Rapidly the islands took form and shape as, under her press of canvas, the bark drove onward. Up from the restless waves rose three vast pyramids, their summits hidden in low-hung, threatening clouds, while below, stretched gray-green slopes and rugged hills, cut with black gorges and ravines and fringed with beating, high-flung surf.
“My, but that’s a wild-looking place!” exclaimed Tom. “Is there a town there, Captain Edwards?”
“No real town,” replied the skipper, “but a number of people, about one hundred and fifty, I suppose, and mighty nice folk, too. It’s a remarkable island, boys, and the most remarkable thing about it are its inhabitants. They are mostly descendants of British soldiers who were stationed on the island when Napoleon was a captive on St. Helena. Tristan’s just about half way ’twixt St. Helena and South America and the Britishers were a bit afraid some one might try to rescue Napoleon, so they placed a garrison over here on Tristan. You may think it’s a mighty poor-looking spot, but the Tommies grew so fond of it, they wouldn’t leave and settled down and their descendants have been here ever since. Funny thing, too, mighty few of ’em ever leave to live anywhere else and if they do go off to see the rest of the world they always come back. But a good part of ’em are whalemen’s families. Seems to be something about the place that makes folks fall in love with it, and ever since Yankee whaleships have been comin’ here, whalemen have been desertin’ and joining the colony.”
“But what do they do for a living?” asked Jim. “I should think it would be just the loneliest place in the world. Do they have a king or a president, or what?”
“They raise cattle and garden truck mostly,” replied Captain Edwards. “That’s why we whalemen stop here—to get fresh vegetables and eggs and beef. The land’s fertile and the climate ain’t bad and they raise about the best potaters and vegetables I ever saw. No, they don’t have any king or president or any sort of government,—just get along neighborly and nice with elders to guide ’em and seem to do a heap better and be a lot happier than any republic or kingdom you’ll find. And they ain’t a mite wild or uncivilized or uneducated either,—have churches and schools and everything, even if the only folks they ever see are whalemen and a British cruiser or ship that calls once a year with mail and supplies. Whenever she comes in, the folks have all their letters and orders ready and send them off and a year later they get the goods and the answers. Wonder how folks in the States would get on if they could only go shopping once a year and had to wait another year to get the things!”
“Gee, that’s a high mountain!” exclaimed Tom. “Will we have time to go ashore, Captain?”
“Plenty o’ time,” the skipper assured him. “We’ll be here a couple of days—have to give the folks time to get the supplies together and down to the shore, and you can go all over the place in that time if you’re as much like goats as the boys here are. Yes, pretty good-sized mountain, that—over 8,000 feet high and an old volcano.”
By the time the captain had finished speaking, the island loomed close ahead and the boys could see tiny houses and buildings scattered about on the sloping hillsides. The coast seemed forbidding and barren with heavy surf breaking everywhere; but as they drew nearer, a covelike harbor appeared, and cautiously feeling his way in, and constantly scanning landmarks on the shore, Captain Edwards piloted the bark towards the island until the sky-piercing cone of the volcano appeared to overhang the Hector’s masts.
At braces and halliards stood the crew, ready for instant action when the order was given to swing the yards. In the bows stood the second mate and his men ready to let the anchor go, and, to the boys, it seemed as if the bark would pile herself upon the rocks before the captain’s voice roared out the orders, the yards swung to the crash of slatting sails and the creak of tackle; the roar of chain and the splash of anchor were flung back in thundering echoes from the cliffs, and the Hector swung motionless before the out-of-the-world island.
Long before the bark had come to anchor, boats were putting off from shore, and in a few moments, a miniature flotilla surrounded the Hector. Much to the boys’ surprise,—for somehow, despite what the captain had told them, they had expected to see roughly clad, unkempt, swarthy people—the men who were in the boats were fine-looking, rosy-cheeked, bronzed-skinned young giants, neatly clad in blue dungaree or serge and differing in no way from men who might be seen at any seaport in New England.