Chapter Fifty.How to escape?It was in quite a little natural fortress that Mike stopped, the way being in and out through a narrow rift that must have been the result of some earthquake, and when this was passed they were in a sheltered nook, at one side of which the face of a precipice hung right over, affording ample protection from the wind and rain. Through quite a cranny a stream of perfectly clear water trickled, and on the other side was a small deep pool, slowly welling over at one side, the steam rising therefrom telling that it was in some way connected with the noisy jet which rose outside.“There, young Don Lavington, that’s where we lives, my lad, and you’ve got to stay with us. If you behave well, you shall have plenty to eat and drink. If you don’t, mind one o’ my mates don’t bring you down as he would a bird.”Don glanced round wonderingly, and tried to grasp why it was that Mike Bannock was there, the only surmise upon which he could take hold being the right one—Jem’s: that Mike was a transported man who had taken to the bush.He had just come to this conclusion when Jem turned to him.“Shall I ask him that, Mas’ Don?”“Ask him what?”“What I think. Depend upon it he was sent out to Botany Bay, and run off to this country.”“No, no, Jem; don’t ask.”“He can’t have come out here honest, Mas’ Don. Look at him, there arn’t a honest hair in his head.”“But we don’t want to offend him, Jem.”“Don’t we? Tell you what we do want, Mas’ Don; we want to get hold o’ them old rusty muskets and the powder and shot, and then we could make them sing small. Eh? What say?”This was in answer to something said in a low voice by Ngati, who looked from one to the other inquiringly.Ngati spoke again, and then struck his fist into his hand with a look of rage and despair.“Yes, I feel the same,” said Don, laying his hand upon the great fellow’s arm. “I’d give anything to be able to understand what you say, Ngati.”The chief smiled, as if he quite comprehended; and grasped Don’s hand with a friendly grip, offering the other to Jem.“It’s all right, old boy,” said the latter. “We can’t understand each other’s lingo, but we know each other’s hearts. We’ve got to wait a bit and see.”A week passed rapidly away, during which, in his rougher moods, Mike treated his prisoners as if they were slaves, calling upon Ngati to perform the most menial offices for the little camp, all of which were patiently performed after an appealing look at Don, who for the sake of gaining time gave up in every way.Jem grumbled, but he did what he was told, for the slightest appearance of resistance was met by a threatening movement with the muskets, which never left the men’s hands.They were fairly supplied with food; fish from the streams and from a good-sized lake, Ngati proving himself to be an adept at capturing the large eels, and at discovering fresh supplies of fruit and roots.But in a quiet way, as he watched his English companions like a dog, he always seemed to comprehend their wishes, and to be waiting the time when they should call upon him to fly at their tyrants and then help them to escape.“Didn’t know I was coming out to look after you, did you, young Don?” said Mike one evening. “King sent me out o’ purpose. Told one of the judges to send me out here, and here I am; and I’ve found you, and I ought to take you home, but I won’t. You always liked furrin countries, and I’m going to keep you here.”“What for?” said Don.“To make you do for me what I used to do for you. I was your sarvant; now you’re mine. Ups and downs in life we see. Now you’re down and I’m up; and what d’yer think o’ that, Jem Wimble?”“Think as you was transported, and that you’ve took to the bush.”“Oh, do you?” said Mike, grinning. “Well, never mind; I’m here, and you’re there, and you’ve got to make the best of it.”To make the best of it was not easy. The three convicts, after compelling their prisoners to make the resting-place they occupied more weather-proof and warm, set them to make a lean-to for themselves, to which they were relegated, but without arms, Mike Bannock having on the first day they were at work taken possession of their weapons.“You won’t want them,” he said, with an ugly grin; “we’ll do the hunting and fighting, and you three shall do the work.”Jem uttered a low growl, at which Mike let the handle of one of the spears fall upon his shoulder, and as Jem fiercely seized it, three muskets were presented at his head.“Oh, all right,” growled Jem, with a menacing look.“Yes, it’s all right, Jem Wimble. But look here, don’t you or either of you cut up rough; for if you do, things may go very awkward.”“I should like to make it awkward for them, Mas’ Don,” whispered Jem, as the convicts turned away; “but never mind, I can wait.”They did wait, day after day, working hard, ill fed, and suffering endless abuse, and often blows, which would have been resented by Ngati, but for a look from Don; and night by night, as they gathered together in their little lean-to hut, with a thick heap of fern leaves for their bed their conversation was on the same subject—how could they get the muskets and spears, and escape.There was no further alarm on the part of the Maoris, who seemed, after they had been discouraged in their pursuit, and startled by the guns, to have given up all intention of recapturing the escaped prisoners.“If we could only get the guns and spears, Jem,” said Don one evening for the hundredth time.“Yes, and I’d precious soon have them,” replied Jem; “only they’re always on the watch.”“Yes, they’re too cunning to leave them for a moment. Was any one ever before so unlucky as we are?”“Well, if you come to that,” said Jem, “yes. Poor old Tomati, for one; and it can’t be very nice for Ngati here, who has lost all his tribe.”Ngati looked up sharply, watching them both intently in the gloomy cabin.“But he don’t seem to mind it so very much.”“What do you say to escaping without spears?”“Oh, I’m willing,” replied Jem; “only I wouldn’t be in too great a hurry. Those chaps wouldn’t mind having a shot at us again, and this time they might hit.”“What shall we do then?”“Better wait, Mas’ Don. This sort o’ thing can’t last. We shall soon eat up all the fruit, and then they’ll make a move, and we may have a better chance.”Don sighed and lay with his eyes half-closed, watching one particular star which shone in through the doorway.But not for long. The star seemed to grow misty as if veiled by a cloud; then it darkened altogether; so it seemed to Don, for the simple reason that he had fallen fast asleep.It appeared only a minute since he was gazing at the star before he felt a hand pressed across his mouth, and with a horrible dread of being smothered, he uttered a hoarse, stifled cry, and struggled to get free; but another hand was pressed upon his chest, and it seemed as if the end had come.
It was in quite a little natural fortress that Mike stopped, the way being in and out through a narrow rift that must have been the result of some earthquake, and when this was passed they were in a sheltered nook, at one side of which the face of a precipice hung right over, affording ample protection from the wind and rain. Through quite a cranny a stream of perfectly clear water trickled, and on the other side was a small deep pool, slowly welling over at one side, the steam rising therefrom telling that it was in some way connected with the noisy jet which rose outside.
“There, young Don Lavington, that’s where we lives, my lad, and you’ve got to stay with us. If you behave well, you shall have plenty to eat and drink. If you don’t, mind one o’ my mates don’t bring you down as he would a bird.”
Don glanced round wonderingly, and tried to grasp why it was that Mike Bannock was there, the only surmise upon which he could take hold being the right one—Jem’s: that Mike was a transported man who had taken to the bush.
He had just come to this conclusion when Jem turned to him.
“Shall I ask him that, Mas’ Don?”
“Ask him what?”
“What I think. Depend upon it he was sent out to Botany Bay, and run off to this country.”
“No, no, Jem; don’t ask.”
“He can’t have come out here honest, Mas’ Don. Look at him, there arn’t a honest hair in his head.”
“But we don’t want to offend him, Jem.”
“Don’t we? Tell you what we do want, Mas’ Don; we want to get hold o’ them old rusty muskets and the powder and shot, and then we could make them sing small. Eh? What say?”
This was in answer to something said in a low voice by Ngati, who looked from one to the other inquiringly.
Ngati spoke again, and then struck his fist into his hand with a look of rage and despair.
“Yes, I feel the same,” said Don, laying his hand upon the great fellow’s arm. “I’d give anything to be able to understand what you say, Ngati.”
The chief smiled, as if he quite comprehended; and grasped Don’s hand with a friendly grip, offering the other to Jem.
“It’s all right, old boy,” said the latter. “We can’t understand each other’s lingo, but we know each other’s hearts. We’ve got to wait a bit and see.”
A week passed rapidly away, during which, in his rougher moods, Mike treated his prisoners as if they were slaves, calling upon Ngati to perform the most menial offices for the little camp, all of which were patiently performed after an appealing look at Don, who for the sake of gaining time gave up in every way.
Jem grumbled, but he did what he was told, for the slightest appearance of resistance was met by a threatening movement with the muskets, which never left the men’s hands.
They were fairly supplied with food; fish from the streams and from a good-sized lake, Ngati proving himself to be an adept at capturing the large eels, and at discovering fresh supplies of fruit and roots.
But in a quiet way, as he watched his English companions like a dog, he always seemed to comprehend their wishes, and to be waiting the time when they should call upon him to fly at their tyrants and then help them to escape.
“Didn’t know I was coming out to look after you, did you, young Don?” said Mike one evening. “King sent me out o’ purpose. Told one of the judges to send me out here, and here I am; and I’ve found you, and I ought to take you home, but I won’t. You always liked furrin countries, and I’m going to keep you here.”
“What for?” said Don.
“To make you do for me what I used to do for you. I was your sarvant; now you’re mine. Ups and downs in life we see. Now you’re down and I’m up; and what d’yer think o’ that, Jem Wimble?”
“Think as you was transported, and that you’ve took to the bush.”
“Oh, do you?” said Mike, grinning. “Well, never mind; I’m here, and you’re there, and you’ve got to make the best of it.”
To make the best of it was not easy. The three convicts, after compelling their prisoners to make the resting-place they occupied more weather-proof and warm, set them to make a lean-to for themselves, to which they were relegated, but without arms, Mike Bannock having on the first day they were at work taken possession of their weapons.
“You won’t want them,” he said, with an ugly grin; “we’ll do the hunting and fighting, and you three shall do the work.”
Jem uttered a low growl, at which Mike let the handle of one of the spears fall upon his shoulder, and as Jem fiercely seized it, three muskets were presented at his head.
“Oh, all right,” growled Jem, with a menacing look.
“Yes, it’s all right, Jem Wimble. But look here, don’t you or either of you cut up rough; for if you do, things may go very awkward.”
“I should like to make it awkward for them, Mas’ Don,” whispered Jem, as the convicts turned away; “but never mind, I can wait.”
They did wait, day after day, working hard, ill fed, and suffering endless abuse, and often blows, which would have been resented by Ngati, but for a look from Don; and night by night, as they gathered together in their little lean-to hut, with a thick heap of fern leaves for their bed their conversation was on the same subject—how could they get the muskets and spears, and escape.
There was no further alarm on the part of the Maoris, who seemed, after they had been discouraged in their pursuit, and startled by the guns, to have given up all intention of recapturing the escaped prisoners.
“If we could only get the guns and spears, Jem,” said Don one evening for the hundredth time.
“Yes, and I’d precious soon have them,” replied Jem; “only they’re always on the watch.”
“Yes, they’re too cunning to leave them for a moment. Was any one ever before so unlucky as we are?”
“Well, if you come to that,” said Jem, “yes. Poor old Tomati, for one; and it can’t be very nice for Ngati here, who has lost all his tribe.”
Ngati looked up sharply, watching them both intently in the gloomy cabin.
“But he don’t seem to mind it so very much.”
“What do you say to escaping without spears?”
“Oh, I’m willing,” replied Jem; “only I wouldn’t be in too great a hurry. Those chaps wouldn’t mind having a shot at us again, and this time they might hit.”
“What shall we do then?”
“Better wait, Mas’ Don. This sort o’ thing can’t last. We shall soon eat up all the fruit, and then they’ll make a move, and we may have a better chance.”
Don sighed and lay with his eyes half-closed, watching one particular star which shone in through the doorway.
But not for long. The star seemed to grow misty as if veiled by a cloud; then it darkened altogether; so it seemed to Don, for the simple reason that he had fallen fast asleep.
It appeared only a minute since he was gazing at the star before he felt a hand pressed across his mouth, and with a horrible dread of being smothered, he uttered a hoarse, stifled cry, and struggled to get free; but another hand was pressed upon his chest, and it seemed as if the end had come.
Chapter Fifty One.Ngati’s Goal.Just as in the case of a dream, a long space of time in the face of a terrible danger seems to pass in what is really but a few moments. Don, in an agony of apprehension, was struggling against the hands which held him, when a deep voice whispered in his ear,—“My pakeha.”“Ngati!”Don caught the hands in his, and sat up slowly, while the chief awakened Jem in the same manner, and with precisely the same result.“Why, I thought it was Mike Bannock trying to smother me,” grumbled Jem, sitting up. “What’s the matter?”“I don’t know, Jem. Ngati just woke me in the dark, and— Oh! Ngati!”His hands trembled, and a curious feeling of excitement coursed through his veins, as at that moment he felt the stock of a gun pressed into his hands, Jem exclaiming the next moment as he too clasped a gun.“But there arn’t no powder and— Yes, there is.”Jem ceased speaking, for he had suddenly felt that there was a belt and pouch attached to the gun-barrel, and without another word he slipped the belt over his shoulder.“What do you mean, Ngati?” whispered Don hastily.“Go!” was the laconic reply; and in an instant the lad realised that the Maori had partly comprehended his words that evening, had thought out the full meaning, and then crept silently to the convicts’ den, and secured the arms.Don rose excitedly to his feet.“The time has come, Jem,” he whispered.“Yes, and I dursen’t shout hooroar!”Ngati was already outside, waiting in the starlight; and as Don stepped out quickly with his heart beating and a sense of suffocation at the throat, he could just make out that the Maori held the third musket, and had also three spears under his arm.He handed one of the latter to each, and then stood listening for a few moments with his head bent in the direction of the convicts’ resting-place.The steam jet hissed, and the vapour rose like a dim spectral form; the water gurgled and splashed faintly, but there was no other sound, and, going softly in the direction of the opening, Ngati led the way.“We must leave it to him, Jem, and go where he takes us,” whispered Don.“Can’t do better,” whispered back Jem. “Wait just a moment till I get this strap o’ the gun over my shoulder. It’s awkward to carry both gun and spear.”“Wait till we get farther away, Jem.”Crash! A flash of fire, and a report which echoed like thunder from the face of the rocks.Jem, in passing the sling of the musket over his head, had let it fall upon the stones with disastrous effect.“Run, Mas’ Don; never mind me.”“Are you hurt?”“Dunno.”Jem was in a stooping posture as he spoke, but he rose directly, as there was a rush heard in the direction of the convicts’ lair, and catching Don’s hand they ran off stealthily after Ngati, who had returned, and then led the way once more.Not a word was spoken, and after the first rush and the scramble and panting of men making for the rocks, all was very still. Ngati led on, passing in and out among tree and bush, and mass of rock, as if his eyes were quite accustomed to the darkness, while, big as he was, his bare feet made no more sound than the paws of a cat.Both Don and Jem followed as silently as they could, but they could not help catching against the various obstacles, and making noises which produced a warning “Hssh!” from their leader.As they passed on they listened intently for sounds of pursuit, but for awhile there were none; the fact being that at the sound of the shot the convicts believed that they were attacked, and rushing out, they made for the mountain. But as no further shots were heard, they grew more bold, and, after waiting listening for awhile, they stole back to the shed that should have been occupied by Don and his friends; where, finding them gone, they hurried into their own place, found that the arms were taken, and, setting up a shout, dashed off in pursuit.The shout sent a shiver through Don and Jem, for it sounded terribly near, and they hurried on close to the heels of Ngati, forgetful for the moment of the fact that they were armed, and their pursuers were weaponless.After a time the sounds from the camp, which had been heard plainly on the night wind, ceased, and for the first time Don questioned Jem as to his injury.“Where are you hurt, Jem?”“Shoulder,” said that worthy, laconically.“Again?”“No; not again.”“But I mean when the gun went off.”“In my head, Mas’ Don.”“Ah! We might stop now. Let me bind it up for you.”“No, no; it don’t bleed,” replied Jem, gruffly. “I mean hurt inside my head, ’cause I could be such a stoopid as to let this here gun fall.”“Then you are not wounded?”“Not a bit, my lad; and if you’ll stop now, I think I’ll try and load again.”But Ngati insisted on pushing on, and kept up a steady walk right south in the direction of the star which had shone in through the doorway.It was weary work, for the night was very black beneath the trees, but every step was taking them farther from their enemies, and though they stopped to listen again and again, they heard no sound of pursuit.Morning dawned at last, bringing light to their spirits as well as to their eyes; and for three days they travelled on due south by mountain and lake, hot spring and glorious valley, now catching a glimpse of the sea, now losing it again.Ngati seemed to have some definite object which he could not explain; and when Don tried to question him, the great fellow only laughed and trudged on.They did not fare badly, for fruit, roots, and wild fowl were plentiful, fish could be obtained, and with glorious weather, and the dying out of the pain of their wounds, the journey began to be pleasant.“There’s only one thing I’m afraid of, Mas’ Don,” said Jem; “and that is that those convicts will smell us out.”But as time went on that fear grew less, and just at sunset one evening, as Ngati turned the shoulder of one of the mountains and stood pointing, Don set up a shout which Jem echoed, for there beneath them in a valley, and about a quarter of a mile from the shimmering sea, lay a cluster of cottages, such as could only have been built by Europeans, and they realised now what had been the Maori’s thoughts in bringing them there.
Just as in the case of a dream, a long space of time in the face of a terrible danger seems to pass in what is really but a few moments. Don, in an agony of apprehension, was struggling against the hands which held him, when a deep voice whispered in his ear,—
“My pakeha.”
“Ngati!”
Don caught the hands in his, and sat up slowly, while the chief awakened Jem in the same manner, and with precisely the same result.
“Why, I thought it was Mike Bannock trying to smother me,” grumbled Jem, sitting up. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know, Jem. Ngati just woke me in the dark, and— Oh! Ngati!”
His hands trembled, and a curious feeling of excitement coursed through his veins, as at that moment he felt the stock of a gun pressed into his hands, Jem exclaiming the next moment as he too clasped a gun.
“But there arn’t no powder and— Yes, there is.”
Jem ceased speaking, for he had suddenly felt that there was a belt and pouch attached to the gun-barrel, and without another word he slipped the belt over his shoulder.
“What do you mean, Ngati?” whispered Don hastily.
“Go!” was the laconic reply; and in an instant the lad realised that the Maori had partly comprehended his words that evening, had thought out the full meaning, and then crept silently to the convicts’ den, and secured the arms.
Don rose excitedly to his feet.
“The time has come, Jem,” he whispered.
“Yes, and I dursen’t shout hooroar!”
Ngati was already outside, waiting in the starlight; and as Don stepped out quickly with his heart beating and a sense of suffocation at the throat, he could just make out that the Maori held the third musket, and had also three spears under his arm.
He handed one of the latter to each, and then stood listening for a few moments with his head bent in the direction of the convicts’ resting-place.
The steam jet hissed, and the vapour rose like a dim spectral form; the water gurgled and splashed faintly, but there was no other sound, and, going softly in the direction of the opening, Ngati led the way.
“We must leave it to him, Jem, and go where he takes us,” whispered Don.
“Can’t do better,” whispered back Jem. “Wait just a moment till I get this strap o’ the gun over my shoulder. It’s awkward to carry both gun and spear.”
“Wait till we get farther away, Jem.”
Crash! A flash of fire, and a report which echoed like thunder from the face of the rocks.
Jem, in passing the sling of the musket over his head, had let it fall upon the stones with disastrous effect.
“Run, Mas’ Don; never mind me.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Dunno.”
Jem was in a stooping posture as he spoke, but he rose directly, as there was a rush heard in the direction of the convicts’ lair, and catching Don’s hand they ran off stealthily after Ngati, who had returned, and then led the way once more.
Not a word was spoken, and after the first rush and the scramble and panting of men making for the rocks, all was very still. Ngati led on, passing in and out among tree and bush, and mass of rock, as if his eyes were quite accustomed to the darkness, while, big as he was, his bare feet made no more sound than the paws of a cat.
Both Don and Jem followed as silently as they could, but they could not help catching against the various obstacles, and making noises which produced a warning “Hssh!” from their leader.
As they passed on they listened intently for sounds of pursuit, but for awhile there were none; the fact being that at the sound of the shot the convicts believed that they were attacked, and rushing out, they made for the mountain. But as no further shots were heard, they grew more bold, and, after waiting listening for awhile, they stole back to the shed that should have been occupied by Don and his friends; where, finding them gone, they hurried into their own place, found that the arms were taken, and, setting up a shout, dashed off in pursuit.
The shout sent a shiver through Don and Jem, for it sounded terribly near, and they hurried on close to the heels of Ngati, forgetful for the moment of the fact that they were armed, and their pursuers were weaponless.
After a time the sounds from the camp, which had been heard plainly on the night wind, ceased, and for the first time Don questioned Jem as to his injury.
“Where are you hurt, Jem?”
“Shoulder,” said that worthy, laconically.
“Again?”
“No; not again.”
“But I mean when the gun went off.”
“In my head, Mas’ Don.”
“Ah! We might stop now. Let me bind it up for you.”
“No, no; it don’t bleed,” replied Jem, gruffly. “I mean hurt inside my head, ’cause I could be such a stoopid as to let this here gun fall.”
“Then you are not wounded?”
“Not a bit, my lad; and if you’ll stop now, I think I’ll try and load again.”
But Ngati insisted on pushing on, and kept up a steady walk right south in the direction of the star which had shone in through the doorway.
It was weary work, for the night was very black beneath the trees, but every step was taking them farther from their enemies, and though they stopped to listen again and again, they heard no sound of pursuit.
Morning dawned at last, bringing light to their spirits as well as to their eyes; and for three days they travelled on due south by mountain and lake, hot spring and glorious valley, now catching a glimpse of the sea, now losing it again.
Ngati seemed to have some definite object which he could not explain; and when Don tried to question him, the great fellow only laughed and trudged on.
They did not fare badly, for fruit, roots, and wild fowl were plentiful, fish could be obtained, and with glorious weather, and the dying out of the pain of their wounds, the journey began to be pleasant.
“There’s only one thing I’m afraid of, Mas’ Don,” said Jem; “and that is that those convicts will smell us out.”
But as time went on that fear grew less, and just at sunset one evening, as Ngati turned the shoulder of one of the mountains and stood pointing, Don set up a shout which Jem echoed, for there beneath them in a valley, and about a quarter of a mile from the shimmering sea, lay a cluster of cottages, such as could only have been built by Europeans, and they realised now what had been the Maori’s thoughts in bringing them there.
Chapter Fifty Two.Don has a Headache.“Escaped from the Maoris, and then from a party of men you think were runaway convicts?” said the broad-shouldered, sturdy occupant of the little farm which they reached just at dusk. “Ah, well, we can talk about that to-morrow, my lads. It’s enough for me that you are Englishmen. Come in.”“I cannot leave our friend,” said Don quietly, as he laid his hand on Ngati’s arm.“What, the savage!” said the farmer, rubbing his ear. “Well, we—oh, if he’s your friend, that’s enough.”They had no occasion to complain of the hospitality, for the farmer, who had been settled there, with a few companions only, for about four years, was but too glad to see fresh faces, and with a delicacy hardly to be expected from one leading so rough a life he refrained from asking any questions.Don was glad, for the next morning he rose with a peculiar aching sensation in the head, accompanied by alternate fits of heat and cold.The next day he was worse, but he kept it to himself, laughing it off when they noticed that he did not eat his breakfast, and, to avoid further questioning, he went out after a time to wander up the valley into the shady woodland and among the tree-ferns, hoping that the rest and cool shadowy calm of the primaeval forest would prove restful and refreshing.The day was glorious, and Don lay back listening to the cries of the birds, dreaming of home, and at times dozing off to sleep after his restless night.His head ached terribly, and was confused, and at times, as he lay back resting against a tuft of fern, he seemed to be back at Bristol; then in an instant he thought he must be in the Maoris’pah, wondering whether there could be any truth in Jem’s fancies as to why they were being kept.Then there was a dull time of blank weariness, during which he saw nothing, till he seemed to be back in the convicts’ lurking-place, and he saw Mike Bannock thrusting his head out from among the leaves, his face brown and scarred, and eyes glistening, as he looked from place to place.It was all so real that Don expected to see the scoundrel step out into the open, followed by his two companions.And this did happen a few minutes later. Mike Bannock, armed with a heavy club, and followed by his two brothers in crime, crept out. Then it seemed to be no longer the convicts’ home, and Don started from his dreamy state, horrified at what he saw, for the scoundrels had not seen him, and were going cautiously toward the little settlement, whose occupants were all away hunting, fishing, and attending to their crops. Don alone was close at hand, and he in so semi-delirious and helpless a state, that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around.An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination.He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds’ notes fell upon the ear.“It must have been fancy,” he thought. “Where is Jem?”He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been themeans of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear.One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real.“I’ll go and find some one,” he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling.The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on.“How absurd!” he said, with a faint laugh. “A moment’s giddiness. That’s all.”He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream.In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow.Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder.Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati’s hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief.Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.If it was true, what would happen at the little farm?He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house.“Ngati,” he said excitedly, “danger!”The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes.He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit.“Ngati!” he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm, “pakehas—bad pakehas.”The chief could understand pakehas—white men, but he was rather hazy about bad, whether it did not mean good, and he gave a low grunt.“Bad pakehas. Fight. Jem,” panted Don.Ngati could see that something was wrong, but in his mind it seemed to be connected with his English friend’s health, and he laid his hand upon Don’s burning brow.“Bad pakehas—go!” cried Don. “What shall I do? How am I to make him understand? Pakehas. Jem. Help!”At that Ngati seemed to have a glimmering of what his companion meant, and nodding quickly, he went off at a trot toward the farm.“He’ll bring some one who can understand,” said Don to himself; and then he began to feel that, after all, it was a dream consequent upon his being so ill, and he lay back feeling more at ease, but only to jump up and stare wildly toward where the farm lay.For, all at once, there rose a shout, and directly after a shot was heard, followed by another and another.Then all was still for a few minutes, till, as Don lay gazing wildly toward where he had seen Ngati disappear, he caught sight of a stooping figure, then of another and another, hurrying to reach cover; and as he recognised the convicts, he could make out that each man carried a gun.He was holding himself up by grasping the bough of a tree, and gazing wildly at Mike and his brutal-looking friends; but they were looking in the direction of the farm as they passed, and they did not see him.Then the agonising pain in his head seemed to rob him of the power to think, and he sank back among the ferns.Don had some consciousness of hearing voices, and of feeling hands touching him; but it was all during a time of confusion, and when he looked round again with the power to think, he was facing a tiny unglazed window, the shutter which was used to close it standing below.He was lying on a rough bed formed of sacking spread over dried fern leaves, and the shed he was in had for furniture a rough table formed by nailing a couple of pieces of board across a tub, another tub with part of the side sawn out formed an armchair; and the walls were ornamented with bunches of seeds tied up and hung there for preservation, a saddle and bridle, and some garden tools neatly arranged in a corner.Don lay wondering what it all meant, his eyes resting longest upon the open window, through which he could see the glorious sunshine, and the leaves moving in the gentle breeze.He felt very happy and comfortable, but when he tried to raise his head the effort was in vain, and this set him wondering again, till he closed his eyes and lay thinking.Suddenly he unclosed them again to lie listening, feeling the while that he had been asleep, for close beside him there was some one whistling in a very low tone—quite a whisper of a whistle—a familiar old Somersetshire melody, which seemed to carry him back to the sugar yard at Bristol, where he had heard Jem whistle that tune a score of times.This set him thinking of home, his mother, and Cousin Kitty. Then of stern-looking Uncle Josiah, who, after all, did not seem to have been unkind.“Poor Mas’ Don! Will he ever get well again?” a voice whispered close to his ear.“Jem!”“Oh, Mas’ Don! Oh! Oh! Oh! Thank the great Lord o’ mussy. Amen! Amen! Amen!”There was the sound of some one going down heavily upon his knees, a pair of clasped hands rested on Don’s breast; and, as he turned his eyes sidewise, he could see the top of Jem’s head as the bed shook, and there was the sound of some one sobbing violently, but in a choking, smothered way.“Jem! Is that you? What’s the matter?” whispered Don feebly.“And he says, ‘What’s the matter?’” cried Jem, raising his head, and bending over Don. “Dear lad, dear lad; how are you now?”“Quite well, thank you, Jem, only I can’t lift up my head.”“And don’t you try, Mas’ Don. Oh, the Lord be thanked! The Lord be thanked!” he muttered. “What should I ha’ done?”“Have—have I been ill, Jem?”“I’ll, Mas’ Don? Why, I thought you was going to die, and no doctor, not even a drop of salts and senny to save your life.”“Oh, nonsense, Jem! I never thought of doing such a thing! Ah, I remember now. I felt poorly. My head was bad.”“Your head bad? I should think it was bad. Dear lad, what stuff you have been saying.”“Have I, Jem? What, since I lay down among the ferns this morning?”“This morning, Mas’ Don! Why, it’s close upon a month ago.”“What?”“That’s so, my lad. We come back from cutting wood to find you lying under a tree, and when we got here it was to find poor old ‘my pakeha’ with a shot-hole in him, and his head all beaten about with big clubs.”“Oh, Jem!”“That’s so, Mas’ Don.”“Is he better?”“Oh, yes; he’s getting better. I don’t think you could kill him. Sort o’ chap that if you cut him to pieces some bit or another would be sure to grow again.”“Why, it was Mike Bannock and those wretches, Jem.”“That’s what we thought, my lad, but we couldn’t find out. It was some one, and whoever it was took away three guns.”“I saw them, Jem.”“You see ’em?”“Yes, as I lay back with my head so bad that I couldn’t be sure.”“Ah, well, they found us out, and they’ve got their guns again; but they give it to poor Ngati awful.”Just then the window was darkened by a hideous-looking face, which disappeared directly. Then steps were heard, and the great chief came in, bending low to avoid striking his head against the roof till he reached the rough bedside, where he bent over Don, and patted him gently, saying softly, “My pakeha.”
“Escaped from the Maoris, and then from a party of men you think were runaway convicts?” said the broad-shouldered, sturdy occupant of the little farm which they reached just at dusk. “Ah, well, we can talk about that to-morrow, my lads. It’s enough for me that you are Englishmen. Come in.”
“I cannot leave our friend,” said Don quietly, as he laid his hand on Ngati’s arm.
“What, the savage!” said the farmer, rubbing his ear. “Well, we—oh, if he’s your friend, that’s enough.”
They had no occasion to complain of the hospitality, for the farmer, who had been settled there, with a few companions only, for about four years, was but too glad to see fresh faces, and with a delicacy hardly to be expected from one leading so rough a life he refrained from asking any questions.
Don was glad, for the next morning he rose with a peculiar aching sensation in the head, accompanied by alternate fits of heat and cold.
The next day he was worse, but he kept it to himself, laughing it off when they noticed that he did not eat his breakfast, and, to avoid further questioning, he went out after a time to wander up the valley into the shady woodland and among the tree-ferns, hoping that the rest and cool shadowy calm of the primaeval forest would prove restful and refreshing.
The day was glorious, and Don lay back listening to the cries of the birds, dreaming of home, and at times dozing off to sleep after his restless night.
His head ached terribly, and was confused, and at times, as he lay back resting against a tuft of fern, he seemed to be back at Bristol; then in an instant he thought he must be in the Maoris’pah, wondering whether there could be any truth in Jem’s fancies as to why they were being kept.
Then there was a dull time of blank weariness, during which he saw nothing, till he seemed to be back in the convicts’ lurking-place, and he saw Mike Bannock thrusting his head out from among the leaves, his face brown and scarred, and eyes glistening, as he looked from place to place.
It was all so real that Don expected to see the scoundrel step out into the open, followed by his two companions.
And this did happen a few minutes later. Mike Bannock, armed with a heavy club, and followed by his two brothers in crime, crept out. Then it seemed to be no longer the convicts’ home, and Don started from his dreamy state, horrified at what he saw, for the scoundrels had not seen him, and were going cautiously toward the little settlement, whose occupants were all away hunting, fishing, and attending to their crops. Don alone was close at hand, and he in so semi-delirious and helpless a state, that when he tried to rise he felt as if it would be impossible to warn his friends of their danger, and prevent these ruffians from making their descent upon the pleasant little homes around.
An acute pain across the brows made Don close his eyes, and when he re-opened them his head was throbbing, his mind confused, and as he looked hastily round, and could see nothing but the beautiful verdant scene, he felt that he had been deceived, and as if the figures that had passed out of the dense undergrowth had been merely creatures of his imagination.
He still gazed wildly about, but all was peaceful, and not a sound save the birds’ notes fell upon the ear.
“It must have been fancy,” he thought. “Where is Jem?”
He sank back again in a strangely excited state, for the idea that, in his fleeing to this peaceful place, he had been themeans of bringing three desperate men to perhaps rob, and murder, and destroy, where all was repose and peace, was too terrible to bear.
One minute he was certain that it was all fancy, just as he had dreamed again and again of Mike and his ruffianly companions; the next he was as sure that what he had seen was real.
“I’ll go and find some one,” he said hastily; and, rising feebly to his feet, he set off for the farm, but only to catch wildly at the trees to save himself from falling.
The vertigo passed off as quickly as it came on.
“How absurd!” he said, with a faint laugh. “A moment’s giddiness. That’s all.”
He started again, but everything sailed round, and he sank upon the earth with a groan to try and make out whether it was all fancy or a dream.
In a moment he seemed to be back at home with a bad headache, and his mother passing softly to and fro, while Kitty, full of sympathy, kept soaking handkerchiefs in vinegar and water to cool his heated brow.
Then, as he lay with his eyes tightly closed, Uncle Josiah came into the room, and laid his hand pityingly upon his shoulder.
Don gazed up at him, to see that it was Ngati’s hideously tattooed countenance close to his, and he looked up confused and wondering at the great chief.
Then the recollection of the convicts came back, and a spasm of horror shot through his brain.
If it was true, what would happen at the little farm?
He raised himself upon his elbow, and pointed in the direction of the house.
“Ngati,” he said excitedly, “danger!”
The chief looked at him, then in the direction in which he pointed; but he could understand nothing, and Don felt as if he were trying to get some great dog to comprehend his wishes.
He had learned scores of Maori words, but now that he wanted to use them, some would not come, and others would not fit.
“Ngati!” he cried again piteously, as he pointed toward the farm, “pakehas—bad pakehas.”
The chief could understand pakehas—white men, but he was rather hazy about bad, whether it did not mean good, and he gave a low grunt.
“Bad pakehas. Fight. Jem,” panted Don.
Ngati could see that something was wrong, but in his mind it seemed to be connected with his English friend’s health, and he laid his hand upon Don’s burning brow.
“Bad pakehas—go!” cried Don. “What shall I do? How am I to make him understand? Pakehas. Jem. Help!”
At that Ngati seemed to have a glimmering of what his companion meant, and nodding quickly, he went off at a trot toward the farm.
“He’ll bring some one who can understand,” said Don to himself; and then he began to feel that, after all, it was a dream consequent upon his being so ill, and he lay back feeling more at ease, but only to jump up and stare wildly toward where the farm lay.
For, all at once, there rose a shout, and directly after a shot was heard, followed by another and another.
Then all was still for a few minutes, till, as Don lay gazing wildly toward where he had seen Ngati disappear, he caught sight of a stooping figure, then of another and another, hurrying to reach cover; and as he recognised the convicts, he could make out that each man carried a gun.
He was holding himself up by grasping the bough of a tree, and gazing wildly at Mike and his brutal-looking friends; but they were looking in the direction of the farm as they passed, and they did not see him.
Then the agonising pain in his head seemed to rob him of the power to think, and he sank back among the ferns.
Don had some consciousness of hearing voices, and of feeling hands touching him; but it was all during a time of confusion, and when he looked round again with the power to think, he was facing a tiny unglazed window, the shutter which was used to close it standing below.
He was lying on a rough bed formed of sacking spread over dried fern leaves, and the shed he was in had for furniture a rough table formed by nailing a couple of pieces of board across a tub, another tub with part of the side sawn out formed an armchair; and the walls were ornamented with bunches of seeds tied up and hung there for preservation, a saddle and bridle, and some garden tools neatly arranged in a corner.
Don lay wondering what it all meant, his eyes resting longest upon the open window, through which he could see the glorious sunshine, and the leaves moving in the gentle breeze.
He felt very happy and comfortable, but when he tried to raise his head the effort was in vain, and this set him wondering again, till he closed his eyes and lay thinking.
Suddenly he unclosed them again to lie listening, feeling the while that he had been asleep, for close beside him there was some one whistling in a very low tone—quite a whisper of a whistle—a familiar old Somersetshire melody, which seemed to carry him back to the sugar yard at Bristol, where he had heard Jem whistle that tune a score of times.
This set him thinking of home, his mother, and Cousin Kitty. Then of stern-looking Uncle Josiah, who, after all, did not seem to have been unkind.
“Poor Mas’ Don! Will he ever get well again?” a voice whispered close to his ear.
“Jem!”
“Oh, Mas’ Don! Oh! Oh! Oh! Thank the great Lord o’ mussy. Amen! Amen! Amen!”
There was the sound of some one going down heavily upon his knees, a pair of clasped hands rested on Don’s breast; and, as he turned his eyes sidewise, he could see the top of Jem’s head as the bed shook, and there was the sound of some one sobbing violently, but in a choking, smothered way.
“Jem! Is that you? What’s the matter?” whispered Don feebly.
“And he says, ‘What’s the matter?’” cried Jem, raising his head, and bending over Don. “Dear lad, dear lad; how are you now?”
“Quite well, thank you, Jem, only I can’t lift up my head.”
“And don’t you try, Mas’ Don. Oh, the Lord be thanked! The Lord be thanked!” he muttered. “What should I ha’ done?”
“Have—have I been ill, Jem?”
“I’ll, Mas’ Don? Why, I thought you was going to die, and no doctor, not even a drop of salts and senny to save your life.”
“Oh, nonsense, Jem! I never thought of doing such a thing! Ah, I remember now. I felt poorly. My head was bad.”
“Your head bad? I should think it was bad. Dear lad, what stuff you have been saying.”
“Have I, Jem? What, since I lay down among the ferns this morning?”
“This morning, Mas’ Don! Why, it’s close upon a month ago.”
“What?”
“That’s so, my lad. We come back from cutting wood to find you lying under a tree, and when we got here it was to find poor old ‘my pakeha’ with a shot-hole in him, and his head all beaten about with big clubs.”
“Oh, Jem!”
“That’s so, Mas’ Don.”
“Is he better?”
“Oh, yes; he’s getting better. I don’t think you could kill him. Sort o’ chap that if you cut him to pieces some bit or another would be sure to grow again.”
“Why, it was Mike Bannock and those wretches, Jem.”
“That’s what we thought, my lad, but we couldn’t find out. It was some one, and whoever it was took away three guns.”
“I saw them, Jem.”
“You see ’em?”
“Yes, as I lay back with my head so bad that I couldn’t be sure.”
“Ah, well, they found us out, and they’ve got their guns again; but they give it to poor Ngati awful.”
Just then the window was darkened by a hideous-looking face, which disappeared directly. Then steps were heard, and the great chief came in, bending low to avoid striking his head against the roof till he reached the rough bedside, where he bent over Don, and patted him gently, saying softly, “My pakeha.”
Chapter Fifty Three.Don speaks out.A healthy young constitution helped Don Lavington through his perilous illness, and in another fortnight he was about the farm, helping in any little way he could.“I’m very sorry, Mr Gordon,” said Don one evening to the young settler.“Sorry? What for, my lad?” he said.“For bringing those convicts after us to your place, and for being ill and giving you so much trouble.”“Nonsense, my lad! I did begin to grumble once when I thought you were going to be ungrateful to me for taking you in.”“Ungrateful!”“Yes, ungrateful, and trying to die.”“Oh!” said Don smiling.“Nice mess I should have been in if you had. No church, no clergyman, no doctor, no sexton. Why, you young dog, it would have been cruel.”Don smiled sadly.“I am really very grateful, sir; I am indeed, and I think by to-morrow or next day I shall be strong enough to go.”“What, and leave me in the lurch just as I’m so busy! Why, with the thought of having you fellows here, I’ve been fencing in pieces and making no end of improvements. That big Maori can cut down as much wood as two men, and as for Jem Wimble, he’s the handiest fellow I ever saw.”“I am very glad they have been of use, sir. I wish I could be.”“You’re right enough, boy. Stop six months—a year altogether—and I shall be very glad of your help.”This set Don at rest, and he brightened up wonderfully, making great strides during the next fortnight, and feeling almost himself, till, one evening as he was returning from where he had been helping Jem and Ngati cut up wood for fencing, he fancied he saw some animal creeping through the ferns. A minute’s watching convinced him that this was a fact, but he could not make out what it was. Soon after, as they were seated at their evening meal, he mentioned what he had seen.“One of the sheep got loose,” said Gordon.“No, it was not a sheep.”“Well, what could it have been? There are no animals here, hardly, except the pigs which have run wild.”“It looked as big as a sheep, but it was not a pig,” said Don thoughtfully. “Could it have been a man going on all fours?”“Hullo! What’s the matter?” cried Gordon looking up sharply, as one of his two neighbours came to the door with his wife.“Well, I doan’t know,” said the settler. “My wife says she is sure she saw a savage creeping along through the bush behind our place.”“There!” said Don excitedly.“Here’s t’others coming,” said Jem.For at that moment the other settler, whose log-house was a hundred yards below, came up at a trot, gun in hand, in company with his wife and sister.“Here, look sharp, Gordon,” he said; “there’s a party out on a raid. We came up here, for we had better join hands.”“Of course,” said Gordon. “Come in; but I think you are frightening yourselves at shadows, and—”He stopped short, for Jem Wimble dashed at the door and banged it to just as Ngati sprang to the corner of the big log kitchen and caught up a spear.“Mike and them two beauties, Mas’ Don!” cried Jem.“Then it’s war, is it?” said Gordon grimly, as he reconnoitred from the window. “Eight—ten—twelve—about thirty Maori savages, and three white ones. Hand round the guns, Don Lavington. You can shoot, can’t you?”“Yes, a little.”“That’s right. Can we depend on Ngati? If we can’t, he’d better go.”“I’ll answer for him,” said Don.“All right!” said Gordon. “Look here, Ngati,”—he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear—“bad pakehas, bad—bad, kill.”Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed.“Kill pakehas—bad pakehas,” he said in a deep, fierce voice. “Kill!” Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, “Pakeha good,” he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, “My pakeha,” he added.“That’s all right, sir,” said Jem; “he understands.”“Now then, quick! Make everything fast. We can keep them out so long as they don’t try fire. And look here, I hate bloodshed, neighbours, but those convict scoundrels have raised these poor savages up against us for the sake of plunder. Recollect, we are fighting for our homes—to defend the women.”A low, angry murmur arose as the guns were quickly examined, ammunition placed ready, and the rough, strong door barricaded with boxes and tubs, the women being sent up a rough ladder through a trap-door to huddle together in the roof, where they would be in safety.“So long as they don’t set us afire, Mas’ Don,” whispered Jem.“What’s that?” said Gordon sharply.“Jem fears fire,” said Don.“So do I, my lad, so we must keep them at a distance; and if they do fire us run all together to the next house, and defend that.”Fortunately for the defenders of the place there were but three windows, and they were small, and made good loop-holes from which to fire when the enemy came on. The settlers defended the front of the house, and Don, Jem and Ngati were sent to the back, greatly to Jem’s disappointment.“We sha’n’t see any of the fun, Mas’ Don,” he whispered, and then remained silent, for a shout arose, and they recognised the voice as that of Mike Bannock.“Now then you,” he shouted, “open the door, and give in quietly. If you do, you sha’n’t be hurt. If you make a fight of it, no one will be left alive.”“Look here!” shouted back Gordon; “I warn you all that the first man who comes a step farther may lose his life. Go on about your business before help comes and you are caught.”“No help for a hundred miles, matey,” said the savage-looking convict; “so give in. We want all you’ve got there, and what’s more, we mean to have it. Will you surrender?”For answer Gordon thrust out his gun-barrel, and the convicts drew back a few yards, and conversed together before disappearing with their savage followers into the bush.“Have we scared them off?” said Gordon to one of the settlers, after ten minutes had passed without a sign.“I don’t know,” said the other. “I can’t help thinking—”“Look out, Mas’ Don!”Bang!bang!Two reports from muskets at the back of the house, where the attacking party had suddenly shown themselves, thinking it the weakest part; and after the two shots about a dozen Maoris dashed at the little window, and tried to get in, forcing their spears through to keep the defenders at a distance; and had not Ngati’s spear played its part, darting swiftly about like the sting of some monster, the lithe, active fellows would, soon have forced their way in.Directly after, the fight began at the front, the firing growing hot, and not without effect, for one of the settlers went down with a musket bullet in his shoulder, and soon after Gordon stood back, holding his arm for Don to bind it up with a strip off a towel.“Only a spear prick,” he said coolly, as he took aim with his gun directly after; and for about an hour the fight raged fiercely, with wounds given and taken, but no material advantage on either side.“Be careful and make every shot tell,” said Gordon, as it was rapidly growing dark; then backing to the inner door as he reloaded, he spoke for a few seconds to Don.“We shall beat them off, sir,” said Don cheerily.“Yes, I hope so, my lad,” said the settler calmly. “You see you are of great use.”“No, sir; it’s all my fault,” replied Don.“Mas’ Don,” whispered Jem, as Don returned, “look out of the window; mind the spears; then tell me what you see.”“Fire!” said Don after a momentary examination.He was quite right. A fire had been lit in the forest at the back, and ten minutes after, as Mike Bannock’s voice could be heard cheering them, the Maoris came on, hurling burning branches on to the roof of the little log-house.For a few minutes there was no result. Then there arose a yell, for the roof had caught, the resinous pine burned strongly, the smoke began to curl in between the rafters, and the women were helped down.To extinguish the flames was impossible, and would even have been as vain a task had they been outside ready with water.“How long will she last before she comes down?” said one of the settlers.“We can stop in here for a quarter, perhaps half an hour longer,” said Gordon; “and then we must make a dash for your place.”“Yes,” said the settler, “and they know it. Look!”By the increasing light from the burning house, the savages could be seen with their white leaders preparing for a rush.Just then Don and his two companions were forced to leave the little lean-to, whose roof was burning furiously, and it was only by closing the rough door of communication that the besieged were able to remain in the big kitchen.“It won’t last five minutes, my lads,” said Gordon. “Be ready, women. I’ll throw open the door. We men will rush out and form up. You women run down to the right and make for Smith’s. We shall give them a volley to check them, and run after you.”“Ready?”“Ay.”“All loaded?”“Ay,” came in a deep despairing growl.“Down with these boxes and tubs then. You, Don, you are young and weak; go with the women.”“No,” said Don; “I shall go with you men.”“Brayvo, Mas’ Don!” whispered Jem. “What a while they are opening that door! We shall be roasted, my lad, after all, and these wretches ’ll pick our bones.”The door was flung open, and the enemy uttered a yell of delight as the little party of whites ran out of the burning house.“Now, women!” cried Gordon.“No: stop!” roared Don.Crash!A heavy volley from the right, and the besiegers made a rush for the left.Crash!A heavy volley met them on the left, fired diagonally from half behind the blazing house.Then there was a cheer, echoed by a second, and two parties of blue-jackets were in among the Maoris, who fled, leaving half their number wounded and prisoners on the ground, while Don and his friends helped the women out into the open, away from the signs of bloodshed, which looked horrible in the light from the blazing house.“A little too late,” said the officer in command of the detachment.“Too late to save my house, sir, but in time to save our lives,” said Gordon, grasping his hand.“I wish I had been sooner; but it’s rough work travelling through the bush, and we should not have come, only we heard the shouting, and saw the glow of your burning house.”No time was lost in trying to extinguish the fire after a guard had been set over the prisoners, the men under the officers’ orders working hard with the few buckets at command; but the place was built of inflammable pine, which flared up fiercely, and after about a quarter of an hour’s effort Gordon protested against further toil.“It’s of no use, sir,” he said. “All labour in vain. I’ve not lost much, for my furniture was only home made.”“I’m sorry to give up, but it is useless,” said the officer.Jem crept close up to his companion.“I say, Mas’ Don, I thought it was some of our chaps from the sloop at first, but they’re from theVixenfrigate. Think they’ll find us out?”“I hope not, Jem,” replied Don; “surely they will not press us again.”“Let’s be off into the bush till they’re gone.”“No,” said Don; “I’m sorry I left the ship as I did. We will not run away again.”Meanwhile preparations were made for bivouacking, the officer determining to rest where they were that night; and after seeing his men stored in two of the barns, and sentries placed over the prisoners in another, at one of the settlers’ places, one log-house being given up to the wounded, he joined the little English gathering, where the settlers’ wives, as soon as the danger was past, had prepared a comfortable meal.After an uneventful night, the morning broke cheerily over the tiny settlement, where the only trace of the attack was at Gordon’s, whose rough log-house was now a heap of smoking ashes.The sailors had breakfasted well, thanks to the settlers’ wives, and were now drawn up, all but the prisoners’ guard, while the officer stood talking to Gordon and his neighbours with Don and Jem standing close by; for in spite of Jem’s reiterated appeals, his companion refused to take to the bush.“No, Jem,” Don said stubbornly; “it would be cowardly, and we’re cowards enough.”“But s’pose they find us out? That there officer’s sure to smell as we’re salts.”“Smell? Nonsense!”“He will, Mas’ Don. I’m that soaked with Stockholm tar that I can smell myself like a tub.”“Nonsense!”“But if they find out as we deserted, they’ll hang us.”“I don’t believe it, Jem.”“Well, you’ll see, Mas’ Don; so if they hang you, don’t you blame me.”“Well, Mr Gordon, we must be off,” said the officer. “Thank you once more for all your hospitality.”“God bless you, sir, and all your men, for saving our lives,” said the settler warmly; and there was a chorus of thanks from the other settlers and their wives.“Nonsense, my dear sir; only our duty!” said the officer heartily. “And now about our prisoners. I don’t know what to do about the Maoris. I don’t want to shoot them, and I certainly don’t want to march them with us down to where the ship lies. What would you do, Mr Gordon?”“I should give them a knife apiece, shake hands with them, and let them go.”“What, to come back with the said knives, and kill you all when we’re gone!”“They will not come back if you take away the scoundrels who led them on,” said Don sharply.“How do you know?” said the officer good-humouredly.“Because,” said Don, colouring, “I have been living a good deal with them, both with a friendly tribe and as a prisoner.”“And they did not eat you?” said the officer laughing.“There, Mas’ Don,” whispered Jem, “hear that?”“I think you are right, youngster,” continued the officer, “and I shall do so. Mr Dillon, bring up the prisoners.”This was to a master’s mate, who led off a guard, and returned with the captives bound hands behind, and the Maoris looking sullen and haughty, while the three whites appeared at their very worst—a trio of the most vile, unkempt scoundrels possible to see.They were led to the front, scowling at every one in turn, and halted in front of the officer, who, after whispering to the master’s mate, gave orders to one of the seamen. This man pulled out his great jack knife, opened it, and being a bit of a joker, advanced toward the Maoris, grinding his teeth and rolling his eyes.The savages saw his every act, and there was a slight tremor that seemed to run through them all; but the next instant they had drawn themselves up stern and defiant, ready to meet their fate at the seaman’s knife.“No, no. No, pakeha. No kill,” said a deep angry voice; and as every one turned, Ngati stalked forward as if to defend his enemies.But at the same moment the man had cut the first Maori’s bands, and then went on behind the rank, cutting the line that bound seven, who stood staring wildly.The next minute a seaman came along bearing a sheaf of spears, which he handed, one by one, to the astonished savages, while their wonder reached its height, as the master’s mate presented to each a knife, such as were brought for presents to the natives.“Now,” said the officer, addressing them, “I don’t understand you, and I don’t suppose you understand my words; but you do my deeds. Then, in the king’s name, you are free; and if you ever take any English prisoners, I hope you will behave as well to them as we have behaved to you. There, go.”He finished by pointing away to the north; but instead of going they stood staring till Ngati came forward, and said a few words in their own tongue.The effect was electric; they all shouted, brandished their spears, danced wildly, and ended by throwing down their weapons before the officer, seizing him by the arms, and rubbing noses with him.He submitted laughingly till the Maoris picked up their spears, and stood looking on, apparently quite satisfied that they were safe.“Here, hi, Jack!” cried a hoarse brutal voice. “Look sharp, we want to get rid of these cords; where’s your knife?”“Wait a little while, my friends,” said the officer sarcastically; “as soon as we get to the ship, you shall have them changed for irons.”“Whorrt!” cried Mike.“We were out in search of three convicts who murdered a couple of the guard, and escaped from Norfolk Island in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe.”“Norfolk Island! Where’s Norfolk Island, mate?” said Mike coolly.“Never heard o’ no such place,” said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly.“Memory’s short, perhaps,” said the officer.“But convicts; we’re not convicts,” growled Mike.“Gentlemen, p’r’aps, on your travels?”“Yes, that’s it,” said Mike with effrontery.“Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty’s shipVixen, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!”“Here stop!” roared Mike with a savage grin.“What for?” said the officer sternly.“Arn’t you going to take them, too?”“Take whom—the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!”“No, no; I mean them two,” said Mike savagely, as he pointed—“them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble.”“Halt!” cried the officer. “Do you know these men?” he said suspiciously.“There, I told you so, Mas’ Don,” whispered Jem. “I know that man,” said Don firmly. “I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush.”“Where did you know him?” said the officer—“Norfolk Island?”“No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle’s yard.”“That’s right enough,” said Mike; “and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea.”“Ay, ay!” said the officer quickly.“And they deserted, and took to the bush.”“Hah!” ejaculated the officer. “From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted.”“Hor—hor—hor!” laughed Mike maliciously; “and now you’ve got ’em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble.”“If your hands warn’t tied,” cried Jem fiercely, “I’d punch your ugly head!”“Is this true, young man?” said the officer sternly. “Did you desert from His Majesty’s sloop?”Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly.“Yes!” he said.“Ah, Mas’ Don, you’ve done it now,” whispered Jem.“I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I’m not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship.”“Yes, and so did I!” said Jem stoutly.“Humph! Then I’m afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!” said the officer.“Hor—hor—hor! Here’s a game! Prisoners! Cat-o’-nine tails, or hanging.”“Silence, you scoundrel!” roared the officer. “Forward with these prisoners.”Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke.“It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?”“I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship,” said Don firmly.“Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue.”“Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?” cried Gordon warmly—“as brave, true fellows as ever stepped.”“I can believe that,” said the officer; “but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?”“What is it, sir?”“Throw yourself on our captain’s mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?”“The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can’t bear to be forced.”“Well said!” cried the officer, smiling at Don’s bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts.
A healthy young constitution helped Don Lavington through his perilous illness, and in another fortnight he was about the farm, helping in any little way he could.
“I’m very sorry, Mr Gordon,” said Don one evening to the young settler.
“Sorry? What for, my lad?” he said.
“For bringing those convicts after us to your place, and for being ill and giving you so much trouble.”
“Nonsense, my lad! I did begin to grumble once when I thought you were going to be ungrateful to me for taking you in.”
“Ungrateful!”
“Yes, ungrateful, and trying to die.”
“Oh!” said Don smiling.
“Nice mess I should have been in if you had. No church, no clergyman, no doctor, no sexton. Why, you young dog, it would have been cruel.”
Don smiled sadly.
“I am really very grateful, sir; I am indeed, and I think by to-morrow or next day I shall be strong enough to go.”
“What, and leave me in the lurch just as I’m so busy! Why, with the thought of having you fellows here, I’ve been fencing in pieces and making no end of improvements. That big Maori can cut down as much wood as two men, and as for Jem Wimble, he’s the handiest fellow I ever saw.”
“I am very glad they have been of use, sir. I wish I could be.”
“You’re right enough, boy. Stop six months—a year altogether—and I shall be very glad of your help.”
This set Don at rest, and he brightened up wonderfully, making great strides during the next fortnight, and feeling almost himself, till, one evening as he was returning from where he had been helping Jem and Ngati cut up wood for fencing, he fancied he saw some animal creeping through the ferns. A minute’s watching convinced him that this was a fact, but he could not make out what it was. Soon after, as they were seated at their evening meal, he mentioned what he had seen.
“One of the sheep got loose,” said Gordon.
“No, it was not a sheep.”
“Well, what could it have been? There are no animals here, hardly, except the pigs which have run wild.”
“It looked as big as a sheep, but it was not a pig,” said Don thoughtfully. “Could it have been a man going on all fours?”
“Hullo! What’s the matter?” cried Gordon looking up sharply, as one of his two neighbours came to the door with his wife.
“Well, I doan’t know,” said the settler. “My wife says she is sure she saw a savage creeping along through the bush behind our place.”
“There!” said Don excitedly.
“Here’s t’others coming,” said Jem.
For at that moment the other settler, whose log-house was a hundred yards below, came up at a trot, gun in hand, in company with his wife and sister.
“Here, look sharp, Gordon,” he said; “there’s a party out on a raid. We came up here, for we had better join hands.”
“Of course,” said Gordon. “Come in; but I think you are frightening yourselves at shadows, and—”
He stopped short, for Jem Wimble dashed at the door and banged it to just as Ngati sprang to the corner of the big log kitchen and caught up a spear.
“Mike and them two beauties, Mas’ Don!” cried Jem.
“Then it’s war, is it?” said Gordon grimly, as he reconnoitred from the window. “Eight—ten—twelve—about thirty Maori savages, and three white ones. Hand round the guns, Don Lavington. You can shoot, can’t you?”
“Yes, a little.”
“That’s right. Can we depend on Ngati? If we can’t, he’d better go.”
“I’ll answer for him,” said Don.
“All right!” said Gordon. “Look here, Ngati,”—he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear—“bad pakehas, bad—bad, kill.”
Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed.
“Kill pakehas—bad pakehas,” he said in a deep, fierce voice. “Kill!” Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, “Pakeha good,” he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, “My pakeha,” he added.
“That’s all right, sir,” said Jem; “he understands.”
“Now then, quick! Make everything fast. We can keep them out so long as they don’t try fire. And look here, I hate bloodshed, neighbours, but those convict scoundrels have raised these poor savages up against us for the sake of plunder. Recollect, we are fighting for our homes—to defend the women.”
A low, angry murmur arose as the guns were quickly examined, ammunition placed ready, and the rough, strong door barricaded with boxes and tubs, the women being sent up a rough ladder through a trap-door to huddle together in the roof, where they would be in safety.
“So long as they don’t set us afire, Mas’ Don,” whispered Jem.
“What’s that?” said Gordon sharply.
“Jem fears fire,” said Don.
“So do I, my lad, so we must keep them at a distance; and if they do fire us run all together to the next house, and defend that.”
Fortunately for the defenders of the place there were but three windows, and they were small, and made good loop-holes from which to fire when the enemy came on. The settlers defended the front of the house, and Don, Jem and Ngati were sent to the back, greatly to Jem’s disappointment.
“We sha’n’t see any of the fun, Mas’ Don,” he whispered, and then remained silent, for a shout arose, and they recognised the voice as that of Mike Bannock.
“Now then you,” he shouted, “open the door, and give in quietly. If you do, you sha’n’t be hurt. If you make a fight of it, no one will be left alive.”
“Look here!” shouted back Gordon; “I warn you all that the first man who comes a step farther may lose his life. Go on about your business before help comes and you are caught.”
“No help for a hundred miles, matey,” said the savage-looking convict; “so give in. We want all you’ve got there, and what’s more, we mean to have it. Will you surrender?”
For answer Gordon thrust out his gun-barrel, and the convicts drew back a few yards, and conversed together before disappearing with their savage followers into the bush.
“Have we scared them off?” said Gordon to one of the settlers, after ten minutes had passed without a sign.
“I don’t know,” said the other. “I can’t help thinking—”
“Look out, Mas’ Don!”
Bang!bang!
Two reports from muskets at the back of the house, where the attacking party had suddenly shown themselves, thinking it the weakest part; and after the two shots about a dozen Maoris dashed at the little window, and tried to get in, forcing their spears through to keep the defenders at a distance; and had not Ngati’s spear played its part, darting swiftly about like the sting of some monster, the lithe, active fellows would, soon have forced their way in.
Directly after, the fight began at the front, the firing growing hot, and not without effect, for one of the settlers went down with a musket bullet in his shoulder, and soon after Gordon stood back, holding his arm for Don to bind it up with a strip off a towel.
“Only a spear prick,” he said coolly, as he took aim with his gun directly after; and for about an hour the fight raged fiercely, with wounds given and taken, but no material advantage on either side.
“Be careful and make every shot tell,” said Gordon, as it was rapidly growing dark; then backing to the inner door as he reloaded, he spoke for a few seconds to Don.
“We shall beat them off, sir,” said Don cheerily.
“Yes, I hope so, my lad,” said the settler calmly. “You see you are of great use.”
“No, sir; it’s all my fault,” replied Don.
“Mas’ Don,” whispered Jem, as Don returned, “look out of the window; mind the spears; then tell me what you see.”
“Fire!” said Don after a momentary examination.
He was quite right. A fire had been lit in the forest at the back, and ten minutes after, as Mike Bannock’s voice could be heard cheering them, the Maoris came on, hurling burning branches on to the roof of the little log-house.
For a few minutes there was no result. Then there arose a yell, for the roof had caught, the resinous pine burned strongly, the smoke began to curl in between the rafters, and the women were helped down.
To extinguish the flames was impossible, and would even have been as vain a task had they been outside ready with water.
“How long will she last before she comes down?” said one of the settlers.
“We can stop in here for a quarter, perhaps half an hour longer,” said Gordon; “and then we must make a dash for your place.”
“Yes,” said the settler, “and they know it. Look!”
By the increasing light from the burning house, the savages could be seen with their white leaders preparing for a rush.
Just then Don and his two companions were forced to leave the little lean-to, whose roof was burning furiously, and it was only by closing the rough door of communication that the besieged were able to remain in the big kitchen.
“It won’t last five minutes, my lads,” said Gordon. “Be ready, women. I’ll throw open the door. We men will rush out and form up. You women run down to the right and make for Smith’s. We shall give them a volley to check them, and run after you.”
“Ready?”
“Ay.”
“All loaded?”
“Ay,” came in a deep despairing growl.
“Down with these boxes and tubs then. You, Don, you are young and weak; go with the women.”
“No,” said Don; “I shall go with you men.”
“Brayvo, Mas’ Don!” whispered Jem. “What a while they are opening that door! We shall be roasted, my lad, after all, and these wretches ’ll pick our bones.”
The door was flung open, and the enemy uttered a yell of delight as the little party of whites ran out of the burning house.
“Now, women!” cried Gordon.
“No: stop!” roared Don.
Crash!
A heavy volley from the right, and the besiegers made a rush for the left.
Crash!
A heavy volley met them on the left, fired diagonally from half behind the blazing house.
Then there was a cheer, echoed by a second, and two parties of blue-jackets were in among the Maoris, who fled, leaving half their number wounded and prisoners on the ground, while Don and his friends helped the women out into the open, away from the signs of bloodshed, which looked horrible in the light from the blazing house.
“A little too late,” said the officer in command of the detachment.
“Too late to save my house, sir, but in time to save our lives,” said Gordon, grasping his hand.
“I wish I had been sooner; but it’s rough work travelling through the bush, and we should not have come, only we heard the shouting, and saw the glow of your burning house.”
No time was lost in trying to extinguish the fire after a guard had been set over the prisoners, the men under the officers’ orders working hard with the few buckets at command; but the place was built of inflammable pine, which flared up fiercely, and after about a quarter of an hour’s effort Gordon protested against further toil.
“It’s of no use, sir,” he said. “All labour in vain. I’ve not lost much, for my furniture was only home made.”
“I’m sorry to give up, but it is useless,” said the officer.
Jem crept close up to his companion.
“I say, Mas’ Don, I thought it was some of our chaps from the sloop at first, but they’re from theVixenfrigate. Think they’ll find us out?”
“I hope not, Jem,” replied Don; “surely they will not press us again.”
“Let’s be off into the bush till they’re gone.”
“No,” said Don; “I’m sorry I left the ship as I did. We will not run away again.”
Meanwhile preparations were made for bivouacking, the officer determining to rest where they were that night; and after seeing his men stored in two of the barns, and sentries placed over the prisoners in another, at one of the settlers’ places, one log-house being given up to the wounded, he joined the little English gathering, where the settlers’ wives, as soon as the danger was past, had prepared a comfortable meal.
After an uneventful night, the morning broke cheerily over the tiny settlement, where the only trace of the attack was at Gordon’s, whose rough log-house was now a heap of smoking ashes.
The sailors had breakfasted well, thanks to the settlers’ wives, and were now drawn up, all but the prisoners’ guard, while the officer stood talking to Gordon and his neighbours with Don and Jem standing close by; for in spite of Jem’s reiterated appeals, his companion refused to take to the bush.
“No, Jem,” Don said stubbornly; “it would be cowardly, and we’re cowards enough.”
“But s’pose they find us out? That there officer’s sure to smell as we’re salts.”
“Smell? Nonsense!”
“He will, Mas’ Don. I’m that soaked with Stockholm tar that I can smell myself like a tub.”
“Nonsense!”
“But if they find out as we deserted, they’ll hang us.”
“I don’t believe it, Jem.”
“Well, you’ll see, Mas’ Don; so if they hang you, don’t you blame me.”
“Well, Mr Gordon, we must be off,” said the officer. “Thank you once more for all your hospitality.”
“God bless you, sir, and all your men, for saving our lives,” said the settler warmly; and there was a chorus of thanks from the other settlers and their wives.
“Nonsense, my dear sir; only our duty!” said the officer heartily. “And now about our prisoners. I don’t know what to do about the Maoris. I don’t want to shoot them, and I certainly don’t want to march them with us down to where the ship lies. What would you do, Mr Gordon?”
“I should give them a knife apiece, shake hands with them, and let them go.”
“What, to come back with the said knives, and kill you all when we’re gone!”
“They will not come back if you take away the scoundrels who led them on,” said Don sharply.
“How do you know?” said the officer good-humouredly.
“Because,” said Don, colouring, “I have been living a good deal with them, both with a friendly tribe and as a prisoner.”
“And they did not eat you?” said the officer laughing.
“There, Mas’ Don,” whispered Jem, “hear that?”
“I think you are right, youngster,” continued the officer, “and I shall do so. Mr Dillon, bring up the prisoners.”
This was to a master’s mate, who led off a guard, and returned with the captives bound hands behind, and the Maoris looking sullen and haughty, while the three whites appeared at their very worst—a trio of the most vile, unkempt scoundrels possible to see.
They were led to the front, scowling at every one in turn, and halted in front of the officer, who, after whispering to the master’s mate, gave orders to one of the seamen. This man pulled out his great jack knife, opened it, and being a bit of a joker, advanced toward the Maoris, grinding his teeth and rolling his eyes.
The savages saw his every act, and there was a slight tremor that seemed to run through them all; but the next instant they had drawn themselves up stern and defiant, ready to meet their fate at the seaman’s knife.
“No, no. No, pakeha. No kill,” said a deep angry voice; and as every one turned, Ngati stalked forward as if to defend his enemies.
But at the same moment the man had cut the first Maori’s bands, and then went on behind the rank, cutting the line that bound seven, who stood staring wildly.
The next minute a seaman came along bearing a sheaf of spears, which he handed, one by one, to the astonished savages, while their wonder reached its height, as the master’s mate presented to each a knife, such as were brought for presents to the natives.
“Now,” said the officer, addressing them, “I don’t understand you, and I don’t suppose you understand my words; but you do my deeds. Then, in the king’s name, you are free; and if you ever take any English prisoners, I hope you will behave as well to them as we have behaved to you. There, go.”
He finished by pointing away to the north; but instead of going they stood staring till Ngati came forward, and said a few words in their own tongue.
The effect was electric; they all shouted, brandished their spears, danced wildly, and ended by throwing down their weapons before the officer, seizing him by the arms, and rubbing noses with him.
He submitted laughingly till the Maoris picked up their spears, and stood looking on, apparently quite satisfied that they were safe.
“Here, hi, Jack!” cried a hoarse brutal voice. “Look sharp, we want to get rid of these cords; where’s your knife?”
“Wait a little while, my friends,” said the officer sarcastically; “as soon as we get to the ship, you shall have them changed for irons.”
“Whorrt!” cried Mike.
“We were out in search of three convicts who murdered a couple of the guard, and escaped from Norfolk Island in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe.”
“Norfolk Island! Where’s Norfolk Island, mate?” said Mike coolly.
“Never heard o’ no such place,” said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly.
“Memory’s short, perhaps,” said the officer.
“But convicts; we’re not convicts,” growled Mike.
“Gentlemen, p’r’aps, on your travels?”
“Yes, that’s it,” said Mike with effrontery.
“Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty’s shipVixen, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!”
“Here stop!” roared Mike with a savage grin.
“What for?” said the officer sternly.
“Arn’t you going to take them, too?”
“Take whom—the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!”
“No, no; I mean them two,” said Mike savagely, as he pointed—“them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble.”
“Halt!” cried the officer. “Do you know these men?” he said suspiciously.
“There, I told you so, Mas’ Don,” whispered Jem. “I know that man,” said Don firmly. “I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush.”
“Where did you know him?” said the officer—“Norfolk Island?”
“No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle’s yard.”
“That’s right enough,” said Mike; “and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea.”
“Ay, ay!” said the officer quickly.
“And they deserted, and took to the bush.”
“Hah!” ejaculated the officer. “From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted.”
“Hor—hor—hor!” laughed Mike maliciously; “and now you’ve got ’em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble.”
“If your hands warn’t tied,” cried Jem fiercely, “I’d punch your ugly head!”
“Is this true, young man?” said the officer sternly. “Did you desert from His Majesty’s sloop?”
Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly.
“Yes!” he said.
“Ah, Mas’ Don, you’ve done it now,” whispered Jem.
“I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I’m not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship.”
“Yes, and so did I!” said Jem stoutly.
“Humph! Then I’m afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!” said the officer.
“Hor—hor—hor! Here’s a game! Prisoners! Cat-o’-nine tails, or hanging.”
“Silence, you scoundrel!” roared the officer. “Forward with these prisoners.”
Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke.
“It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?”
“I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship,” said Don firmly.
“Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue.”
“Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?” cried Gordon warmly—“as brave, true fellows as ever stepped.”
“I can believe that,” said the officer; “but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?”
“What is it, sir?”
“Throw yourself on our captain’s mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?”
“The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can’t bear to be forced.”
“Well said!” cried the officer, smiling at Don’s bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts.
Chapter Fifty Four.Home.It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed.Don was panting to get back into his mother’s arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble.“No, no; don’t go by, Mas’ Don. I dursen’t go alone.”“What, not to meet your own wife?”“No, Mas’ Don; ’tarn’t that. I’m feared she’s gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas’ Don.”“No, no, Jem. I must get home.”“We’ve stood by one another, Mas’ Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don’t forsake your mate now.”“I’ll stay, Jem,” said Don.“Mas’ Don, you are a good one!” cried Jem. “Would you mind pulling the bell—werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise.”Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,—“What d’you mean by ringing like—”“Sally!”“Jem!”Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle’s house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door.There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother’s arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him.When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, “at loggerheads again,” and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say—how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand.“Don, my lad,” he said quietly, “I’ve felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back.”“I ought to tell you, sir—”“Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,” said the old man. “I know that you can’t have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You’ve been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were.”“I hope so, uncle.”“And you don’t believe that I ever was your enemy?”“I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and—and—”“That’s enough. P’r’aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven’t got to go again?”“No, uncle.”“Then God bless you, my boy! I’m glad to have you back.”Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt’s suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don’s conduct when he was at sea.“But I ought not to have deserted uncle?” said Don, interrogatively.“Well, my boy,” said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, “I hardly know what to say about that, so we’ll let it rest.”“Confound all press-gangs!” said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. “But I don’t know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise.”“Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?”“Your bundle, my dear?”“The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away.”“My dear Don, no.”They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.“Don, my darling!”“But I had repented, mother, and—”“Hush! No more,” said Uncle Josiah firmly; “the past is gone. Here’s to a happy future, my boy. Good-night.”The End.
It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed.
Don was panting to get back into his mother’s arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble.
“No, no; don’t go by, Mas’ Don. I dursen’t go alone.”
“What, not to meet your own wife?”
“No, Mas’ Don; ’tarn’t that. I’m feared she’s gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas’ Don.”
“No, no, Jem. I must get home.”
“We’ve stood by one another, Mas’ Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don’t forsake your mate now.”
“I’ll stay, Jem,” said Don.
“Mas’ Don, you are a good one!” cried Jem. “Would you mind pulling the bell—werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise.”
Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,—
“What d’you mean by ringing like—”
“Sally!”
“Jem!”
Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle’s house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door.
There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother’s arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.
The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him.
When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, “at loggerheads again,” and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say—how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand.
“Don, my lad,” he said quietly, “I’ve felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back.”
“I ought to tell you, sir—”
“Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,” said the old man. “I know that you can’t have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You’ve been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were.”
“I hope so, uncle.”
“And you don’t believe that I ever was your enemy?”
“I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and—and—”
“That’s enough. P’r’aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven’t got to go again?”
“No, uncle.”
“Then God bless you, my boy! I’m glad to have you back.”
Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.
It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt’s suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don’s conduct when he was at sea.
“But I ought not to have deserted uncle?” said Don, interrogatively.
“Well, my boy,” said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, “I hardly know what to say about that, so we’ll let it rest.”
“Confound all press-gangs!” said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. “But I don’t know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise.”
“Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?”
“Your bundle, my dear?”
“The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away.”
“My dear Don, no.”
They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.
“Don, my darling!”
“But I had repented, mother, and—”
“Hush! No more,” said Uncle Josiah firmly; “the past is gone. Here’s to a happy future, my boy. Good-night.”