A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

Title:      Pacific Tales (1897)
Author:     Louis Becke
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Language:   English
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PACIFIC TALES

by

Louis Becke

1897

Savage Club,
London, April 15, 1896.

CONTENTS

An Island Memory: English Bob

There was once a South Sea Island supercargo named Denison who had a Kanaka father and mother. This was when Denison was a young man. His father's name was Kusis; his mother's Tulpé. Also, he had several brown-skinned, lithe-limbed, and big-eyed brothers and sisters, who made much of their new white brother, and petted and caressed and wept over him as if he were an ailing child of six instead of a tough young fellow of two-and-twenty who had nothing wrong with him but a stove-in rib and a heart that ached for home, which made him cross and fretful.

But Denison hasn't got much to do with this story, so all I need say of him is that he had been the supercargo of a brig called the Leonora; and the Leonora had been wrecked on Strong's Island in the North Pacific; and Denison had quarrelled with the captain, whose name was "Bully" Hayes; and so one day he said goodbye to the roystering Bully and the rest of his shipmates, and travelled across the lagoon till he came to a sweet little village named Leassé, and asked for Kusis, who was the head man thereof.

"Give me, O Kusis, to eat and drink, and a mat whereon to sleep; for I have broken apart from the rest of the white men who were cast away with me in the ship, and there is no more friendship between us. And I desire to live here in peace."

Then Kusis, who was but a stalwart savage, nude to his loins, and tattooed from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, lifted Denison up in his brawny arms, and carried him into his house, and set him down on a fine mat; and Tulpé, his wife, and Kinia, his daughter, put food before him on platters of twisted cane, and bade him eat.

Then, when the white man slept, Kusis called around him the people of Leassé and told them that that very day a messenger had come to him from the King and said that the white man who was coming to Leassé was to be as a son to him, "for," said the King, "my stomach is filled with friendship for this man, because when he was rich and a supercargo he had a generous hand to us of Strong's Island. But now he is poor, and hath been sick for many months, so thou, Kusis, must be father to him and give him all that he may want."

So that is how Denison came to stay at Leassé, and lived on the fat of the land in the quiet little village nestling under the shadows of Mont Buáche, while up at Utwe Harbour on the south side of the island, Bully Hayes and his crew of swarthy ruffians drank and robbed and fought and cut each others' throats, and stole women from the villages round about, and turned an island paradise into a hell of base and wicked passions. But though Leassé was but ten miles from Utwe, none of the shipwrecked sailors ever came there, partly because Captain Hayes had promised Denison that his men should not interfere with Leassé, and partly because the men themselves all liked Denison, and did not like the Winchester rifle he owned.

And as he grew stronger and joined the villagers in their huntings and fishings, they made more and more of him, but yet watched his movements with a jealous eye, lest he should grow tired of them and go back to the other white men.

Leassé, as I have said, was but a little village--not quite thirty houses--and stood on gently undulating ground at the foot of a mountain, whose sides were clothed with verdure and whose summit at dawn and eve was always veiled in misty clouds. And so dense was the foliage of the mountain forest of "tamanu" and "masa'oi" that only here and there could the bright sunlight pierce through the leafy canopy and streak with lines of gold the thick brown carpet of leaves covering the warm red soil beneath. Sometimes, when the trade wind had died away and the swish and rustle of the tree-tops overhead had ceased, one might hear the faint murmur of voices in the village far below, or the sharp screaming note of the mountain cock calling to his mate, and now and then the muffled roar of the surf beating upon its coral barrier miles and miles away.

But down from the gloomy silence of the mountain there led a narrow path that followed the winding course of a little stream, which in places leapt from shelves of hard black rock into deep pools perhaps fifty feet below, and then swirled and danced over its pebbly bed till it sprang out joyously from its darkened course above into the bright light and life of the shining beach and the tumbling surf and sunlit, cloudless sky of blue that ever lay before and above the dwellers in Leassé village.

Right in front of the village ran a sweeping curve of yellow beach, with here and there a clump of rocks, whose black, jagged outlines were covered with mantles of creepers and vines green and yellow, in which at night-time the snow-white tropic birds came to roost with clamorous note. Back from the beach stood groves of pandanus and breadfruit and coconuts, whose branches sang merrily all day long to the sweep of the whistling trade wind, but drooped languidly at sunset when it died away.

Straight before the door of Denison's house of thatch there lay a wide expanse of placid, reef-bound sea, pale-greenish in its shallower portions near the shore, but deepening into blue as it increased in depth toward the line of foaming surf that ever roared and thundered upon the jagged coral wall which flung the sweeping billows back in clouds of misty spume. Half a mile away, and shining like emeralds in the bright rays of the tropic sun, lay two tiny islets of palms that seemed to float and quiver on the glassy surface in the glory of their surpassing green.

At dusk, when the shadows of the great mountain fell upon the yellow curve of beach, and the coming night enwrapped the silent aisles of the forest, the men of Leassé would sit outside their houses and smoke and talk, whilst the women and girls would sing the songs of the old bygone days when they were a strong people with spear and club in hand, and the mountain-sides and now deserted bays of Strong's Island were thick with the houses of their forefathers.

* * * * *

One evening, as Kusis, with Tulpé, his wife, and Kinia, his daughter, sat with Denison on a wide mat outspread before the doorway of their house, listening to the beat of the distant surf upon the reef, and watching the return of a fleet of fishing canoes, they were joined by a half-caste boy and girl who lived in a village some few miles further along the coast. The boy was about twelve years of age, the girl two or three years older. Denison had one day met them, and they had taken him with them to their mother's house. She was a woman of not much past thirty, and the moment the white man entered had greeted him warmly, and pointing to some muskets, cutlasses, and many other articles of European manufacture that hung from the beams overhead, said: "See, those were my husband's guns and swords."

"Ahé, and was he a white man?"

"Aye," the woman answered proudly, as she brought Denison a mat to sit upon, "a white man, and, like thee, an Englishman. But it is two years now since he died under the spears of the men of Yap, when he led other white men to the attack on the great fort in the bay there. Ah, he was a brave man! And then I, who saw him die, came back here with my children to Leassé to live, for here in this very house was I born, and this land that encompasseth it is mine by inheritance."

From that day Denison and the two half-caste children became sworn friends, and twice or thrice a week the boy and girl would walk over to see him, and stay the night so as to accompany him fishing or shooting on the following day. The boy was a sturdy, well-built youngster, with a skin that, from constant exposure to the sun, was almost as dark as that of a full-blooded native; but the girl was very light in complexion, with those strangely deep, lustrous eyes common to women of the Micronesian and Polynesian people--eyes in whose liquid depths one may read the coming fate of all their race, doomed to utter extinction before the inroads of civilisation with all its deadly terrors of insidious and unknown disease. Unlike her brother, who either could not or pretended he could not, understand English, Tasia both understood and spoke it with some fluency, for, with her mother and brother, she had always accompanied her father in his wanderings about the Pacific, and had mixed much with white men of a certain class--traders, pearl-shellers, and deserters from whaleships and men-of-war.

For some minutes Kusis and his white friend smoked their pipes in silence, whilst Tulpé and the two girls sat a little apart from them, talking in the soft, almost whispered tones peculiar to the Malayan-blooded women of the Caroline Islands, and looking at some boys who were boxing with the half-caste lad near by.

"Ha!" said Tasia to the two men, with a laugh, "see those foolish boys trying to fight like English people."

"What know you of how English people fight, Tasia?" asked Denison.

The girl arched her pretty black brows. "Much. I have seen my father fight--and he was the greatest fighter in the world."

"Truly?"

"Truly. Is it not so, Kusis?"

"Aye," said Kusis, turning to Denison, "he was a great fighter with his hands as well as with musket and sword. Tell him, Tasia, of how thy father fought at Ebon."

* * * * *

"When I was but ten years old there came to Lela Harbour on this island a great English fighting ship, and my father, who had run away from just such another ship long years before in a country called Kali-fo-nia, became troubled in his mind, and hid himself in the forest till she had gone. When he returned to his house, he said--pointing to many letters and tattoo marks on his breast and arms--'Only because of these names written on my skin have I lived like a wild boar in the woods for three days; for see, this name across my breast, were it seen by the people of the man-of-war, would bring me to chains and a prison, and I should see thee no more.' And so, because he feared that another man-of-war might come here, he had the whole of his breast, back, and arms tattooed very deeply, after the fashion of Strong's Island, so that the old marks were quite hidden. Yet even then he was still moody, and at last he took us away with him in a whaleship to an island called Ebon, ten days' sail from here. And here for a year we lived, although the people were strange to us, and their language and customs very different to ours. As time went on, the Ebon people began to think much of my father, because of his great bodily strength and courage in battle, for they were at war among themselves, and he was ever foremost in fighting for Labayan, the chief under whose protection we lived.

"One day a great American warship came into the lagoon of Ebon, and many of the sailors came ashore and got drunk, and as they staggered about the village, frightening the women and children, one of them, hearing that my father was a white man, came to him as he sat quietly in his house, gave him foul words, and then said--

"'Come out and fight, thou tattooed beast, who calleth thyself a white man.'

"There were many sailors gathered outside the house, and these, because my father took no heed of the drunken man's words, but bade him go away, called out that he was but a beach-combing coward and had no white blood in him, else would he take up the challenge.

"Then Bob--for that was my father's name--put a loaded musket in my mother's hand, and said: 'I must fight this man; but stand thou at the door, and if any one of the others seeks to enter the house, fear not to shoot him dead.' Then he stepped out to the sailors, and said--

"'Why must I fight this man? What quarrel hath he with me, or I with him? And I shall not fight with a man when he is "tamtrunk" and cannot stand straight on his feet.'

"'Fight him,' they answered, 'else shall we pull thy house down and beat thee for an English cur.'

"And then I heard the sound of blows, and could see that Bob and the man who challenged him were fighting. Presently I heard the sound of a man falling, and the blue-coated sailors gave a great cry, and I saw my father standing alone in the ring. At a little distance lay the American, whose body was supported by two of his friends. His head had sunk forward on his chest, and those about him said to my father, 'His jaw is broken.'

"My father laughed--'Whose fault is that? Ye forced me to fight, and I struck him but once. Is there no one man among ye who can do better than he? 'Tis a poor victory for an Englishman to break the jaw of a man who thought he could fight, but could not.' Then he mocked them, and said they were 'skitas' (boasters) like all the 'Yankeese'; for now he was angry, and his eyes were like glowing coals.

"But they were not all 'skitas,' for two or three stepped out and wanted to fight him, but the others stayed them, and said to my father: 'Nay, no more now; go back to thy wife; but to-morrow night we shall bring a man from the other watch on board the ship whom we will match against thee.' Then they lifted up the man with the broken jaw, and carried him away.

"In the morning there came to our house two sailors bearing a letter, which my father read. It said that there would come ashore that night the best fighting man of the ship, who would fight him for one hundred dollars in silver money.

"Now thirteen silver dollars was all the money my father had, so he went to Labayan the chief, who had a strong friendship for him, and read him the letter. 'Lend me,' said he, 'seven-and-thirty dollars, and I will fight this man; and if I be beaten and the fifty dollars are lost, then shall I give thee a musket and five fat hogs for the money lent me.'

"Now, Labayan could not refuse my father, so without a word he brought him the money and placed it in his hands, and said: 'Take it, O Papu the Strong, and if it be that thou art beaten in the fight, then I forgive thee the debt--it is God's will if this man prove the stronger of the two.'

* * * * *

"At sunset two boats filled with men came ashore. Four score and six were they altogether, for my mother and I counted them as they walked up from the beach to the great open square in front of the chief's house. All round the sides of the square were placed mats for them to sit upon, and presently baked fish and fowls to eat and young coconuts to drink were put before them by the people, who were gathered together in great numbers, for the news of the fight had gone to every village on the island, and they all came to see. As darkness came on, hundreds of torches were lit, and held up by the women and boys.

"By and by, when the sailors had finished eating, Labayan and his two wives came out and sat down at one end of the square, and my mother and I sat with them. And then, as fresh torches were lit, so that the great square became as light as day, a man rose up from among the white men and stepped into the centre.

"'Where is the man?' he said.

"'Here,' answered my father, pushing his way through the swarm of people who stood tightly packed together behind the sitting white men, 'and here is my money'; and he held out a small bag.

"'And here is ours,' said some of the sailors, coming forward, and the money was placed in Labayan's hands. Then one of them opened a bottle of grog, and my father and the other man each drank some. Then they stripped to their waists. My father was thought to be a very big and strong man; but when Labayan and his people saw the other man take off his jumper and shirt, and beheld his great hairy chest and muscles that stood out like the roots of a tree when they protrude from the ground, they murmured. 'He will kill Papu,' they said.

"So Labayan cried, 'Stop!' and standing up and speaking very quickly, said: 'O Papu, there must be no fight! But tell all these white men that the man they have brought to fight thee shall have the money that is in my hands. And tell them also--so that they shall not be vexed--that the women and girls shall dance for them here in the square till sunrise.'

"My father laughed and shook his head, but told the white men Labayan's words, and they too laughed.

"'Nay, Labayan,' said my father, 'fight I must, or else be shamed. But have no fear; this will be a long fight, but I am the better of the two. I know this man; he is an Englishman like myself, and a great fighter. But he does not know me now; for it is many years since he saw me last.' And then he and the sailor shook each other by the hand; and then began the fight.

"Ah! it was terrible to look at, and soon I began to tremble, and I hid my face on my mother's bosom. Once I heard a loud cry from the assembled people, and looking up saw my father stagger backwards and fall. But only for a moment, and as he rose again the white men clapped their hands and shouted loudly; and again I hid my face as the two met again, and the sounds of their blows and their fierce breathing seemed like thunder in my ears.

"Presently they rested awhile, and now the torches blazed up again, and, as the women saw that the face of the big man was reddened with blood which ran down his body, their hearts were filled with pity, a great wailing cry broke from them, and they ran up to Labayan and besought him to bid the fight to cease. But the white men said it must go on.

"As the two men rested, sitting on the knees of two of the sailors, they each drank a little grog--just a mouthful. Then they stood up again, staggering about like drunken men; and my mother and I, with many other women, ran into Labayan's house and wept together--for we could no longer look. Suddenly we heard a great cry of triumph from the assembled people, but the white men were silent. Then Labayan called to us to come and see. So we ran out into the square again.

"The big white man lay upon a mat, but he was horrible to look at, and we turned our faces away. My father sat near him, held up by Labayan and one of the white sailors, and lying beside his open hand were the two bags of money. But his eyes were closed, and he breathed heavily.

"As the people--white and brown--thronged around the big man to see if he were dead, we heard the tramp of marching men, and a score of sailors carrying muskets, with swords fastened to their muzzles, came across the square. They were led by two officers, who held drawn swords in their hands.

"'What is this?' said he who was leader, sternly, looking first at one and then at another of the white sailors. Then they told him, and said it had been a fair fight.

"'Back to the boats, every man,' he said, 'but first carry this dying man into a house, where he must lie till the doctor comes to him.' And then, when this was done, the armed men drove the others down to the boats, and the square became dark and deserted.

"My father was but little hurt, and all that night he sat beside the man he had fought, who lay sick for many days in Labayan's house. Every morning the doctor from the ship came to see him, and other white men came as well. At last he got better, and then he and my father had a long talk together, and shook each other's hands, and became as brothers. Then the boat came for him, and the beaten man bid us all farewell and went away.

"That night my father told us that this man, who was named Harry, had once been a friend of his, and they had served the Queen of England together in the same man-of-war, and, like him, had run away from the ship. And as soon as my father met him face to face in the square he knew him, 'and,' said he, 'it came hard to me to fight a man who was once my friend, and was still my countryman, but yet it had to be done to shame those boasting "Yankeese," who are but "skitas."'"

* * * * *

And now, as I think of Tasia's story, there springs upon my memory the tale of the fight told of in "The Man from Snowy River," where an Australian station manager, fresh from England, fought a terrible fight with an intruding drover. So, only changing four words of "Saltbush Bill," and with all apologies--

Now the sailor fought for a money prize with a scowl on his bearded face,
But the trader fought for his honour's sake and the pride of the English race.

In the Old, Beach-combing Days

A white, misty rain-squall swept down the mountain pass at the head of Lêla Harbour, plashed noisily across the deep waters of the land-locked bay and whirled away seaward.

Standing upon jutting ledges of the inner or harbour reef, a number of brown-skinned women and children were fishing. The tide was low and the water smooth, and as the fishers shook the raindrops from off their black tresses and shining skins of bronze they laughed and sang and called out to one another across the deep reef-pools.

"Ai-e-eh!" cried a tall, slender girl, naked to her hips, around which she wore, like her older and younger companions, a broad, woven sash of gaily-coloured banana fibre--"ai-e-eh! 'tis a cold rain, but now will the fish bite fast, and I shall take me home a heavier basket than any of ye here;" and then she deftly swung her long bamboo rod over the pool on whose rugged brink she stood.

"Tah! Listen to her!" called out a round-faced, merry-eyed little woman who fished on the other aide. "Listen to Niya the Wisehead! She hath not yet caught a fish, and now boasteth of the great basketful she will take home! Get thee home for thy father's seine net, for thou canst not catch anything with thy rod;" and the speaker, with a good-humoured laugh, took a small fish out of the basket that hung at her side and threw it at the girl.

Niya, too, laughed merrily as she ducked her head and twisted her lithe young body sideways, and the fish, flying past her face, struck a boy who stood near to her in the back.

He swung round, and with mock ferocity hurled the fish back at she who threw it.

"That for thee, fat-faced Tulpé; and would that it had gone into thy big mouth and down thy throat and choked thee! Then would thy husband call me friend, and seek out another wife; for, look thou, Tulpé, thou art getting old and ugly now."

A loud shriek of laughter from Niya, a merry, mocking echo from those about her, joined in with Tulpé's own good-natured chuckle, and then, flinging down their rods and baskets, they sprang into the water one after another and played and laughed and gambolled like the children they were all in heart if not in years.

By and by the sun came out, hot and fierce, and the women and children, rods in hand and baskets on backs, made homewards to their village across the broken surface of the reef. Right before them it lay, a cluster of some two or three score of grey-thatched, saddle-backed houses, with slender sharp-pointed gables at either end.

Nearest to the beach and distinguishable from the others by its great size was the dwelling of Togusā, the chief of Lêla Harbour. At a distance of fifty feet or so from its canework sides a low wall of coral slabs surrounded it on four sides, with gateways at back and front. Within, the walled-in space was covered with snow-white pebbles of broken coral, save where a narrow pathway led from the front gateway to the open doorway of the house.

On came the fishers, the older of the women walking first in twos and threes, the young girls and boys following in a noisy, laughing crowd. But as they drew nearer to the low stone wall their babbling laughter died away, and they spoke to each other in lowered tones. For it had ever been the custom of Kusaie¹ to speak in a whisper in the presence of a chief, and Togusā, chief of Lêla, was master of the lives of four thousand of the people. Other chiefs were there on Kusaie who lived at Utwe and Mout and Leassé, and whose people exceeded in numbers those of the chief of Lêla, but none were there whose name was so old and whose fame in battle would compare with his.

¹ Strong's Island, the eastern outlier of the Caroline Archipelago.

So, with softened steps and bodies bent, the women entered through the narrow gateway one by one and knelt down in front of the door in the manner peculiar to the women of the Caroline Islands, bringing their thighs together and turning their feet outward and backward. Apart from them, and clustering together, were the boys, each sitting cross-legged with outspread hands upon the pebbled ground. And then all, women, girls, and boys, bent their eyes to the ground and waited.

Presently there came to the open doorway of the chief's house an old, white-haired woman, who supported her feeble steps with a stick of ebony wood. For a moment or two she looked at the people assembled before her, and then a girl who followed her placed upon the canework verandah of the house a broad, white mat, and spread it out for her to sit upon. Slowly the old woman stooped her time-worn frame and sat, and then the slave-girl crouched behind her, and, with full, luminous eyes, looked over her mistress's shoulder.

Suddenly the dame raised her stick and tapped it twice on the cane work floor, and then, with a quick, soundless motion, the fishers rose, and with bent heads and stooping bodies crept up near to her and laid their baskets of fish silently at her feet.

But though they spoke not themselves, each one as she or he placed a basket down looked at Sipi, the slave, and made a slight movement of the lips, and Sipi, in a low voice and looking straight before her, murmured the giver's name to the old woman.

"'Tis the gift of Kinio, the wife of Nara, to Seaa, the mother of Togusā the King."

"'Tis the gift of Leja, the daughter of Naril, to Seaa, the mother of the King."

And so, one by one, they laid down their tribute till the offering was finished and they had crept back again to the place where they had first awaited old Seaa's coming, and now they sat and waited for the King's mother to speak.

"Come hither, Niya."

At the sound of the old woman's voice the girl Niya came quickly out from amongst her companions and sat down beside the piled-up baskets of fish.

"Count thee out ten fish for Togusā the King, ten each for his wives, and two for Sipi, the slave."

With deft hands the girl did the old dame's bidding and placed the fish side by side upon narrow leaf platters brought to her by the young slave-girl.

"Good," said old Seaa, smiling at the girl, for Niya was niece to Sikra, and Sikra was one of the King's most trusted warriors and nephew to old Seaa.

"Good child. And now, tell the people that Togusā the King is sick, and so comes not out to-day to see their offerings of goodwill to him and his house. So let them away to their homes, taking with them all the fish they have brought save these fifty and two here before me."

Again the women crept up, and each taking up her basket again walked slowly away through the gateway and disappeared among the various houses. But Niya, at a sign from the King's mother, remained, and sat down beside Sipi, the slave.

By and by, with much stamping of feet and singing a loud chorus, came a party of men, tall, stalwart fellows, stripped to their waists, with their long black hair tied up in a knob at the back of their heads. As they reached the gate their song ceased, and each man placed the basket of taro or yams he carried at the feet of the old dame. From each basket the girl Niya, at old Seaa's command, took one taro and a small yam for the King's household; then the men, picking up the baskets again, followed the women into the village.

So for another hour came parties of men and women and children, brown, healthy, strong and vigorous, carrying their daily offerings to the King of fish and fowl and wild pigeons, and baked pigs and young coconuts, and bananas and other fruits of the rich and fertile Kusaie.

Then, when the last of them had come and gone, the slave-girl Sipi put a small conch shell to her lips and blew a note, and men and women--slaves like herself--appeared from the rear of the house and carried the baskets away to the King's cook-houses.

* * * * *

This was the daily life of Lêla. At the very break of dawn, when the trees and grass were heavy with the dews of the night, and the flocks of mountain parrots screamed shrilly at the rising sun and the wild boar scurried away to his forest lair, the people were up and at work among their plantations or out upon the blue expanse of Lêla Harbour in their canoes. For though there was no need for them to do but the merest semblance of toil, yet it was and always had been the custom of the land for each family to bring a daily gift of food to the King. Sometimes if a whaleship lay outside the harbour the King would take all they brought, to sell to the ship in exchange for guns and powder, and bright Turkey red cloth; but beyond this he took but little of all that they gave him day after day. They were a happy, contented race, and their land was a land of wondrous fertility and smiling plenty.

* * * * *

Sometimes, even in those far-off days, a whale-ship cruising north-westwards to the Moluccas, or the coast of Japan, would sail close in, back her mainyard and send her boats ashore and wait till they returned laden to the gunwales with turtle, yams and fruit. Dearly would the crew--as they gazed upon the bright beaches and the thickly-clustered groves of palms amid which nestled the gray roofs of thatch--have liked the ship to have sailed in, and heard the cable rattle through the hawse-pipes as her anchor plunged through the glassy depths of Lêla Harbour. But Lêla was seldom entered by a ship of any size. Her boats might come in if the captain so choose, and the rough, reckless seamen might wander to and fro among the handsome, brown-skinned people and make sailors' love to the laughing Kusaie maidens till the ship fired a gun for them to return; but the ship herself dared not enter. Not that there was danger of treachery from the people, but because of the narrow, tortuous passage and the fierce, swift current that ever eddied and swirled through its reef-bound sides. Once, indeed, in those olden days the captain of an English whaleship, that lay-to outside, had seen a small schooner lying snugly moored abreast of the King's house, and had boldly sailed his own ship in and anchored beside the little trading vessel. In a week a dozen of his crew had deserted, lured away from the toils of a sailor's life by the smiles of the Kusaie girls. Then he tried to get away before he lost any more men. Three times he tried to tow his ship out with her five boats, and thrice, to the secret joy of the Kusaie people and his crew, had he to return and anchor again; at the fourth attempt the ship struck and went to pieces on the reef.

In those wild days, and for long years afterwards, there were some five or six white men living on Kusaie. They were of that class of wanderers who are to be met with even now among the little known Caroline and Pelew Groups and on some of the isolated islands of the North Pacific. Of those that lived on Kusaie, however, our story has to do with but one, an old and almost decrepid sailor named Charles Westall, who then lived at Lêla under the protection of Togusā, as he had lived under the protection of that chief's father thirty years before. With those white men who lived in the three other districts of the island he had had no communication for nearly ten years, although he was separated from them but half a day's journey by boat or canoe; not that he did not desire to see them, but simply because the intense jealousy that prevailed between the various native chiefs who ruled over these districts made visiting a matter of danger and possible bloodshed. Each chief was extremely jealous of his white protégé, who, although he was exceedingly well treated and lived on the fat of the land, was yet kept under a friendly but rigid surveillance lest he should be tempted to leave his own district and settle in another.

Westall, therefore, as his years and infirmities increased, resigned himself to the knowledge that except when a ship might call at Lêla, he would not be likely to ever converse again in his mother tongue with men of his own colour. He was, although an uneducated man, one of singular energy and discernment, and had during his forty years' residence on the island acquired a considerable influence over the chief Togusā and the leading native families. He was by trade a ship's carpenter, and, attracted by the intelligence of the natives and the professions of friendship made to him by Togusā's father, had deserted from his ship to live among them. Unlike many of his class, he was neither a drunkard nor a ruffian; and eventually marrying a daughter of one of the minor chiefs of Lêla, he had settled down on the island for a lifelong residence. As the years went by and his family increased, so did his status and influence with the natives, and at the time of our story he lived in semi-European style in Lêla village, about a stone's throw from the house of Togusā. He had now some twenty or thirty children by his five wives--for in accordance with native custom he had to increase the number of his wives as his wealth and influence grew--and these had mostly intermarried with natives of pure blood, so that in course of years the old English sailor's household resembled that of some Scriptural patriarch who was honoured in the land.

Early in the morning on the day following the scene described at the King's house, old Westall was sitting outside his boatshed smoking his pipe and watching some of his white-brown grand-children at play, when a young native girl came quickly along the groves of breadfruit and coconut and called out that she had news for him--a ship, she said, was in sight.

"Come thou inside, little one," said the old sailor, kindly, speaking in the Kusaie tongue. (Indeed he had but seldom occasion to speak English.)

The girl was Niya, the niece of Sikra, and was betrothed to Ted, one of old Westall's younger sons. She was about fifteen or so, and was possessed of that graceful carriage and those faultlessly straight features common to women of the Micronesian Islands.

Seating herself on the ground beside the old man, and, in accordance with native fashion, not deigning to notice her lover, who was that moment at work in his father's boatshed, the girl told Westall that she and some other girls had seen a small white-painted ship about four miles off, making towards Lêla.

The old sailor's face instantly became troubled and he called to his son to come to him.

"Ted," said the old man, speaking in English, "that mission ship has come at last, and now there's goin' to be a bit of trouble. You see if there won't."

Edward Westall, a short, thick-set youth of twenty, with a darker complexion than that of the girl who sat at his father's feet, leant upon the adze he carried and said in his curious broken English: "How you know she's mission'ry? Has you ever seen mission'ry ship?"

"No," replied the old man, shortly; "an' I don't want to see one. But I know it's a mission'ry ship. She's painted white, an' I heard from Captain Deaver of the Hattie K. Deaver that there was a mission ship at Honolulu two years ago, an' she was painted white, an' was comin' here right through this group, blarst her!"

"Well, an' what you goin' to do? You think Togusā goin' to let a mission'ry come ashore an' live?"

"That's just what I don't know, boy. Togusā likes the white men, an' maybe he may take to these Yankee psalm-singers. An' if he does, it just means that you an' me an' all the rest of us will have to clear out of here and seek for a livin' elsewheres. They is hungry beggars, these mission'ries, and drives every other white man away from wherever they settles down. An' I'm gettin' too old now to be badgered about by people like them."

"W'y don' you go and tell Togusā to keep 'em from comin' ashore?"

The old man shook his head. "No good, boy. I managed to block one mission'ry from landing here--that feller that came here in the Shawnee whaler when you was a babby--an' I've always been telling Togusā that it will be a bad day for him when he lets one of them come here, but," and he shook his head again, "he's a weak man, and just like a child. His father was another sort, an' had a head chock full o' sense."

For a moment the old seaman seemed sunk in thought, and then suddenly aroused himself.

"Ted," he said, "just you go along with Niya to her uncle Sikra and tell him an' Jorani an' the other big chiefs to come here an' have a talk with me. Togusā is sick, an' so I can't get in to see him."

Throwing down his adze, the young half-caste beckoned to the girl to rise and come with him. With that passive obedience common among women of her race when spoken to by a man, the girl instantly rose and followed her betrothed husband, who, from the broad blue stripes of tattooing that covered his naked arms and thighs, would never have been taken for anything else but a pure-blooded native.

Then old Westall, still wearing a troubled look upon his brown and wrinkled face, walked slowly back to his thatched dwelling and sat down to wait for the native chiefs to talk with them over the danger that--from his point of view--menaced them all.

* * * * *

Four miles away the mission brig--for such indeed was the strange ship--was sailing slowly along the precipitous northern coast of the island. On the poop deck were four clerical gentlemen clothed in heavy black, and each bore in his face an expression of great interest as the various points of the beautiful island opened to their view.

Seated a little apart from the others, as befitted his position and dignity as their leader, was the Reverend Gilead Bawl. He was a man of nearly six feet in height, with shaven upper lip and white beard, and his eyes, keen, cold and gray, had for the past ten minutes been bent over a copy of the Scriptures, outspread upon his huge knees.

Of his four colleagues all that need be said is that in manner of speech, dress, and appearance generally they were minor editions of the Reverend Bawl. They were but strangers in the Islands, having only arrived at Honolulu from Boston six months previously and had been selected by their principal--the Reverend Gilead--to accompany him on his present mission.

Presently Mr. Bawl closed the book and rising from his seat walked up to the captain, who was anxiously scrutinising the line of reef along which the mission brig was sailing.

"Friend," said he, placing his hand with condescending familiarity on the captain's shoulder, and speaking in soft, gentle tones, "it hath pleased Gawd to bless us with a prosperous v'yage to this, the first cawner of the Vineyard, and ere we sail into the haven before us and ventoor our lives among the ragin' heathen, it would be well for us to stay the ship awhile while the brethren and myself, together with the mariners of this chosen bark, render up our offerins' of praise and thanksgivin' for the manifold mercies vouchsafed to us upon the stormy ocean."

A subdued murmur of approval came from one of the younger missionaries, who, clasping his hands together, gazed with a rapt expression at Mr. Bawl.

The captain of the brig looked and felt uncomfortable. "Jest as you please, sir, but I would like to get the ship to an anchor as quickly as possible. I've never been here before and this Strong's Islander we have brought with us seems kinder stupid, and I really believe the creature doesn't know enough for me to take the ship in by his directions. I guess he's a fool--"

The missionary's face assumed a loftily severe expression.

"Captain Branden, you surprise me--nay, more, you pain me. This young man"--and he placed his large, coarse hand on the head of an undersized native, clothed like himself, in a long black coat and wearing a stovepipe hat with a wide, battered rim--"you do, indeed, pain me when you speak of this pious young man--one of Gawd's ministers--as a fool."

The native he indicated, who, twelve months before, had been one of the crew of an American whaleship, but was now the Reverend Purity Lakolalai, turned a dull, stupid face upon the captain, and, encouraged by the protecting glance of his white leader, muttered something under his breath.

"Well, I meant no offence, Mr. Bawl; but I feel somewhat anxious about getting to an anchor as soon as possible."

"Captain Branden," said the missionary, pompously, "it is my wish and the wish of the brethren with me that we offer up supplication for the success of our cause. Will you kindly call the mariners to the stern of the ship, so that they may join with us in devotional exercises befittin' the occasion?"

The master of the brig nodded; and muttering the words "darned rot" under his breath gave the order for the crew to lay aft.

It is necessary to explain that the presence of the Reverend Mr. Bawl and his brethren was largely due to the fact that twelve months previously the Reverend Purity Lakolalai--then a native sailor--had run away from his ship at Honolulu. He was a low-caste Strong's Islander, and spoke whaleship English fluently. By some means he came under the notice of the Reverend Gilead, who, learning that he was a native of Kusaie, immediately set about his conversion, with the result that Lakolalai, being in a certain sense a man of the world and deeply sensible of the material advantages to be derived from his new friends, expressed the deepest grief at his own and his countrymen's ignorance of the truths of the gospel. In the course of a week or two reports were sent home to Boston that, by a marvellous dispensation of Providence, an intelligent young "chief" had been rescued from the degrading life of a whaler's foc's'cle, and had "greatly moved" the American brethren at Honolulu by his pictures of the hopeless savagery and sinful customs of his people. Furthermore, he had become "concerned" for his soul's welfare, and was now at that time "eagerly imbibing the Truth with tears of thankfulness." As a natural corollary to this intelligence subscriptions were asked for to send out a band of brethren to plant the Word on the heathen field of Kusaie. In due course the subscriptions and brethren came, and then followed the imposing function of ordaining Lakolalai, formerly a slave and a "burning brand," a minister of the American Board of Missions. Then came the departure of the mission brig from Honolulu with the missionary party just described.

An hour afterward, the devotions concluded, the brig sailed into Lêla Harbour and dropped anchor off the King's house.

* * * * *

At eight o'clock next morning nearly a thousand natives were assembled on the gravelled space in front of the King's house, all waiting to see the white strangers land. Already a rumour had gone forth that they were the bearers of a message from a great king to their own chief Togusā, but who the white king was and what the message was about none knew.

In a few minutes a boat left the ship and rowed to the beach, and four white men, wearing stovepipe hats and carrying white umbrellas, stepped out and walked up to the King's gateway; at their heels followed Mr. Lakolalai, dressed in exactly the same manner, and carrying, in addition to his umbrella, a large, heavy volume.

At the entrance to the King's grounds the party halted, and then some discussion took place between them and Brother Lakolalai, who seemed inclined to fall back.

"'Tis but the weakness of the flesh," said Mr. Bawl to his brethren; "our brother is somewhat afraid of venturing into the presence of this pore heathen king."

"Yes," said Brother Lakolalai, with emphasis, and, in his excitement, reverting to his whaleship English. "Me 'fraid. You see, I no belong to Lêla; I belong to Utwe--on other side of this island. By ---- I afraid to go inside King's house here. He d---- big king and break my head."

A pained look came into the brethren's eyes, but the Reverend Gilead at any rate was not wanting in courage, and seizing the Reverend Purity Lakolalai by the arm he drew him along with him. Followed by the brethren, they ascended the steps that led up to the King's house, and in another moment were inside.

The room was a very large one, capable of holding half the population of the village. At the further end, seated upon mats, were the leading chiefs. Above them, lying upon a slightly raised couch, was Togusā, the sick chief. He was a man of about thirty, with a thick jet-black beard and pale features, and his countenance showed traces of recent illness.

The moment the missionaries entered, the natives, who were gathered outside, followed them in, the men sitting on one side of the room, the women on the other. As soon as Mr. Bawl and his brethren had approached within a few feet of the King, the missionary motioned to his companions to stop, and advanced alone with hand outstretched.

"You are King Togusā; I am the Reverend Gilead Bawl, and I bring you peace beyond price an' a message from the King ev Kings."

The sick chief shook his head feebly in return, and failing to understand Mr. Bawl's remark, inquired in broken English if he had "come to buy pigs and yams."

"Not pigs, my dear brother, nor yet yams; but souls;" and the Reverend Gilead smiled benignantly, and then with the rest of the brethren sat down upon the rude stool to which the King motioned them. The Reverend Purity Lakolalai, however, sat quite apart from them, on the floor, with a very uneasy expression on his face.

For a moment or so Togusā spoke in an undertone to his chiefs. He was anxious to learn the motive of the white men's visit, and felt that his limited knowledge of English was not equal to the task of carrying on a conversation with them. Presently, however, his eye lighted up when he saw, coming through the doorway, the old white man, Westall, who was attended by four or five of his half-caste sons.

"Tell Challi¹ to come and talk to these men in their own tongue," he said to one of those of his chiefs who sat about him.

¹ Charlie.

Dressed in his seamen's suit of blue dungaree, and holding his broad palm-leaf hat in his hand, the old seaman advanced through the crowded room, and first greeting the King and chiefs in the native language, he turned to the missionaries.

"Good-day, gentlemen. My name is Charlie Westall. I live here. The King wishes me to ask you what is your business and in what way he can serve you. You see, gentlemen, he doesn't speak but little English, and so he wishes me to talk for him."

Then the Reverend Gilead Bawl, rising to his feet, extended his right hand, and pointing a large forefinger at the old white man, spoke.

"Old man, I hev' heerd of you. You are one of those unfor'nit persons who are out of the Lord's fold, and whose dangerous and pernicious example to these pore heathens has done sich harm. You may tell the King from me that I cannot talk to him through such a wicked man as you air."

Old Westall laughed a soft, sarcastic laugh. "Thank ye, sir, I'll tell him that," and then, turning to the King, he said--

"The white men have come here to give thee and thy people a new religion; but he will not talk of it to thee, O Togusā, by my lips."

"Why is that?" said the King, mildly, his dark eyes moving alternately from the face of the missionary to that of the old white man.

"Because, he sayeth, I am a bad and wicked man, and have taught thee and thy people evil."

The King's eyes flashed angrily, and he made a movement as if he would spring from his couch, but in an instant he was calm again.

"That is well, Challi. Let him, then, if he mistrusts thee, find some one else to tell me of his business here in Kusaie."

"The King, sir," said old Westall, again addressing himself to the missionary, "says that he is willing to hear what you have to say--if not through me, then through any one of you or your ship's company who can speak his language."

The calm, quiet tones of the old seaman, covering, as it did the rage and contempt he felt for the person addressed, deceived not only the Reverend Mr. Bawl and his colleagues, but their coloured brother, the Reverend Purity Lakolalai as well. He now stepped forward, Bible in one hand, stovepipe hat in the other. An encouraging smile on Mr. Bawl's face gave him courage to proceed.

Then, in the midst of a dead and ominous silence, the native minister addressed the King. His speech was a curious one, and not at all one that even Mr. Bawl, with all his ministerial pedantry and silly pomposity, would have approved of had he known its gist. First, he warned the King and his people of the wrath to come if they continued in heathenism; secondly, that old Westall and all other white men but missionaries would be taken away by a man-of-war, and cast into a lake of burning fire called Hell; thirdly, that the good and chosen people lived at Honolulu only, and the Reverend Gilead Bawl was a very rich man, and the friend of the President of the United States and God; fourthly, that if Togusā would cast away his idols, and keep but one wife, and take the missionaries to his bosom, that he would not be taken away to the lake of fire with the bad white men, but when he died his soul would be taken in a man-of-war to Honolulu first, and then to Boston, to live with God and President Andrew Jackson; fifthly, that he, Lakolalai, had been a very bad man, but now he had been "washed" and was filled with a powerful "ejon" (witchcraft) which would make him live for ever.

With his chin supported on his right hand the King of Lêla listened with unmoved countenance to the native minister's speech. Then, when he had finished, he turned to Sikra, his favourite chief.

"Who is this man?" he asked, and at the savage energy of his tones the native minister quailed.

"He is Lakolalai, a pig (a slave) from Utwe. He went away from here two years ago."

"Good," and a grim smile stole over the King's features. "Thou hast heard what he has said, and the lies he has told me. Does he and these foolish white men think that I, Togusā, who ever since my birth have known white men, have not heard of these wizards they call missionaries, who would steal the hearts of my people from their gods, and make slaves of them to the god who rules over the lake of fire--bah!" and he spat fiercely on the ground, and then shook his hand threateningly at the missionaries. "Away from here I tell thee. I have heard of thee and know of thy wizardry. Shall I, Togusā, be a like fool to Kamehameha of Hawaii¹ and yield up my country and my wives and my slaves to such dogs as thee? Go, get thee away to some other land while thy lives are yet safe. But yet"--and here he shot a quick glance at old Westall--"shalt thou stay here awhile and see how Togusā shall do justice upon this dog of Utwe, this Lakolalai, who comes into the presence of the King of Lêla and threatens him with the vengeance of the Christ God, and the Lake of Boiling Fire. Take him, men of Lêla, and bind him like as a hog is bound for the slaughter."

¹ The King of the Hawaiian Islands.

But with a wild, despairing cry the native minister had thrown himself at the King's feet, and was pleading for mercy, while from the assembled crowd of people there came a low, savage murmur--the desire for vengeance upon a slave who had insulted their King.

"Gentlemen"--and old Westall advanced to the now alarmed missionaries--"you had better get aboard again. I bear you no ill-will for the hard words you have spoken, but you have come upon a fool's errand. The King will have no missionaries here."

"Shameless and wicked old man," said one of the younger missionaries, "would you incite these raging heathens to deeds of bloodshed? Think you that we, the ministers of God, are to be lightly turned away by threats? No!" and with a firm hand he grasped Gilead Bawl by the arm. "I for one shall not desert my Master, but cheerfully give up my life for the Cause."

With a contemptuous smile old Westall turned away from him and walked over to and stood beside the King. Then he raised his hand.

"Gentlemen, you have had your say. Now let me have mine. There is no danger to any of you--at least to any of you who are white. But listen; for forty years I have lived here among these people, and as long as I do live here no mission'ry shall ever set foot again on this island. These natives may all go to hell as you say, but that is none of your business--they've been goin' there cheerful enough for the last five hundred years. Now, don't be afraid, no one is going to hurt you, but the King wants to ask you a question or two before you go."

With a pale face, but a certain amount of resolution in his cold gray eyes, the Reverend Gilead Bawl stepped out from the others and spoke again to the King.

"Beware, O Togusā, of this old man. He is a bad man," and then he suddenly ceased as the King raised himself upon his tattooed and naked arm.

"Christ-man, answer me this. This dog here"--and he pointed scornfully at the grovelling figure of the native minister--"this dog sayeth that he will live for ever by reason of the new faith he hath gotten from thee."

"Man," said the missionary, springing forward, after old Westall had interpreted the King's words, "I implore you, nay, command you, on peril of the loss of your immortal soul, to give this unhappy heathen my true answer. Tell him that Lakolalai, God's minister, will have eternal life hereafter, even if these godless heathens now take his life."

Then Westall turned to the King.

"The Christ-man sayeth, O Togusā, that this man, Lakolalai, will have life for ever."

"Ha," said Togusā, "now shall we see if this be true."

Two men advanced, and seizing the native minister, stood him upon his trembling feet.

"Stand aside, gentlemen, if you please," said old Westall quietly to the missionaries. They moved aside, and then Togusā, calling to Sikra, the chief, pointed to the wretched Lakolalai.

"Take thou thy spear, Sikra, and thrust it through this man's body. And if he live, then shall I believe that he will live for ever."

And Sikra, with a fierce smile, seized his heavy, ebony wood spear, and as he raised his right hand and poised the weapon, the men who held Lakolalai's arms suddenly stretched them widely apart.

The spear sped from Sikra's hand, and spinning through the convert's body, fell near the feet of the Reverend Gilead Bawl and his brethren at the other end of the room.

* * * * *

In another hour the mission ship was under weigh again, and old Westall was seated at home smoking his pipe and playing with his grandchildren, and smiling inwardly as he glanced seaward and saw the white sails of the brig far away to the westward.

But, after all, the visit of the mission ship was long remembered by the people of Kusaie, and for their wickedness were they sorely afflicted; for the garments of the late Reverend Purity Lakolalai were given by Togusā to one of his favourite slaves, who soon afterwards died of measles, and in less than a month seven hundred other godless heathens followed him, and old Charlie Westall, with Ted and Niya his wife, and his maid-servants and man-servants and all that was his cleared away from the disease-stricken island, and sailed in search of a new land called Ponape, which lieth far to the westward.

Mrs. Malleson's Rival

Jim Malleson lived on Tarawa, one of the Gilbert Islands, in Equatorial Polynesia. He was a tall, thin, melancholy looking man, with pale blue eyes and a straggling sandy beard that grew upon his long chin in a half-hearted, indefinite sort of way. His trading station was situated at the most northerly point of the whole atoll--a place where the thin strip of low-lying sandy soil that belted the blue waters of Tarawa Lagoon was narrowed down to a few hundred yards in width--barely sufficient, one would imagine, to prevent the thundering breakers that flung themselves against the weather side of the island from hurtling through the thinly-growing coconut and pandanus groves, and pouring over into the calm waters of the inland sea, carrying everything, including Malleson's ramshackle house, before them. Denison, the supercargo of the Indiana, had, indeed, mentioned the possibility of such an occurrence to Malleson one day, and offered to shift him further down the lagoon, but his offer was declined--he was quite satisfied, he said, to stay where he was and take his chance.

For some unknown reason Malleson, although on perfectly friendly terms with the four or five other white men who lived on Apiang, the nearest island in the Gilbert Group to Tarawa, yet seldom associated with them. He was the only white man on Tarawa, and, although the two islands are not a day's sail apart, he had never raised energy enough to sail his boat over to Apiang and return the many visits he had had from the traders there. But, in spite of his owl-like solemnity, he was not by any means unsociable, and would occasionally unbend to a certain extent. One curious thing about him was that, although he had now been living alone on Tarawa for two years, he had never been married. Now, for a trader to remain single was, in native eyes, extremely undignified, and not calculated to raise him in public estimation; any white man who could show such a disregard of the conventionalities of native life and custom, necessarily became an object of suspicion to the native mind. However, as he was a quiet, non-interfering man, who quarrelled with no one, conducted himself with the strictest propriety, and refrained from cheating in the pursuit of his business, he gradually begat confidence and respect among the fierce, warlike Tarawans; so much so that at the end of two years he had become the most prosperous trader in the Gilbert Group, and his huge, ill-built storehouse was generally filled to bursting with copra (dried coconut) and sharks' fins whenever a trading ship entered the lagoon and dropped anchor off his station. So steadily did his business and his reputation for fair dealing increase with the natives, that, after a time, fleets of canoes would visit Tarawa, coming, some from Marakei, fifty miles to the north, and some from the great lagoon island of Apamama, a hundred miles to the south-east, bringing with them their produce of dried coconut to be exchanged with the white man for coloured prints, calicoes, arms, tobacco, and liquor.

The white men living on Apiang and the other atolls in the group could not but experience a feeling of vexation that Malleson, who, as they said, was the laziest man in the South Seas, should divert so much custom and so many dollars from their islands to his. Day after day they would see large sailing canoes filled with dried coconut and other native produce sailing past their very doors bound to Malleson's place; but being on the whole a decent lot of men, they bore their successful rival no ill-will, accepted matters (after a time) philosophically, and lived in the hopes of Malleson being found cheating by the natives, and either getting himself tabooed from further trading, or being warned off the island by the chiefs.

So one day, after business jealousies had quite subsided, they again manned their boats and visited him, and, knowing that many months had passed since a ship had called at Tarawa, they bore with them the gift of friendship peculiar to the country--some half a dozen or so of Hollands gin--in order to cheer up his lonely existence by endeavouring to make him drunk. But in this they had always failed on previous occasions, for the more liquor he consumed the more melancholy and owl-like of visage he became. They had all also, individually and severally, endeavoured to induce Malleson to give up his single life and permit them or one of the chiefs of Tarawa to find him a suitable wife from among the many hundreds of young marriageable girls on the island. But their kindly intentions proved unavailing, for Malleson distinctly declared his intention of remaining as he was, and put some little warmth into his manner of declaring that rather than have a native wife forced upon him, he would barricade his house.

"I don't want any native wife, boys," he would say, solemnly. "I dessay you chaps mean well, an' wouldn't see me marry a girl as wasn't no good, an' means to try and make me feel more comfortable; but I ain't agoin' to do it."

But a plot against his further celibacy had been formed, not, it must be mentioned, without ulterior views by one of the participants therein, Mr. Andy O'Rourke, a genial, rollicking trader on the island of Apiang. He was agent for a firm trading in opposition to Malleson's employers, had a large half-caste family, and a very extensive native connection generally, both socially and in business, and for a long time past had cogitated upon the possibility of joining his fortunes with those of his successful rival, to his own particular advantage financially, and that of Malleson from a domestic point of view. In short, he intended to get Malleson married, and had already made up his mind that Tera, his wife's sister, was eminently calculated to fill the position of Mrs. Jimmy Malleson. But to avoid any suspicion of underhand work he determined to so arrange matters that no one of his fellow-traders should ever suspect that he had any preconceived idea of making Malleson his brother-in-law, and set about his plans in a thoroughly open, genial Irish manner.

He had, therefore, proposed that on the present trip to Malleson's they should as a matter of conjugal and family duty take their wives, children, and relatives with them.

"We ought to give the women a run over to Malleson's, boys," he said, when the trip was first proposed. "It's the gogo (mutton-bird) season over at Tarawa just now, and the women and children would enjoy themselves fine getting the eggs and birds. You'll bring your wife, Davy, won't you? Tom French's missus is coming, and a couple of his daughters; and my wife wants to bring her sister with her. What d'ye say, boys?"

So over they came, each trader sailing his own boat, and carrying with him his native wife and half-caste family, all bent upon having a thoroughly good time at Tarawa, for the people of the two islands were now at peace. Seated aft in Andy's boat, between his wife and himself, was the pretty Tera, who had been well tutored by her sister Lebonnai in the part she was to play in captivating the heart of Malleson. And although Tera had frankly admitted that she had looked to get a handsomer and younger husband than the one her brother-in-law designed for her, she was a dutiful girl, and consented to sacrifice herself upon the altar of family affection with resigned and unobtrusive cheerfulness.

As the boats, with their snow-white sails bellying out to the trade-wind, sped along over the long ocean swell, Davy Walsh, whose boat was nearest, called out to Andy (they were all sailing close together)--

"I wonder how old Malleson's piggy-wiggy is getting on?"

A general laugh followed, for Malleson's affection for his pig was a source of continual amusement to his fellow-traders.

* * * * *

About a year after he had landed on Tarawa, a passing Puget Sound lumber ship, bound to the Australian colonies, had hove-to off Malleson's place for an hour or two. He had boarded her, and in exchange for some young coconuts and bananas, the American skipper had presented him with a pig of the male sex, informing him that the animal was of a high lineage in the porcine line. Malleson had been much struck with the promising proportions and haughty but reserved demeanour of the creature as it poked about the deck, and at once conceived the idea of improving the breed of pigs on the island--not, of course, from disinterested motives, but as a means of adding to his income.

As time went on the pig grew and throve amazingly, and the fame of the beast spread throughout the Gilbert Group; and Malleson's anticipations with regard to his own profit in possessing such an animal were amply verified. Natives from outlying villages, and finally from islands a hundred miles distant, came to look at his pig, and a deputation of leading old men (i.e., the village councillors) from Apiang visited Malleson with the object of conveying the pig, as a friendly loan, to their august master, the King. But to this he would not consent, pointing out politely, but firmly withal, the risks attendant upon carrying such a valuable animal in an open canoe a distance of forty miles; besides that, he had become attached to the creature, he said, and would be lonely without him. The deputation thanked the trader, and withdrew.

* * * * *

As the visitors' boats sailed across the lagoon, and brought-to in front of Malleson's dilapidated dwelling, the trader came out of his house, and walked down the beach to meet them; and Andy O'Rourke noted with envy that Malleson's storehouses, the doors of which were wide open, were full to bursting of copra.

"Come up to the house," said the melancholy-looking man, shaking hands with them all in a limp sort of manner. "My boys (servants) will bring your traps up out o' the boats; but"--and here he glanced dejectedly at the women--"I'm afraid that my house is too small to hold you all. Perhaps the women and children wouldn't mind sleepin' in my boathouse just for to-night. To-morrow I can get a house run up for 'em."

"That's all right, old chap," said Andy, slapping his solemn-visaged host on the back; "but, if you don't mind, Lebonnai and her sister will stay with me in your house. You see, Tera--that's her coming up now--was a bit seasick coming over, and my wife got a touch of the sun; they are both complaining a bit. However, they won't trouble you much. Just let 'em have a corner to themselves."

"'Tain't much of a place for women," said Malleson, disconsolately, as he looked at his dirty, untidy sitting-room, with its floor covered with ragged, worn-out mats, and then at Lebonnai and Tera, tall, stately, and graceful in their white muslin gowns and broad Panama hats. "You see, I does my own cookin', and on'y straightens up onst a week or so. But I'll get some o' the village women to come in and clean up the place a bit."

"No, you won't, old man," said Andy cheerfully; "my wife has brought plenty of sleeping-mats, and she and Tera--a smart girl is Tera--will soon fix up a place." Andy now had an opening to let Malleson see what a handy girl Tera was, and what an excellent housewife she would make.

So, while the wily Andy and Tom French, Dave Walsh, and Pedro Calice sat outside with Malleson, and smoked and drank lager beer and gin, pretty Tera, whose mind was full of the possibilities of becoming Mrs. Malleson and pleasing her sister and brother-in-law, hustled her sister about, and set to work. First of all, though, she took off her starched muslin gown, and hung it up carefully, revealing her shapely figure (clothed in but a short skirt of pink print) in the most innocent and natural manner possible. Then for the next ten minutes she and Lebonnai were busily engaged in dragging out the dirty old mats, and replacing them with clean ones brought from the boats, clearing off the awful collection of empty salmon and sardine tins from the soiled table, and touching up the room here and there and everywhere.

"He's very old-looking, and hath weak, watery eyes," whispered Tera to her sister, who was carrying out a basket full of débris to throw away on the beach.

"Speak low, thou little fool; he may hear thee. And what if he is old and watery-eyed? Is he not a white man and rich, and with a good character?"

Tera shrugged her smooth, rounded shoulders, and went on sweeping, glancing now and then at the long, awkward figure of her prospective husband.

"Well, old man," said Davy, addressing his host, "how's business, and how's the pig?"

"Come an' see him," answered Malleson with unusual promptitude; "he's lookin' fine."

The traders exchanged sly, amused glances, but at once rose and followed him to a little compactly built pig-pen of thick coconut logs, which was sheltered from sun and rain by a wide roof of pandanus thatch. Inside, on a bed of clean grass, lay an enormous black and white boar pig, asleep.

This was "Brian."

"He don't like bein' disturbed too soon after his breakfast," said Malleson, as the four men bent over the fence and gazed at the recumbent animal; "he gets mad sometimes, an' don't eat."

"Is that so?" said French, with an appearance of deep interest.

"Yes. You see he's got very reg'lar habits, an' don't like bein' worried after a meal. But any way, as you chaps don't see him often, I'll wake him."

Hoisting one of his long legs over the low coconut fence, the trader got into the pen, and slapping the huge beast gently on the rump, called, "Brian, Brian, get up, old man; it's on'y me an' Andy, an' Tom French an' Davy Walsh."

Brian wouldn't move, but his thick, hideous lip gave a slight quiver.

"He wants a lot o' coaxin', don't he?" said Malleson, with a faint blink of amusement, and then he began to scratch the monster's back with his forefinger. This partially roused the object of his solicitude, who gave vent to a grunt of enjoyment, and lifting one hind leg slightly, pushed it out astern; then with another and fainter grunt he lay quiet again.

"Won't he stand up?" queried Andy.

"No, not now. But we'll come back when it gets a bit cooler. He enjoys the wind when it's a bit westerly, like it is now, and generally stands up in the corner there to get a sniff--there, d'ye see that little port-hole I've cut? Well, he likes looking through that sometimes, watching the village pigs cruisin' about on the beach. I've been givin' him cooked fish lately. Don't believe in raw fish for him--heats his blood too much an' gives him a kind o' nightmare."

"Just so," said Davy, sympathetically; "makes him cry out in his sleep I suppose. Well, he's looking all right, anyway."

* * * * *

"Come along the beach for a bit of a stroll," said Andy O'Rourke to Malleson that night. The other two men had turned in, and Andy had been waiting for a chance to have a quiet talk to his host. As they went out Andy pointed to the recumbent figures of Mrs. Andy and her sister, who were apparently sound asleep at the end of the sitting-room, and said--

"They look all right and comfy, don't they?"

They did look all right, and even the owl-like, watery-eyed Malleson smiled approvingly. One of Tera's soft, rounded arms supported her sister's head, and her face rested against her bosom. As the men's footsteps disturbed the coral gravel that was spread over the path outside the house, the younger woman pretended to awake, rose, and followed them.

"Anti," she called in the native language, "tell the white man that if he will give me a piece of soap, Lebonnai and I shall wash his clothes in the morning." (Result of prompting from Lebonnai aforesaid during the night.)

Of course, Malleson understood the native tongue, and as he walked away with Andy he said that Tera "was a good-hearted girl to trouble about his dirty clothes."

"She is that. Look here, old man, she's a regular star of a girl. Now, I ain't going to beat about the bush. I brought her here thinking you might take a likin' to her, and marry her. She'll be a fine wife for you, and make you comfortable. What do you say? She's willin' enough, and there ain't a better-mannered girl anywhere in the Gilbert Group; an' what's more, there isn't any scandal about her."

Malleson made no reply for a minute or two. Then he began filling his pipe. After he had lighted it he spoke.

"Look here, Andy, I'll just tell you the whole thing. I'd be willin' enough, but the fact is I'm a married man. My old woman is livin' in Auckland. She's got a rotten temper, an' to make things worse, she took up with some o' these here wimmen suffrage wimmen, and used to jaw the head off herself tellin' me what a degradin' beast I was to live with. Well, things went on from bad to worse, until one day I seed in the paper as Mrs. James Malleson had said at a meetin' that she too had an unthinkin' husband as hadn't got no intelligence. That just finished me. I cleared out from her, and came down here with Captain Peate to start tradin'. That was two year ago. I send her money every six months by the schooner, but, although I won't ever go back to her again, I ain't a-goin' to marry no native women. It's bigamy."

"No, it ain't. Not down in the islands anyway. Why, it ain't respectable for a man to be livin' by himself, as you are. You can marry Tera right enough. Who's agoin' to know that you've a wife in New Zealand."

"I would, and Peate would. And besides that I ain't a-goin' to do anything like that. My wife's a holy terror, but, at the same time, I know she's an honest woman, and I won't wrong her that way."

Andy gave a long whistle of astonishment. "Well, just as you like, old man; but you beat anything I ever saw as a trader. You ought to get a billet as a missionary. And do you mean to keep on livin' like this, all alone?"

"Yes. Why not? I'm all right. I'm doin' pretty well, and Brian takes up a lot of my time when business is dull. How do you think he's lookin'?"

* * * * *

A week later pretty, black-browed Tera went away with her sister--still single. As the boats sailed from the white beach Malleson stood in his doorway and waved his hand in farewell.

"She's a pretty little creatur'," he said as he watched the boats heeling over to the breeze, "an' as merry as a lark. I wonder if Brian would ha' took to her?"

* * * * *

Sometimes the village children would come near to Brian's sty, and ask Malleson to let them give the creature a young coconut, knowing full well that the pleased trader would reward them individually by a present of a ship biscuit in return. At dusk Malleson, carrying a huge wooden bowl full of tender coconut pulp and milk, would give the pig his last meal for the day, and then stand and lean over the fence and gaze admiringly down, as Brian thrust his round, pink snout into the repast.

Sometimes also Malleson, although naturally a modest man, could not but feel a proud swell of bosom, when, in the bright moonlight nights, he would look and see perhaps thirty or forty natives from the far end of the island, standing around the pig pen, rifles in hand, discussing the magnificent proportions and money value of its slumbering tenant.

* * * * *

A year went by, and then one day the Indiana sailed into the lagoon. The captain and Denison the supercargo soon came ashore and met Malleson standing on the beach.

"How are you, Malleson? Got much for me this trip?"

"About ninety tons of copra, Captain Peate. Did you bring me those two bags of maize for the pig?"

"D---- your old pig, man! But of course I've brought it. And I'm going to take you back with me this trip."

"Why?" asked Malleson, wonderingly.

"Because I've seen Mrs. Malleson, and had a long yarn with her. Here's a letter to you from her. The fact is, Malleson, she's fretting about you, and wants you to come back. She told me it was all her fault, but that if you come back she'll be a different woman, and leave politics and woman suffrage alone."

Malleson opened and read his wife's letter, and then looked with a troubled expression into the captain's face.

"Well," he sighed, "I s'pose I must go. I can't stay away from my lawful wife now she's goin' to turn over a new leaf, and quit jawin' and naggin'. Can you put Brian somewhere below? I wouldn't let him make the voyage on deck! We might get bad weather on the trip--it's just comin' on for the hurricane season now."

The skipper gazed at Malleson in wrathful astonishment.

"Curse your infernal beast of a pig! I'm not going to have the brute aboard my ship. I'll buy him from you, if you like, and give him to my Kanaka crew to eat."

Malleson laughed uneasily. "You're fond of your joke, Captain. However, we can arrange about him by and by, after the copra is bagged and shipped."

"Arrange be hanged! D'ye think I'm going to carry a confounded pig as a passenger? Perhaps you'd like to bring him in the cabin? It might be 'arranged,' though," he continued with bitter sarcasm. "Denison and the mate and myself could sleep in the hold--that is, if the pig wouldn't find the cabin too close for him when we lose the south-east trades."

Malleson turned away indignantly. He did not see anything to make fun of in his anxiety for Brian. Yet he went off, feeling that Peate would relent before the day was out. But his face fell when, later on in the day, Captain Peate told him plainly that he could not possibly take the pig, not even on deck.

"Sell him to the natives," suggested Denison, who was standing near.

Malleson gave an indignant reply. He never used bad language, but it was very evident that he was greatly angered at the captain's refusal to even have a deck house built for the pig's accommodation. However, in the course of the day he had an interview with the local chief; then he went back to Peate.

"I've arranged with the chief about Brian. He's promised me that when I come back next trip I'll find Brian all right, and well cared for."

"When you come back! What in the name of Heaven are you coming back to this wretched place for? The 'missus' won't hear of it."

"She'll have to hear of it; and what's more, if she doesn't like to come back with me, she can stay behind. I mean to come back, and live here. I'm doin' pretty well, and don't see why I should give up my business to please her. I might have got married native fashion, an' been more comfortable, but wouldn't do it--it was against my conscience. At the same time, if you'll change your mind, an' will take the pig away with me in the Indiana, I might settle down again in New Zealand, an' try pig-farmin'."

"Oh, all right; please yourself," said the skipper, shortly. "I'd take the pig, if I could, but I can't. We've none too much room aboard now, and I can't build a deck house for such a hulking beast as your cursed old pig."

Shortly after dawn next morning Malleson was ready. He had spent an hour or so in meditation over the pig pen, fed Brian for the last time, and taken a tender farewell of him. And, as he now stepped out of his house for the last time, he gave the chief a parting injunction.

"See that he eateth nothing but that which is given him by thine own hand, my friend; and that his bed be made with very little, smooth pebbles, covered over with much soft, fine grass; a big stone among them doth both hurt and anger him when he lieth down to sleep."

Then as Malleson and the captain walked down to the beach, the people stood around, and called out in their guttural tongue: Tíak ápo, Tími (Good-bye, Jimmy); and the trader, with a last look towards the pigsty, stepped into the boat.

Suddenly a hideous sound--a combination of a snort of rage and a squeal of terror--smote upon his ear, and in an instant he had jumped out, and made toward the pig pen. Just as he came in view of the lowly structure he saw a number of native children disappearing round the back of his storehouses, and Teban, the chief, in swift pursuit, shouting out threats of vengeance.

In a few minutes the chief returned and explained matters to the agitated Malleson, who was now in the pen, rubbing the pig's cheeks, and asking him what was the matter. It seemed that the moment Malleson had got into the boat a rude little boy had thrust a sharpened fish-spear into Brian's snout to make Brian squeal.

Teban swore by the shades of his father and two uncles to find the culprit and beat him.

Malleson didn't answer him for awhile. His feelings overpowered him. Presently he got out of the pen and walked down the beach to the boat.

"Come on, man, come on," called the captain, impatiently, "we'll never get away at this rate."

"Look here, captain, I've changed my mind about goin'. Sling my traps out again, will you? You can tell the old woman that I was glad to hear from her, an' if she likes to come down here to me with you next trip, I'll try and make her comfortable, an' be a good husban' to her. . . . But it's no use, I can see, trusting Brian with these natives. He's trembling now like a asping leaf. Some d----d boy has just been proddin' the poor fellow in the nose out o' pure devilment."

And then shaking hands with the disgusted skipper, the grief-stricken man hurried back to solace and soothe the angry feelings of his beloved pig.

* * * * *

Malleson is now living in a swell weather-board house at Tarawa, with his lawful wife; and Brian has "took" to Mrs. Malleson.

Prescott of Naura

I

About three or four hundred miles to the westward of the Kingsmill Group, and situated twenty-five miles south of the equator, is an isolated island, with a teeming population of noisy, intractable savages. It is called by the people Naura, and to the white traders and seamen who frequent that little-visited part of the South Pacific, is known as Pleasant Island. At the present time it is under the jurisdiction of the Imperial German Commissioner of the Marshall Islands, having been included in the German-protected area in the Pacific in 1884. Since that time the social conditions and habits of the people have changed but little, save for one important particular--their German masters try to keep a tight rein upon their blood-letting proclivities, and the seven clans with which the island is peopled are no longer allowed to slaughter each other with a free hand; and everything they buy is made in Germany.

But even under the government of a civilised nation, life to-day among the wild denizens of Naura is full of exciting incident, for there is but one German official on the island, and sometimes the old fighting leaven becomes too strong and the seven clans shoot merrily away at each other over their stone boundary walls. Then a report goes to the Commissioner at Jaluit, and by and by a German man-of-war comes down and her captain chides the people, who promise, like the children they are, not to be wicked any more, but to lay aside their rifles--and make copra for the German trading firm--else they won't get any more English tinned beef and American tobacco made in Germany.

But thirty or forty years ago Pleasant Island was a wild place indeed. The ships of the American whaling fleet that in those days sailed from one end of the Pacific to the other, called there often enough, but every man on board, save those working the ship, held a musket or a cutlass in his hand as long as the vessel lay off and on at the island. For bad enough as the natives were, the white men who lived with them were worse. Among them were men who would have thought no more of cutting off a ship and murdering all hands than they would of shooting a native of the island. And it was on Pleasant Island that Robert Prescott had cast his lot when he ran away from the brig Clarkston, of Sydney. This vessel when cruising through the New Hebrides Group had found him at Vaté, where he was living with the natives.

In those times captains of whalers and sandal-wooding ships picked up many such wandering white men as this man among the islands and asked no questions from whence they came. And although the captain of the Clarkston had a good idea that Prescott was one of a gang of escaped Tasmanian convicts, he cheerfully accepted his statement that he had run away from the Rifleman, a London whaler, and acceded to his wish to give him a passage to Pleasant Island.

Three months after, Prescott, then an immensely powerful young man, and notorious for his violent temper, landed on the island, and was greeted with much enthusiasm by some eight or ten white beachcombers, most of whom had known him when, as their associate, he was engaged in the laborious occupation of hauling timber at Port Arthur under the supervision of the unappreciative prison officials who "bossed" the chain gang.

Among the hardened criminals who escorted their newly-found comrade to the village in which four or five of them lived in rude, drunken luxury, was an old New South Wales convict named Jasper Dale, whose brute strength and pre-eminence in every imaginable kind of villainy had led to his tacit installation as leader, not only of the majority of the white renegades of Naura, but of one of the most powerful of the natives clans.

With such a man as this for his friend, Prescott--himself a man of the most ferocious courage and cruel nature--soon became a person of influence among the natives, and ere long he and Dale came to open enmity with the other beach-combers, who one by one withdrew themselves to the protection of the chiefs other clans.

* * * * *

A year or two previous to the arrival of Prescott on the island, Dale had taught the natives how to make an ardent spirit from the sap of the inflorescence of the coconut palm; and it was no unusual sight to see the whole male population of one village, maddened by drinking this "toddy," as it was called, sally forth from their houses of thatch, and, led by their particular white man, engage in bloody combat with the people of the next village. In these encounters Dale had always taken the leadership of the fighting-men of his clan, and his prowess in war led him to be treated with the greatest consideration by his native friends. Before Prescott's arrival he had already given further distinction to his name by shooting dead a fellow beach-comber named Lawson, and carrying off his wife to his already ample harem. The savage spirit in which Prescott emulated him in deeds of bloodshed proved his eminent fitness as a lieutenant, and it was this partiality that Dale evinced for him that led to the rupture with the other white men.

For some time neither Prescott nor Dale came into actual collision with their former associates till one day an ex-convict named Cassidy, with three other whites and two hundred natives at his back, maddened, like himself, with drinking sour toddy, burst upon the village in which Dale and Prescott lived and began firing into and burning the houses right and left. Seizing his musket at the first alarm Prescott had taken his stand in front of his house, and the first shot he fired struck Cassidy, and killed him on the spot. The loss of their leader made the attacking party retreat, and the two friends, flushed with their victory, that night held high revel with their native friends in the maniapa, or council-house, of their village, and planned the utter destruction of their former colleagues.

Their native allies entered eagerly into the scheme, and it was finally agreed upon that if they and their two white men succeeded in exterminating the others, that the island should be divided into two districts--one for Dale, the other for Prescott; and after long discussion it was decided to make an attack in two days' time upon a village in which six of the white men lived.

But their plans were thrown suddenly out of gear by an unlooked-for event--next morning at daylight they saw lying-to, close in shore, a large ship, which, by the number of boats and men she carried, it was easy to see was a whaler.

Dale and Prescott, calling loudly to their native friends to come with them in force and board the ship before they were anticipated by the other white men on the island, were just preparing to start, when, to their disgust, they saw that a whaleboat, in which were their former companions, had already reached the ship.

"Curse them!" said Dale, with a fearful oath, to his crime-stained partner, "Klinermann, Ashton, and Cow-faced Bob and the others have got to windward of us this time. They'll buy all the spare arms and ammunition they can get, and then sail in and wipe us two out."

"Never!" said Prescott, passionately, as his hand gripped a pistol savagely. "I tell you, Dale, that if you stand by me we will yet be masters here."

"What is the use of it?" said Dale. "Even if we do wipe 'em out, we can't expect to live here for ever. I tell you, man, that there's bound to be a man-o'-war here before long--and you know what that means"; and with a hideous grimace he pointed to his throat. "The System¹ ain't agoin' to let us chaps live in clover down here."

¹ The Convict System of New South Wales.

Sitting down on an upturned canoe the man Prescott gazed moodily out upon the placid ocean towards the whaleship as she slowly stood out seawards with the shore boat in tow. Suddenly he sprang up, and with clenched hands and working features strode to and fro under the waving plumes of the palm trees.

"Dale," he said, suddenly, and his voice was husky and hoarse with emotion, "you know me. I tell you that if you will stand by me we will see Europe or America in another twelve months. O God, man! O God! I must get somewhere away from these cursed men-o'-war, or I'll go mad."

"Spit it out, then," said Dale, with a savage light in his eye. "I ain't the cove to go back on a man. Wot d'ye want to do?"

"Come here," said Prescott, clutching his arm and drawing him into the deserted native council-house.

For nearly half an hour the two men talked, and then separated as they saw the whaleship shorten her canvas and heave to, and the boat, crowded with white men, pull for the shore.

* * * * *

In the boat there were seven white men belonging to the island and four others from the ship. These four useless, dissolute creatures had been told by the captain of the whaleship that as he no longer wanted them on board they might go on shore and stay there. Fired with the desire of leading a lazy, sensuous life among the wild people of Pleasant Island, they had eagerly accepted the invitation of the seven beach-combers to "come ashore and live like fighting-cocks."

As the boat drew in to the beach the man who steered, a tall, slender young fellow named Beverley, suddenly uttered an expression of alarm, and pointed to the figures of their two former comrades who were seated on the shore, apparently awaiting their arrival. Behind them were some three or four hundred natives belonging to the village in which the seven beach-combers lived.

"By God, boys," said young Beverley, "there's Prescott and Dale right among our people, sitting down on the beach as if they belonged here--and as if Prescott hadn't shot poor Cassidy less than twelve hours ago."

"What does it matter, Bev.?" hiccupped a crime-hardened ruffian named Greenhaugh; "they're in our village, and if they meant mischief our natives would have made short work of 'em. Tell you what it is, boys. Dale ain't a bad cove, neither is Prescott--they've come round to make it up with us. An' I votes we makes it up an' has a howlin' drunk all round, and treats each other like gentlemen."

The hospitable sentiments of Mr. Greenhaugh were well received by his companions, and as soon as the boat touched the beach the eleven white men left her to be hauled up by the natives and advanced in drunken, rollicking good-humour to the two men who awaited them.

"Hallo, Beverley," said Prescott, advancing, "you chaps got to windward of me and Dale this time in getting aboard the ship first. Well, never mind, we aren't going to quarrel over it, are we, Dale? But what we do want to say is this: we ain't going to bear no malice for what happened yesterday. Cassidy got wiped out. We ain't going to deny it. I wiped him out, an' if you other chaps," pointing to the other three men who had followed Cassidy in the previous day's encounter, "hadn't cleared mighty smart, you'd have all been wiped out too by our crowd. And so what I say is this, let us make friends again and live quiet and peaceablelike. You, Beverley, are married to a sister of my wife; so here's my hand, and let bygones be bygones."

"Right you are, Prescott. I don't want no fighting, and I wouldn't join in the row yesterday. I have no grudge against you," and so saying young Beverley held out his hand. In a few moments the others followed his example.

"Well, look here, boys," said Dale, meditatively, "our house at the other village is a bigger one than yours. We've got plenty of grog, and why can't you chaps all come up to our village, and we'll have a blazin' spree, and drink repose to poor Cassidy's foolish soul?"

"Yes, come on, lads," said Prescott; "we'll make it up to-night, and besides that, we can talk business"; and he looked meaningly at Beverley, who, though so young, he knew possessed great influence over the other men.

Half an hour's walk brought them to Prescott and Dale's village, and then, surrounded by a tumultuous and excited crowd of Prescott's native friends, the thirteen white men entered his house, and were made welcome by his and Dale's wives. A case of gin was passed out to the natives, and, to show that no treachery was intended towards their guests, Prescott commanded the people to bring all their arms--muskets, clubs and spears--into his house, and lay them down on the matted floor.

Less cruel and treacherous than their white associates, the natives instantly complied, and in a few minutes the floor of the beach-combers' house was covered with weapons. As soon as the natives had withdrawn to their huts, which were within a few hundred yards of Dale and Prescott's house, the latter opened a couple of bottles of liquor, and pouring the fiery contents into coconut shells handed it round to the company.

Throwing off all disguise, Prescott strode into the middle of the room, and drinking off his liquor spoke.

"Boys," he said, and his bright blue eyes glittered and sparkled with cruel lustre, "Dale and I didn't ask you here just to get drunk. Did we, Dale?"

"No," said Dale, with a fierce laugh as he drained off his liquor and dashed the empty coconut shell to the ground. "We asked you coves here to see if you had any grit in yer, an' was game for a bold stroke."

"What d'ye want us for, then, d--n yer?" said Greenhaugh, the most reckless of the lot. "D'ye want us to sing a hymn for poor Ted Cassidy?"

"This is what we want," said Prescott, and advancing to the table he spread out both hands upon it. "Here we are, thirteen men, all got arms, and plenty of niggers to back us up--and there's a ship to be had for very little trouble. Now do you understand?"

For a moment no one answered him, and then Beverley with his brown arms folded across his brawny chest, advanced to Prescott.

"What do you mean, Prescott--cutting off?"

The ex-convict nodded, and then gazed with keen anxiety into the young man's face. The rest of the men looked from one to the other, but no words escaped their lips.

Dashing his hand upon the table the young beach-comber looked into the dark and lowering face of Prescott.

"Look here, Bob Prescott, if you brought us here to try and work this dodge you've made a mistake. I may be a d----d scoundrel, but I'm not going to murder a ship's crew for the sake of what is aboard the ship," and turning fiercely to the other men who sat silent at the table. "And if any man among you chaps listens to such a thing, by God, I'll go to the ship and tell the skipper!"

Five or six of the men sprang to their feet, and in eager tones assured the speaker that they would not entertain the idea. And then Prescott, with simulated drunken hilarity, clapped Beverley on the back, and swore that his suggestion was only a joke.

"Get another bottle of grog, Terátiko," he said to his native wife, at the same time shooting a glance of terrible meaning towards Dale.

"I'll get it, Bob," said Dale, going to a partitioned-off part of the house, where the liquor was kept. As he stepped past Prescott he muttered--

"Come in with me;" and then in a loud voice he asked him to come and show him where the grog was.

The moment they entered the partitioned room the man Dale whispered--

"What are you going to do?"

"Look," said Prescott, with an oath, as he pointed out through the window seaward, "do you see that ship? Well, only for these chicken-hearted dogs that ship would be ours to-night. But they won't do it. And I say that if we can't get away in that ship those eleven chaps in there will wipe us out like we wiped out Cassidy."

"Well," said Dale, in a hoarse whisper, "I say, what are you a'goin' to do?"

With a swift glance at his companion, Prescott took a bottle of liquor from a case and handed it to Dale.

"Quick--take this out and open it for them. But mind, don't drink anything yourself from the next bottle when I bring it in."

In a moment or two the white men heard Prescott calling to his wives to bring in some food, and Greenhaugh, with a drunken laugh, staggered to his feet, and said he would assist the ladies to bring in the dinner.

"Sit down, you fool," said Beverley, the youngest and least ruffianly of the seven beach-combers, "haven't you got enough sense to keep quiet in this place?" and he pointed to the muskets, cutlasses, and knives that were lying upon the floor. "Do you think that because we have got all these muskets here that we are safe? Bah, you drunken fool!"

Steadying himself at the doorway, Greenhaugh boastingly asserted that he for one was afraid of neither their hosts nor the natives, and then, meeting an answering look in some of his comrades' faces, he let his caution vanish.

"What's to keep us from shootin' 'em both now?" he said, lurching up to Beverley again, and speaking in a husky whisper.

At that moment Prescott entered the room, and his quick ear caught Beverley's answer--

"Shoot him yourself if you want to; but you're not going to do it now. I like fair play. He's acting fair and square now to us, and I ain't going in for any underhand shooting."

"Here, boys," said Prescott, advancing to the table, followed by a number of women carrying leaf platters of baked fish and pork; "here's some 'chuck.' But let's have another drink first;" and going to the latticed-in store room he took out a bottle of liquor from the case and set it upon the table.

Little did the unfortunate victims of his dreadful treachery know that the food which this monster had placed before them had been impregnated with a deadly poison. Possibly Prescott might have relented at the last moment but for the conversation he had overheard between Beverley and Greenhaugh, which steeled him in his murderous resolution.

Presently a native woman, instructed by Prescott, came to the door and called to Dale.

"What is it?" said the ex-convict, going outside to where the woman stood.

"Pápu (Bob) says you are not to eat any food, and to watch him."

Dale nodded and returned inside, and then the coconut shells of liquor were passed round again. Without the slightest hesitation Prescott poured some out for himself and drank it off, and then, looking steadily at his colleague, passed the shell to his neighbour. Instantly Dale surmised that he had changed his mind about administering the poison in the liquor, and he too drank some.

Then, waited upon by their two murderers, the wretched men began to eat.

Suddenly, as if inspired with a happy idea, Dale remarked, "Why didn't Davy Terris come with you chaps?"

Beverley laughed. "He had a hand in that job of Cassidy's."

"Why, that's nothing," said Dale, with rough good-humour; "d----d if I don't walk down to his place and bring him here."

"By hell, yes," assented Prescott, "and I'll go with you. We'll all be friends now, boys;" and picking up his hat he strode out with Dale, and took the path that led towards the village in which the man Terris lived. As they went off he called back to his guests not to spare the "chuck," as there were plenty more fish and fowls being cooked, and that Terris, Dale, and himself would eat together.

* * * * *

The awful scene that followed within a few minutes after these two friends had left the house may be imagined, but not described. On seven of them the poison soon took deadly effect, and within half an hour their writhing figures had stiffened cold in death. Of the four others, Beverley and a seaman from the whaler were least affected, and, although unable to walk, managed to crawl to different portions of the room, where they lay in agony so terrible that the listening and wondering natives, hundreds of yards away, were moved to pity, and besought the two white men to go and put an end to their misery.

With terrible imprecations the beach-combers held the natives back, and waited for another half an hour, till all was silent. Then together they entered the house, and presently the natives, who were still forbidden to enter, heard three shots--the death knell of the poor wretches who were still alive.

* * * * *

Two or three years passed.

Of the fate of Dale nothing was ever known, but the subsequent career of the wretch Prescott was well known to many an island trader. Filled with horror at the deed the white men had perpetrated, the natives of the island withdrew their countenance entirely from them, and, some months afterwards, Prescott was forced by them to go on board the American whaler Gideon Hauling. The captain refused to take him further than Ocean Island, a small spot a few hours' sail from Pleasant Island. Eight months afterwards he again returned to Pleasant Island in the London whaler Eleanor (all these latter particulars I take from the log of an old Sydney shipmaster, Captain Beckford Simpson, of the barque Giraffe, in a report to the Nautical Magazine of 1840), but with cries of horror and disgust the natives repulsed him from landing. Where he went to after this was not known, but in 1843 Captain Stokes, of the whaler Bermondsey, reported having seen him in chains at San Juan d'Apra, in Guam; and this was subsequently confirmed by Captain Bunker, of the Elizabeth. Whether he had committed some fresh crime, or had merely been given up to the Spanish authorities by some ship as a runaway convict from New South Wales, does not appear. How he escaped from Guam is not known.

For twenty years this tiger in human form lived a wandering life among the islands of the North-West Pacific, and then disappeared from that part of the South Seas, to re-appear among the French islands of the Society and Paumotu groups. But the tale of his great crime followed him. Only a man of his utterly callous nature could have survived many years of such an existence. There was hardly an island in the Pacific which he had not sought out in the vain hope of finding refuge from the story of his black past.

II

Five years ago a trader named Watson was staying at the Waitemata Hotel, in Auckland, slowly recovering from the terrible malarial fever of New Guinea, contracted eighteen months previously in Orangerie Bay. He did not know one single person in the city of Auckland that he could call a friend, and time hung heavily upon him. Only that it was a matter of physical impossibility for him to get about, he would have returned to the islands weeks before. Knowing no one, and taking no interest in local matters, he eagerly read the shipping news in the morning papers, to see if any vessels had arrived from the South Sea Islands; for the best part of his life had been spent in the various groups of the South and North Pacific, and the name of not only every vessel and captain engaged in the island trade from Tonga to New Guinea was familiar to him as his own, but the personality of every trader as well.

One morning he saw notified the arrival of a schooner from the island of Aitutaki, in the Cook's Group. The name of her captain at once recalled to memory his cheery face and rude good-nature when Watson and he were shipmates in the Queensland labour trade eight years before.

He wrote a note and sent it on board, and in the evening the skipper came up to the hotel. They had much to say to each other, and for nearly an hour talked of old times and friends in the Solomons and New Hebrides Group, of which part of the Pacific the skipper declared he had had enough. "A murderous low-down crowd of niggers," he said, with a cheerful smile, drawing up the coat-sleeve of his right arm and showing Watson a most extraordinary thing in the way of inartistic butchery of the human form. "Look at that, my son. Don't it look like as if the flesh had been parcelled round the bone in strips? The niggers did that for me at Bougainville two years ago. I was rushed on the beach, and my boat backed out before I could get down to her; my boat's crew had gone back on me--planned with the natives that I should be killed! Three of them jumped overboard when they saw that I was wading off, and made for the shore, leaving only a sooty black devil of a Buka Buka boy in the boat. He stood his ground, although he was only a slip of a lad. He was too frightened to try and shoot me, but the moment I got my hand on the gunwale of the boat he commenced slicing the flesh off my arm, from the wrist down, with his sheath-knife. He didn't want to kill me, only stop me getting into the boat. Only that my mate saw the row from the schooner I'd have been killed in the end, sure enough. She was about a couple of hundred fathoms away, and he and the crew commenced firing over towards the boat, so as to scare the boy away. It did scare him, too, for as the first ball hummed by him he jumped over on the other side and dived ashore, leaving me just able to crawl aboard and fall unconscious in the bottom of the boat. And I don't tackle the Solomon Islands any more, my son."

"Well," said Watson, "you're in a nice quiet trade now, among the Christianised and 'saved' kanakas of the Cook Group, where the once shocking heathen goes about clothed and in his right mind."

"Aye," grinned the old skipper, "they do, the dirty beggars. Once a kanaka gets 'saved,' and wears European clothing, he gets very filthy in his habits, and won't wash himself, and puts on such a look of greasy saintliness that there's no living on the same island with them--unless you chew off the same plug as the white missionary. So it's no wonder that so many of these old white traders among the eastern islands are shoving out to the westward, where they can at least live without interference from the white-chokered gentry. I've got an old fellow aboard now, passenger with me. He's come up here to get away to New Ireland, or the Admiralty Group, viâ Samoa."

"What is his name?"

"Collier--Mike Collier. He's a tough old warrior, nearly seventy, I think. He's been trading for the Tahiti people in the Gambiers, he tells me, but says the French missionaries and he didn't hit it, so he's going west again. He's a nice, pleasant old fellow, doesn't drink, but is a bit queer in his ways."

"Old age," suggested Watson.

"Not exactly; but he won't come ashore and live. He says he'll wait till he gets a passage to Samoa. Says he likes the smell of the copra in the hold, and doesn't like mixing with shore people. So I've agreed to let him stay aboard till we're ready for sea again; then he'll have to shift and go to a pub."

The trader saw Captain Ross several times after this, and on each occasion he mentioned that old Mike still remained on board, and had not yet put foot ashore. "However," added Ross, "he'll have to clear out tomorrow, as I'm bound to get away in the forenoon."

"Send him here," said Watson; "he'll be a good mate for me, and the place is quiet enough."

"Right," said Ross, "I'll bring him up to-night."

Sitting in his bedroom after dinner, smoking his pipe, Watson heard Captain Ross's gruff, good-humoured voice on the stairs. He was speaking to some one whom Watson at once surmised was the eccentric old trader from the Gambiers. Presently, in answer to something the skipper had said, he heard the stranger speak.

"Yes, there are a good many stairs, Captain."

The sound of the man's voice--querulous from age--struck the trader like a shot. He remembered when and where he had heard it last. In a few seconds more they entered. Watson had not yet lit the gas, and the room was in comparative darkness.

"Are you in, Watson?" said Captain Ross. "Here's old Mr. Collier come to see you. Can you get him a room?"

"Come in, Captain," replied the trader, striking a match and lighting the gas. "How are you, sir?" and he nodded to the old trader, who had quietly seated himself at the further end of the room. He had his own reasons for not shaking hands with him. "Oh, yes, you'll get a room here. Sit down, Ross, and I'll send for something to drink."

But the skipper was in a hurry and would not stay, and shaking hands with the old man and Watson he bade them goodbye, and hurried away downstairs.

Until now the sick trader had not had an opportunity of looking at his visitor. Turning towards him after bidding the captain goodbye, he caught the stranger's eye fixed upon him.

He was a short but broad-shouldered and muscular man, with a mass of wavy white hair overhanging his temples, which, with the rest of his face and neck, were burnt by long, long years of wandering under the torrid sun of Polynesia to the deepest bronze. His face was cleanly shaven, and were it not for the whiteness of his hair would have seemed absolutely youthful, so free was it from the lines and indentations of advanced age. And--a fitting accompaniment to the broad, square jaw and firm, determined mouth--his eyes were of a bright steely blue, and met the trader's in a calm, assured, but yet irritating and aggressive manner.

For a moment or two they looked at each other steadily, and then, leaning back in his chair, the old man placed his dark, sunburnt hands on his knees and laughed.

"Well, young fellow, you'll know me next time, I hope."

The cold, sneering inflexion of his tones irritated the trader. It was a direct challenge.

"I know you as it is," he answered. "You are Prescott of Naura."

In an instant the stranger leapt up, stood beside Watson, and seized his hands in a vice-like grip, and the trader heard his teeth grind savagely, and felt his hot, panting breath upon his cheek.

"Yes," he said, in a low, savage voice, "I am Prescott, from Pleasant Island, and I'll strangle you like a dog if you tell it to any one else."

Suddenly he let go Watson's hands.

"Look here, you're a sick man, and I'm not going to take advantage of it. Now listen to me. I am an old man, and life isn't worth much to me. But, look here--what harm have I ever done you?"

"None," said Watson, "nor have I any evil intentions towards you. Whatever you have done does not concern me personally."

The old man sat down again, and bent his fierce blue eyes upon the ground. For a minute or so he remained silent, then he sprang to his feet and paced the room rapidly.

"Where did you see me before?" he asked.

"At Callie Harbour, in the Admiralty Group," replied Watson. "You came on board the Dancing Wave to see Captain Leeman about buying some tobacco from him. I was the supercargo."

"Ha! I remember you. And where is Leeman now?"

"Dead," answered Watson. "He died in the Gulf of Carpentaria, and was buried on Adolphus Island."

The old man nodded. Then he stopped short in his walk.

"Are you a poor man?"

"What the devil does that matter to you?" answered Watson, shortly.

He turned away and picked up a small portmanteau that he had brought with him, opened it and took out a small canvas bag and threw it contemptuously on the table.

"Those are sovereigns--good English sovereigns. Will they buy your silence, and let an old and hunted man escape to some unknown spot where he may die in peace?"

"You may go," said Watson, "and take your sovereigns with you. Murderer and fiend as you are, I cannot give you up to justice. The witnesses of your horrible crime are all dead. But I would like to see you hanged."

He looked at the trader intently for half a minute, and then taking up the bag of sovereigns dropped it back into the portmanteau, closed, locked, and strapped it. Then again he paced to and fro like a tiger in a cage.

"Do you know all about me?" he said, suddenly, in a strangely harsh voice.

"A good deal," replied the younger man.

Again he laughed savagely. "And yet you won't give me away to the white men!"

"Don't you call yourself a white man?" said Watson.

"No," he growled back, "I am not a white man. The cat took all of the white man out of me at Port Arthur; and for fifty years I have lived with kanakas, and I am a kanaka now--backbone and soul."

Without a word of farewell he picked up his portmanteau, passed through the door, and went downstairs.

Watson, looking out through the window into the street, presently saw his short, square-set figure appear upon the footpath. For a moment or two he stood under the glare of a gas-lamp, then, with a quick, active step, he strode across the street and was lost to view.

Chester's "Cross"

The Montiara, trading schooner, had finished taking in her stores, and hauled out to an anchorage in Honolulu Harbour, ready to start on one of her usual trading cruises to the Caroline Group. The captain, accompanied by his supercargo, had gone ashore again to the British Consulate for his papers, letters, &c, leaving the two mates in charge to amuse themselves till his return by playing cut-throat euchre with some of the brown-skinned kanaka crew--for they were a sociable lot aboard the Montiara, and, when he first joined the ship, had given young Denison, the supercargo, much cause for reflection. This, however, was his second voyage; and he now knew that "Tarawa Bob" and "Rotumah Tom," two huge, soft-hearted, hard-fisted able seamen, whose light brown skins were largely illustrated by fantastic devices in blue and vermilion, were the respective brothers-in-law of the gentlemen who officiated as first and second mates of the schooner--Messrs. Joe Freeman and Pedro do Ray. And if, occasionally, their superior position made these officers in times of emergency address their tattooed brethren-in-law in vigorous and uncomplimentary language, emphasised by a knock-down blow, no ill-will was either felt on one side nor engendered on the other. Therefore, in moments of relaxation, when the ship lay at anchor and there was nothing to do, the two white men seated on one side of the skylight and the two brown on the other, with a large bottle of Hollands gin between them, would endeavour to rook each other at cards. Sometimes, too, Denison had witnessed further proof of the camararderie existing between all the hands for'ar'd and the two mates, when the latter, overflowing with generosity and strong drink, would invite their coloured shipmates to come ashore and paint the town red. All these things surprised Denison--for he was very young then, and came from a religious family. But he gained experience later on, when he sailed with Packenham in the brig Indiana, as you will see in another story.

So with a parting admonition to his officers to let no one go ashore, and to heave short at four o'clock, as soon as they saw him coming down the wharf, old Hunter, the grizzled skipper and owner of the little schooner, had shoved off and pulled in to the pretty palm-embowered town nestling under the shadows of Diamond Head.

"How are you, Hunter?" said the Consul, as soon as the captain and Denison entered his office. "I'm glad you've come in just now. I've had a visitor--a lady from San Francisco. She arrived here yesterday by the Moses Taylor; wants to know if I can get her a passage down to the Caroline Group."

"The deuce!" said Hunter. "I can't take her in the Montiara. And what on earth does she want to go down there for? Is she a she-mission'ry?"

The Consul laughed at the sour expression on the old seaman's face; then he became grave.

"No, she's not a missionary, Hunter, and I really do wish you could see your way clear to take her--she seems terribly anxious."

"But, man, I can't. My cabin is only a small one, and there's my two mates and Mr. Denison here, besides myself, to occupy all the room, which is very little. But if she's not a she-mission'ry, what in thunder does she want down in the Carolines?"

The Consul shrugged his shoulders. "I can only tell you that she's a lady--mind, Hunter, a lady--a widow, I suppose, as she has a little boy with her--and she is now staying at the hotel. She told me her name--here it is," and he took up a card--"Mrs. Hilda Weston--and that she hurried down here from San Francisco in the mail-boat to catch the Morning Star, missionary brig. But, as you know, the Morning Star sailed for the Carolines a week ago."

"And I hope she may get piled up there," growled old Hunter, who did not love missionaries, "and the snufflebusting crowd of thieves on board of her go to the bottom with her."

"Well," resumed the Consul, "that seemed to upset her greatly. It seems that she had been promised, and counted upon, a passage in the missionary brig. What was she to do? she asked, when I told her that the Morning Star would not be back here and sail again for the Carolines for another six months. Then I thought of you. It struck me that you might manage to fix her and the little boy a berth somehow. She has plenty of money--that I can vouch for; said she would pay as much as five hundred dollars for a passage, and not complain of any discomfort."

Hunter looked first at the Consul and then at Denison doubtfully, and then shook his head. A hundred pounds was a nice little sum for a passage that would only take fourteen or fifteen days, and yet it could not be done. The one small deck-house of the schooner was occupied by his officers' wives, and it wouldn't be fair to turn them out of it to sleep on deck. Joe and Pedro wouldn't mind, provided a financial reason were adduced for their benefit, but the women would, and so would the ladies' brothers, who would sulk over the indignity--kanaka sailors have some blessed privileges over those of the ordinary British sailor-man.

"Here, take her card," said the Consul, "and go and see her yourself. You may, perhaps, be able to make arrangements in some way. Anyway, she seems very anxious to meet you, and I gave her my promise that you would call."

"Oh, did you?" grumbled Hunter. "Well, here you are, Denison, you go and see her--you look so nice and pretty in that white duck suit of yours, that I wouldn't think of going myself. And look here, sonny, tell her that I can't possibly give her a passage down this trip, but will the next, in about four months from now. That will be two months sooner than the Morning Star. But, wait a minute--find out what island she wants to go to, and if it is anywhere this side of Ponape I'll land her there for £50--that's about a fair thing."

* * * * *

Denison had waited five minutes in a sitting-room of the hotel when she came in--a pretty, fair-haired woman, with deep, wistful hazel eyes. Her face was deathly pale, and Denison's heart somehow went out to her in quick sympathy--there was such an underlying sadness in her looks.

"I am Mrs. Weston," she said in a voice that quivered with trembling excitement, as she motioned the young man to resume his seat, "but surely you are not the captain of the Montiara?" as the hazel eyes took in his youthful appearance.

"No, madam. My name is Denison. I am the supercargo." And then he gave her the skipper's message.

A quick mist came into the dark eyes, and she pressed her hand to her throat. Then she found her voice.

"Four months is a long time to wait; but it cannot be helped, I suppose," and she turned her face away from him and seemed to look out over the blue waters of the harbour, but Denison saw heavy tears falling upon a native fan that she held in her hand.

Presently she rose, went to the window and stood there in silence for a few minutes, gazing seaward. Then, with the traces of tears still upon her face, she came back to her seat and said with a brave smile--

"You must think me very childish to show my disappointment so much; but I am oh, so very, very disappointed. When I left California I was told that I should be in plenty of time for the Morning Star; but unfortunately the Moses Taylor broke down when half-way, and we arrived eight da