In his heart Rosco had resolved to quit his comrades at the first favourable opportunity, and, with this intent had been making for one of the most out-of-the-way islands in the Pacific—there to go and live among the natives, and never more to see the faces of civilised men—against whom he had sinned so grievously. His intentions were hastened by the fact that a British man-of-war on the Vancouver station, hearing of his exploits, had resolved to search for him. And this cruiser did in fact come across his track and gave chase; but being a poor sailer, was left behind just before the pirate had reached Ratinga, where, as we have seen, she put in for water.
The discovery there made, as he supposed, that Antonio Zeppa had recovered his reason and returned home, not only amazed and puzzled Rosco, but disconcerted part of his plan, which was to find Zeppa, whose image had never ceased to trouble his conscience, and, if possible, convey him to the neighbourhood of some port whence he could easily return to Ratinga. It now struck him that, since Zeppa was no longer on Sugar-loaf Island, that spot would be as favourable a one as could be found for his purpose, being far removed from the usual tracks of commerce. He would go there, take to the mountains as Zeppa had done before him, leave his dissatisfied comrades to follow their own devices, and, crossing over to the other side of the island, ingratiate himself as well as he could with the natives, grow beard and moustache, which he had hitherto shaved, and pass himself off as a shipwrecked sailor, should any vessel or cruiser touch there.
“And shipwrecked I am, body, soul, and spirit,” he muttered, bitterly, as he sat in his cabin, brooding over the past and future.
Leaving him there, and thus, we will return to Ratinga, the peaceful inhabitants of which were destined at this time to be tickled with several little shocks of more or less agreeable surprise.
One of these shocks was the sudden disappearance of Zariffa, the native missionary’s brown baby. It was an insignificant event in itself, and is only mentioned because of its having led indirectly to events of greater importance.
Zariffa had, by that time, passed out of the condition of brown-babyhood. She had, to her own intense delight, been promoted to the condition of a decently-clad little savage. In addition to the scuttle bonnet which was not quite so tremulous as that of her mother, she now sported a blue flannel petticoat. This was deemed sufficient for her, the climate being warm.
Zariffa was still, however, too young to take care of herself. Great, therefore, was Betsy Waroonga’s alarm when she missed her one day from her little bed where she should have been sleeping.
“Ebony!” cried Betsy, turning sharply round and glaring, “Zariffa’s gone.”
“Quite dead,” exclaimed the negro, aghast.
“Not at all dead,” said Betsy; “but gone—gone hout of hers bed.”
“Dat no great misfortin’, missis,” returned Ebony, with a sigh of relief.
“It’s little you knows, stoopid feller,” returned the native missionary’s wife, while her coal-scuttle shook with imparted emotion; “Zariffa never dis’beyed me in hers life. She’s lost. We must seek—seek quick!”
The sympathetic negro became again anxious, and looked hastily under the chairs and tables for the lost one, while her mother opened and searched a corner cupboard that could not have held a child half her size. Then the pair became more and more distracted as each excited the other, and ran to the various outhouses shouting, “Zariffa!” anxiously, entreatingly, despairing.
They gathered natives as they ran, hither and thither, searching every nook and corner, and burst at last in an excited crowd into the presence of Waroonga himself, who was in the act of detailing the history of Joseph to a select class of scholars, varying from seven to seventeen years of age.
“Oh! massa, Zariffa’s lost!” cried Ebony.
Waroonga glanced quickly at his wife. The excessive agitation of her bonnet told its own tale. The missionary threw Joseph overboard directly, proclaimed a holiday, and rushed out of the school-house.
“No use to go home, massa,” cried Ebony; “we’s sarch eberywhere dar; no find her.”
“Has you been to the piggery?” demanded the anxious father, who was well aware of his child’s fondness for “little squeakers.”
“Oh, yes; bin dar. I rousted out de ole sow for make sure Zariffa no hides behind her.”
At this juncture Orlando came up with a sack of cocoa-nuts on his back. Hearing what had occurred he took the matter in hand with his wonted energy.
“We must organise a regular search,” he said, throwing down the sack, “and go to work at once, for the day is far advanced, and we can do little or nothing after dark.”
So saying he collected all the able men of the village, divided them into bands, gave them minute, though hurried, directions where they were to go, and what signals they were to give in the event of the child being found; and then, heading one of the bands, he joined eagerly in the search. But, before going, he advised Betsy Waroonga to keep his mother company, as women could not be of much use in such work.
“No,” said Mrs Waroonga, with decision; “we will go home an’ pray.”
“Right, that will be better,” said Orlando. “You go back with her, Ebony, and fetch my gun. I left it in Waroonga’s house when I went in for a sack to hold the cocoa-nuts. It is behind the door. You’ll find me searching in the palm-grove. Now, boys, away; we’ve no time to lose.”
Returning to her house with her sable attendant, poor Betsy rushed into her private apartment threw herself on her knees and half across her lowly bed in an agony of alarm.
She was startled and horrified by a sharp, though smothered cry, while some living creature heaved under the bed-clothes. Instantly she swept them off, and lo! there lay Zariffa safe and well, though somewhat confused by her rude awaking and her mother’s weight.
“You’s keep up heart, missis,” said the sympathetic Ebony, looking hastily into the room in passing; “we’s sartin sure to find—”
He stopped. Blazing amazement sat on his countenance for about six moments—a pause similar to that of an injured infant just preparing for a yell—then he exploded into a fit of laughter so uncontrollable that it seemed as if a hurricane had been suddenly let loose in the room, insomuch that Betsy’s remonstrances were quite unheard.
“Oh! missis,” he exclaimed at last, wiping his eyes, “I’s a-goin’ to bust.”
“Yes, an’ I’ll help you to do it,” she replied impatiently, seizing an old shoe, and laying it on the negro’s bare back with a crack like a pistol-shot.
Ebony strove to calm himself.
“Go ’long, you noisy feller, an’ tell Waroonga to stop the search.”
It was plain that Ebony had not sufficiently relieved his feelings, for his broad chest heaved, and ominous sounds came out of his nose.
“On’y tink,” said he, “dat you hoed down to say yous prayers on de berry top ob de babby!”
The thought was too much for him. He exploded again, and, rushing from the house, ascended the hills, and filled the groves as he went with hilarious melody.
But he did not find Orlando, who had completed his search of the palm-grove and passed over the ridge that formed the summit of the island in that part. It was by no means the highest part, but from it could be seen a large bay which lay on the side of the island opposite to the mission village. And here he beheld the cause of another of the little surprises with which we have said the people of Ratinga were visited at that time. It was a stately man-of-war, with the Union Jack flying from her peak, and her sails backed so as to check her way.
A boat was being lowered from her side, and Orlando with his party hastened to the beach to meet it.
The officer in command was evidently not aware that he had come to an island where the peaceful influences of the gospel of Jesus prevailed, for, on landing, he drew up his men, who were all armed to receive either as friends or foes the party of natives who advanced towards him. The officer was not a little surprised to observe that the
natives were led by a white man, who halted them when within about three hundred yards off, and advanced alone and unarmed to the beach.
“I am happy to welcome you and offer hospitality,” said Orlando, taking off his cap.
“Thanks, good sir, I accept your offer most gladly,” returned the officer, holding out his hand; “all the more heartily that I had expected to meet with none but savages here.”
“We are Christians, thank God,” said Orlando.
“Then this must be the island of Ratinga, of which we have heard so much of late.”
“Even so.”
“But where, then, is your village, your church?” asked the officer, looking round.
“It is on the other side of the island. If you will take your ship round there you will find good anchorage and fresh water, of which last, if I may judge from the casks in your boat you are in search.”
The officer at once acted on this advice, and Orlando accompanied him on board to pilot the vessel round.
On the way the captain—Fitzgerald—asked if any suspicious craft had been seen lately, and, on hearing that a barque, flying British colours, had put in there only a day or two before, said that he had been sent out in chase of that barque, as she was commanded by a celebrated and rather eccentric pirate, named Rosco.
“I know him well,” said Orlando quickly, “he was mate of a schooner which called here between three and four years ago. It was commanded by a poor fellow named Daniel, who, I fear, was murdered by his crew. Alas! I have only too good reason to remember it.”
He then related the visit of the piratical-looking schooner to Ratinga; its departure with his father and himself on board; the mutiny, and all the other circumstances connected with that memorable event.
“And have you never heard of your father since then?” asked Captain Fitzgerald.
“Never. I am almost forced to the conclusion that he must have been murdered by the mutineers, for if he had escaped them, he would surely, long ere now, have managed to find his way home. And yet I cannot help feeling that perhaps God may have spared his life, and may yet restore him to us.”
“It is, perhaps, cruel to encourage hopes which may be doomed to bitter disappointment,” returned the captain, regarding Orlando’s sad face with a look of sympathy; “but it is by no means impossible that your father may be alive. Listen. I, too, know something of this affair, and will tell you all I know. Captain Daniel, of the schooner whose crew mutinied, was not murdered. This Rosco seems to have had, all through his career, a strong tendency to mercy. So much so that his men have threatened his own life more than once. At the same time, he possesses great power over them, and has held them for many years under command. We have heard of him more than once from persons whom he has set free, after taking their vessels; among others from Captain Daniel, who turned up in Vancouver’s Island. It seems that after you were thrown overboard and supposed to be drowned, your poor father went—went—that is to say, his mind was unhinged, owing, no doubt, to the combined effect of your supposed murder and the two terrible blows by which he was felled during the mutiny.”
“My father—mad!” exclaimed Orlando, in a low, horrified tone, clasping his hands, and gazing into Captain Fitzgerald’s face.
“Nay, I did not say mad. It was a great shock, you know, and quite sufficient to account for temporary derangement. Then Rosco sailed away to a distant island, where he put your father ashore, and left him.”
“What island—did you hear its name?” asked Orlando, quickly.
“It is an almost unknown island, not marked or named in any chart; but it had been seen by one of the mutineers on one of his early voyages, and named Sugar-loaf Island, from its shape. Well, after leaving the island Rosco attacked, and easily captured, a large merchantman. Finding it both good and new, he transhipped all that was worth retaining, including arms and guns, into this barque, and took command; then he assembled his men, asked who were willing to follow him, put those who were unwilling into the old schooner with Captain Daniel at their head, and left them to sail where they pleased. They landed, as I have said, at Vancouver’s Island. The pirate Rosco, and his barque, the ‘Flame,’ have become notorious since then, both for daring and eccentricity, and I have been ordered to get hold of them, if possible. Now, I mean to go to Sugar-loaf Island, because, from various things I have heard of this scoundrel, I think it not unlikely that he will go there.”
“And you will let me go with you?” suddenly exclaimed Orlando, in a voice of earnest entreaty.
“I will, my poor fellow,” returned the captain; “but don’t be too sanguine; and let me advise you to say nothing of all this to your mother.”
“You are right. She must not know—at least not now. It will be the first time in my life I have had a secret from my mother; but she must not know till—till we return.”
That night there was great rejoicing in Ratinga, because of the recovery, if we may so call it, of Zariffa, and the visit of the British man-of-war.
In the midst of the rejoicings a huge, lustrous pair of black eyes gazed earnestly into Orlando’s face, and an enormously thick pair of red lips said, “I go too, massa—eh?”
“Well, you may, Ebony, if the captain will let you. He has already agreed to take the missionary and the chiefs Tomeo and Buttchee; but, mind, not a whisper of our secret hope to any one.”
Thus, with the approval of Madame Zeppa and Betsy Waroonga, these five representatives of Ratinga embarked on board the British man-of-war, and left the island.
CHAPTER FIVE
We left the poor madman, Antonio Zeppa, wandering aimlessly up into the mountains of Sugar-loaf Island. Whether it was the loss of his beloved Orley alone that had turned his brain, or that loss coupled with the injury to his head, we cannot tell, but certain it is that the outward and visible violence of his great sorrow seemed to depart from him after he had entered the rugged defiles of the mountain range. His mental malady appeared to take the form of simple indifference and inactivity. Sometimes he muttered to himself as he went slowly and wearily along, but generally he was silent with his chin sunk upon his breast as he gazed upon the ground with lack-lustre eyes.
At other times he started and looked around him with a sharp, inquiring, almost timid, glance; but the gleam of memory—if such it was—soon passed away, and his handsome face resumed the gentle, almost childish, look which had settled down on it. But never again did he give vent to the heart-broken cries and wails which had marked the first stage of his derangement.
The mutterings to which we have referred were seldom coherent; but the disjointed utterances sufficed to indicate the natural character of the man. As the ruling passion is said to become dominant in death, so, in this death of reason which appeared to have passed upon Zeppa, love of his wife and child and the natives of Ratinga, as well as profound reverence and love to his God, became conspicuous in the broken sentences that occasionally dropped from his lips.
At first he had been like some grand instrument thrown wildly out of tune and swept by a reckless hand. Now he resembled the same instrument with the framework shattered, the strings hanging loose, and the music of discord as well as harmony gone for ever.
Oh it was sad, inexpressibly sad, to see the grand and good man—the image of himself, yet not himself, with bowed head and bent form, the very personification of humility—wandering forth on that lonely island of the southern seas!
After quitting the shore he continued slowly to ascend the mountain until he gained the summit. Here, seating himself on a rock, he lifted his eyes and looked slowly around him.
It was a glorious sight that met his unintelligent gaze. On the side which he had ascended, the mountain sloped abruptly into the sea, yet its precipices were not forbidding or gloomy, for they were clothed with the luxuriant and lovely vegetation of those favoured regions.
The rocks were fringed with grasses and wild flowers; the cliffs were softened by palmated leaves and gorgeous shrubs. Wild fruits in a
bundance grew on every side; in short, the land presented the appearance of a terrestrial paradise.
On the other side of the range similar, but softer, scenery rolled away for several miles in easy slopes, until it terminated in a plain, the farther end of which was bounded by the white sands of the shore.
Around all lay the great sea, like a transparent blue shield, on which the sun glinted in myriad ripples of burnished gold. Everywhere God’s work was glorious, but God’s image in man was not there, for poor Zeppa looked upon it all with total indifference.
The schooner was still visible from that lofty outlook, like a snowflake on the sea; but Zeppa saw it, or regarded it, not. On the shore of the island furthest from the mountain, the clustering huts of a native village could be seen; but Zeppa looked at it without a gleam of interest, and passed it over as if it were a group of ant-hills.
Hunger, however, soon claimed attention. After remaining motionless for more than an hour, he arose and plucked some fruit from a neighbouring tree.
“God is good—has always been good to me and mine,” he murmured, as he placed the fruit on the grass and sat down beside it.
Then, clasping his hands and closing his eyes, he asked a blessing on his food in the same words and tone which he had been wont to use when at home.
After his hunger was appeased, he again wandered about apparently without aim; but as night began to descend, he sought and found a slightly hollowed part of a cliff with an overhanging ledge.
It was scarcely deep enough to be styled a cave, but appeared to be a sufficient shelter in the maniac’s eyes, for he busied himself in gathering ferns and dried grass, until he had made himself a comfortable couch at the inner end of it.
Before lying down he knelt, clasped his hands, and poured out his soul in fervent prayer.
His words were now no longer incoherent and the burthen of his petition was—a blessing on the dear ones at home, and forgiveness of all his sins through Jesus Christ. It seemed evident judging by his words, that he had forgotten the recent past, and imagined that Orlando was still alive.
The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales Page 176