a bit of bacca?”
I at once got him a drink of water, and said I’d hunt up some tobacco
and a pipe for him.
“Water, lad? Well, I’ll have a drink; but haven’t you got anything
better—no rum nor square gin?”
“There is a bottle of spirits, which we have kept; but it’s stowed away,
and I can’t get it out unless we unstow the whole boat,” I answered.
“Never mind,” replied Bristol Bob, “I can do without it till we land.
Fancy, lads, it’s three months since I’ve had a tot of grog, and till
another trader comes round I shall have to go thirsty.”
All three of us—Tom, Bill, and myself—did not much care about this,
for on board the _Golden Fleece_ we had seen quite enough of the evils
of drunkenness, and looked at each other rather gloomily. But all of a
sudden I noticed that Bristol Bob’s shirt was stained with blood, and
said to him,—
“Why, you’re wounded.”
“Why, yes, lad,” he said, “I believe I am; but you won’t think much of
such a scratch as that when you’ve been knocking about as many years as
I have.”
Tom and I, however, insisted on examining his wound while Bill steered,
and pulling off his shirt we found under his left arm a small, punctured
wound from which the blood was oozing slowly.
“Ah,” said Tom, “it don’t seem much; it ain’t more than a prick.”
One of the natives, however, who was watching what we were about, when
he saw the wound, looked grave, and laying his paddle in, came and
looked at it.
He said something to Bristol Bob which we did not understand, but as
soon as he heard it the latter said,—
“Well, it don’t look much, but it may give me my walking ticket. Here,
take my knife—it’s sharp enough; and if you can feel anything inside,
cut it out.”
Tom felt carefully round the wound, and after some little time said,—
“I feel something like a splinter here, about an inch and a half from
the hole.”
“Cut it out, then,” said Bristol Bob. “Don’t be afeared, but cut well
in.”
Tom said he hardly liked to do so, but the wounded man insisted; so Tom
cut in carefully, and found imbedded in the flesh a splinter of bone as
sharp as a needle and two inches long, which he drew out and gave to his
patient.
“Ah,” he said, “’tis as I thought. It’s one of they bone-pointed arrows
has struck me, and they’s woundy poisonous things.”
I had now taken off my own shirt, which was but a ragged garment, and
begun to tear it into strips to bind the wound up, but Bristol Bob
said,—
“No, lad; don’t bind it up yet. We’ll burn it a bit first to get the
poison out. Have you a cartridge handy?”
“Why, yes,” I said. “What do you want done?”
“Just empty the powder into the cut, and set it alight, and you may give
me the bullet to chew the while.”
I and Tom looked aghast at this proposal; but Bristol Bob insisted, and
laid himself down so that the powder could be put in the wound, and
taking the bullet in his mouth he told us to fire it.
He rolled about and groaned while the powder was fizzing and sputtering,
but less than we had expected; and when it was burned out he gave a long
breath, and said,—
“You can lash it up now, and put some oil or grease on it, if you have
any.”
Fortunately, we had brought a little cocoanut oil from Ring Island with
us, and soaking some rag in this we put it over the burnt wound, and
lashed it in place as well as we were able.
By the time this was done we were past the point from which the canoes
had put out, and saw behind it a large bay, in one corner of which was a
little island some three hundred yards long and a hundred wide, on which
was a hut with whitewashed walls standing in the middle of a grove of
bananas.
“There’s my shanty, lads,” said Bristol Bob, who was smoking his pipe as
if nothing was the matter with him. “I finds it best to be away from the
mainland, for none of these people is to be trusted over much; though
for the matter of that water don’t make much matter to them, for they
swims like fishes. Up there,” he said, pointing to the other side of the
bay, “is Wanga’s village—there where you see the cocoanuts growing in a
cluster.”
We steered for Bristol Bob’s island, and found behind it a perfectly
secure anchorage for the _Escape_, and moored her carefully, and cleared
out all her cargo.
Bristol Bob told us we were welcome to quarters in his house, which
consisted of two rooms, one of which was locked up, being a store, and
the other, twelve feet by twenty, was the living-room and bedroom all in
one.
Close by were half a dozen native huts, which were only like thatched
roofs resting on the ground, without walls, and open at both ends, in
which lived some of the natives who were in his employment.
The men, except those who had come back in the _Escape_ with us, were
away in the war-canoes; but a dozen women and a lot of children were
about, and soon carried up our traps to the house, where we found
Bristol Bob lying down on his bed groaning.
“Are you very bad?” said Tom. “What can we do for you?”
“Nought,” he replied. “It’s only the pain of the burn. But where’s that
bottle of grog you spoke about? I’ll have a tot, and that maybe will
send me to sleep.”
We tried to dissuade him from drinking while he was suffering from his
wound, but it was of no avail. He possessed himself of our bottle, and
drank more than half of it, with the addition of very little water; and
then he put the bottle under his head, saying that it would be handy if
he was thirsty, and soon after fell asleep.
The room was a queer place. In each corner was a sort of bed-place
furnished with blankets and rugs, on one of which Bristol Bob was
sleeping. In the middle was a rude table, not over clean, which, with
some stools and chests, completed the furniture.
We stowed away our belongings, and then, being somewhat hungry, we
thought of getting something to eat, and went outside to find a place
where we could cook; but one of the women, when she saw us making a
fire, made signs that she had something ready for us, and brought in a
large tin dish, in which was a sort of stew of fowls and salt pork, and
two great yams which had been roasted in the ashes, and put them on the
table, with some salt and capsicums.
As she left us when she had placed the food on the table, we supposed we
should have to eat, as we had hitherto been doing, with our knives, and
from the common dish; but Bill, who was always looking into holes and
corners, found a sort of cupboard in one corner of the room in which
were some coarse delft plates, steel forks, and pewter spoons, and also
some drinking-vessels.
“Here we are. We can eat more respectably now,” said Bill. “But, hark!
what’s that noise?”
Boom, boom, boom, came the sound of the huge drums of the natives, and
mingling with their notes were shouts of revelry and shrieks of horror.
Bristol Bob, who had been sleeping, breathing hard and uneasily, began
to move and toss on his bed, and presently sat up and stared around.
“What’s that?” he said. “The death-drums they’re beating for me?”
Tom at once went up to him and asked him how he was, and if he could do
anything for him.
“Who are you?” said the sick man, whose eyes were now lighted up with
the glare of fever. “Where do you come from?” And then, putting his hand
under the pillow, he seized upon the bottle, and putting it to his lips
took a long draught which almost emptied it.
“Ha!” he said, “I have it. Calla and Wanga are having a feast, and
they’ll murder and eat me. Come; there’s not a moment to be lost.”
As he said this, Bristol Bob sprang from his couch; and seizing an axe
which hung on the wall above it, he rushed out of his hut.
We followed him, wondering what he intended to do, and quickly as he
went we were close on his heels, as he made his way to a small mound
some thirty yards away. Here he stopped, and said,—
“Ha! ha! they shan’t eat me yet,” and then stooping down he began to
clear away some leaves and wood, and disclosed a small door set in the
ground and framed with stout posts. This he opened, and disclosed a
passage dug in the ground, down which he went, followed by Bill and me;
while Tom, who feared that Bristol Bob’s ravings might have some
meaning, stopped behind to close and bar the door.
At the end of the passage we came into a chamber about twelve feet
square every way, and here the wounded man struck a light with a flint
and steel, and lighted a rude cocoanut-oil lamp.
By its feeble rays we could see that here were stowed away four or five
kegs and a couple of small boxes. On one of the latter the madman, for
Bristol Bob, from the combined effects of spirits and fever, was now no
better than a maniac, placed the lamp, and then, with his axe, stove in
the head of one of the kegs, which to our horror we saw was full of
gun-powder.
The powder he poured on the floor near the other kegs, and then loosened
their staves by a blow from his axe, so that the powder they contained
would mix with that he had poured on the ground; and then he stood up
and laughed as he rubbed his hands.
“They think they’ll eat Bristol Bob? Not if I knows it. I’ll blow myself
up first.”
Bill and I stood aghast at his proceedings, and even watched Bristol Bob
reach for his lamp to light the powder without interfering or moving,
when Tom, who had secured the door, came down the passage, and saw at a
glance what was going on.
Without any pause or hesitation he dashed at the madman, and snatched
the lamp away and blew it out. Bristol Bob, with a roar like a wild
beast, seized the smouldering wick, and threw it on the powder, where it
lay smoking.
Tom, who was struggling with Bristol Bob, shouted to us to take the wick
off the powder, or we should be all blown up. I was so unmanned by
terror that I covered my eyes and waited for the explosion, paralyzed
with fear, and Bill has since owned to me that he was as frightened as I
was.
The time passed, and no explosion took place, though we could hear the
sound of the struggles of Tom and Bristol Bob as they rolled on the
ground, and the cries of the former to take the wick off the powder.
Finding that we were not blown up, I uncovered my eyes, and saw the wick
still lying on the powder, a dull red spot covered with grey ash at the
end of it; and mustering up all my resolution I stooped down, caught it
away, and extinguished it.
“That’s right,” I heard Tom say. “Here, one of you, help me with this
fellow—he’s most too much for me; and the other go up and unbar the
door, and let’s get out of this.”
I went to Tom’s help, and together we managed to get Bristol Bob down,
while Bill went up and unbarred and opened the door; and then, coming
down to our assistance, he helped to drag the poor fellow back to his
hut, where we placed him on his bed, and tied his hands and feet to
prevent his doing any more mischief. But now he seemed in a sort of
stupor.
This done, Tom replaced the dressing on his wound, and told Bill and me
to go back and close and cover up the door of the place where the powder
was. When this was done we came back to the hut. We found Tom sitting
down with his elbows on his knees, and holding his head between his
hands, while Bristol Bob moaned wearily on his couch; and always we
heard the weird sound of the native drums.
We spoke to Tom two or three times before he looked up, and when he did
he said,—
“I can’t make it out why the powder did not fire. It must have been damp
or something; but anyway, ’tis only by the mercy of God we have been
saved. Let us kneel down and thank Him for preserving us from great
peril, and implore Him to guard us in the future as He has done in the
past.”
When we had finished, I said to him,—
“How is it that you are so different from all other sailors? On board
the _Fleece_, from the captain downwards, every one but you swore and
used bad language.”
“Not from all other sailors, Sam. I learned it aboard of my first ship.
Her captain was really a good man; but there’s no time to talk of these
matters now. I doubt not that Bristol Bob’s madness had some reason in
it, and that over at the chief’s village there’s murder and all sorts of
horrors going on. The sound of them drums goes right through me. Now, if
the idea gets in the savages’ heads to come after us, I don’t believe
Calla nor Wanga nor any of their chiefs could hinder them, so we must
keep a good lookout. I wish they had brought back the little cannon that
was in the canoe.”
“What do you suppose they’d do?” asked Bill.
“Why, they might kill and eat us.”
“Not really. Why can’t we get down to the _Escape_ and get away while
it’s dark?” I said.
“What! with all our provisions and water ashore, and leave this poor
fellow here?” said Tom. “No, we must keep a good lookout until they’re
all quiet, and then to-morrow we can make our plans for going away.”
Even as we were speaking, the drums were beaten with less fury, and the
shouts of the natives were less noisy and frequent; and after about
another half-hour they ceased altogether.
“Now,” said Tom, “you two fellows go to sleep. I’ll look after the sick
man to see if he wants anything. He seems pretty quiet now, so I’ll
unlash his hands and feet.”