Chapter Twelve.Converse in the Cave—Cruelty, Punishment, and Revelry.It was Fletcher Christian’s voice,—there could be no doubt about that; but it was raised in very unfamiliar tones, and it went on steadily, with inflections, as if in pathos and entreaty.“Can he be praying?” thought Adams, in surprise, for the tones, though audible, were not articulate. Suddenly they waxed louder, and “God be merciful to me, a sinner!” broke on the listener’s ear. “Oh bless and deliver the men whom I have led astray—poor Edward Young, John Adams, Isaac Martin—”The tones here sank and again became inarticulate, but Adams could not doubt that Christian was praying, by name, for the rest of his companions. Presently the name of Jesus was heard distinctly, and then the voice ceased.Ashamed to have been thus unintentionally led into eavesdropping, Adams coughed, and made as much noise as possible while stooping to pass under the low entrance to the cave. There was no door of any kind, but a turn in the short passage concealed the cave itself from view. Before entering, Adams stopped.“May I come in, sir?” he called out.“Is that you, Adams? By all means come in.”Christian was seated, partly in the shadow, partly in the light that streamed in from the seaward opening. A quiet smile was on his lips, and his hand rested on an open book. It was the old Bible of theBounty.“Beg pardon, sir,” said Adams, touching his hat. “Hope I don’t intrude. I heard you was—was—”“Praying,” said Christian. “Yes, Adams, I have been praying.”“Well, sir,” said Adams, feeling rather awkward, but assuming an air of encouragement, “you’ve got no reason to be ashamed of that.”“Quite true, Adams, and I’mnotashamed of it. I’ve not only got no reason to be ashamed of praying, but I have strong reason to be thankful that I’m inclined to pray. Sit down, Adams, on the ledge opposite. You’ve got something on your mind, I see, that you want to get rid of. Come, let’s have it.”There was nothing but good-natured encouragement in Christian’s look and tone; nevertheless, John Adams felt it extremely difficult to speak, and wished with all his heart that he had not come to the cave. But he was too bold and outspoken a man to be long oppressed with such feelings. Clearing his voice, he said, “Well, Mr Christian, here’s what I’ve got to say. I’ve bin thinkin’ for a long time past that it’s of no manner of use your comin’ up here day after day an’ mopin’ away about what can’t be mended, an’ goin’ into the blues. You’ll excuse me, sir, for bein’ so free, but you shouldn’t do it, sir. You can’t alter what’s bin done by cryin’ over spilt milk, an’ it comes heavy on the rest of us, like. Indeed it do. So I’ve made so bold as to come an’ say you’d better drop it and come along with me for a day’s shootin’ of the cats an’ pigs, and then we’ll go home an’ have a royal supper an’ a song or two, or maybe a game at blind-man’s-buff with the child’n. That’s what’ll do you good, sir, an’ make you forget what’s past, take my word for it, Mister Christian.”While Adams was speaking, Christian’s expression varied, passing from the kindly smile with which he had received his friend to a look of profound gravity.“You are both right and wrong, Adams, like the rest of us,” he said, grasping the sailor’s extended hand; “thank you all the same for your advice and good feeling. You are wrong in supposing that anything short of death can make me forget the past or lessen my feeling of self-condemnation; but you are right in urging me to cease moping here in solitude. I have been told that already much more strongly than you have put it.”“Have you, sir?” said Adams, with a look of surprise.“Yes,” said Christian, touching the open Bible, “God’s book has told me. It has told me more than that. It has told me there is forgiveness for the chief of sinners.”“You say the truth, sir,” returned Adams, with an approving nod. “Repenting as you do, sir, an’ as I may say we all do, of what is past and can’t be helped, a merciful God will no doubt forgive us all.”“That’s not it, that’s not it,” said Christian, quickly. “Repentance is not enough. Why, man, do you think if I went to England just now, and said ever so earnestly or so truly, ‘I repent,’ that I’d escape swinging at the yard-arm?”“Well, I can’t say you would,” replied the sailor, somewhat puzzled; “but then man’s ways ain’t the same as God’s ways; are they, sir?”“That’s true, Adams; but justice is always the same, whether with God or man. Besides, if repentance alone would do, where is the need of a Saviour?”Adams’s puzzled look increased, and finally settled on the horizon. The matter had evidently never occurred to him before in that light. After a short silence he turned again to Christian.“Well, sir, to be frank with you, I must say that I don’t rightly understand it.”“But I do,” said Christian, again laying his hand on the Bible, “at least I think I do. God has forgiven me for Jesus Christ’s sake, and His Spirit has made me repent and accept the forgiveness, and now I feel that there is work, serious work, for me to do. I have just been praying that God would help me to do it. I’ll explain more about this hereafter. Meanwhile, I will go with you to the settlement, and try at least some parts of your plan. Come.”There was a quiet yet cheerful air of alacrity about Fletcher Christian that day, so strongly in contrast with his previous sad and even moody deportment, that John Adams could only note it in silent surprise.“Have you been readin’ much o’ that book up here, sir?” he asked, as they began to descend the hill.“Do you mean God’s book?”“Yes.”“Well, yes, I’ve been reading it, off and on, for a considerable time past; but I didn’t quite see the way of salvation until recently.”“Ha! that’s it; that’s what must have turned your head.”“What!” exclaimed Christian, with a smiling glance at his perplexed comrade. “Do you mean turned in the right or the wrong direction?”“Well, whether right or wrong, it’s not for me to say but for you to prove, Mr Christian.”This reply seemed to set the mind of the other wandering, for he continued to lead his companion down the hill in silence after that. At last he said—“John Adams, whatever turn my head may have got, I shall have reason to thank God for it all the days of my life—ay, and afterwards throughout eternity.”The silence which ensued after this remark was broken soon after by a series of yells, which came from the direction of Matthew Quintal’s house, and caused both Christian and Adams to frown as they hastened forward.“There’s one man that needs forgiveness,” said Adams, sternly. “Whether he’ll get it or not is a question.”Christian made no reply. He knew full well that both McCoy and Quintal were in the habit of flogging their slaves, Nehow and Timoa, and otherwise treating them with great cruelty. Indeed, there had reached him a report of treatment so shocking that he could scarcely credit it, and thought it best at the time to take no notice of the rumour; but afterwards he was told of a repetition of the cruelty, and now he seemed about to witness it with his own eyes. Burning indignation at first fired his soul, and he resolved to punish Quintal. Then came the thought, “Who was it that tempted Quintal to mutiny, and placed him in his present circumstances?” The continued cries of agony, however, drove all connected thought from his brain as he ran with Adams towards the house.They found poor Nehow tied to a cocoa-nut tree, and Quintal beside him. He had just finished giving him a cruel flogging, and was now engaged in rubbing salt into the wounds on his lacerated back.With a furious shout Christian rushed forward. Quintal faced round quickly. He was livid with passion, and raised a heavy stick to strike the intruders; but Christian guarded the blow with his left arm, and with his right fist knocked the monster down. At the same time Adams cut the lashings that fastened Nehow, who instantly fled to the bush.Quintal, although partially stunned, rose at once and faced his adversary, but although possessed of bulldog courage, he could not withstand the towering wrath of Christian. He shrank backward a step, with a growl like a cowed but not conquered tiger.“The slave ismine!” he hissed between his teeth.“He isnot; he belongs to God,” said Christian. “And hark ’ee, Matthew Quintal, if ever again you do such a dastardly, cowardly, brutal act, I’ll take on myself the office of your executioner, and will beat out your brains.Youknow me, Quintal; I never threaten twice.”Christian’s tone was calm, though firm, but there was something so deadly in the glare of his clear blue eyes, that Quintal retreated another step. In doing so he tripped over a root and fell prone upon the ground.“Ha!” exclaimed Adams, with a bitter laugh, “you’d better lie still. It’s your suitable position, you blackguard.”Without another word he and Christian turned on their heels and walked away.“This is a bad beginning to my new resolves,” said Christian, with a sigh, as they descended the hill.“A bad beginning,” echoed Adams, “to give a well-deserved blow to as great a rascal as ever walked?”“No, not exactly that; but—Well, no matter, we’ll dismiss the subject, and go have a lark with the children.”Christian said this with something like a return to his previous good-humour. A few minutes later they passed under the banyan-tree at the side of Adams’s house, and entered the square of the village, where children, kittens, fowls, and pigs were disporting themselves in joyous revelry.
It was Fletcher Christian’s voice,—there could be no doubt about that; but it was raised in very unfamiliar tones, and it went on steadily, with inflections, as if in pathos and entreaty.
“Can he be praying?” thought Adams, in surprise, for the tones, though audible, were not articulate. Suddenly they waxed louder, and “God be merciful to me, a sinner!” broke on the listener’s ear. “Oh bless and deliver the men whom I have led astray—poor Edward Young, John Adams, Isaac Martin—”
The tones here sank and again became inarticulate, but Adams could not doubt that Christian was praying, by name, for the rest of his companions. Presently the name of Jesus was heard distinctly, and then the voice ceased.
Ashamed to have been thus unintentionally led into eavesdropping, Adams coughed, and made as much noise as possible while stooping to pass under the low entrance to the cave. There was no door of any kind, but a turn in the short passage concealed the cave itself from view. Before entering, Adams stopped.
“May I come in, sir?” he called out.
“Is that you, Adams? By all means come in.”
Christian was seated, partly in the shadow, partly in the light that streamed in from the seaward opening. A quiet smile was on his lips, and his hand rested on an open book. It was the old Bible of theBounty.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said Adams, touching his hat. “Hope I don’t intrude. I heard you was—was—”
“Praying,” said Christian. “Yes, Adams, I have been praying.”
“Well, sir,” said Adams, feeling rather awkward, but assuming an air of encouragement, “you’ve got no reason to be ashamed of that.”
“Quite true, Adams, and I’mnotashamed of it. I’ve not only got no reason to be ashamed of praying, but I have strong reason to be thankful that I’m inclined to pray. Sit down, Adams, on the ledge opposite. You’ve got something on your mind, I see, that you want to get rid of. Come, let’s have it.”
There was nothing but good-natured encouragement in Christian’s look and tone; nevertheless, John Adams felt it extremely difficult to speak, and wished with all his heart that he had not come to the cave. But he was too bold and outspoken a man to be long oppressed with such feelings. Clearing his voice, he said, “Well, Mr Christian, here’s what I’ve got to say. I’ve bin thinkin’ for a long time past that it’s of no manner of use your comin’ up here day after day an’ mopin’ away about what can’t be mended, an’ goin’ into the blues. You’ll excuse me, sir, for bein’ so free, but you shouldn’t do it, sir. You can’t alter what’s bin done by cryin’ over spilt milk, an’ it comes heavy on the rest of us, like. Indeed it do. So I’ve made so bold as to come an’ say you’d better drop it and come along with me for a day’s shootin’ of the cats an’ pigs, and then we’ll go home an’ have a royal supper an’ a song or two, or maybe a game at blind-man’s-buff with the child’n. That’s what’ll do you good, sir, an’ make you forget what’s past, take my word for it, Mister Christian.”
While Adams was speaking, Christian’s expression varied, passing from the kindly smile with which he had received his friend to a look of profound gravity.
“You are both right and wrong, Adams, like the rest of us,” he said, grasping the sailor’s extended hand; “thank you all the same for your advice and good feeling. You are wrong in supposing that anything short of death can make me forget the past or lessen my feeling of self-condemnation; but you are right in urging me to cease moping here in solitude. I have been told that already much more strongly than you have put it.”
“Have you, sir?” said Adams, with a look of surprise.
“Yes,” said Christian, touching the open Bible, “God’s book has told me. It has told me more than that. It has told me there is forgiveness for the chief of sinners.”
“You say the truth, sir,” returned Adams, with an approving nod. “Repenting as you do, sir, an’ as I may say we all do, of what is past and can’t be helped, a merciful God will no doubt forgive us all.”
“That’s not it, that’s not it,” said Christian, quickly. “Repentance is not enough. Why, man, do you think if I went to England just now, and said ever so earnestly or so truly, ‘I repent,’ that I’d escape swinging at the yard-arm?”
“Well, I can’t say you would,” replied the sailor, somewhat puzzled; “but then man’s ways ain’t the same as God’s ways; are they, sir?”
“That’s true, Adams; but justice is always the same, whether with God or man. Besides, if repentance alone would do, where is the need of a Saviour?”
Adams’s puzzled look increased, and finally settled on the horizon. The matter had evidently never occurred to him before in that light. After a short silence he turned again to Christian.
“Well, sir, to be frank with you, I must say that I don’t rightly understand it.”
“But I do,” said Christian, again laying his hand on the Bible, “at least I think I do. God has forgiven me for Jesus Christ’s sake, and His Spirit has made me repent and accept the forgiveness, and now I feel that there is work, serious work, for me to do. I have just been praying that God would help me to do it. I’ll explain more about this hereafter. Meanwhile, I will go with you to the settlement, and try at least some parts of your plan. Come.”
There was a quiet yet cheerful air of alacrity about Fletcher Christian that day, so strongly in contrast with his previous sad and even moody deportment, that John Adams could only note it in silent surprise.
“Have you been readin’ much o’ that book up here, sir?” he asked, as they began to descend the hill.
“Do you mean God’s book?”
“Yes.”
“Well, yes, I’ve been reading it, off and on, for a considerable time past; but I didn’t quite see the way of salvation until recently.”
“Ha! that’s it; that’s what must have turned your head.”
“What!” exclaimed Christian, with a smiling glance at his perplexed comrade. “Do you mean turned in the right or the wrong direction?”
“Well, whether right or wrong, it’s not for me to say but for you to prove, Mr Christian.”
This reply seemed to set the mind of the other wandering, for he continued to lead his companion down the hill in silence after that. At last he said—
“John Adams, whatever turn my head may have got, I shall have reason to thank God for it all the days of my life—ay, and afterwards throughout eternity.”
The silence which ensued after this remark was broken soon after by a series of yells, which came from the direction of Matthew Quintal’s house, and caused both Christian and Adams to frown as they hastened forward.
“There’s one man that needs forgiveness,” said Adams, sternly. “Whether he’ll get it or not is a question.”
Christian made no reply. He knew full well that both McCoy and Quintal were in the habit of flogging their slaves, Nehow and Timoa, and otherwise treating them with great cruelty. Indeed, there had reached him a report of treatment so shocking that he could scarcely credit it, and thought it best at the time to take no notice of the rumour; but afterwards he was told of a repetition of the cruelty, and now he seemed about to witness it with his own eyes. Burning indignation at first fired his soul, and he resolved to punish Quintal. Then came the thought, “Who was it that tempted Quintal to mutiny, and placed him in his present circumstances?” The continued cries of agony, however, drove all connected thought from his brain as he ran with Adams towards the house.
They found poor Nehow tied to a cocoa-nut tree, and Quintal beside him. He had just finished giving him a cruel flogging, and was now engaged in rubbing salt into the wounds on his lacerated back.
With a furious shout Christian rushed forward. Quintal faced round quickly. He was livid with passion, and raised a heavy stick to strike the intruders; but Christian guarded the blow with his left arm, and with his right fist knocked the monster down. At the same time Adams cut the lashings that fastened Nehow, who instantly fled to the bush.
Quintal, although partially stunned, rose at once and faced his adversary, but although possessed of bulldog courage, he could not withstand the towering wrath of Christian. He shrank backward a step, with a growl like a cowed but not conquered tiger.
“The slave ismine!” he hissed between his teeth.
“He isnot; he belongs to God,” said Christian. “And hark ’ee, Matthew Quintal, if ever again you do such a dastardly, cowardly, brutal act, I’ll take on myself the office of your executioner, and will beat out your brains.Youknow me, Quintal; I never threaten twice.”
Christian’s tone was calm, though firm, but there was something so deadly in the glare of his clear blue eyes, that Quintal retreated another step. In doing so he tripped over a root and fell prone upon the ground.
“Ha!” exclaimed Adams, with a bitter laugh, “you’d better lie still. It’s your suitable position, you blackguard.”
Without another word he and Christian turned on their heels and walked away.
“This is a bad beginning to my new resolves,” said Christian, with a sigh, as they descended the hill.
“A bad beginning,” echoed Adams, “to give a well-deserved blow to as great a rascal as ever walked?”
“No, not exactly that; but—Well, no matter, we’ll dismiss the subject, and go have a lark with the children.”
Christian said this with something like a return to his previous good-humour. A few minutes later they passed under the banyan-tree at the side of Adams’s house, and entered the square of the village, where children, kittens, fowls, and pigs were disporting themselves in joyous revelry.
Chapter Thirteen.Tyrants and Plotters.Leaving Christian and Adams to carry out their philanthropic intentions, we return to Matthew Quintal, whom we left sprawling on the ground in his garden.This garden was situated in one of the little valleys not far from Bounty Bay. Higher up in the same valley stood the hut of McCoy. Towards this hut Quintal, after gathering himself up, wended his way in a state of unenviable sulkiness.His friend McCoy was engaged at the time in smoking his evening pipe, but that pipe did not now seem to render him much comfort, for he growled and puffed in a way that showed he was not soothed by it, the reason being that there was no tobacco in the pipe. That weed,—which many people deem so needful and so precious that one sometimes wonders how the world managed to exist before Sir Walter Raleigh put it to its unnatural use—had at last been exhausted on Pitcairn Island, and the mutineers had to learn to do without it. Some of them said they didn’t care, and submitted with a good grace to the inevitable. Others growled and swore and fretted, saying that they knew they couldn’t live without it. To their astonishment, and no doubt to their disgust, they did manage to live quite as healthily as before, and with obvious advantage to health and teeth. Two there were, however, namely, Quintal and McCoy, who would not give in, but vowed with their usual violence of language that they would smoke seaweed rather than want their pipes. Like most men of powerful tongue and weak will, they did not fulfil their vows. Seaweed was left to the gulls, but they tried almost every leaf and flower on the island without success. Then they scraped and dried various kinds of bark, and smoked that. Then they tried the fibrous husk of the cocoa-nut, and then the dried and pounded kernel, but all in vain. Smoke, indeed, they produced in huge volumes, but of satisfaction they had none. It was a sad case.“If we could only taste the flavour o’ baccy ever so mild,” they were wont to say to their comrades, “the craving would be satisfied.”To which Isaac Martin, who had no mercy on them, would reply, “If ye hadn’t created the cravin’ boys, ye wouldn’t have bin growlin’ and hankerin’ after satisfaction.”As we have said, McCoy was smoking, perhaps we should say agonising, over his evening pipe. His man, or slave, Timoa, was seated on the opposite side of the hut, playing an accompaniment on the flute to McCoy’s wife and two other native women, who were singing. The flute was one of those rough-and-ready yellow things, like the leg of a chair, which might serve equally well as a policeman’s baton or a musical instrument. It had been given by one of the sailors to Timoa, who developed a wonderful capacity for drawing unmusical sounds out of it. The singing was now low and plaintive, anon loud and harsh—always wild, like the song of the savages. The two combined assisted the pipe in soothing William McCoy—at least so we may assume, because he had commanded the music, and lay in his bunk in the attitude of one enjoying it. He sometimes even added to the harmony by uttering a bass growl at the pipe.During a brief pause in the accompaniment Timoa became aware of a low hiss outside, as if of a serpent. With glistening eyes and head turned to one side he listened intently. The hiss was repeated, and Timoa became aware that one of his kinsmen wished to speak with him in secret. He did not dare, however, to move.McCoy was so much taken up with his pipe that he failed to notice the hiss, but he observed the stoppage of the flute’s wail.“Why don’t you go on, you brute!” he cried, angrily, at the same time throwing one of his shoes at the musician, which hit him on the shin and caused him a moment’s sharp pain.Timoa would not suffer his countenance to betray his feelings. He merely raised the flute to his lips, exchanged a glance with the women, and continued his dismal strain. His mind, however, was so engrossed with his comrade outside that the harmony became worse than ever. Even McCoy, who professed himself to be no judge of music, could not stand it, and he was contemplating the application of the other shoe, when a step was heard outside. Next moment his friend Quintal strode in and sat down on a stool beside the door.“Oh, I say, Matt,” cried McCoy, “who put that cocoa-nut on the bridge of your nose?”“Who?” grow led Quintal, with an oath. “Who on the island would dare to do it but that domineerin’ upstart, Christian?”“Humph!” answered McCoy, with a slight sneer. He followed this up with a curse on domineerers in general, and on Fletcher Christian in particular.It is right to observe here that though we have spoken of these two men as friends, it must not be understood that they were friendly. They had no personal regard for each other, and no tastes in common, save the taste for tobacco and drink; but finding that they disliked each other less than they disliked their comrades, they were thus drawn into a hollow friendship, as it were, under protest.“How did it happen?” asked McCoy.“Give us a whiff an’ I’ll tell ’ee. What sort o’ stuff are you tryin’ now?”“Cocoa-nut chips ground small. The best o’ baccy, Matt, for lunatics, which we was when we cast anchor on this island. Here, fill your pipe an’ fire away. You won’t notice the difference if you don’t think about it. My! what a cropper you must have come down when you got that dab on your proboscis!”“Stop your howlin’,” shouted Quintal to the musicians, in order to vent some of the spleen which his friend’s remark had stirred up.Timoa, not feeling sure whether the command was meant for the women or himself, or, perhaps, regarding McCoy as the proper authority from whom such an order should come, continued his dismal blowing.Quintal could not stand this in his roused condition. Leaping up, he sprang towards Timoa, snatched the flute from his hand, broke it over his head, and kicked him out of the hut.Excepting the blow and the kick, this was just what the Otaheitan wanted. He ran straight into the bush, which was by that time growing dark under the shades of evening, and found Nehow leaning against a tree and groaning heavily, though in a suppressed tone.“Quick, come with me to the spring and wash my back,” he cried, starting up.They did not converse in broken English now, of course, but in their native tongue.“What has happened?” asked Timoa, anxiously.While Nehow explained the nature of the cruel treatment he had just received, they ran together to the nearest water-course. It chanced to be pretty full at the time, heavy rain having fallen the day before.“There; oh! ha–a! not so hard,” groaned the unfortunate man, as his friend laved the water on his lacerated back.In a few minutes the salt was washed out of the wounds, and Nehow began to feel easier.“Where is Menalee?” he asked, abruptly, as he sat down under the deep shadow of a banyan-tree.“In his master’s hut, I suppose,” answered Timoa. “Go find him and Tetaheite; fetch them both here,” he said, with an expression of ferocity on his dark face.Timoa looked at him with an intelligent grin.“The white men must die,” he said.“Yes,” Nehow replied, “the white men shall die.”Timoa pointed to the lump which had been raised on his shin, grinned again, and turning quickly round, glided into the underwood like an evil spirit of the night.At that time Menalee was engaged in some menial work in the hut of John Mills. Managing to attract his attention, Timoa sent him into the woods to join Nehow.When Timoa crept forward, Tetaheite was standing near to a large bush, watching with intense interest the ongoings of Christian, Adams, and Young. These three, in pursuance of the philanthropic principle which had begun to operate, were playing an uproarious game with the children round a huge bonfire; but there was no “method in their madness;” the children, excepting Thursday October Christian and Sally, were still too young for concerted play. They were still staggerers, and the game was simply one of romps.Tetaheite’s good-humoured visage was glistening in the firelight, the mouth expanded from ear to ear, and the eyes almost closed.Suddenly he became aware of a low hissing sound. The mouth closed, and the eyes opened so abruptly, that there seemed some necessary connection between the two acts. Moving quietly round the bush until he got into its shadow, his dark form melted from the scene without any one observing his disappearance.Soon the four conspirators were seated in a dark group under shade of the trees.“The time has come when the black man must be revenged,” said Nehow. “Look my back. Salt was rubbed into these wounds. It is not the first time. It shall be the last! Some of you have suffered in the same way.”It scarcely needed this remark to call forth looks of deadly hate on the Otaheitan faces around him.“The white men must die,” he continued. “They have no mercy. We will show none.”Even in the darkness of that secluded spot the glistening of the eyes of these ill-treated men might have been seen as they gave ready assent to this proposal in low guttural tones.“How is it to be done?” asked Menalee, after a short pause.“That is what we have met to talk about,” returned Nehow. “I would hear what my brothers have to say. When they have spoken I will open my mouth.”The group now drew closer together, and speaking in still lower tones, as if they feared that the very bushes might overhear and betray them, they secretly plotted the murder of the mutineers.
Leaving Christian and Adams to carry out their philanthropic intentions, we return to Matthew Quintal, whom we left sprawling on the ground in his garden.
This garden was situated in one of the little valleys not far from Bounty Bay. Higher up in the same valley stood the hut of McCoy. Towards this hut Quintal, after gathering himself up, wended his way in a state of unenviable sulkiness.
His friend McCoy was engaged at the time in smoking his evening pipe, but that pipe did not now seem to render him much comfort, for he growled and puffed in a way that showed he was not soothed by it, the reason being that there was no tobacco in the pipe. That weed,—which many people deem so needful and so precious that one sometimes wonders how the world managed to exist before Sir Walter Raleigh put it to its unnatural use—had at last been exhausted on Pitcairn Island, and the mutineers had to learn to do without it. Some of them said they didn’t care, and submitted with a good grace to the inevitable. Others growled and swore and fretted, saying that they knew they couldn’t live without it. To their astonishment, and no doubt to their disgust, they did manage to live quite as healthily as before, and with obvious advantage to health and teeth. Two there were, however, namely, Quintal and McCoy, who would not give in, but vowed with their usual violence of language that they would smoke seaweed rather than want their pipes. Like most men of powerful tongue and weak will, they did not fulfil their vows. Seaweed was left to the gulls, but they tried almost every leaf and flower on the island without success. Then they scraped and dried various kinds of bark, and smoked that. Then they tried the fibrous husk of the cocoa-nut, and then the dried and pounded kernel, but all in vain. Smoke, indeed, they produced in huge volumes, but of satisfaction they had none. It was a sad case.
“If we could only taste the flavour o’ baccy ever so mild,” they were wont to say to their comrades, “the craving would be satisfied.”
To which Isaac Martin, who had no mercy on them, would reply, “If ye hadn’t created the cravin’ boys, ye wouldn’t have bin growlin’ and hankerin’ after satisfaction.”
As we have said, McCoy was smoking, perhaps we should say agonising, over his evening pipe. His man, or slave, Timoa, was seated on the opposite side of the hut, playing an accompaniment on the flute to McCoy’s wife and two other native women, who were singing. The flute was one of those rough-and-ready yellow things, like the leg of a chair, which might serve equally well as a policeman’s baton or a musical instrument. It had been given by one of the sailors to Timoa, who developed a wonderful capacity for drawing unmusical sounds out of it. The singing was now low and plaintive, anon loud and harsh—always wild, like the song of the savages. The two combined assisted the pipe in soothing William McCoy—at least so we may assume, because he had commanded the music, and lay in his bunk in the attitude of one enjoying it. He sometimes even added to the harmony by uttering a bass growl at the pipe.
During a brief pause in the accompaniment Timoa became aware of a low hiss outside, as if of a serpent. With glistening eyes and head turned to one side he listened intently. The hiss was repeated, and Timoa became aware that one of his kinsmen wished to speak with him in secret. He did not dare, however, to move.
McCoy was so much taken up with his pipe that he failed to notice the hiss, but he observed the stoppage of the flute’s wail.
“Why don’t you go on, you brute!” he cried, angrily, at the same time throwing one of his shoes at the musician, which hit him on the shin and caused him a moment’s sharp pain.
Timoa would not suffer his countenance to betray his feelings. He merely raised the flute to his lips, exchanged a glance with the women, and continued his dismal strain. His mind, however, was so engrossed with his comrade outside that the harmony became worse than ever. Even McCoy, who professed himself to be no judge of music, could not stand it, and he was contemplating the application of the other shoe, when a step was heard outside. Next moment his friend Quintal strode in and sat down on a stool beside the door.
“Oh, I say, Matt,” cried McCoy, “who put that cocoa-nut on the bridge of your nose?”
“Who?” grow led Quintal, with an oath. “Who on the island would dare to do it but that domineerin’ upstart, Christian?”
“Humph!” answered McCoy, with a slight sneer. He followed this up with a curse on domineerers in general, and on Fletcher Christian in particular.
It is right to observe here that though we have spoken of these two men as friends, it must not be understood that they were friendly. They had no personal regard for each other, and no tastes in common, save the taste for tobacco and drink; but finding that they disliked each other less than they disliked their comrades, they were thus drawn into a hollow friendship, as it were, under protest.
“How did it happen?” asked McCoy.
“Give us a whiff an’ I’ll tell ’ee. What sort o’ stuff are you tryin’ now?”
“Cocoa-nut chips ground small. The best o’ baccy, Matt, for lunatics, which we was when we cast anchor on this island. Here, fill your pipe an’ fire away. You won’t notice the difference if you don’t think about it. My! what a cropper you must have come down when you got that dab on your proboscis!”
“Stop your howlin’,” shouted Quintal to the musicians, in order to vent some of the spleen which his friend’s remark had stirred up.
Timoa, not feeling sure whether the command was meant for the women or himself, or, perhaps, regarding McCoy as the proper authority from whom such an order should come, continued his dismal blowing.
Quintal could not stand this in his roused condition. Leaping up, he sprang towards Timoa, snatched the flute from his hand, broke it over his head, and kicked him out of the hut.
Excepting the blow and the kick, this was just what the Otaheitan wanted. He ran straight into the bush, which was by that time growing dark under the shades of evening, and found Nehow leaning against a tree and groaning heavily, though in a suppressed tone.
“Quick, come with me to the spring and wash my back,” he cried, starting up.
They did not converse in broken English now, of course, but in their native tongue.
“What has happened?” asked Timoa, anxiously.
While Nehow explained the nature of the cruel treatment he had just received, they ran together to the nearest water-course. It chanced to be pretty full at the time, heavy rain having fallen the day before.
“There; oh! ha–a! not so hard,” groaned the unfortunate man, as his friend laved the water on his lacerated back.
In a few minutes the salt was washed out of the wounds, and Nehow began to feel easier.
“Where is Menalee?” he asked, abruptly, as he sat down under the deep shadow of a banyan-tree.
“In his master’s hut, I suppose,” answered Timoa. “Go find him and Tetaheite; fetch them both here,” he said, with an expression of ferocity on his dark face.
Timoa looked at him with an intelligent grin.
“The white men must die,” he said.
“Yes,” Nehow replied, “the white men shall die.”
Timoa pointed to the lump which had been raised on his shin, grinned again, and turning quickly round, glided into the underwood like an evil spirit of the night.
At that time Menalee was engaged in some menial work in the hut of John Mills. Managing to attract his attention, Timoa sent him into the woods to join Nehow.
When Timoa crept forward, Tetaheite was standing near to a large bush, watching with intense interest the ongoings of Christian, Adams, and Young. These three, in pursuance of the philanthropic principle which had begun to operate, were playing an uproarious game with the children round a huge bonfire; but there was no “method in their madness;” the children, excepting Thursday October Christian and Sally, were still too young for concerted play. They were still staggerers, and the game was simply one of romps.
Tetaheite’s good-humoured visage was glistening in the firelight, the mouth expanded from ear to ear, and the eyes almost closed.
Suddenly he became aware of a low hissing sound. The mouth closed, and the eyes opened so abruptly, that there seemed some necessary connection between the two acts. Moving quietly round the bush until he got into its shadow, his dark form melted from the scene without any one observing his disappearance.
Soon the four conspirators were seated in a dark group under shade of the trees.
“The time has come when the black man must be revenged,” said Nehow. “Look my back. Salt was rubbed into these wounds. It is not the first time. It shall be the last! Some of you have suffered in the same way.”
It scarcely needed this remark to call forth looks of deadly hate on the Otaheitan faces around him.
“The white men must die,” he continued. “They have no mercy. We will show none.”
Even in the darkness of that secluded spot the glistening of the eyes of these ill-treated men might have been seen as they gave ready assent to this proposal in low guttural tones.
“How is it to be done?” asked Menalee, after a short pause.
“That is what we have met to talk about,” returned Nehow. “I would hear what my brothers have to say. When they have spoken I will open my mouth.”
The group now drew closer together, and speaking in still lower tones, as if they feared that the very bushes might overhear and betray them, they secretly plotted the murder of the mutineers.
Chapter Fourteen.The Influence of Infancy, also of Villainy.While the dark plots referred to in the last chapter were being hatched, another life was introduced into the little community in the form of a third child to Fletcher Christian,—a little girl. Much though this man loved his two boys, a tenderer, though not, perhaps, a deeper region of his heart was touched by his daughter. He at once named her Mary. Who can tell the multitude of old memories and affections which were revived by this name? Might it not have been that a mother, a sister, some lost though not forgotten one, came forcibly to mind, and accounted, in some degree at least, for the wealth of affection which he lavished on the infant from the day of her birth? We cannot tell, but certain it is that there never was a more devoted father than this man, who in England had been branded with all that was ferocious, mean, desperate,—this hardened outlaw, this chief of the mutineers.Otaheitan mothers are not particular in the matter of infant costume. Little Mary’s dress may be described in one word—nothing. Neither are such mothers much troubled with maternal anxieties. Long before a European baby would have been let out of the hands of mother or nurse, even for a moment, little Molly Christian was committed to the care of her delighted father, who daily bore her off to a favourite resort among the cliffs, and there played with her.One day, on reaching his place of retirement, he was surprised to find a man in possession before him. Drawing nearer, he observed that the man also had a baby in his arms.“Why, I declare, it’s Edward Young!” he exclaimed, on going up.“Of course it is,” said the midshipman, smiling, as he held his own little daughter Jane aloft. “Do you think you are to have it all to yourself? And do you imagine that yours is the only baby in the world worth looking at?”“You are right, Young,” returned Christian, with the nearest approach to a laugh he had made for years. “Come now,” he added, sitting down on a rock, and placing little Moll tenderly in the hollow of his left arm, so as to make her face his friend, “let’s set them up, and compare notes; isn’t she a beauty?”“No doubt of it whatever; and isn’t mine ditto?” asked the midshipman, sitting down, and placing little Poll in a similar position on his right arm.“But, I say, if you and I are to get on amicably, we mustn’t praise our own babies. Let it be an agreement that you praise my Poll, and I’ll praise your Moll. Don’t they make lovelypendants! Come, let us change them for a bit.”Christian agreeing to this, the infants were exchanged, and thereupon these two fathers lay down on the soft grass, and perpetrated practical jokes upon, and talked as much ineffable nonsense to, those two whitey-brown balls, as if they had been splendid specimens of orthodox pink and white. It was observed, however, by the more sagacious of the wondering gulls that circled round them, that a state of perfect satisfaction was not attained until the babies were again exchanged, and each father had become exclusively engrossed with his own particular ball.“Now, I say, Fletcher,” remarked Young, rising, and placing himself nearer his friend, “it’s all very well for you and me to waste our time and make fools of ourselves here; but I didn’t merely come to show off my Polly. I came to ask what you think of that rumour we heard last night, that there has been some sort of plotting going on among the Otaheitan men.”“I don’t think anything of it at all,” replied Christian, whose countenance at once assumed that look of gravity which had become habitual to him since the day of the mutiny. “They have had too good reason to plot, poor fellows, but I have such faith in their native amiability of disposition, that I don’t believe they will ever think of anything beyond a brief show of rebellion.”“I also have had faith in their amiability,” rejoined Young; “but some of us, I fear, have tried them too severely. I don’t like the looks they sometimes give us now. We did wrong at the first in treating them as servants.”“No doubt we did, but it would have been difficult to do otherwise,” said Christian; “they fell so naturally into the position of servants of their own accord, regarding us, as they did, as superior beings. We should have considered their interests when we divided the land, no doubt. However, that can’t well be remedied now.”“Perhaps not,” remarked Young, in an absent tone. “It would be well, however, to take some precautions.”“Come, we can discuss this matter as we go home,” said Christian, rising. “I have to work in my yam-plot to-day, and must deliver Molly to her mother.”They both rose and descended the slope that led to the village, chatting as they went.Now, although the native men were of one mind as to the slaying of the Englishmen, they seemed to have some difference of opinion as to the best method of putting their bloody design in execution. Menalee, especially, had many objections to make to the various proposals of his countrymen. In fact, this wily savage was deceitful. Like Quintal and McCoy among the whites, he was among the blacks a bad specimen of humanity.The consequence was that Timoa and Nehow, being resolved to submit no longer to the harsh treatment they had hitherto received, ran away from their persecutors, and took refuge in the bush.To those who have travelled much about this world, it may sound absurd to talk of hiding away in an island of such small size; but it must be borne in mind that the miniature valleys and hills of the interior were, in many places, very rugged and densely clothed with jungle, so that it was, in reality, about as difficult to catch an agile native among them as to catch a rabbit in a whin-field.Moreover, the two desperate men carried off two muskets and ammunition, so that it was certain to be a work of danger to attempt their recapture. In these circumstances, Christian and Young thought it best to leave them alone for a time.“You may be sure,” said the former, as they joined their comrades, “that they’ll soon tire of rambling, especially when their ammunition is spent.”Quintal, who stood with all the other men by the forge watching John Williams as he wrought at a piece of red-hot iron, and overheard the remark, did not, he said, feel so sure of that. Them niggers was fond o’ their liberty, and it was his opinion they should get up a grand hunt, and shoot ’em down off-hand. There would be no peace till that was done.“There would be no peace even after that was done,” said Isaac Martin, with a leer, “unless we shot you along wi’ them.”“It’s impossible either to shoot or drown Matt Quintal, for he’s born to be hanged,” said McCoy, sucking viciously at his cocoa-nut-loaded pipe, which did not seem to draw well.“That’s true,” cried Mills, with a laugh, in which all the party except Christian joined more or less sarcastically according to humour.“Oh, mother,” exclaimed Otaheitan Sally, going into her hut on tiptoe a few minutes later, with her great eyes dilated in horror, “the white mens is talkin’ of shootin’ Timoa and Nehow!”“Never mind, dear,” replied her mother in her own language, “it’s only talk. They’ll never do such a thing. I’m sure Mr Young did not agree to help in such a deed, did he?”“O no, mother,” answered Sally, with tremendous emphasis; “he said it would be veryvery, wicked to do such tings.”“So it would, dear. No fear. It’s only talk.”Satisfied with this assurance, Sally went off with a cleared visage to superintend some operation in connection with her ever-increasing infantry charge, probably to pay some special attention to her favourite Charlie, or to chaff “that booby” Thursday October, though, to say truth, Thursday was no booby, but a smart intelligent fellow.The very next day after that, Timoa and Nehow came down to Edward Young as he was at work alone in his yam-field. This field was at a considerable distance from the settlement, high up on the mountain-side. The two men had left their weapons behind them.“We’s comed for give you a helpin’ hand, Missr Yong, if you no lay hands on us,” said Nehow.“I have no wish to lay hands on you,” replied Young; “besides, I have no right to do so. You know I never regarded you as slaves, nor did I approve of your bad treatment. But let me advise you to rejoin us peaceably, and I promise to do what I can to make things go easier.”“Nebber!” exclaimed Nehow, fiercely.“Well, it will be the worse for yourselves in the long-run,” said Young, “for Quintal and McCoy will be sure to go after you at last and shoot you.”The two men looked at each other when he said that, and smiled intelligently.“However, if you choose to help me now,” continued Young, “I’ll be obliged to you, and will pay you for what you do.”The men set to work with a will, for they were fond of the kindly midshipman; but they kept a bright look-out all the time, lest any of the other Englishmen should come up and find them there.For two or three evenings in succession Timoa and Nehow came to Young’s field and acted in this way. Young made no secret of the fact, and Quintal, on hearing of it, at once suggested that he and McCoy should go up and lie in ambush for them.“If you do,” said Young, with indignation, “I’ll shoot you both. I don’t jest. You may depend on it, if I find either of you fellows skulking near my field when these men are at work there, your lives won’t be worth a sixpence.”At this Quintal and McCoy both laughed, and said they were jesting. Nevertheless, while walking home together after that conversation, they planned the carrying out of their murderous intention.Thus, with plot and counterplot, did the mutineers and Otaheitans render their lives wretched. What with the bitter enmity existing between the whites and blacks, and the mutual jealousies among themselves, both parties were kept in a state of perpetual anxiety, and the beautiful isle, which was fitted by its Maker to become a paradise, was turned into a place of torment.Sometimes the other native men, Tetaheite and Menalee, joined Nehow and Timoa in working in Young’s garden, and afterwards went with them into the bush, where they planned the attack which was afterwards made.At last the lowering cloud was fully charged, and the thunderbolt fell.
While the dark plots referred to in the last chapter were being hatched, another life was introduced into the little community in the form of a third child to Fletcher Christian,—a little girl. Much though this man loved his two boys, a tenderer, though not, perhaps, a deeper region of his heart was touched by his daughter. He at once named her Mary. Who can tell the multitude of old memories and affections which were revived by this name? Might it not have been that a mother, a sister, some lost though not forgotten one, came forcibly to mind, and accounted, in some degree at least, for the wealth of affection which he lavished on the infant from the day of her birth? We cannot tell, but certain it is that there never was a more devoted father than this man, who in England had been branded with all that was ferocious, mean, desperate,—this hardened outlaw, this chief of the mutineers.
Otaheitan mothers are not particular in the matter of infant costume. Little Mary’s dress may be described in one word—nothing. Neither are such mothers much troubled with maternal anxieties. Long before a European baby would have been let out of the hands of mother or nurse, even for a moment, little Molly Christian was committed to the care of her delighted father, who daily bore her off to a favourite resort among the cliffs, and there played with her.
One day, on reaching his place of retirement, he was surprised to find a man in possession before him. Drawing nearer, he observed that the man also had a baby in his arms.
“Why, I declare, it’s Edward Young!” he exclaimed, on going up.
“Of course it is,” said the midshipman, smiling, as he held his own little daughter Jane aloft. “Do you think you are to have it all to yourself? And do you imagine that yours is the only baby in the world worth looking at?”
“You are right, Young,” returned Christian, with the nearest approach to a laugh he had made for years. “Come now,” he added, sitting down on a rock, and placing little Moll tenderly in the hollow of his left arm, so as to make her face his friend, “let’s set them up, and compare notes; isn’t she a beauty?”
“No doubt of it whatever; and isn’t mine ditto?” asked the midshipman, sitting down, and placing little Poll in a similar position on his right arm.
“But, I say, if you and I are to get on amicably, we mustn’t praise our own babies. Let it be an agreement that you praise my Poll, and I’ll praise your Moll. Don’t they make lovelypendants! Come, let us change them for a bit.”
Christian agreeing to this, the infants were exchanged, and thereupon these two fathers lay down on the soft grass, and perpetrated practical jokes upon, and talked as much ineffable nonsense to, those two whitey-brown balls, as if they had been splendid specimens of orthodox pink and white. It was observed, however, by the more sagacious of the wondering gulls that circled round them, that a state of perfect satisfaction was not attained until the babies were again exchanged, and each father had become exclusively engrossed with his own particular ball.
“Now, I say, Fletcher,” remarked Young, rising, and placing himself nearer his friend, “it’s all very well for you and me to waste our time and make fools of ourselves here; but I didn’t merely come to show off my Polly. I came to ask what you think of that rumour we heard last night, that there has been some sort of plotting going on among the Otaheitan men.”
“I don’t think anything of it at all,” replied Christian, whose countenance at once assumed that look of gravity which had become habitual to him since the day of the mutiny. “They have had too good reason to plot, poor fellows, but I have such faith in their native amiability of disposition, that I don’t believe they will ever think of anything beyond a brief show of rebellion.”
“I also have had faith in their amiability,” rejoined Young; “but some of us, I fear, have tried them too severely. I don’t like the looks they sometimes give us now. We did wrong at the first in treating them as servants.”
“No doubt we did, but it would have been difficult to do otherwise,” said Christian; “they fell so naturally into the position of servants of their own accord, regarding us, as they did, as superior beings. We should have considered their interests when we divided the land, no doubt. However, that can’t well be remedied now.”
“Perhaps not,” remarked Young, in an absent tone. “It would be well, however, to take some precautions.”
“Come, we can discuss this matter as we go home,” said Christian, rising. “I have to work in my yam-plot to-day, and must deliver Molly to her mother.”
They both rose and descended the slope that led to the village, chatting as they went.
Now, although the native men were of one mind as to the slaying of the Englishmen, they seemed to have some difference of opinion as to the best method of putting their bloody design in execution. Menalee, especially, had many objections to make to the various proposals of his countrymen. In fact, this wily savage was deceitful. Like Quintal and McCoy among the whites, he was among the blacks a bad specimen of humanity.
The consequence was that Timoa and Nehow, being resolved to submit no longer to the harsh treatment they had hitherto received, ran away from their persecutors, and took refuge in the bush.
To those who have travelled much about this world, it may sound absurd to talk of hiding away in an island of such small size; but it must be borne in mind that the miniature valleys and hills of the interior were, in many places, very rugged and densely clothed with jungle, so that it was, in reality, about as difficult to catch an agile native among them as to catch a rabbit in a whin-field.
Moreover, the two desperate men carried off two muskets and ammunition, so that it was certain to be a work of danger to attempt their recapture. In these circumstances, Christian and Young thought it best to leave them alone for a time.
“You may be sure,” said the former, as they joined their comrades, “that they’ll soon tire of rambling, especially when their ammunition is spent.”
Quintal, who stood with all the other men by the forge watching John Williams as he wrought at a piece of red-hot iron, and overheard the remark, did not, he said, feel so sure of that. Them niggers was fond o’ their liberty, and it was his opinion they should get up a grand hunt, and shoot ’em down off-hand. There would be no peace till that was done.
“There would be no peace even after that was done,” said Isaac Martin, with a leer, “unless we shot you along wi’ them.”
“It’s impossible either to shoot or drown Matt Quintal, for he’s born to be hanged,” said McCoy, sucking viciously at his cocoa-nut-loaded pipe, which did not seem to draw well.
“That’s true,” cried Mills, with a laugh, in which all the party except Christian joined more or less sarcastically according to humour.
“Oh, mother,” exclaimed Otaheitan Sally, going into her hut on tiptoe a few minutes later, with her great eyes dilated in horror, “the white mens is talkin’ of shootin’ Timoa and Nehow!”
“Never mind, dear,” replied her mother in her own language, “it’s only talk. They’ll never do such a thing. I’m sure Mr Young did not agree to help in such a deed, did he?”
“O no, mother,” answered Sally, with tremendous emphasis; “he said it would be veryvery, wicked to do such tings.”
“So it would, dear. No fear. It’s only talk.”
Satisfied with this assurance, Sally went off with a cleared visage to superintend some operation in connection with her ever-increasing infantry charge, probably to pay some special attention to her favourite Charlie, or to chaff “that booby” Thursday October, though, to say truth, Thursday was no booby, but a smart intelligent fellow.
The very next day after that, Timoa and Nehow came down to Edward Young as he was at work alone in his yam-field. This field was at a considerable distance from the settlement, high up on the mountain-side. The two men had left their weapons behind them.
“We’s comed for give you a helpin’ hand, Missr Yong, if you no lay hands on us,” said Nehow.
“I have no wish to lay hands on you,” replied Young; “besides, I have no right to do so. You know I never regarded you as slaves, nor did I approve of your bad treatment. But let me advise you to rejoin us peaceably, and I promise to do what I can to make things go easier.”
“Nebber!” exclaimed Nehow, fiercely.
“Well, it will be the worse for yourselves in the long-run,” said Young, “for Quintal and McCoy will be sure to go after you at last and shoot you.”
The two men looked at each other when he said that, and smiled intelligently.
“However, if you choose to help me now,” continued Young, “I’ll be obliged to you, and will pay you for what you do.”
The men set to work with a will, for they were fond of the kindly midshipman; but they kept a bright look-out all the time, lest any of the other Englishmen should come up and find them there.
For two or three evenings in succession Timoa and Nehow came to Young’s field and acted in this way. Young made no secret of the fact, and Quintal, on hearing of it, at once suggested that he and McCoy should go up and lie in ambush for them.
“If you do,” said Young, with indignation, “I’ll shoot you both. I don’t jest. You may depend on it, if I find either of you fellows skulking near my field when these men are at work there, your lives won’t be worth a sixpence.”
At this Quintal and McCoy both laughed, and said they were jesting. Nevertheless, while walking home together after that conversation, they planned the carrying out of their murderous intention.
Thus, with plot and counterplot, did the mutineers and Otaheitans render their lives wretched. What with the bitter enmity existing between the whites and blacks, and the mutual jealousies among themselves, both parties were kept in a state of perpetual anxiety, and the beautiful isle, which was fitted by its Maker to become a paradise, was turned into a place of torment.
Sometimes the other native men, Tetaheite and Menalee, joined Nehow and Timoa in working in Young’s garden, and afterwards went with them into the bush, where they planned the attack which was afterwards made.
At last the lowering cloud was fully charged, and the thunderbolt fell.
Chapter Fifteen.Murder!The planting time came round at Pitcairn, and all was busy activity in the little settlement at Bounty Bay. The women, engaged in household work and in the preparation of food, scarcely troubled themselves to cast an anxious eye on the numerous children who, according to age and capacity, rolled, tumbled, staggered, and jumped about in noisy play. The sun, streaming through the leaves of the woods, studded shady places with balls of quivering light, and blazed in fierce heat in the open where the men were at work, each in his respective garden. We have said that those gardens lay apart, at some distance from each other, and were partially concealed by shrubs or undulating knolls.The garden of John Williams was farthest off from the settlement. He wrought in it alone on the day of which we write. Next to it was that of Fletcher Christian. He also worked alone that day.About two hundred yards from his garden, and screened from it by a wooded rising ground, was a piece of plantation, in which John Mills, William McCoy, and Menalee were at work together. John Adams, William Brown, and Isaac Martin were working in their own gardens near their respective houses, and Quintal was resting in his hut. So was Edward Young, who, having been at work since early morning, had lain down and fallen into a deep slumber.The three native men, Timoa, Nehow, and Tetaheite, were still away in the woods. If the unfortunate Englishmen had known what these men were about, they would not have toiled so quietly on that peaceful morning!The Otaheitans met in a cocoa-nut grove at some distance to the eastward of the settlement. Each had a musket, which he loaded with ball. They did not speak much, and what they did say was uttered in a suppressed tone of voice.“Come,” said Timoa, leading the way through the woods.The others followed in single file, until they reached the garden where Williams was at work. Here their movements were more cautious. As they advanced, they crept along on their knees with the motion of cats, and with as little noise. They could hear the sound of the armourer’s spade, as he turned up the soil. Presently they came to an opening in the bushes, through which they could see him, not thirty yards off.Timoa drew himself together, and in a crouching attitude levelled his musket.During their absence in the woods, these men had practised shooting at a mark, doubtless in preparation for the occasion which had now arrived. The woods and cliffs rang to the loud report, and Williams fell forward without a cry or groan, shot through the heart.The murderers rose and looked at each other, but uttered not a word, while Timoa recharged his gun.The report had, of course, been heard by every one in the settlement, but it was a familiar sound, and caused neither surprise nor alarm. McCoy merely raised himself for a moment, remarked to Mills that some one must have taken a fancy for a bit of pork to supper, and then resumed his work.Christian also heard the shot, but seemed to pay no regard to it. Ceasing his labour in a few minutes, he raised himself, wiped his forehead, and resting both hands on his spade, looked upwards at the bright blue sky. Fleecy clouds passed across it now and then, intensifying its depth, and apparently riveting Christian’s gaze, for he continued motionless for several minutes, with his clear eye fixed on the blue vault, and a sad, wistful expression on his handsome face, as if memory, busy with the past and future, had forgotten the present. It was his last look. A bullet from the bushes struck him at that moment on the breast. Uttering one short, sharp cry, he threw both hands high above his head, and fell backwards. The spasm of pain was but momentary. The sad, wistful look was replaced by a quiet smile. He never knew who had released his spirit from the prison-house of clay, for the eyes remained fixed on the bright blue sky, clear and steadfast, until death descended. Then the light went out, just as his murderers came forward, but the quiet smile remained, and his spirit returned to God who gave it.It seemed as if the murderers were, for a few moments, awestruck and horrified by what they had done; but they quickly recovered. What they had set their faces to accomplish must now be done at all hazards.“Did you hear that cry?” said McCoy, raising himself from his work in the neighbouring garden.“Yes; what then?” demanded Quintal.“It sounded to me uncommon like the cry of a wounded man,” said McCoy.“Didn’t sound like that to me,” returned Quintal; “more like Mainmast callin’ her husband to dinner.”As he spoke, Tetaheite appeared at the edge of the garden with a musket in his hand, the other two natives remaining concealed in the bushes.“Ho, Missr Mills,” he called out, in his broken English, “me have just shoot a large pig. Will you let Menalee help carry him home?”“Yes;—you may go,” said Mills, turning to Menalee.The Otaheitan threw down his tools, and joined his comrades in the bush, where he was at once told what had been done.Menalee did not at first seem as much pleased as his comrades had expected, nevertheless, he agreed to go with them.“How shall we kill Mills and McCoy?” asked Timoa, in a low whisper.“Shoot them,” answered Menalee; “you have three muskets.”“But they also have muskets,” objected Tetaheite, “and are good shots. If we miss them, some of us shall be dead men at once.”“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Nehow, who thereupon hastily detailed a plan, which they proceeded at once to carry out.Creeping round through the woods, they managed to get into McCoy’s house by a back window, unobserved. Menalee then ran down to the garden, as if in a state of great excitement.“Oh, Missr McCoy, Timoa and Nehow hab come down from mountain, an’ is robbin’ you house!”The bait took. McCoy ran up to his house. As soon as he reached the door there was a volley from within, but McCoy remained untouched.Seeing this, and, no doubt, supposing that he must be badly wounded, Menalee, who had followed him, seized him from behind. But McCoy, being the stronger man, twisted himself suddenly round, grasped Menalee by the waist with both hands, and flung him headlong into a neighbouring pig-sty. He then turned and ran back to his garden to warn Mills.“Run for it, Mills,” he cried; “run and take to the bush. All the black scoundrels have united to murder us.”He set the example by at once disappearing in the thick bush. But Mills did not believe him. He and Menalee had always been good friends, and he seemed to think it impossible that they would kill him. He hesitated, and the hesitation cost him his life, for next moment a bullet laid him low.Meanwhile McCoy ran to warn Christian. Reaching his garden, he found him there, dead, with the tranquil smile still on his cold lips, and the now glazed eyes still gazing upwards. One glance sufficed. He turned and ran back to Christian’s house to tell his wife what he had seen, but the poor woman was sick in bed at the time and could not move. Running then to Quintal’s garden, he found him alive, but quite ignorant of what was going on.“They seem to be wastin’ a deal of powder to-day,” he growled, without raising himself, as McCoy came up; “but—hallo! you’re blowing hard. What’s wrong?”As soon as he heard the terrible story he ran to his wife, who chanced to be sitting near the edge of his garden.“Up, old girl,” he cried, “your nigger countrymen are murderin’ us all. If you want to see any of us escape you’d better go and warn ’em. I shall look after number one.”Accordingly, with his friend of kindred spirit, he sought refuge in the bush.Mrs Quintal had no desire to see all the white men slaughtered by her countrymen. She therefore started off at once, and in passing the garden of John Adams, called to him to take to the bush without delay, and ran on.Unfortunately Adams did not understand what she meant. He, like the others, had heard the firing, but had only thought of it as a foolish waste of ammunition. Nothing was further from his thoughts on that peaceful day and hour than deeds of violence and bloodshed. He therefore continued at work.The four murderers, meanwhile, ran down to Isaac Martin’s house, found him in the garden, and pointing their muskets at him, pulled the triggers. The pieces missed fire, and poor Martin, thinking probably that it was a practical joke, laughed at them. They cocked again, however, and fired. Martin, although he fell mortally wounded, had strength to rise again and fly towards his house. The natives followed him into it. There was one of the sledge-hammers of theBountythere. One of them seized it, and with one blow beat in the poor man’s skull.Roused, apparently, to madness by their bloody work, the Otaheitans now rushed in a body to Brown’s garden. The botanist had been somewhat surprised at the frequent firing, but like his unfortunate fellow-countrymen, appeared to have not the remotest suspicion of what was going on. The sight of the natives, however, quickly opened his eyes. He turned as if to fly, but before he could gain the bushes, a well-aimed volley killed him.Thus in little more than an hour were five of the Englishmen murdered.It now seemed as if the revenge of the Otaheitans had been sated, for after the last tragic act they remained for some time in front of Brown’s house talking, and resting their hands on the muzzles of their guns.All this time Edward Young was lying asleep in ignorance of what was being done, and purposely kept in ignorance by the women. Having been told by Quintal’s wife, they knew part of the terrible details of the massacre, but they had no power to check the murderers. They, however, adopted what means they could to shield Young, who, as we have said, was a favourite with all the natives, and closed the door of the hut in which he lay to prevent his being awakened.The suspicions of Adams having at length been aroused, he went down to Brown’s house to see what all the firing could be about. The children, meanwhile, having some vague fears that danger threatened, had run into their mother’s huts. Everything passed so quickly, in fact, that few of the people had time to understand or think, or take action in any way.Reaching the edge of Brown’s garden, and seeing the four Otaheitans standing as we have described, Adams stopped and called out to know what was the matter.“Silence,” shouted one of them, pointing his gun. Being unarmed, and observing the body of Brown on the ground, Adams at once leaped into the bush and ran. He was hotly pursued by the four men, but being strong and swift of foot, he soon left them behind. In passing Williams’s house, he went towards it, intending to snatch up some thick garments, and, if possible, a musket and ammunition, for he had no doubt now that some of his countrymen must have been killed, and that he would have to take to the bush along with them. An exclamation of horror escaped him when he came upon the armourer’s body. It needed no second glance to tell that his comrade was dead. Passing into the house, he caught up an old blanket and a coat, but there was no musket. He knew that without arms he would be at the mercy of the savages. Being a cool and courageous man, he therefore made a long détour through the bush until he reached his own house, and entered by a back window. His sick wife received him with a look of glad surprise.“Is it true they have killed some of the white men?” she asked.“Ay, too true,” he replied, quickly; “and I must take to the bush for a while. Where can I find a bag to hold some yams? Ah, here you are. There’s no fear o’ them hurting you, lass.”As he spoke a shot was heard. The natives had seen and followed him. A ball, coming through the window, entered the back of his neck and came out at the front. He fell, but instantly sprang up and leaped through the doorway, where he was met by the four natives.Besides being a powerful man, Adams was very active, and the wound in his neck was only a flesh one. He knocked down Timoa, the foremost of the band, with one blow of his fist, and grappling with Nehow, threw him violently over his prostrate comrade; but Menalee, coming up at the moment, clubbed his musket and made a furious blow at Adams’s head. He guarded it with one hand, and in so doing had one of his fingers broken. Tetaheite and Menalee then both sprang upon him, but he nearly throttled the one, tripped up the other, and, succeeding by a violent wrench in breaking loose, once more took to his heels.In running, the Otaheitans were no match for him. He gradually left them behind. Then Timoa called out to him to stop.“No, you scoundrels,” he shouted back in reply, “you want to kill me; but you’ll find it a harder job than you think.”“No, no,” cried Nehow, vehemently, “we don’t want to kill you. Stop, and we won’t hurt you.”Adams felt that loss of blood from his wound was quickly reducing his strength. His case was desperate. He formed a quick resolve and acted promptly. Stopping, he turned about and walked slowly but steadily back towards the natives, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed sternly upon them.“Well, I have stopped, you see,” he said, on coming up. “I will take you at your word.”“We will do you no harm if you will follow us,” said Timoa.They then went together to the house of Young. Here they found its owner, just roused by the noise of the scuffle with Adams, listening to the explanations of the women, who were purposely trying to lead him astray lest he should go out and be shot. The entrance of the four natives, armed and covered with blood, and Adams unarmed and wounded, at once showed him how matters stood.“This is a terrible business,” he said in a low tone to Adams, while the murderers were disputing noisily about going into the woods to hunt down McCoy and Quintal. “Have they killed many of our comrades?”“God knows,” said Adams, while Quintal’s wife bound up the wound in his neck. “There has been firin’ enough to have killed us all twice over. I thought some of you were spending the ammunition foolishly on hogs or gulls. Williams is dead, I know, and poor Brown, for I saw their bodies, but I can’t say—”“Fletcher Christian is killed,” said Quintal’s wife, interrupting.“Fletcher Christian!” exclaimed Adams and Young in the same breath.“Ay, and Isaac Martin and John Mills,” continued the woman.While she was speaking, the four Otaheitans, having apparently come to an agreement as to their future proceedings, loaded their muskets hastily, and rushing from the house soon disappeared in the woods.We shall not harrow the reader’s feelings by following farther the bloody details of this massacre. Let it suffice to add, briefly, that after retiring from a fruitless search for the white men in the bush, Menalee quarrelled with Timoa and shot him. This roused the anger of the other two against Menalee, who fled to the bush and tried to make friends with McCoy and Quintal. This he appeared to succeed in doing, but when he was induced by them to give up his musket, he found out his mistake, for they soon turned it on himself and killed him. Then Young’s wife, Susannah, was induced to kill Tetaheite with an axe, and Young himself immediately after shot Nehow.When McCoy and Quintal were told that all the Otaheitan men were dead they returned to the settlement. It was a terrible scene of desolation and woe. Even these two rough and heartless men were awed for a time into something like solemnity.The men now left alive on the island were Young, Adams, Quintal, and McCoy. In the households of these four the widows and children of the slain were distributed. The evidences of the bloody tragedy were removed, the murdered men were buried, and thus came to a close the first great epoch in the chequered history of Pitcairn Island.
The planting time came round at Pitcairn, and all was busy activity in the little settlement at Bounty Bay. The women, engaged in household work and in the preparation of food, scarcely troubled themselves to cast an anxious eye on the numerous children who, according to age and capacity, rolled, tumbled, staggered, and jumped about in noisy play. The sun, streaming through the leaves of the woods, studded shady places with balls of quivering light, and blazed in fierce heat in the open where the men were at work, each in his respective garden. We have said that those gardens lay apart, at some distance from each other, and were partially concealed by shrubs or undulating knolls.
The garden of John Williams was farthest off from the settlement. He wrought in it alone on the day of which we write. Next to it was that of Fletcher Christian. He also worked alone that day.
About two hundred yards from his garden, and screened from it by a wooded rising ground, was a piece of plantation, in which John Mills, William McCoy, and Menalee were at work together. John Adams, William Brown, and Isaac Martin were working in their own gardens near their respective houses, and Quintal was resting in his hut. So was Edward Young, who, having been at work since early morning, had lain down and fallen into a deep slumber.
The three native men, Timoa, Nehow, and Tetaheite, were still away in the woods. If the unfortunate Englishmen had known what these men were about, they would not have toiled so quietly on that peaceful morning!
The Otaheitans met in a cocoa-nut grove at some distance to the eastward of the settlement. Each had a musket, which he loaded with ball. They did not speak much, and what they did say was uttered in a suppressed tone of voice.
“Come,” said Timoa, leading the way through the woods.
The others followed in single file, until they reached the garden where Williams was at work. Here their movements were more cautious. As they advanced, they crept along on their knees with the motion of cats, and with as little noise. They could hear the sound of the armourer’s spade, as he turned up the soil. Presently they came to an opening in the bushes, through which they could see him, not thirty yards off.
Timoa drew himself together, and in a crouching attitude levelled his musket.
During their absence in the woods, these men had practised shooting at a mark, doubtless in preparation for the occasion which had now arrived. The woods and cliffs rang to the loud report, and Williams fell forward without a cry or groan, shot through the heart.
The murderers rose and looked at each other, but uttered not a word, while Timoa recharged his gun.
The report had, of course, been heard by every one in the settlement, but it was a familiar sound, and caused neither surprise nor alarm. McCoy merely raised himself for a moment, remarked to Mills that some one must have taken a fancy for a bit of pork to supper, and then resumed his work.
Christian also heard the shot, but seemed to pay no regard to it. Ceasing his labour in a few minutes, he raised himself, wiped his forehead, and resting both hands on his spade, looked upwards at the bright blue sky. Fleecy clouds passed across it now and then, intensifying its depth, and apparently riveting Christian’s gaze, for he continued motionless for several minutes, with his clear eye fixed on the blue vault, and a sad, wistful expression on his handsome face, as if memory, busy with the past and future, had forgotten the present. It was his last look. A bullet from the bushes struck him at that moment on the breast. Uttering one short, sharp cry, he threw both hands high above his head, and fell backwards. The spasm of pain was but momentary. The sad, wistful look was replaced by a quiet smile. He never knew who had released his spirit from the prison-house of clay, for the eyes remained fixed on the bright blue sky, clear and steadfast, until death descended. Then the light went out, just as his murderers came forward, but the quiet smile remained, and his spirit returned to God who gave it.
It seemed as if the murderers were, for a few moments, awestruck and horrified by what they had done; but they quickly recovered. What they had set their faces to accomplish must now be done at all hazards.
“Did you hear that cry?” said McCoy, raising himself from his work in the neighbouring garden.
“Yes; what then?” demanded Quintal.
“It sounded to me uncommon like the cry of a wounded man,” said McCoy.
“Didn’t sound like that to me,” returned Quintal; “more like Mainmast callin’ her husband to dinner.”
As he spoke, Tetaheite appeared at the edge of the garden with a musket in his hand, the other two natives remaining concealed in the bushes.
“Ho, Missr Mills,” he called out, in his broken English, “me have just shoot a large pig. Will you let Menalee help carry him home?”
“Yes;—you may go,” said Mills, turning to Menalee.
The Otaheitan threw down his tools, and joined his comrades in the bush, where he was at once told what had been done.
Menalee did not at first seem as much pleased as his comrades had expected, nevertheless, he agreed to go with them.
“How shall we kill Mills and McCoy?” asked Timoa, in a low whisper.
“Shoot them,” answered Menalee; “you have three muskets.”
“But they also have muskets,” objected Tetaheite, “and are good shots. If we miss them, some of us shall be dead men at once.”
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Nehow, who thereupon hastily detailed a plan, which they proceeded at once to carry out.
Creeping round through the woods, they managed to get into McCoy’s house by a back window, unobserved. Menalee then ran down to the garden, as if in a state of great excitement.
“Oh, Missr McCoy, Timoa and Nehow hab come down from mountain, an’ is robbin’ you house!”
The bait took. McCoy ran up to his house. As soon as he reached the door there was a volley from within, but McCoy remained untouched.
Seeing this, and, no doubt, supposing that he must be badly wounded, Menalee, who had followed him, seized him from behind. But McCoy, being the stronger man, twisted himself suddenly round, grasped Menalee by the waist with both hands, and flung him headlong into a neighbouring pig-sty. He then turned and ran back to his garden to warn Mills.
“Run for it, Mills,” he cried; “run and take to the bush. All the black scoundrels have united to murder us.”
He set the example by at once disappearing in the thick bush. But Mills did not believe him. He and Menalee had always been good friends, and he seemed to think it impossible that they would kill him. He hesitated, and the hesitation cost him his life, for next moment a bullet laid him low.
Meanwhile McCoy ran to warn Christian. Reaching his garden, he found him there, dead, with the tranquil smile still on his cold lips, and the now glazed eyes still gazing upwards. One glance sufficed. He turned and ran back to Christian’s house to tell his wife what he had seen, but the poor woman was sick in bed at the time and could not move. Running then to Quintal’s garden, he found him alive, but quite ignorant of what was going on.
“They seem to be wastin’ a deal of powder to-day,” he growled, without raising himself, as McCoy came up; “but—hallo! you’re blowing hard. What’s wrong?”
As soon as he heard the terrible story he ran to his wife, who chanced to be sitting near the edge of his garden.
“Up, old girl,” he cried, “your nigger countrymen are murderin’ us all. If you want to see any of us escape you’d better go and warn ’em. I shall look after number one.”
Accordingly, with his friend of kindred spirit, he sought refuge in the bush.
Mrs Quintal had no desire to see all the white men slaughtered by her countrymen. She therefore started off at once, and in passing the garden of John Adams, called to him to take to the bush without delay, and ran on.
Unfortunately Adams did not understand what she meant. He, like the others, had heard the firing, but had only thought of it as a foolish waste of ammunition. Nothing was further from his thoughts on that peaceful day and hour than deeds of violence and bloodshed. He therefore continued at work.
The four murderers, meanwhile, ran down to Isaac Martin’s house, found him in the garden, and pointing their muskets at him, pulled the triggers. The pieces missed fire, and poor Martin, thinking probably that it was a practical joke, laughed at them. They cocked again, however, and fired. Martin, although he fell mortally wounded, had strength to rise again and fly towards his house. The natives followed him into it. There was one of the sledge-hammers of theBountythere. One of them seized it, and with one blow beat in the poor man’s skull.
Roused, apparently, to madness by their bloody work, the Otaheitans now rushed in a body to Brown’s garden. The botanist had been somewhat surprised at the frequent firing, but like his unfortunate fellow-countrymen, appeared to have not the remotest suspicion of what was going on. The sight of the natives, however, quickly opened his eyes. He turned as if to fly, but before he could gain the bushes, a well-aimed volley killed him.
Thus in little more than an hour were five of the Englishmen murdered.
It now seemed as if the revenge of the Otaheitans had been sated, for after the last tragic act they remained for some time in front of Brown’s house talking, and resting their hands on the muzzles of their guns.
All this time Edward Young was lying asleep in ignorance of what was being done, and purposely kept in ignorance by the women. Having been told by Quintal’s wife, they knew part of the terrible details of the massacre, but they had no power to check the murderers. They, however, adopted what means they could to shield Young, who, as we have said, was a favourite with all the natives, and closed the door of the hut in which he lay to prevent his being awakened.
The suspicions of Adams having at length been aroused, he went down to Brown’s house to see what all the firing could be about. The children, meanwhile, having some vague fears that danger threatened, had run into their mother’s huts. Everything passed so quickly, in fact, that few of the people had time to understand or think, or take action in any way.
Reaching the edge of Brown’s garden, and seeing the four Otaheitans standing as we have described, Adams stopped and called out to know what was the matter.
“Silence,” shouted one of them, pointing his gun. Being unarmed, and observing the body of Brown on the ground, Adams at once leaped into the bush and ran. He was hotly pursued by the four men, but being strong and swift of foot, he soon left them behind. In passing Williams’s house, he went towards it, intending to snatch up some thick garments, and, if possible, a musket and ammunition, for he had no doubt now that some of his countrymen must have been killed, and that he would have to take to the bush along with them. An exclamation of horror escaped him when he came upon the armourer’s body. It needed no second glance to tell that his comrade was dead. Passing into the house, he caught up an old blanket and a coat, but there was no musket. He knew that without arms he would be at the mercy of the savages. Being a cool and courageous man, he therefore made a long détour through the bush until he reached his own house, and entered by a back window. His sick wife received him with a look of glad surprise.
“Is it true they have killed some of the white men?” she asked.
“Ay, too true,” he replied, quickly; “and I must take to the bush for a while. Where can I find a bag to hold some yams? Ah, here you are. There’s no fear o’ them hurting you, lass.”
As he spoke a shot was heard. The natives had seen and followed him. A ball, coming through the window, entered the back of his neck and came out at the front. He fell, but instantly sprang up and leaped through the doorway, where he was met by the four natives.
Besides being a powerful man, Adams was very active, and the wound in his neck was only a flesh one. He knocked down Timoa, the foremost of the band, with one blow of his fist, and grappling with Nehow, threw him violently over his prostrate comrade; but Menalee, coming up at the moment, clubbed his musket and made a furious blow at Adams’s head. He guarded it with one hand, and in so doing had one of his fingers broken. Tetaheite and Menalee then both sprang upon him, but he nearly throttled the one, tripped up the other, and, succeeding by a violent wrench in breaking loose, once more took to his heels.
In running, the Otaheitans were no match for him. He gradually left them behind. Then Timoa called out to him to stop.
“No, you scoundrels,” he shouted back in reply, “you want to kill me; but you’ll find it a harder job than you think.”
“No, no,” cried Nehow, vehemently, “we don’t want to kill you. Stop, and we won’t hurt you.”
Adams felt that loss of blood from his wound was quickly reducing his strength. His case was desperate. He formed a quick resolve and acted promptly. Stopping, he turned about and walked slowly but steadily back towards the natives, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed sternly upon them.
“Well, I have stopped, you see,” he said, on coming up. “I will take you at your word.”
“We will do you no harm if you will follow us,” said Timoa.
They then went together to the house of Young. Here they found its owner, just roused by the noise of the scuffle with Adams, listening to the explanations of the women, who were purposely trying to lead him astray lest he should go out and be shot. The entrance of the four natives, armed and covered with blood, and Adams unarmed and wounded, at once showed him how matters stood.
“This is a terrible business,” he said in a low tone to Adams, while the murderers were disputing noisily about going into the woods to hunt down McCoy and Quintal. “Have they killed many of our comrades?”
“God knows,” said Adams, while Quintal’s wife bound up the wound in his neck. “There has been firin’ enough to have killed us all twice over. I thought some of you were spending the ammunition foolishly on hogs or gulls. Williams is dead, I know, and poor Brown, for I saw their bodies, but I can’t say—”
“Fletcher Christian is killed,” said Quintal’s wife, interrupting.
“Fletcher Christian!” exclaimed Adams and Young in the same breath.
“Ay, and Isaac Martin and John Mills,” continued the woman.
While she was speaking, the four Otaheitans, having apparently come to an agreement as to their future proceedings, loaded their muskets hastily, and rushing from the house soon disappeared in the woods.
We shall not harrow the reader’s feelings by following farther the bloody details of this massacre. Let it suffice to add, briefly, that after retiring from a fruitless search for the white men in the bush, Menalee quarrelled with Timoa and shot him. This roused the anger of the other two against Menalee, who fled to the bush and tried to make friends with McCoy and Quintal. This he appeared to succeed in doing, but when he was induced by them to give up his musket, he found out his mistake, for they soon turned it on himself and killed him. Then Young’s wife, Susannah, was induced to kill Tetaheite with an axe, and Young himself immediately after shot Nehow.
When McCoy and Quintal were told that all the Otaheitan men were dead they returned to the settlement. It was a terrible scene of desolation and woe. Even these two rough and heartless men were awed for a time into something like solemnity.
The men now left alive on the island were Young, Adams, Quintal, and McCoy. In the households of these four the widows and children of the slain were distributed. The evidences of the bloody tragedy were removed, the murdered men were buried, and thus came to a close the first great epoch in the chequered history of Pitcairn Island.
Chapter Sixteen.Matt Quintal makes a Tremendous Discovery.Upwards of four years had now elapsed since the mutiny of theBounty, and of the nine mutineers who escaped to Pitcairn Island, only four remained, with eleven women and a number of children.These latter had now become an important and remarkably noisy element in the colony. They and time together did much to efface the saddening effects of the gloomy epoch which had just come to a close. Time, however, did more than merely relieve the feelings of the surviving mutineers and widows. It increased the infantry force on the island considerably, so that in the course of a few years there were added to it a Robert, William, and Edward Young, with a little sister named Dolly Young, to keep them in countenance. There also came a Jane Quintal and an Arthur Quintal, who were closely followed by a Rebecca Adams and a James Young. So that the self-imposed cares and burdens of that pretty, active, and self-denying little creature, Otaheitan Sally, increased with her years and stature.Before the most of these made their appearance, however, the poor Otaheitan wives and widows became downcast and discontented. One cannot wonder at this. Accustomed though they no doubt had been to war and bloodshed on their native island, they must have been shocked beyond measure by the scenes of brutality and murder through which they had passed. The most of them being now without husbands, and the men who remained being not on very amicable terms among themselves, these poor creatures seem to have been driven to a state of desperation, for they began to pine for their old home, and actually made up their minds to quit the island in one of theBounty’sold boats, and leave the white men and even the children behind them. See Note 1.The old boat turned out to be so leaky, however, that they were compelled to return. But they did not cease to repine and to desire deliverance. Gentle-spirited and tractable though they undoubtedly were, they had evidently been tried beyond their powers of endurance. They were roused, and when meek people are roused they not unfrequently give their friends and acquaintances, (to say nothing of those nearer), a considerable surprise.Matthew Quintal, who had a good deal of sly humour about him, eventually hit on a plan to quiet them, at least for a time.“What makes you so grumpy, old girl?” he said one day to his wife, while eating his dinner under the shade of a palm-tree.“We wiss to go home,” she replied, in a plaintive tone.“Well, well, youshallgo home, so don’t let your spirits go down. If you’ve got tired of me, lass, you’re not worth keeping. We’ll set to work and build you a new boat out o’ the old un. We’ll begin this very day, and when it’s finished, you may up anchor and away to Otaheite, or Timbuctoo for all that I care.”The poor woman seemed pleased to hear this, and true to his word, Quintal set to work that very day, with McCoy, whom he persuaded to assist him. His friend thought that Quintal was only jesting about the women, and that in reality he meant to build a serviceable boat for fishing purposes. Young and Adams took little notice of what the other two were about; but one day when the former came down to the beach on Bounty Bay, he could not help remarking on the strange shape of the boat.“It’ll never float,” he remarked, with a look of surprise.“It’s not wanted to float,” replied Quintal, “at least not just yet. We can make it float well enough with a few improvements afterwards.”Young looked still more surprised, but when Quintal whispered something in his ear, he laughed and went away.The boat was soon ready, for it was to some extent merely a modification of the old boat. Then all the women were desired to get into it and push off, to see how it did.“Get in carefully now, old girls,” said Quintal, with a leer. “Lay hold of the oars and we’ll shove you through the first o’ the surf. Lend a hand, McCoy. Now then, give way all—hi!”With a vigorous shove the two men sent the boat shooting through the surf, which was unusually low that day. Young and Adams, with some of the children, stood on the rocks and looked on. The women lay to their oars like men, and the boat leaped like a flying-fish through the surf into deep water. Forgetting, in the excitement of the moment, the object they had in view, the poor things shouted and laughed with glee; but they dipped their oars with sad irregularity, and the boat began to rock in a violent manner. Then Young’s wife, Susannah, caught what in nautical parlance is called “a crab;” that is, she missed her stroke and fell backwards into the bottom of the boat.With that readiness to render help which was a characteristic of these women, Christian’s widow, Mainmast, leaped up to assist the fallen Susannah. It only wanted this to destroy the equilibrium of the boat altogether. It turned bottom up in a moment, and left the female crew floundering in the sea.To women of civilised lands this might have been a serious accident, but to these Otaheitan ladies it was a mere trifle. Each had been able to swim like a duck from earliest childhood. Indeed, it was evident that some of their own little ones were equally gifted, for several of them, led by Sally, plunged into the surf and went out to meet their parents as they swam ashore.The men laughed heartily, and, after securing the boat and hauling it up on the beach, returned to the settlement, whither the women had gone before them to change their garments.This incident effectually cured the native women of any intention to escape from the island, at least by boat, but it did not tend to calm their feelings. On the contrary, it seemed to have the effect of filling them with a thirst for vengeance, and they spent part of that day in whispered plottings against the men. They determined to take their lives that very night.While they were thus engaged, their innocent offspring were playing about the settlement at different games, screaming at times with vehement delight, and making the palm-groves ring with laughter. The bright sun shone equally upon the heads that whirled with merriment and those that throbbed with dark despair.Suddenly, in the midst of her play, little Sally came to an abrupt pause. She missed little Matt Quintal from the group.“Where’s he gone, Charlie?” she demanded of her favourite playmate, whose name she had by that time learned to pronounce.“I dunno,” answered Charlie, whose language partook more of the nautical tone of Quintal than of his late father.“D’you know, Dan’l?” she asked of little McCoy.“I dunno nuffin’,” replied Dan, “’xcep’ he’s not here.”“Well, I must go an’ seek ’im. You stop an’ play here. I leave ’em in your care, Toc. See you be good.”It would have amused you, reader, if you had seen with your bodily eyes the little creatures who were thus warned to be good. Even Dan McCoy, who was considered out and out the worst of them, might have sat to Rubens for a cherub; and as for the others, they were, we might almost say, appallingly good. Thursday October, in particular, was the very personification of innocence. It would have been much more appropriate to have named him Sunday July, because in his meek countenance goodness and beauty sat enthroned.Of course we do not mean to say that these children were good from principle. They had no principle at that time. No, their actuating motive was selfishness; but it was not concentrated, regardless selfishness, and it was beautifully counteracted by natural amiability of temperament.But they were quite capable of sin. For instance, when Sally had left them to search for her lost sheep, little Dan McCoy, moved by a desire for fun, went up behind little Charlie Christian and gave him an unmerited kick. It chanced to be a painful kick, and Charlie, without a thought of resentment or revenge, immediately opened his mouth, shut his eyes, and roared. Horrified by this unexpected result, little Dan also shut his eyes, opened his mouth, and roared.The face that Charlie made in these circumstances was so ineffably funny, that Toc burst into uncontrollable laughter. Hearing this, the roarers opened their eyes, slid quickly into the same key, and tumbled head over heels on the grass, in which evolutions they were imitated by the whole party, except such as had not at that time passed beyond the staggering age.Meanwhile Sally searched the neighbouring bush in vain; then bethinking her that Matt Quintal, who was fond of dangerous places, might have clambered down to the rocks to bathe, she made the best of her way to the beach, at a place which, being somewhat difficult of access from above, was seldom visited by any save the wild and venturesome.She had only descended a few yards when she met the lost one clambering up in frantic haste, panting violently, his fat cheeks on fire, and his large eyes blazing.“Oh, Matt, what is it?” she exclaimed, awestruck at the sight of him.“Sip!—sip!” he cried, with labouring breath, as he pointed with one hand eagerly to the sea and with the other to the shore; “bin men down dare!—look, got suffin’! Oh!”A prolonged groan of despair escaped the child as he fumbled in a trousers-pocket and pushed three fingers through a hole in the bottom of it.“It’s hoed through!”“What’s hoed through?” asked Sally, with quick sympathy, trying to console the urchin for some loss he had sustained.“De knife!” exclaimed little Dan, with a face of blank woe.“The knife! what knife? But don’t cry, dear; if you lost it through that hole it must be lying on the track, you know, somewhere between us and the beach.”This happy thought did not seem to have occurred to Matt, whose cheeks at once resumed their flush and his eyes their blaze.Taking his hand, Sally led him down the track.They looked carefully as they went, and had not gone far when Matt sprang forward with a scream of delight and picked up a clasp-knife. It was by no means a valuable one. It had a buckhorn handle, and its solitary blade, besides being broken at the point, was affected with rust and tobacco in about equal proportions.“Oh, Matt, where did you find it?”“Come down and you see,” he exclaimed, pointing with greater excitement than ever to the beach below.They were soon down, and there, on the margin of the woods, they found a heap of cocoa-nut shells scattered about.“Found de knife dere,” said Matt, pointing to the midst of the shells, and speaking in a low earnest voice, as if the subject were a solemn one.“Oh!” exclaimed Sally, under her breath.“An’ look here,” said Matt, leading the girl to a sandy spot close by. They both stood transfixed and silent, for there werestrange foot-printson the sand.They could not be mistaken. Sally and Matt knew every foot and every shoe, white or black, in Pitcairn. The marks before them had been made by unknown shoes.Just in proportion as youth is more susceptible of astonishment than age, so was the surprise of those little ones immeasurably greater than that of Robinson Crusoe in similar circumstances. With awestruck faces they traced the foot-prints down to the water’s edge. Then, for the first time, it struck Matt that he had forgotten something.“Oh, me forget de sip—de sip!” he cried, and pointed out to sea.Sally raised her eyes and uttered an exclamation of fresh astonishment, as well she might, for there, like a seagull on the blue wave, was a ship under full sail. It was far-off, nearly on the horizon, but quite distinct, and large enough to be recognised.Of course the gazers were spellbound again. It was the first real ship they had ever seen, but they easily recognised it, being familiar with man’s floating prisons from the frequent descriptions given to them by John Adams, and especially from a drawing made by him, years ago, on the back of an old letter, representing a full-rigged man-of-war. This masterpiece of fine art had been nailed up on the walls of John Adams’s hut, and had been fully expounded to each child in succession, as soon after its birth as was consistent with common-sense—sometimes sooner.Suddenly Otaheitan Sally recovered herself.“Come, Matt, we must run home an’ tell what we’ve seen.”Away they went like two goats up the cliffs. Panting and blazing, they charged down on their amazed playmates, shouting, “A sip! a sip!” but never turning aside nor slacking their pace until they burst with the news on the astonished mutineers.Something more than astonishment, however, mingled with the feelings of the seamen, and it was not until they had handled the knife, and visited the sandy cove, and seen the foot-prints, and beheld the vessel herself, that they became fully convinced that she had really been close to the island, that men had apparently landed to gather cocoa-nuts, and had gone away without having discovered the settlement, which was hid from their view by the high cliffs to the eastward of Bounty Bay.The vessel had increased her distance so much by the time the men reached the cove, that it was impossible to make out what she was.“A man-o’-war, mayhap, sent to search for us,” suggested Quintal.“Not likely,” said Adams. “If she’d bin sent to search for us, she wouldn’t have contented herself with only pickin’ a few nuts.”“I should say she is a trader that has got out of her course,” said Young; “but whatever she is, we’ve seen the last of her. I’m not sure that I wouldn’t have run the risk of having our hiding-place found out, and of being hung, for the sake of seeing once more the fresh face of a white man.”He spoke with a touch of sadness in his tone, which contrasted forcibly with the remark that followed.“It’s littleIwould care about the risk o’ bein’ scragged,” said Quintal, “if I could only once more have a stiff glass o’ grog an’ a pipe o’ good, strong, genuine baccy!”“You’ll maybe have the first sooner than you think,” observed McCoy, with a look of intelligence.“What d’ye mean?” asked Quintal.“Ax no questions an’ you’ll be told no lies,” was McCoy’s polite rejoinder, to which Quintal returned a not less complimentary remark, and followed Young and Adams, who had already begun to reascend the cliffs.This little glimpse of the great outer world was obtained by the mutineers in 1795, and was the only break of the kind that occurred during a residence of many years on the lonely island.Note 1. We are led to this conclusion in regard to the children by the fact that in the various records which tell us of these women attempting their flight, no mention is made of the children being with them.
Upwards of four years had now elapsed since the mutiny of theBounty, and of the nine mutineers who escaped to Pitcairn Island, only four remained, with eleven women and a number of children.
These latter had now become an important and remarkably noisy element in the colony. They and time together did much to efface the saddening effects of the gloomy epoch which had just come to a close. Time, however, did more than merely relieve the feelings of the surviving mutineers and widows. It increased the infantry force on the island considerably, so that in the course of a few years there were added to it a Robert, William, and Edward Young, with a little sister named Dolly Young, to keep them in countenance. There also came a Jane Quintal and an Arthur Quintal, who were closely followed by a Rebecca Adams and a James Young. So that the self-imposed cares and burdens of that pretty, active, and self-denying little creature, Otaheitan Sally, increased with her years and stature.
Before the most of these made their appearance, however, the poor Otaheitan wives and widows became downcast and discontented. One cannot wonder at this. Accustomed though they no doubt had been to war and bloodshed on their native island, they must have been shocked beyond measure by the scenes of brutality and murder through which they had passed. The most of them being now without husbands, and the men who remained being not on very amicable terms among themselves, these poor creatures seem to have been driven to a state of desperation, for they began to pine for their old home, and actually made up their minds to quit the island in one of theBounty’sold boats, and leave the white men and even the children behind them. See Note 1.
The old boat turned out to be so leaky, however, that they were compelled to return. But they did not cease to repine and to desire deliverance. Gentle-spirited and tractable though they undoubtedly were, they had evidently been tried beyond their powers of endurance. They were roused, and when meek people are roused they not unfrequently give their friends and acquaintances, (to say nothing of those nearer), a considerable surprise.
Matthew Quintal, who had a good deal of sly humour about him, eventually hit on a plan to quiet them, at least for a time.
“What makes you so grumpy, old girl?” he said one day to his wife, while eating his dinner under the shade of a palm-tree.
“We wiss to go home,” she replied, in a plaintive tone.
“Well, well, youshallgo home, so don’t let your spirits go down. If you’ve got tired of me, lass, you’re not worth keeping. We’ll set to work and build you a new boat out o’ the old un. We’ll begin this very day, and when it’s finished, you may up anchor and away to Otaheite, or Timbuctoo for all that I care.”
The poor woman seemed pleased to hear this, and true to his word, Quintal set to work that very day, with McCoy, whom he persuaded to assist him. His friend thought that Quintal was only jesting about the women, and that in reality he meant to build a serviceable boat for fishing purposes. Young and Adams took little notice of what the other two were about; but one day when the former came down to the beach on Bounty Bay, he could not help remarking on the strange shape of the boat.
“It’ll never float,” he remarked, with a look of surprise.
“It’s not wanted to float,” replied Quintal, “at least not just yet. We can make it float well enough with a few improvements afterwards.”
Young looked still more surprised, but when Quintal whispered something in his ear, he laughed and went away.
The boat was soon ready, for it was to some extent merely a modification of the old boat. Then all the women were desired to get into it and push off, to see how it did.
“Get in carefully now, old girls,” said Quintal, with a leer. “Lay hold of the oars and we’ll shove you through the first o’ the surf. Lend a hand, McCoy. Now then, give way all—hi!”
With a vigorous shove the two men sent the boat shooting through the surf, which was unusually low that day. Young and Adams, with some of the children, stood on the rocks and looked on. The women lay to their oars like men, and the boat leaped like a flying-fish through the surf into deep water. Forgetting, in the excitement of the moment, the object they had in view, the poor things shouted and laughed with glee; but they dipped their oars with sad irregularity, and the boat began to rock in a violent manner. Then Young’s wife, Susannah, caught what in nautical parlance is called “a crab;” that is, she missed her stroke and fell backwards into the bottom of the boat.
With that readiness to render help which was a characteristic of these women, Christian’s widow, Mainmast, leaped up to assist the fallen Susannah. It only wanted this to destroy the equilibrium of the boat altogether. It turned bottom up in a moment, and left the female crew floundering in the sea.
To women of civilised lands this might have been a serious accident, but to these Otaheitan ladies it was a mere trifle. Each had been able to swim like a duck from earliest childhood. Indeed, it was evident that some of their own little ones were equally gifted, for several of them, led by Sally, plunged into the surf and went out to meet their parents as they swam ashore.
The men laughed heartily, and, after securing the boat and hauling it up on the beach, returned to the settlement, whither the women had gone before them to change their garments.
This incident effectually cured the native women of any intention to escape from the island, at least by boat, but it did not tend to calm their feelings. On the contrary, it seemed to have the effect of filling them with a thirst for vengeance, and they spent part of that day in whispered plottings against the men. They determined to take their lives that very night.
While they were thus engaged, their innocent offspring were playing about the settlement at different games, screaming at times with vehement delight, and making the palm-groves ring with laughter. The bright sun shone equally upon the heads that whirled with merriment and those that throbbed with dark despair.
Suddenly, in the midst of her play, little Sally came to an abrupt pause. She missed little Matt Quintal from the group.
“Where’s he gone, Charlie?” she demanded of her favourite playmate, whose name she had by that time learned to pronounce.
“I dunno,” answered Charlie, whose language partook more of the nautical tone of Quintal than of his late father.
“D’you know, Dan’l?” she asked of little McCoy.
“I dunno nuffin’,” replied Dan, “’xcep’ he’s not here.”
“Well, I must go an’ seek ’im. You stop an’ play here. I leave ’em in your care, Toc. See you be good.”
It would have amused you, reader, if you had seen with your bodily eyes the little creatures who were thus warned to be good. Even Dan McCoy, who was considered out and out the worst of them, might have sat to Rubens for a cherub; and as for the others, they were, we might almost say, appallingly good. Thursday October, in particular, was the very personification of innocence. It would have been much more appropriate to have named him Sunday July, because in his meek countenance goodness and beauty sat enthroned.
Of course we do not mean to say that these children were good from principle. They had no principle at that time. No, their actuating motive was selfishness; but it was not concentrated, regardless selfishness, and it was beautifully counteracted by natural amiability of temperament.
But they were quite capable of sin. For instance, when Sally had left them to search for her lost sheep, little Dan McCoy, moved by a desire for fun, went up behind little Charlie Christian and gave him an unmerited kick. It chanced to be a painful kick, and Charlie, without a thought of resentment or revenge, immediately opened his mouth, shut his eyes, and roared. Horrified by this unexpected result, little Dan also shut his eyes, opened his mouth, and roared.
The face that Charlie made in these circumstances was so ineffably funny, that Toc burst into uncontrollable laughter. Hearing this, the roarers opened their eyes, slid quickly into the same key, and tumbled head over heels on the grass, in which evolutions they were imitated by the whole party, except such as had not at that time passed beyond the staggering age.
Meanwhile Sally searched the neighbouring bush in vain; then bethinking her that Matt Quintal, who was fond of dangerous places, might have clambered down to the rocks to bathe, she made the best of her way to the beach, at a place which, being somewhat difficult of access from above, was seldom visited by any save the wild and venturesome.
She had only descended a few yards when she met the lost one clambering up in frantic haste, panting violently, his fat cheeks on fire, and his large eyes blazing.
“Oh, Matt, what is it?” she exclaimed, awestruck at the sight of him.
“Sip!—sip!” he cried, with labouring breath, as he pointed with one hand eagerly to the sea and with the other to the shore; “bin men down dare!—look, got suffin’! Oh!”
A prolonged groan of despair escaped the child as he fumbled in a trousers-pocket and pushed three fingers through a hole in the bottom of it.
“It’s hoed through!”
“What’s hoed through?” asked Sally, with quick sympathy, trying to console the urchin for some loss he had sustained.
“De knife!” exclaimed little Dan, with a face of blank woe.
“The knife! what knife? But don’t cry, dear; if you lost it through that hole it must be lying on the track, you know, somewhere between us and the beach.”
This happy thought did not seem to have occurred to Matt, whose cheeks at once resumed their flush and his eyes their blaze.
Taking his hand, Sally led him down the track.
They looked carefully as they went, and had not gone far when Matt sprang forward with a scream of delight and picked up a clasp-knife. It was by no means a valuable one. It had a buckhorn handle, and its solitary blade, besides being broken at the point, was affected with rust and tobacco in about equal proportions.
“Oh, Matt, where did you find it?”
“Come down and you see,” he exclaimed, pointing with greater excitement than ever to the beach below.
They were soon down, and there, on the margin of the woods, they found a heap of cocoa-nut shells scattered about.
“Found de knife dere,” said Matt, pointing to the midst of the shells, and speaking in a low earnest voice, as if the subject were a solemn one.
“Oh!” exclaimed Sally, under her breath.
“An’ look here,” said Matt, leading the girl to a sandy spot close by. They both stood transfixed and silent, for there werestrange foot-printson the sand.
They could not be mistaken. Sally and Matt knew every foot and every shoe, white or black, in Pitcairn. The marks before them had been made by unknown shoes.
Just in proportion as youth is more susceptible of astonishment than age, so was the surprise of those little ones immeasurably greater than that of Robinson Crusoe in similar circumstances. With awestruck faces they traced the foot-prints down to the water’s edge. Then, for the first time, it struck Matt that he had forgotten something.
“Oh, me forget de sip—de sip!” he cried, and pointed out to sea.
Sally raised her eyes and uttered an exclamation of fresh astonishment, as well she might, for there, like a seagull on the blue wave, was a ship under full sail. It was far-off, nearly on the horizon, but quite distinct, and large enough to be recognised.
Of course the gazers were spellbound again. It was the first real ship they had ever seen, but they easily recognised it, being familiar with man’s floating prisons from the frequent descriptions given to them by John Adams, and especially from a drawing made by him, years ago, on the back of an old letter, representing a full-rigged man-of-war. This masterpiece of fine art had been nailed up on the walls of John Adams’s hut, and had been fully expounded to each child in succession, as soon after its birth as was consistent with common-sense—sometimes sooner.
Suddenly Otaheitan Sally recovered herself.
“Come, Matt, we must run home an’ tell what we’ve seen.”
Away they went like two goats up the cliffs. Panting and blazing, they charged down on their amazed playmates, shouting, “A sip! a sip!” but never turning aside nor slacking their pace until they burst with the news on the astonished mutineers.
Something more than astonishment, however, mingled with the feelings of the seamen, and it was not until they had handled the knife, and visited the sandy cove, and seen the foot-prints, and beheld the vessel herself, that they became fully convinced that she had really been close to the island, that men had apparently landed to gather cocoa-nuts, and had gone away without having discovered the settlement, which was hid from their view by the high cliffs to the eastward of Bounty Bay.
The vessel had increased her distance so much by the time the men reached the cove, that it was impossible to make out what she was.
“A man-o’-war, mayhap, sent to search for us,” suggested Quintal.
“Not likely,” said Adams. “If she’d bin sent to search for us, she wouldn’t have contented herself with only pickin’ a few nuts.”
“I should say she is a trader that has got out of her course,” said Young; “but whatever she is, we’ve seen the last of her. I’m not sure that I wouldn’t have run the risk of having our hiding-place found out, and of being hung, for the sake of seeing once more the fresh face of a white man.”
He spoke with a touch of sadness in his tone, which contrasted forcibly with the remark that followed.
“It’s littleIwould care about the risk o’ bein’ scragged,” said Quintal, “if I could only once more have a stiff glass o’ grog an’ a pipe o’ good, strong, genuine baccy!”
“You’ll maybe have the first sooner than you think,” observed McCoy, with a look of intelligence.
“What d’ye mean?” asked Quintal.
“Ax no questions an’ you’ll be told no lies,” was McCoy’s polite rejoinder, to which Quintal returned a not less complimentary remark, and followed Young and Adams, who had already begun to reascend the cliffs.
This little glimpse of the great outer world was obtained by the mutineers in 1795, and was the only break of the kind that occurred during a residence of many years on the lonely island.
Note 1. We are led to this conclusion in regard to the children by the fact that in the various records which tell us of these women attempting their flight, no mention is made of the children being with them.