Book Three—Chapter Four.
Prisoner among Savages—Shipwreck.
Not a word about gold was spoken that night. To Halcott had been restored that which is better far than much fine gold—the friendship of a true and honest heart.
For many days James Malone was far too weak to talk much, and he told them his story only by slow degrees as he reclined on the couch in the Sea Flower’s cabin, as often as not with little Nelda seated on a camp-stool beside him, her little hand in his. She had quite taken to James, and the child’s gentle voice and winning manners appeared to soothe him.
His story was one of suffering, it is true, but of suffering nobly borne.
Hope had flown away at last, however. He found himself too ill to find his own living. At the very time Halcott spied him, he had come forth expecting to look his last at sun and sky, just to pray, and then creep back into the cooler gloom of his hut to die.
How he had been saved from the savages, in the first instance, is soon told. He had leaped, after he had seen every one safely over the bridge, into the deep pool with the intention of swimming down stream, hoping thus to avoid the natives, and, gaining the beach, make his way along the coast or across the promontory to join his friends on the other side.
He had got almost a mile on, and was feeling somewhat exhausted, when the river suddenly narrowed again, and before he could do anything to help himself, he was caught in the rapids and hurried along at a fearful rate.
Sick and giddy, at last, and stunned by repeated blows received by contact with stones or boulders, he suddenly lost consciousness.
“Darkness, dearie,” he said, as if addressing Nelda only, “darkness came over me all at once, and many and many a day after that I lived to wonder why it had not been the darkness of death.
“When I recovered consciousness—when I got a little better, I mean, dearie—and opened my eyes, I found myself lying in a clearing of the forest, pained, and bruised, and bleeding.
“Pained I well might be, for feet and hands were tightly bound with a species of willow. But I was alone. I thanked God for that. I had no idea how long I had lain there, but it was night, and the stars that brightly shone above me were, for a time, my only companions. They gave me hope—oh, not for this world, but for the next. I felt my time would soon come, and that, baulked in their designs on the ladies, the savages would torture and sacrifice me. In spite of my sores and sufferings, some influence seemed to steal down from those holy stars to calm me, and I fell fast asleep once more. It could not have been for long, though. I had a rude awakening. All around me, but some distance off, was a circle of dusky warriors, spear-armed. I could see their eyes and teeth gleaming white in the starlight, as they danced exultingly round and round me, brandishing their weapons and uttering their wild yells, their savage battle-cries.
“But every now and then the circle would be suddenly narrowed, as a dozen or more of the fiercest and most demon-like rushed upon me with levelled spears, and it was then I thought my time had come. But the bitterness of death was past, and now, as if mad myself, I defied them, laughed at them, spat at them. My voice sounded far-off. I could hardly believe it was my own.
“But, as if by magic, suddenly every warrior disappeared, and into the clearing stalked a savage taller than any I had yet seen. His spear was like a weaver’s beam, as says the Bible. With hair adorned with feathers, with face, chest, and arms disfigured by tattooing—the scars in many places hardly yet healed—with awful mouth, and gleaming, vindictive eyes, he looked indeed a fearsome figure.
“At each side of him marched three men carrying torches, and close behind two savages bearing a litter, or rude hammock, of branches. On to this I was roughly lifted, and borne away through the dark woods.
“But whither? I hardly dared guess at the answer to that question. To death, I felt certain—death by torture and the stake. The chief would yet, he doubtless believed, have ‘white blood’ to drink, and that blood should be mine.
“It was to the small lake island, however, on which you found me, that I was carried, more dead than alive, and here I was to be kept a prisoner until the full of another moon.
“I need not tell you how I gradually ingratiated myself into favour, first with the medicine-man, and afterwards with the king himself, whom I taught much that was of use to him in the arts of peace, till he came to consider me far more useful alive than dead. Nor am I willing to speak before this dear child of the awful rites, the mummeries, and fearful human sacrifices that my eyes have witnessed. The wonder is, that instead of living on as I did—though life has been in reality but a living death—I did not become insane, and wander raving through the woods and forests.
“But the savages have been driven from the island at last, terrorised by the demons of the burning mountain, and I do not think that they are likely to return during the few weeks we shall be here.
“They fled in their canoes precipitately on the first signs of eruption. The boats were terribly overcrowded, and although they lightened them by throwing women and children overboard to the sharks, at least three great war-canoes were sunk before my eyes.
“It was a fearful sight! May no one here ever live to have such experiences as I have passed through.”
As soon as he could bear to listen to it, Halcott told James all his own story and that of the Sea Flower since she left the shores of England.
“Like myself,” said James, “you have been mercifully preserved.
“As to gold,” he continued, “I am fully aware that the medicine-man had many utensils of the purest beaten gold. They were used for sacrificial purposes; and, at one time, when the king and his warriors returned from utterly wiping out the inhabitants of an island to the nor’ard of this, and brought with them a crowd of prisoners, these golden utensils were filled over and over again with the blood of the victims, and drunk by the excited warriors. After this I never troubled myself about gold in any shape or form; but just before the exodus, I believe these vessels were hurriedly buried on the little island. If not, they have been thrown into the lake.”
“Is it in your power to tell us, James, where these vessels of gold were made, or where the gold was obtained?”
“They were fashioned, dear brother, by the spear-makers, with chisels and hammers of hard wood and stone.
“Even the medicine-man himself knew nothing of the value of the metal. It was easy to work, that was all, else iron itself would have been preferred. You ask me whence the gold was obtained. I can only inform you that the secret lay and lies with the magician himself, and that the mine is a cave at the foot of the burning mountain, probably now entirely filled up with lava. Once, and once only, was I permitted to accompany this awful wretch to the grove near which this cave is situated. I was not allowed to go further. Here I waited for a whole hour, during which time I now and then heard muffled shrieks and yells of pain and agony that made me shudder.”
“What could these have been, think you, James?”
“Can you not guess? At least, you may, when I tell you that a poor boy was forced to enter the cave with the medicine-man, but never again saw the light of day.
“I had learned by this time to talk the language of these savages, and all the information I received, when I questioned the monster, was that the demons of the fiery hill had to be propitiated.
“But he brought back with him two huge nuggets that I could see were gold.
“This was the price, he told me, that he had been paid for the kee-wääee. (youth).
“I never saw those nuggets again, but believe they were fashioned into spear-heads for the king.”
While Halcott and James were talking quietly down below, Tandy was walking the deck with considerable uneasiness. There was a strange appearance far away in the north that he did not like. No banks of clouds were rising, only just a curious black, or rather purple, haze. It had been so very clear all round up till an hour ago, that danger would have been the last thing Tandy would have thought about.
He looked towards the distant island through his glass at three o’clock, and it was then visible; but now, though the dog-watch had only just begun, it was wiped out, swallowed up in the mysterious haze.
But when a bigger wave than usual rolled in, and others and others followed, and when the surface became wrinkled here and there with cat’s-paws, he hesitated no longer.
“All hands on deck!” he shouted, stamping loudly on the planks to arouse those below. “Hands loosen sail! Man the winch, lads! It must be up anchors, and off!”
There was wind enough shortly to work to windward till they were quite clear of the bay, then they kept the barque away on the starboard tack, until well clear of the island.
They now worked northwards as far as possible, till the wind got too strong, when they were obliged to lie to, almost under bare poles.
Neither Tandy, Halcott, nor James could remember having encountered so terrible a storm before. No one thought of turning in that night, for, being so short-handed, every man was needed on deck.
About midnight this fearful gale was evidently at its worst. The sea was then making a clean breach over the ship from fore to aft. The darkness was intense; hardly any light was there at all from the sky, save now and then a bright gleam of lightning that lit up mast, rigging, and shrouds, and the pale faces of the men as they clung in desperation to bulwark or stay.
Each lightning flash was followed by a peal of thunder that sounded high above even the incessant roaring of the wind.
Surely it was every one for himself now, and God for all who put their trust in Him.
It was probably about five bells in the middle-watch, the hatches being firmly battened down, when Ransey Tansey crept under the tarpaulin that covered the after companion, and lowered himself down as well as the terrible motion of the ship permitted him. He staggered into the saloon.
A light was burning in his father’s state-room, the light of a candle hung in gimbals.
Towards the door he groped his way, hoping against hope that he would find his little sister asleep and well.
“O Jane, are you here?” he said; “so glad.”
Janeira rose as he entered, clinging to the edge of the upper bunk in the endeavour to steady herself.
“Iss, I’se heah, sah. Been praying heah all de night to de good Lawd to deliber us. Been one big night ob feah, sah. But de sweet child, she go to sleep at last.”
“Did she cry much?”
“No; she much too flighten’d to weep.”
Ransey bent low over his sister, and felt relieved when certain that she was breathing and alive, for she slept almost like one in a trance.
Ransey had long since become “sea-fast,” as sailors call it. No waves, however rough, could affect him, no ship’s motion however erratic.
But just at that moment his head suddenly swam; he felt, as he afterwards expressed it, that he was being lifted into the clouds; next moment a crash came that extinguished the light and hurled him to the deck.
For a moment he felt stunned and unable to move; and now, high above the shrieking of the storm-wind, came the sound of falling and breaking timber, and Ransey knew the ship was doomed.