He then slowly proceeded, with almost mathematical precision, to narrate the whole story as far as he knew it.
“Ah, me,” said old Lydia to me. “He kind Melican man, Uncle Sams.”
It appeared that the good-hearted American shellback had put in many little touches which were calculated to melt Benbow’s heart where his old wife Lydia was concerned. Indeed Uncle Sam illustrated the native woman’s grief over her daughter’s flight. He knew that it was well to do this for Lydia’s sake, for she had wandered about the isle in a demented condition screaming out: “I’ve driven my daughter Wayee away into the forest for ever!” Of course, island scandal had made a lot out of the native woman’s incoherent cries.
I’ve no doubt that it took Uncle Sam a long time to tell his story, and much moistening of his throat with rum, but when the tale was told, and Uncle Sam had described Waylao’s grief, Benbow pulled out his big red pocket-handkerchief and blew his nose. All the beachcombers saw through the ruse, for the British sailor slipped the corners to his eyes as though he were ashamed of the tears. It appeared that they drank considerably that night, and became emotional. I suppose the sight of the old sailor’s grief was too much for them. There had been a regular pandemonium of sorrowful expressions after that speech of Uncle Sam’s. Some sneezed, some coughed and wiped their eyes with their sleeves. To tell one the truth, even the jockey chap, who wore checked trousers and made bets on the most sacred things, was overcome. He told me afterwards that he’d never seen anything so sad since the “dead cert” came in last and fell down dead. Then he said: “Well, I’ll never say that Bret Harte’s characters were not taken from life again.”
Ere that renowned night of sorrow commingled with rum was old, Benbow rose from his chair and called for volunteers who would go with him in search of Waylao.
“I’ll search the b—— Pacific till I find her!” he roared.
Without any hesitation the whole assemblage of beachcombers had lifted their mugs and, with voices thick with emotion as well as rum fumes, had said: “Captain, put me down for one!”
Thus did Benbow get together his volunteer crew who would go and search the seas for the missing Waylao.
As the old native woman rambled on, telling me these things in her emotional, descriptive way, I saw that scene before my eyes, and even regretted that I had been absent from so romantic a night. I knew those rough men so well that I could easily imagine how the thought of going away with Benbow after Waylao thrilled their hearts and struck some dormant, romantic note of their souls!
Before the solemn meeting broke up, songs were sung. Perhaps it is best to tell the whole truth—ere daybreak had painted the sea-line with grey, only three beachcombers were able to creep back to the hulk without immediate assistance. At least four of them slept under the palms, some were carried back to the hulk with their feet dragging behind them, for the rum cask in Benbow’s cottage was empty.