“Well, hims walk de plank like a man,” continued Ebony, “hims dood eberyting like a man. An’ w’en hims topple into de sea hims give sitch a most awful wriggle dat his bonds bu’sted. But hims berry sly, was Massa Zeppa—amazin’ sly. I t’ought him lie on’s back zif him be dead. Jest move a leetle to look like drownin’, an’ w’en he long way astern, he slew round, off wid de hanky fro hims eyes an’ larf to hisseff like one o’clock. Den he swum’d to a island an’ git ashore, and climb up de rocks, an’ sit down—an’—an’—dat’s all.”
“What! be that all?” asked Waroonga.
“Dat’s all,” repeated the negro. “I no dream no more arter dat, ’cause I was woked by a fly what hab hoed up my nose, an’ kep’ bumblin’ in it like steam inside ob a kittle.”
“Well, Ebony,” asked Orlando, “what conclusions do you draw from that dream?”
“I di’nt draw no kungklooshins from it ’cos I dunno what de are. Nebber hab notin’ to do wid what I don’ understan’. But what I was t’ink was dis: in de days ob old, some time after Adam an’ Eve was born, a sartin king, called Fair-ho, or some sitch name (Waroonga there knows all about him) had a dream, that siven swine came up—”
“Kine, Ebony—not swine,” interrupted the missionary, with a good-humoured smile, “which is all the same as cows.”
“Well, den, siven fat cows come up out ob a ribber, an’ hoed slap at siven thin cows—mis’rable skinny critters that—”
“All wrong, Ebony,” again interrupted Waroonga. “It’s just the other way. The skinny ones went at the fat ones.”
“Well, ob course you must be right,” returned the negro, humbly, “though I’d have ’spected it was t’other way. But I s’pose the skinny ones was so hungry that the fat ones hadn’t a chance wid ’em. However, it don’t matter. What I was goin’ to say was that a good man, called Joseph, went to Fair-ho an’ ’splained all his dream to him. Now, if Joseph could do dat, why shouldn’t Waroonga ’splain my dream to me?”
“Because I’s not Joseph, Ebony, an you’re not Pharoah,” returned Waroonga promptly.
Tomeo and Buttchee turned looks of inquiry on Ebony as if to say, “What d’ye say to that?” But the black said nothing for some moments. He seemed not to have viewed the matter in that light.
“Well, I don’no,” he said at last with a deep sigh, “I t’ought I’d get hold ob suthin’ when I kitch hold ob dat dream. But, I do b’lieve myself, dat part of it means dat Zeppa hims git on an island, anyhow.”
“If my dear father got upon anything, it must have been an island,” said Orlando sadly.
“That’s troo,” remarked Mrs Waroonga. “Keep your mouth shut, my da’lin’.”
She referred to her brown baby, which she placed with some violence on her knee. It is well to remark here that little Zariffa had been supplied with a coal-scuttle bonnet proportioned to her size, made by her mother out of native straw, and that she did not wear anything else in the way of costume.
After Ebony’s dream had been thoroughly discussed in all its bearings, and viewed in every possible point of relation to their great sorrow, the council adjourned, as usual, to various duties about the flourishing little village, and Orlando went to lay the result before his mother, who, although she could not believe these deliberations would end in anything practical, found it impossible, nevertheless, to resist the influence of so much faith and strong hopefulness, so that she was somewhat comforted, as it were, in spite of herself. Time flew by, and upwards of three years elapsed without anything happening at Ratinga Island to throw a single ray of light on the fate of the lost man.
During that period, however, much that was interesting and encouraging occurred to comfort the heart of the native missionary and the sorrowing Marie Zeppa. In the first place they received several visits from the mission-vessel, with small supplies of such luxuries as sugar, tea, and coffee for the body, and, for the spirit, a few bundles of tracts and books printed in the native tongue, among which, you may be sure, were many copies of the Book of books, the blessed Bible. Carpenters’ and smiths’ tools were also brought to them, so that they not only carried on their house-building and other operations with greater ease than heretofore, but even essayed the building of small boats with considerable success.
On the occasion of these visits, supplies of clothing were also left for the use of those converts who could be persuaded to put them on. But in these matters of taste Waroonga was not so successful as he had been in spiritual things. After his first disastrous landing, he had found no difficulty in persuading the natives to burn their false gods, and put away their too numerous wives—reserving only one to each man;—but when it was suggested that the usual bit of cloth round the loins was not quite sufficient for Christians, and that additional clothing was desirable, they betrayed decided symptoms of a tendency to rebel.
Savages in all parts of the world are usually much influenced for good or evil by the example of their chiefs. Those of Ratinga were no exception to the general rule, and the chiefs Tomeo and Buttchee did not encourage the putting on of clothes. In the matter of head-dress they had indeed given in; but when one day, Waroonga presented Tomeo with a pair of what are called slop-made trousers, and advised him to put them on, slapping his own at the same time, and asserting (we trust truthfully) that they were comfortable, Tomeo looked at them with an air of contempt and Buttchee, who was irreverent, laughed.
After much persuasion, however, and being good-natured, he consented to try. He got one leg in easily enough, but when he attempted to put in the other, not being accustomed to the feat, he staggered and had to let the leg down. Raising it a second time, he made a successful plunge, got the foot in, lost his balance, made a frantic effort to disengage his foot, and fell to the ground.
“Sit down, my friend, and try it again,” said Waroonga, encouragingly.
Our missionary was of a gentle, loving disposition. His successes were in every case the result of suasion. He never sought to coerce men. Tomeo with childlike simplicity rebuked his own awkwardness, and humbly seated his huge body on a bank for another effort. In this position he got his legs easily into the trousers and drew them on, but when he stood up to complete the operation, it was found that they were very much too small for him, besides which he had put them on with the back to the front!
“Ah! my friend, they do not fit,” said Waroonga, thinking it unnecessary to refer to the error. “I will find a larger pair for you in the store. But try this coat. It is the kind worn by the white man when he goes to see his friends. It will be much easier to put on, I think.” So saying, Waroonga produced a blue surtout with bright brass buttons.
“No,” said Tomeo, drawing himself up with dignity, and putting the garment aside, “I do not require it. Has not a coat of skin been given to me? I want no other.”
And truly, the dark brown skin which fitted so perfectly to his muscular frame—tattooed as it was with many elegant devices—seemed to warrant his rejection of the ill-made surtout. But in Ratinga, as elsewhere, tastes differ. Buttchee’s fancy was caught by the brass buttons, and he volunteered to put on the coat, although he had looked with scorn on the trousers.
Like his brother chief, however, he experienced considerable difficulty, especially in distinguishing the difference between the left arm-hole and the breast pocket, despite the able assistance of Waroonga. At last he got the coat partially on, and with a mighty heave, forced it upon his broad shoulders. Then he stood with arms awkwardly curved and extended, uncertain what to do next. He was by no means properly into the garment, and his look of solemn inquiry said as much to the missionary.
“Try another heave, my friend,” said Waroonga, in a tone of encouragement.
Buttchee tried, with the result of a mysterious and incomprehensible noise at his back.
“What is that?” he said quickly, with looks of alarm, as he endeavoured to glance over his shoulder.
“I fear,” replied Waroonga with some hesitation, “th
at the coat has burst!”
There could be no doubt whatever about that, for a long strip of the chief’s back was visible, as if a gusset of brown leather had been introduced into the blue coat, from the waist to the collar.
For a considerable time after this, both chiefs declined further experiments in the clothing way, but ultimately Tomeo was induced to wear a striped flannel jersey, and Buttchee, of his own accord, adopted a scarlet flannel petticoat that had been given to his wife. Thus was the ice of conservatism broken in the island of Ratinga, and liberal views prevailed thenceforward in the matter of costume—whether to the advancement of taste and decency remains to this day an open question, as all liberal and conservative questions will probably remain till the crack of doom.
One day, to the inexpressible surprise and joy of the islanders, a large vessel was seen to pass through the narrow opening in the coral reef, and cast anchor in the lagoon. The excitement on Ratinga was great, for vessels rarely had occasion to visit the island, although some of them, probably South Sea whalers, were seen to pass it on the horizon two or three times a year.
Immediately four canoes full of natives put off to visit the stranger; but on reaching her they were sternly told to keep off, and the order was silently enforced by the protruding muzzle of a carronade, and the forbidding aspect of several armed men who looked over the side. “We are men of peace,” said Waroonga, who was in the foremost canoe, “and come as Christian friends.”
“We are men of war,” growled one of the men, “an’ don’t want no friends, Christian or otherwise.”
“We came to offer you hospitality,” returned the missionary in a remonstrative tone.
“An’ we came to take all the hospitality we want of you without waitin’ for the offer,” retorted the sailor, “so you’d better go back to where you came from, an’ keep yourselves quiet, if ye don’t want to be blowed out o’ the water.”
This was sufficient. With disappointed looks the natives turned their canoes shoreward and slowly paddled home.
“Depend upon it, this is another pirate,” said Orlando, when Waroonga reported to him the result of his visit.
“What would you advise us to do?” asked Waroonga.
Lest the reader should be surprised at this question, we must remind him that Orlando had, in the course of these three years, grown up almost to manhood. The southern blood in his veins, and the nature of the climate in which he had been born and brought up, may have had something to do with his early development; but, whatever the cause, he had, at the early age of eighteen, become as tall and nearly as powerful as his father had been, and so like to him in aspect and manner, that the natives began to regard him with much of that respect and love which they had formerly entertained towards Antonio. Of course Orlando had not the sprinkling of grey in his short black curly hair which had characterised the elder Zeppa; but he possessed enough of the black beard and moustache, in a soft rudimental form, to render the resemblance to what his sire had been very remarkable. His poor little mother left the management of all her out-of-door affairs with perfect confidence to her son. Tomeo and Buttchee also had begun to regard him as his father’s successor.
“I would advise you to do nothing,” said Orley, in reply to Waroonga’s question, “beyond having all the fighting men of the village prepared for action, and being ready at a moment’s notice to receive the strangers as friends if they choose to come as such.”
“Well, then, Orley, I will be ready for them, as you tell to me, if they comes in peace; if not, you must go and carry out your own advice, for you is manager of all secular affairs here.”
In the afternoon a large boat, full of men armed to the teeth, put off from the side of the strange vessel, which was barque-rigged, and rowed to the beach near the mouth of a small stream. Evidently the object of the visit was to procure fresh water. Having posted his men in ambush, with orders to act in strict accordance with his signals, Orlando sauntered down alone and unarmed to the place where the sailors were filling their water-casks.
“Is your captain here?” he asked quietly.
The men, who were seemingly a band of thorough ruffians, looked at him in surprise, but went on filling their casks.
“I am the captain,” said one, stepping up to the youth with an insolent air.
“Indeed!” said Orlando, with a look of surprise.
“Yes, indeed, and let me tell you that we have no time to trouble ourselves wi’ you or yours; but since you’ve put yourself in our power, we make you stay here till we’ve done watering.”
“I have no intention of leaving you,” replied Orley, seating himself on a rock, with a pleasant smile.
“What d’ee say to kidnap the young buck?” suggested one of the men; “he might be useful.”
“Perhaps he might be troublesome,” remarked Orlando; “but I would advise you to finish your work here in peace, for I have a band of three hundred men up in the bush there—not ordinary savages, let me tell you, but men with the fear of God in their hearts, and the courage of lions in their breasts—who would think it an easy matter to sweep you all off the face of the earth. They are ready to act at my signal—or at my fall—so it will be your wisdom to behave yourselves.”
The quiet, almost gentle manner in which this was said, had a powerful effect on the men. Without more words they completed the filling of the casks, and then, re-embarking, pushed off. It was obvious that they acted in haste. When they had gone about a couple of boat-lengths from the beach, one of the men rose up with a musket, and Orlando distinctly heard him say—
“Shall I send a bullet into him?”
“If you do, the captain will skin you alive,” was the reply from one of the other men.
The alternative did not seem agreeable to the first speaker, for he laid down his musket, and resumed his oar.
Soon after the boat reached her, the sails of the stranger were spread, and she glided slowly out of the lagoon.
CHAPTER FOUR
Let us waft ourselves away, now, over the sea, in pursuit of the strange barque which had treated the good people of Ratinga so cavalierly.
Richard Rosco sits in the cabin of the vessel, for it is he who commands her. He had taken her as a prize, and, finding her a good vessel in all respects, had adopted her in preference to the old piratical-looking schooner. A seaman stands before him.
“It is impossible, I tell you,” says Rosco, while a troubled expression crosses his features, which have not improved since we saw him upwards of three years ago. “The distance between the two islands is so great that it is not probable he traversed it in a canoe, especially when we consider that he did not know the island’s name or position, and was raving mad when I put him ashore.”
“That may be so, captain,” says the sailor: “nevertheless I seed him with my own eyes, an no mistake. Didn’t you say he was a man that nobody could mistake, tall, broad, powerful, handsome, black curly hair, short beard and moustache, with sharp eyes and a pleasant smile?”
“The same, in every particular—and just bordering on middle age,” answers the perplexed pirate.
“Well, as to age, I can’t say much about that,” returns the seaman; “he seemed to me more like a young man than a middle-aged one, but he had coolness and cheek enough for a hundred and fifty, or any age you like.”
“Strange,” muttered Rosco to himself, paying no regard to the last observation; “I wish that I or Mr Redford had gone with you, or some one who had seen him the last time we were here; but I didn’t want to be recognised;” then checking himself—“Well, you may go, and send Mr Redford to me.”
“I cannot account for Zeppa turning up in this way,” he said, when the mate entered.
“No more can I, sir.”
“Do all the men agree in saying that he seems to be quite sane.”
“All. Indeed most of them seemed surprised when I asked the question. You see, what with death by sword, shot, and sickness, there’s not a man in the ship
who ever saw him, except yourself and me. The last of the old hands, you know, went with Captain Daniel when you sent him and the unwilling men away in the old schooner. I have no doubt, myself, from what they say, that Zeppa has got well again, and managed to return home as sound and sane as you or I.”
“If you and I were sane, we should not be here,” thought the pirate captain; but he did not give expression to the thought, save by a contemptuous curl of his lip.
“Well, Redford,” he said, after a few seconds’ pause, “my chief reason for going to Sugar-loaf Island is removed, nevertheless we shall still go there for a fresh load of sandal-wood and other things that will fetch a good price.”
“I fear, sir,” returned the mate after some hesitation, “that the crew will be apt to mutiny, if you insist on going there. They are tired of this mixture of trade with free-roving, and are anxious to sail in seas where we shall be more likely to fall in with something worth picking up.”
“Stop, Redford, I want to hear no more. The crew shall go where I please as long as I command them; and you may add that I will guarantee their being pleased with my present plan. There, don’t refer to this subject again. Where did you say the British cruiser was last seen?”
“Bearing nor’-east, sir, hull down—on our starboard quarter. I called you at once, but she had changed her course to nor’-west and we lost sight of her.”
“That will just suit us,” said Rosco, going into his private cabin and shutting the door.
Well might the pirate captain be perplexed at that time, for he was surrounded by difficulties, not the least of which was that his men were thoroughly dissatisfied with him, and he with them. He did not find his crew sufficiently ready to go in for lucrative kidnapping of natives when the chance offered, and they did not find their captain sufficiently ferocious and bloodthirsty when prizes came in their way. Nevertheless, through the influence of utter recklessness, contemptuous disregard of death, and an indomitable will, backed by wonderful capacity and aptitude in the use of fist, sword, and pistol, he had up to this time held them in complete subjection.
The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales Page 175