Author of “The Beach of Dreams,” Etc.
Something about the female of the species which most of us
appreciate but seldom realize. It is a tragedy of first
principles, but a tragedy that leaves us satisfied.
Utara lies northeast of Clermont Tonnerre, a high island out of trade
tracks and the most lonely and beautiful in the Pacific.
Lygon sighted it first at dawn one clear, almost windless morning and
from the deck of the _Sarah Dodsley_, a whaler, a year out from New
Bedford.
They had taken the westward trail by Cape Verde round the Horn to New
Zealand and up by the Kermadecs and then between the Gambiers and Low
Archipelago. They were half full of oil, and an offense to the freshness
of the morning, and Lygon, as he stood on the greasy deck with the
perfumed land wind blowing on his face and the first rays of the sun
touching the twin peaks of Utara, thought he saw paradise.
He was a gentleman, and whatever crime or foolishness had pursued him to
New Bedford and chased him aboard the _Sarah Dodsley_ had been paid for
during the last year. The smoke of the try works, the hazing of the
Yankee captain--no honest old whaling captain, but a slim, dried,
sandy-haired east coaster--the clank of the cutting tackles, the very
voices of his companions, had embittered his soul.
The _Sarah Dodsley_ had run out of wood, that was why Captain Sellers
had brought her up to Utara, but he had no intention of entering the
lagoon. He hove to outside the reef and ordered three boats away, under
the direction of the first mate.
Lygon was in the mate’s boat.
They found the break in the reef and entered the lagoon on the swell of
the incoming tide. The level rays of the newly risen sun lit the white
beach down to which trooped the trees--breadfruit and pendanus, artus
and cocoa palms--overshot with flights of colored birds and whispered to
by the morning wind.
On the beach where ten-inch waves were falling, half a dozen natives
stood watching the oncoming boats, and now from a frame house half
hidden in the grove to the right came the figure of a tall old man, a
European, dressed in white clothes and carrying a gun resting on the
crook of his arm.
The people of the island showed no sign of welcome to the newcomers, and
as the boats beached they drew off to the right and stood silent,
observant, and without motion in the shade of the trees.
“Friendly crowd,” said the mate. “Guess they don’t like whalers. Now,
boys, out with the axes and look lively. Follow me, and you, Brown,
stick to the boats and see those Kanakas don’t get handling the gear. If
you have any trouble give a blow on this whistle.”
He handed over the whistle and, leading the axmen, walked up the beach
and vanished in the woods.
Brown was the name Lygon was known by on the _Sarah Dodsley_ .
Lygon had made his plan even as they were crossing the lagoon. He had
expected to be among the woodcutters and he had planned to escape the
moment they were among the trees. The post of boat tender made the thing
more difficult, for the island crowd, headed by the old man with the
gun, were watching him and seemingly with no friendly eyes.
He was not a moment in making up his mind. Leaving the boats to look
after themselves, he walked up the burning white beach toward the
Kanakas. As he came he noticed that the old man shifted his hold on the
gun.
Within speaking distance he halted.
“What is it you want?” asked the man with the gun. He spoke with a
French accent and Lygon, close to him, now took heart. Here was a man of
his own class, a fine type of Frenchman, upstanding for all his years,
and with a level, open gaze that compelled trust from all but the
untrustworthy.
“I want to escape,” said he, speaking in French. “That ship is a whaler.
I have been on her a year, and it’s either escape or death for me.”
“You are English,” said the other, “though you speak my language well,
and a gentleman. What brought you on board her?”
“Foolishness,” said Lygon.
The old man was silent for a moment, gazing at him as if he would read
his very soul. Then he spoke.
“We have had two whalers here,” said he, “and we want no more.”
“I can well understand that,” said Lygon.
“Those men are even now cutting down our trees without permission,” said
the other. “Let them go beyond that----” He slipped his hand on the gun
stock. It was a Winchester repeater.
Lygon nodded.
“They take even the lives and liberty of men,” said he, “just as they
are taking your trees. You can understand why I want to escape.”
“My name is Captain Charles Jourdain,” said the old man, “and yours?”
“George Lygon--that is my real name--on board that ship of the infernal
regions I was known by the name of Brown.” The old man looked at him
again long and thoughtfully.
Then he turned on his heel. “Follow me,” said he.
Lygon followed him among the trees toward the house. As they passed the
house door a little girl came out, the prettiest child in the world, a
half-caste, with a flower of the scarlet hibiscus showing in the dusk of
her hair.
“My little daughter,” said Captain Jourdain. Then to the child: “Kineia,
the bad white men are still here. Listen, they are cutting our trees.
Here is one we must hide from them. Should they come here you will say
nothing of him.”
“Nothing, father,” said Kineia, gazing at the stranger with wide-pupiled
eyes.
The captain led the way round to the storehouses. He was the sole trader
on this island, working the business with his own schooner and through
an agent in San Francisco. He passed the go-downs where copra was stored
and led the way to a building behind them where he kept trade goods.
“You will be safe here,” said the captain, unlocking the door, “and
Kineia will bring you some food. You could, of course, hide in the
woods, but it is safer here--with the key in my pocket.”
Lygon went in and the captain turned the key on him.
Just at that moment the Yankee mate, coming out on the beach from among
the trees, found Lygon gone. He was about to raise a hue and cry and
call off the wood parties for a search, then he got command of himself.
To search these woods would take a week, and if Lygon’s escape were
known it might set an example to the others and half a dozen men might
be lost. So instead of making a fuss, he told the others that “Brown”
had been sent off to try and get fruit.
They did not know the truth of the matter till the wood was aboard and
the _Sarah Dodsley’s_ stern was turned to Utara, dark against a blazing
sunset.