“Aloah, Wahine,” murmured the Hawaiian, as he bowed and took them from the girl’s arms and at once went forward to make comfortable beds for his leper fellows. For the Hawaiian also was a good man, his heart full of tenderness and religious sorrow for those who suffered around him. Sestrina would sit in the cuddy alone by night, unable to sleep as the schooner rolled helpless on the tropic seas. A dim, dream-like kaleidoscopic glimpse of Royal Clensy sitting in some room in far-away Honolulu, awaiting her presence, would flash through her brain. Her feelings at such moments were wonderfully intense; her past, her life itself and future hopes seemed to be suddenly crystallised into one magic diamond-flash of the mind as she saw the shadowy form and face of her awaiting lover. Her soul, winged by the mystery of the unexplainable, crossed those tropic seas and went wandering amongst strange people in strange places, searching to find the one who would think she had forgotten him. Then the boundless reality of the surrounding ocean would return and bring the darkest despair to her heart.
In a few days the swell of the ocean had subsided enough to make it possible to walk about the Belle Isle without holding on to the fixtures. It was then that Hawahee set about clearing the deck of the wreckage, fallen spars and tackle, etc. The Hawaiian had been a sailor, and so he knew that it would be wise to get the fallen spars of the mainmast and the débris of the foremast overboard so as to ease the schooner’s list. The clearance, by the help of Rohana and Lupo and Steno, was accomplished in one day. Then Hawahee made Lupo take the helm, so that he could attempt to keep the vessel’s head before the swell; but the way of the schooner was not sufficient, and so she drifted broadside. A few nights after that it came on to blow again. Things began to look serious. Sestrina asked the Hawaiian to stay aft with her in the cuddy. The thundering seas had once more begun to lift the schooner as though it were a tiny boat. The seas swept right over her deck as she drifted away, away into the vast unknown regions of the Pacific Ocean.
Seeing that nothing could be done to bring the Belle Isle under control, Hawahee told the lepers to keep in the forecastle. Then he looked kindly at Sestrina, and said, “Wahine, for your sake I will stay aft.”
“Yes, do stay here with me!” cried Sestrina in dread as the darkness came over the seas and the thundering seas crashed intermittently against the schooner. It was a terrible night. The cargo shifted in the hold, making the Belle Isle take a worse list than ever. It was almost impossible to keep a footing on deck without holding on to something. Hawahee fell on his knees in the cuddy and prayed first to the great White God, and then to his own gods. It all seemed like some terrible nightmare to Sestrina as she lay in an exhausted state on the cuddy’s settee, her sleepless eyes watching the Hawaiian on his knees appealing to his gods with deep religious fervour. So often did Sestrina feel the mountainous waters bear down on the wreck and lift it up on the travelling hills, that she knew exactly when to expect the crash and shiver of the schooner as the seas struck her.
“Where are we going to, where?” moaned Sestrina.
The Hawaiian, who had risen to his feet, gazed on the girl with melancholy eyes, and then shook his head. He well knew that the Belle Isle was drifting far away from the track of the trading vessels, away into the unknown seas.
Daylight came. Sestrina had lashed herself to the cuddy’s table and, with her head on it, had fallen into a subconscious state. She thanked her Maker on her knees when she woke and peered through the porthole. She saw the dim eastern horizon slowly brighten from grey to saffron and deep orange. Then she watched the crimson streaks burst out of the glowing dawn’s first magnificent thrill, dawn’s first splendid pang as the birth of the sunrise flooded the eastern skyline with a wealth of golden and crimson splendour.
“O Langi, O le sao va moana,” said Hawahee, as he gazed on the rosy eternity of the east. Then, folding his hands across his breast, he prayed in his native tongue. And still the Belle Isle drifted on, drifting like some frightened conscious thing as the everlasting seas charged her helplessness. She was loaded with timber, and so, as far as sinking was concerned, they were safe.
“We shall not sink; Langi (heaven) is good to us,” murmured Hawahee as he walked softly into the cuddy after examining the Belle Isle’s cargo.
When the seas had calmed down, Sestrina and Hawahee stood on deck and scanned the horizon to see if land or a sail was in sight.