Orphan Island

by Rose Macaulay

  Turning seaward from the island, as one turns at last from the friend’s face which breaks one’s heart at parting, Rosamond saw that over the golden horizon there climbed a sail. A sail, a mast, a hull: in brief, a schooner. So the Typee had come back, punctual to the day; she had not foundered or deserted or split in two on some hidden reef. Here she was. It was the end of the party, and the carriage had called.…

  A shrill cry rent the morning.

  “The guid Lord be praised for His maircies! The ship is back!”

  On she flew before a light, favouring wind that had sprung up since the dawn. Soon she would be at the gate in the reef. Rosamond, floating in the lagoon, watched her come. Mr. Thinkwell’s carriage was cantering, so as to be in time to take Mr. Thinkwell, Miss Thinkwell, and the Masters Thinkwell from the party.

  Jean’s cry had brought other people down to the shore, all staring seaward, pointing, talking. Then, because the Birthday had begun, trumpets and pipes sounded, ushering it in, welcoming also the Typee.

  Jean wept. The tears chased down her aged face, her lips worked, and this was always the burden of her speech. “The Lord be thankit for this day! The guid Lord be thankit, that He has let me see Aberdeen ance mair afore I dee!”

  2

  There was to be a morning service on the Birthday. A brief service of thanksgiving, with hymns and short sermon, and every one was to attend. One was to give thanks for Miss Smith, who had so fortunately seen the light on this day ninety-eight years ago, and had so providentially been preserved. The service, it was announced by the crier, was to be in the middle of the wood, near Balmoral, at noon.

  The Typee lay at anchor by the reef. Its boat had landed and rowed back again, leaving Captain Paul and Mr. Merton ashore, to spend the day there. To-morrow the Typee was to depart.

  “I’m not coming to this service,” William said to Charles and Rosamond. “I shall catch crabs and filefish in the pools.”

  But Charles and Rosamond thought they had better go to the service, so as not to annoy any one on their last day. Besides, Flora would be obliged to go.

  Every one was to be there; Miss Smith had been very insistent on that. Every one, that is, but the convicts, who were to have their treat at this hour. They were to row out to the schooner and be taken for a sail. Miss Smith had arranged it through Mr. Denis Smith with Captain Paul, who had sent orders to the crew by his own boat. They were to row out in two island boats, each boat in, charge of a warder. Only Captain Paul and the Thinkwells had been told of this treat; it was feared by Miss Smith that, if news of it got about, the island would be jealous.

  “Mustn’t tell Bertie,” Denis said. “Mamma don’t want Bertie to know. Bertie’d think it silly. ’Tis silly, too, that’s a fact. But there, it’s poor old mamma’s birthday, and the kind thought does her credit, and the poor fellows don’t get much fun in their lives, so there it is. It’s to be during church, so people won’t see.”

  Mr. Denis Smith was, as usual, genial. He had, even thus early in the day, not wasted the Birthday.

  So, when the trumpets blew at noon and the congregation took their places in the wood, every one but William and the convicts were there.

  It was a happy and thankful service. Hymns of praise and gratitude for Miss Smith, who sat in her palanquin by the clergyman’s side, rose among the trees, exciting the birds and monkeys from their noon rest, so that these flew in bright, twittering legions above the congregation’s heads, and those eagerly cast down bananas and nuts, as if in tribute. There was a sermon, from the text, “And Deborah ruled in Israel three score years and ten, and did that which was pleasing in the sight of the Lord. And the Lord blessed Israel greatly in the days of Deborah.”

  Mr. Maclean was towards the end of this sermon, when some one came breaking hurriedly through the wood, and William Thinkwell appeared in front of the congregation, stopping by Miss Smith’s palanquin, a wet, flushed, dishevelled figure, trousers rolled above the knees, field glasses in one hand and net in the other, his white pith hat at the back of his head.

  “I say,” he said loudly, between deep breaths, “those convicts have got the Typee and are making off as hard as they can go. There was a fight; I saw it through my glasses; they chucked three of the crew overboard and tied up the rest. They’re off now before a perfectly good sailing wind, and don’t look as if they meant coming back.”

  3

  Horror and amazement swept the congregation, as a wind sweeps a forest. For a moment tense silence held them; one heard only the monkeys, the birds, the tumbling, splitting nuts. Then a shrill cry tore the noon in two.

  “Lord! Lord! Hae ye desairted us after all?”

  The old woman’s cry broke the spell. With a loud, sibilant gasp, the congregation sprang to its feet.

  “Come on,” cried Captain Paul, and dashed off through the trees. Every one followed, rushing shoreward as a startled herd of wild pigs dash through a wood. Old Jean, sobbing harshly and bent low over her stick, hobbled in the rear.

  Behind her the four black men marched, swinging Miss Smith in her palanquin. Between the palm curtains the old face appeared, the fierce blue eyes blinked.

  They crowded to the lagoon’s edge. Far out, they saw the Typee running full-sail before an easterly wind, bounding over a swelling sea. The two island boats were being rowed out to sea, each by a solitary oarsman.

  “You see,” said William, “at first I thought it was all right, they were just going for a sail and coming back. Then when they’d got a little way, the row began. The convicts suddenly went for the crew, and chucked three of them over the side. I put my glasses up then, and saw the rest of the dagoes knocked out and tied up. So now, if those chaps know how to work a ship, they’ve got right away with her, whatever their game is.”

  “Damn,” said Captain Paul, raking the schooner with William’s glasses. “Damnation.”

  It seemed, at that moment, about all he had to say.

  Mr. Albert Smith, however, had more.

  “What,” he demanded loudly, “is the meaning of this? How did it happen that the convicts were allowed to escape? How do the warders come to be out in the boats?”

  “A plan of mamma’s,” Denis uneasily explained. “Little birthday treat for the convicts. They were to row out to the ship and be brought back while we were all at church. Damn silly plan; see it now, of course; damn silly.… What are those chaps doing out there? Oh, looking for the poor fellows they threw overboard, I suppose. No chance, I’m afraid; too many sharks about.… Ought to have known it was a damn silly game.”

  “Certainly you ought,” his brother said. “And I fail to see why I was not consulted in the matter. Well, your folly—I can only suppose you were drunk when you agreed to this insane plan—has ended in a disaster we cannot yet measure. It is tolerably obvious that, having murdered three sailors and stolen a ship, these men won’t feel much inclined, even if they succeed in navigating the ship so as to arrive anywhere, to mention their action or our whereabouts.”

  “Marooned,” said Mr. Merton forcibly. “Bloody well marooned. Christ!”

  “No foul language, sir, if you please,” said a sharp voice from the palanquin. “I must ask you to remember in whose presence you are—if your Creator’s presence is not sufficient to restrain you.”

  “Restrain be damned,” said Mr. Merton rudely. “You old fool, it’s all your fault it happened. Letting your bloody convicts loose like that.…”

  “Oh, shut up, Merton. Rowing won’t help,” said Charles.

  “Enough, sir,” said Albert Edward, more sternly. “You forget yourself. No one can deny the folly of this scheme so unfortunately conceived and executed, but that is no reason for insulting Miss Smith in her age and infirmity.”

  “Oh, indeed,” came from the palanquin. “Folly, you said, Bertie, did you? Folly indeed! I’d have you know it was no such thing.” She pushed the palm curtains back, and looked out on the crowd, purple with pride and noon heat, breathing heavily, shaking h
er head from side to side.

  “Wits failing from age, I dare say you all think. No such thing! What we did, we did with our eyes open. It was our birthday treat to the convicts—their liberty. And our birthday treat to you, you poor fools, was to make sure you stayed safe on the island, instead of going out into the wicked world to lose your souls and bodies. We gave the convicts their orders ourself. Told ’em they’d be shut up in England if they waited to be brought there as convicts, and that this was their chance, and they were to take it. Another thing we told ’em—that if ever it came out what they’d done they’d certainly be put to death, so you may be sure they’ll keep mum about us. No hope of rescue from them. Oh, we managed ’em! You don’t suppose, you poor fools, we were going to let you leave your homes and gallivant about the world? Not a bit of it. We care for our people too much for that, we hope. Who are you to start complaining of the good land the Lord has provided for you to live in and want to go trapesing into strange countries? You, whom we picked out of the gutter! No; here you’ll live and die, be sure of that. So will you, Bertie, who thought you were going to be so great in England. And as to you, Thinkwell, you won’t see that ship of yours again —nor any other ship neither. Here you are and here you’ll stay, and make your home with us. Serve you right, you rascal. It’s a judgment. You’re marooned, Thinkwell, just as you marooned us all those years ago. Marooned; that’s what you are.…”

  Her voice had risen higher and louder, and the last words were a shrill cry, as she bent forward and shook her bamboo stick towards Mr. Thinkwell.

  A murmur swelled to a growl among the population. But, before any had time to speak, old Jean stepped forward, leaning on her stick, lifting one arm prophetically above her head for silence. It was as if the storm of passion and despair which shook her had broken at last the dams which had held for half a century of hate.

  “And noo, friends, wull ye listen tae me a bit while, for I hae something tae tell ye. Ye’ll be surprised tae hear it, I mak nae doot. … Na, na, Miss Smith, I wunna whisht—I hae held my whisht ower long, and this day the Lord has put His judgment into my hands. Listen, all of ye. Miss Smith, wha’s ever been sae stairn anent marriage, and bastards, and the like, makin’ all these bastardy laws, and what not—Miss Smith was ne’er the honest wife o’ the doctor. For why, the mon had a wife already, ower in Ireland—though I’ll do Miss Smith the justice tae say she didna ken it when she took him. So her marriage was nae marriage ava, but plain adultery, e’en though ’twas committed in ignorance, and her bairns were all born in sin—ay, every ane o’ them, bastards all. Ay, Bairtie Smith, standin’ there sae prood and gran’, ye’re nought but a puir bastard, and by ye’re ain laws ye’ve nae right tae be hauldin’ a foot o’ land or to be takkin’ any pairt in the government o’ this island—this cairsed island desairted by the Lord. And noo I hae said my say, and I’ll whisht gin ye like. Ay, Miss, Smith, sittin’ there in ye’re sins and ye’re pride, ye may weel rage and storm, but ye canna deny the truth, rage ye ne’er sae fierce. Ye’re nought but an adultering wumman, when all’s said. The Lord who has desairted an’ rejected us be ye’re judge for this last wickedness, ye ill wumman!”

  She broke off, overcome, and sank on the sands.

  But no one observed her; it was now on Miss Smith that all eyes were turned. The old lady’s face, staring furiously at Jean, had become a violent purple, the swollen veins standing out like cords. Her lips worked, but no sound emerged; she grasped and shook her stick at Jean, at her people, at heaven, till it fell suddenly from her hand, and she seemed to collapse, with a loud and stertorous groan.

  In brief, Miss Smith appeared to have had a stroke.

  Albert Edward and Mrs. Smith-Carter were at her side, and Mrs. Smith-Carter called for her son-in-law, the doctor, who hurried up, looking efficient, and commanding that those present should stand back in order that Miss Smith might “have air.”

  “She must be taken home,” he said, and called “Nurse!”

  Nurse, a buxom and cheerful looking lady, came forward, all readiness, and the Zacharies picked up the palanquin and started for Balmoral, followed by Mrs. Smith-Carter and another Smith daughter.

  Albert Edward remained on the beach. He had something to say. He cleared his throat, firmly grasped his whiskers, and said, loudly and clearly, “Jean, your wild talk has, I fear, reduced Miss Smith” (his was the only obeisance to the name)” to a very serious and dangerous state of health. She was already, as you all observed, affected by the heat, and by the great disaster of the loss of the schooner, so that she talked fancifully” (this he said very firmly and clearly) “about her own share in that disaster. You saw fit to add to her distress by wild and unfounded accusations, in the very worst of taste, which must have hurt and distressed her very deeply. Your only excuse is your own great age, which makes you, no doubt, entirely irresponsible for your utterances.”

  “Prood words, Bairtie Smith,” the old voice quavered up shrilly from the sands, where Jean sat huddled and shrunk, staring out to sea. “Prood words ye hae, as always. But ye dinna believe them yersel’. Let any wha doots me, look in that journal; tairn tae the year 1870, and see if the entries there, gin ye understand them, dinna bear me oot. Oh, she was cunnin’, and thought nane but auld Jean wad e’er lairn the truth; so she talked proodly of ‘bastards’ and ‘livin’ in sin,’ puttin’ up a screen between hersel’ an’ her ain saul. An’ her secret wad hae been safe tae the end but for this wickedness. She suldna hae driven auld Jean tae vengeance. Ay, ay, blather hoo ye like, Bairtie Smith, there’s nane here that’ll believe ye, so ye may’s weel spare ye’re breath. Ye’re naught but a bastard bairn, an’ all here ken it verra weel.… But what does any of it matter the noo? Oh, Lord, ye hae visited us sairly with Thy judgments this day!” She fell to wailing, her head in her withered hands.

  “Come, come,” said Mr. Thinkwell, stooping over her and patting her kindly on the shoulder. “Come, come, come. Don’t give way. There is no reason to suppose that all is lost, or that we shan’t be rescued in time. Surely some of these convicts have left families behind them here, whom they would scarcely wish to abandon for ever.”

  “That’s true,” said some one. “Not that they would all trouble about their families; but there are some who might. Michael Conolly, for instance.”

  “You’re right there,” cried Mrs. Michael Conolly. “If Michael ever gets to safety, he’ll send help, even if it does put him in danger again himself. Trust Michael!”

  “And what about the crew?” suggested Denis Smith. “The ones they didn’t chuck overboard. They’ll tell.”

  “The odds are,” said Mr. Merton gloomily, “the crew will all be chucked overboard before they arrive anywhere. Can’t put much money on them, poor devils. Besides, without chart or direction, who’s to find the way here? Paul brought the log with him ashore. It’s a thousand to one they’d never find us, even if they sent a search party. Might take ’em years, anyhow, and they’ll get tired of looking before that.”

  “If they try to work the schooner themselves,” said Captain Paul, “they’ll probably come to grief and run her on a reef, or let her capsize in the first squall.”

  “If they are sensible,” said Mr. Thinkwell, “they will make the crew navigate her. That is, no doubt, what they kept some of them for. Well, it’s no use speculating. We can do nothing but wait and see how it turns out.… Those poor fellows out there don’t seem to have been found.”

  “Sea’s alive with sharks,” said Mr. Merton.

  The two boats were being rowed into the lagoon. The population watched them gloomily. Mr. Albert Smith was talking continuously and loudly, but no one listened much.

  “No one will ever listen to papa again,” Flora muttered. “He’s like a paradise bird whose tail has been cut off. Bastards! I must say that’s rather amusing. The one bright spot in this horrid business.”

  Charles, who was standing by her, said “No. There’s another bright spot—anyhow for me. You and
I are staying here together.”

  She turned on him, with angry eyes.

  “Oh, that’s a bright spot, is it? I hate you, Charles Thinkwell. I don’t want to speak to you. You and your absurd ship that hasn’t rescued us after all. My life is spoilt, and you say it’s a bright spot that we’re here together. I can tell you, you won’t find it so. Because I was pleased to hear you tell me about England, and so on, I suppose you think I’m in love with you. Well, I’m not, so there. Now that we’re left stranded on this abominable island—perhaps for years, perhaps for ever, who knows?—I don’t want you in the least. I wanted you to show me England. I hate your chatter about things I shall never see.”

  “Very good,” said Charles, white about the lips and nostrils. “I quite understand. You needn’t be afraid I shall bore you any more.”

  He turned his back on her and walked away.

  “Peter,” said Flora. Her proud, gay mouth was quivering, her eyes held tears. “Peter”

  He was at her side.

  “Peter—I can’t bear it. Take me away in a boat, and let’s get somewhere or drown. I can’t endure to stay on here and never see the world after all.”

  “They’ll come for us,” Peter consoled her. “My papa won’t desert us, I know that. Not unless they are lost themselves.”

  “They will be,” Flora cried. “I know it. The first squall—didn’t you hear Captain Paul say it? Oh, Peter, how could your papa?”

  “I suppose he thought it was his only chance of freedom,” said Peter moodily. “He was a prisoner for life.”

  “Serve him right,” said Flora. Then, “Oh Peter, I don’t mean it; don’t be cross. If he gets help sent to us, I shall forgive him a hundred times. But only imagine it—perhaps years and years more of this tedious place! I am sure I shall die of it quite soon.”

  The boats landed with the two warders, and every one crowded about them as they told their tale.