Book Three—Chapter Three.
“We Shall Always be Brothers Now—Always, Always.”
“Just there, Tandy,” said Halcott, as the two stood together a day or two after on the brink of a rocky chasm, at the bottom of which the river swept slowly along, dark and deep, because confined by the wet and perpendicular rocks—“just there it was where my friend, my almost brother, plunged over. He had torn up the bridge, as I told you, to save us from the black men’s axes, and so doing sacrificed his life. Ah, James! poor James!
“See,” he added, “the bridge has never yet been repaired.”
Then they went slowly and sadly away, for Tandy felt sorry indeed to witness the grief of his companion.
“How he must have loved him!” he thought. But he remained silent. Grief is sometimes far too deep for sympathy.
They saw many little pigs to-day and rabbits also, as well as a species of pole-cat. But having still plenty of provisions on board they did not hamper themselves by making a bag.
Higher up the stream now they went, and after a time found a place that could be easily forded, the river meandering through a green and pleasant valley, studded here and there with fragrant shrubs and carpeted with wild flowers.
Monster butterflies darted from bloom to bloom—as big as painted fans they were, and radiantly beautiful; but still more beautiful were the many birds seen here and there, especially the kingfishers. So tame were these that they scarce moved even when the travellers came within a yard of them. Asleep you might have believed them to be till one after another, with a half-suppressed scream of excitement, they left their perches to dive into a pool, so quickly too that they looked like tiny strips of rainbow.
Dinner was partaken of by the side of the stream, and after a time they crossed the ford.
The country was rough and rolling and well-wooded, though few of the birds that flitted from bough to bough had any song; they made love in silence.
The beauty of the colours is doubtless granted them for sake of the preservation of species, for there are lizards large enough here to prey upon them, did the birds not resemble the flowers. Their want of song, too, is a provision of nature for the same purpose.
They found the country through which they passed on their way to the lake so covered with jungle, here and there, that they had to climb hills to save themselves from being lost, having brought no compass with them.
“Ha! yonder is the lake,” cried Halcott; “and now we shall see the place where my dear girl and her mother were imprisoned; and, Tandy,” he added, “we may find gold.”
Close here, by the green banks of the little lake, and in a grove, much to their astonishment, they found a canoe.
To all appearance it had been recently used, for there were the marks of feet on the grass, and in the canoe—a black dug-out—were a native tomahawk, a kind of spear or trident, and fishing-hooks of bone, most curiously formed, and evidently only recently used.
“Look to your guns now, lads,” said Halcott, “and keep out of sight; that island is inhabited.”
Just at that moment, as if in proof of what he said, a slight wreath of smoke came curling up through the foliage of a large-leaved banana grove on the tiny island.
A council of war was immediately held. The question to be debated was: should two of their number enter the canoe and row boldly off to the grass hut, the top of which could be seen peeping grey over the green of the trees?
This had been Tom Wilson’s proposition. He and Chips, he said, would run the risk. There could not be many savages on the island. With revolvers in their hands they need not fear to advance under cover of the rifles of Captain Halcott and Mr Tandy.
“Poisoned arrows,” said Halcott, shaking his head, “speed swiftly from a bush. Spears, too, fly fast, and the touch of either means death!
“No, my good fellows, we must think of some other plan. I cannot afford to have you slain. If one or two savages would but appear, we could make signs of peace, or hold them up with our rifles.”
From his position at this moment Halcott alone commanded a view of the islet, which was barely seventy yards away. The three others were sitting on the edge of the canoe.
“Oh!”
This was a sudden exclamation of half-frightened surprise, and when Tandy looked up, behold! there stood Halcott in a position which seemed to indicate a sudden attack of catalepsy. Halcott’s shoulders were shrugged, his clenched fists held somewhat in advance, his head bent forward, eyes staring, brows lowered, and lips parted.
Halcott was a brave man, and Tandy right well knew it. The sight of a score of spear-armed savages could not have affected him thus; he might be face to face with a tiger or a python, yet feel no fear.
Thinking his friend was about to fall, Tandy sprang up and seized his arm.
Halcott recovered almost at once, and a smile stole over his bold, handsome, sailor face.
But he spoke not. He could not just then. He only pointed over the bush towards the island, and Tandy looked in the same direction.
Slowly from out the plantain thicket tottered, rather than walked, the tall figure of a white man. His long hair flowed unkempt over his shoulders; he was clothed in rags, and leaned upon a long, strong spear.
He stood there for a moment on a patch of greensward, and, shading his eyes from the sunlight, gazed across the lake, and as if listening.
Then he knelt just there, with his right hand still clutching the spear, as if engaged in prayer.
And Tandy knew then without being told that the man kneeling yonder on the patch of greensward was the long-lost James Malone himself. But no one moved, no one spoke, until at last the Crusoe staggered to his feet. This he did with difficulty, moving as one does who has aged before his time with illness or sorrow, or with both combined.
James had turned to go, when, with a happy cry, Halcott sprang out from his hiding-place, dragging with him the small canoe and her paddles.
“Ship ahoy! James! James!” he shouted, “your prayers are heard. I’m here—your old shipmate, Halcott. You are saved!”
The captain sprang into the canoe as he spoke, and soon shoved her off.
They could see now, in a bright glint of sunshine, that James’s hair was long and had a silvery sheen. He gazed once more across, but shook his head. It was evident he would not credit his senses. Then he turned round and moved slowly and painfully back into the bush.
Tandy had not attempted to go with Halcott, though the canoe could easily have held two.
“That meeting,” he said to himself, “will be a sacred one. I shall not dare to intrude.”
It was quite a long time after he reached the island and disappeared in the grove before anything more was seen of Halcott.
Tandy had thrown himself on the beach in a careless attitude, just as he used to lounge on summer days on the poop of the Merry Maiden while slowly moving along the canal, and smoking now as he used to smoke then—smoking and thinking.
But see, Halcott is coming at last. He is leading James by the hand and helping him towards the boat, and in a few minutes’ time both are over and standing on the bank of the lake.
“Tandy, this is James. But you know the strange story, and this is the strangest part of all.”
Tandy took the hand that was offered to him. How cold and thin it felt!
“God sent you here,” said James slowly, and speaking apparently with some difficulty. “His name be praised. It was for this happy meeting I was kept living on and on, though I did not know it. It has been a weary, terrible time. It is ended now, I trust.” Here a happy smile spread over his sadly-worn face, and once more he extended his hand to Halcott. “Heaven bless you, friend—nay, brother!”
“Yes, James, and we shall always be brothers now—always, always.”