THE CASTAWAYS
Quite a new experience it was for Tom to be in command of a steamer,
even though it was a comparatively small craft. And he was in actual
command, for, though Captain Mosher was the navigator, and had all
the powers captains usually have on the high seas, still Tom was the
master, and his orders would be obeyed.
“If only dad and mother were here with me, or if I knew they were safe,
and I had a crowd of fellows from Elmwood Hall here,” Tom reflected,
“this would be sport. But as it is there’s too much worry in it to suit
me.”
Not that he shirked his duty in the least, but it was a big responsibility
for a youth, and none knew it better than Captain Mosher.
“That boy has grit!” the commander exclaimed to his mate. “There ain’t
many lads like him who would start off as he did on such a slim chance
to find his parents. And, after being shipwrecked, he starts off again.”
“Oh, ’e’s H’American!” exclaimed the mate, who was quite a Cockney in
his way. “’E’s H’American, and H’Americans will do hanythink, so I’ve
’eard, sir.”
“Maybe they will. The more credit to ’em.”
“But H’I say, Captain, sir, ’ave you told ’im?”
“Told him what?”
“About them cannibals an’ other unpleasant creatures that may be on the
h’islands where we’re goin’?”
“No, I haven’t told him, but I’m going to. It’s only fair that he
should know about ’em. I think he’s got grit enough to take it.”
And so, after the vessel was well under way, and the captain had
leisure, he sent for Tom, who was in the stateroom that had been
assigned to him, next to the captain’s own quarters.
“Tom, my boy!” exclaimed Mr. Mosher, after a few generalities, “it’s
only fair to tell you that we may have a hard task ahead of us.”
“How so, captain?”
“Well, some of the islands around Tongatabu are inhabited by natives
that are not always friendly.”
“You mean----” and our hero paused apprehensively.
“I mean that--well, at worst, I think, they can but hold your folks
captive, in case the survivors from the shipwreck landed on one of the
unfriendly islands.”
“Hold them captives?”
“Yes. You see these natives are peculiar. They get streaks, I might
say. If a large enough party of whites landed they would be friendly,
and would treat them well. But if only a few were cast on their shores
they might be ugly, and make them prisoners for the sake of what few
possessions they might save from the wreck.”
“And you think my parents may have landed on such an island?”
“It’s possible. I only tell you to prepare you for the worst.”
Tom was silent a moment, and then he said quietly:
“We brought arms along, didn’t we, captain?”
“Yes, Tom, but----”
“Then we’ll use ’em--if we have to!” exclaimed the lad, with an energy
that caused the captain to like him the more. “If any cannibals or
other natives are holding my folks captive we’ll go to the rescue.”
“And I’m with you!” cried the commander, holding out his hand, which
Tom took in a firm grip.
The _Sea Queen_ was a fast little steamer and, favored by good weather,
she made excellent time. In due course the island of Tongatabu was
sighted and one night the vessel Tom had chartered to search for his
parents lay at anchor in the harbor. There was not much of a settlement
on the island in those days, but such as it was there was news to be
had, of a sort, though not the kind Tom wanted.
For he could learn nothing of his parents. There were rumors of wrecks,
and of castaways coming ashore, but none from the _Kangaroo_.
In fact a crew from another wrecked sailing ship had come ashore to
Tongatabu, but they knew nothing of the casting away of the ship on
which Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield had sailed.
“You might do one thing,” said a friendly Englishman who had some
business interests on the island. “I understand there are some natives
here from surrounding islands. You might ask them if they have heard of
any white castaways coming ashore at any of the places where they live.”
Tom and Captain Mosher welcomed the suggestion and followed it. They
found the natives--rather a shiftless lot--and questioned them through
an interpreter. But to no purpose.
The simple black men told stories of wrecks that had happened ten years
back, and related how the castaways from them had come ashore, either
to remain there in an idle existence, or to take the first steamer back
for civilization. There were more rumors, but nothing definite.
“The only thing to do,” decided Captain Mosher, “is to visit all the
islands in the immediate vicinity of Tongatabu. In that way we’ll get
first hand information.”
“And we may find them!” cried Tom eagerly. “Let’s start off again!”
This was about the third day of their stay at Tongatabu and that night
they hoisted anchor, and steamed out of the harbor.
Then began a wearying search. No spot of land was too small to deter
Tom, and at every large island he spent some days, hiring natives to
make a circuit of it, and interviewing, through interpreters, the chief
men.
But all to no purpose. There had been no wrecks in some time, and no
castaways had come ashore. Tom was beginning to get discouraged.
“Oh, there are lots more islands,” Captain Mosher assured him. “We’ll
find ’em yet!”
“H’if the bloody cannibals ain’t het ’em!” said the mate.
“Keep still!” commanded the captain, emphasizing his words with a dig
in the ribs that made his chief officer grunt.
They came one night to the small island of Tahatoo, hardly more than a
dot in the big ocean. But there was a good harbor, in a coral lagoon,
and, as there were signs of a storm, Captain Mosher decided to lay to
there over night.
“And while we’re here we may as well go ashore and see if there is any
news,” spoke Tom. His voice was despondent, for the search had been
wearying and disappointing.
“White mans? No hab white mans and womans here,” said the head native
in his broken English, when Tom and the captain put the question to
him. “No hab wrecks here. If had, Walla he be kind to um. Kind to white
mans and womans. Me is Walla. Walla bery kind. When you sail away,
captain?”
“Why do you want to know?” inquired the commander of the _Sea Queen_,
suspiciously, for usually the natives were only too glad to have a
steamer spend some days at one of their islands.
“Oh, me just ask for friendly like. When you go?”
“In the morning, if the weather’s good,” was the answer.
“Walla t’ink wedder good,” said the native grinning. “You go mornin’.”
“Tom, there’s something wrong here!” said the commander a little later,
as he and our hero walked down toward the beach. “That native is
altogether too anxious to get rid of us.”
“Why--do you think----” began Tom, his heart beating fast.
“I don’t know what to think, my boy, but----”
“Do you imagine dad and mother--may have been here?”
“I don’t know, but I think that Walla knows something. I think we’ll
just stroll around a bit, and we don’t leave to-morrow, no matter what
the weather is.”
Their minds filled with strange thoughts, the two strolled back toward
the native village. The hut where Walla, the head man lived, was easily
distinguished by its size. Around it were other places where the poorer
natives stayed.
As Tom and Captain Mosher tried to pass through an alley that led past
Walla’s hut, a big black man stopped them with a gesture.
“No can go,” he said, grinning.
“Why not?” asked Tom.
“No can go. Walla he say so. No can go. After a bit maybe can go.”
“We’re going now!” cried Captain Mosher with sudden energy. “Tom, my
boy, there’s something on foot here. Draw your revolver and follow me.
We’ll see what’s up.”
“No can go!” insisted the native guard.
“We’re going!” cried the captain. “Come on, Tom!”
Tom sprang to the commander’s side. In the gathering dusk they could
observe signs of activity about a hut that adjoined Walla’s. A number
of native men and women were moving about it.
Suddenly a shout was heard. A voice was raised in angry protest. And
the words were English.
“I’ll not go! I’ll not submit to this any longer! Where is your head
man? What does he mean by taking us away from where we were fairly
comfortable, and sending us somewhere else? What does it mean?”
For a moment Tom and the captain stood as if paralyzed. Then a woman’s
sob was heard.
“White men! White men, by Jove!” cried the captain.
“My father!” shouted Tom. “That’s my father’s voice! I’d know it
anywhere! He’s here! I’ve found him! Dad! Mother! I’ve come to rescue
you! I’m here! We’re coming!”
Tom sprang toward the knot of natives, Captain Mosher at his side. For
a moment the blacks resisted. Tom fired into the air, and the captain
did likewise. With yells of fear the natives fled, and there, in the
fast-gathering dusk, in front of the hut next to that of Walla, stood a
little group of white castaways--Tom’s father and mother among them!