The missionary smiled. “No need for you to send,” he said. “I will—”
He stepped to the rail and called to the nearest canoe. Half a dozen thrust toward the schooner, and the missionary spoke to the men in them. They darted shoreward, racing. The missionary looked after them, his eyes shaded beneath the wide brim of his hat. Other canoes pressed together below him, and he talked cheerily to their occupants. A woman began to wail, and the missionary called down reassurance to her.
The girl turned to the Captain, who had watched the little scene with her.
“They love him,” she commented. “They are sorry he is going away.”
A man saw her, and grinning, shouted something; she smiled and lifted her hand.
“They love you, too,” Black Pawl said. “That is easy seen.”
She nodded. “Yes,” she replied. “And I them.”
The Captain studied her with a sidelong glance, measuring her profile, and marking the shape of forehead and of eye; and upon his face that tragic mask again descended. But when she turned toward him, he flung it off with a laugh. They leaned against the rail side by side, talking idly.
About the schooner the canoes threaded their expert way. Amidships, stores of wood were coming aboard. The second mate’s boat approached the Deborah, towing casks of water. Red Pawl set men to rig tackle to swing the casks aboard. The gear creaked as the booms swung back and forth with each lift and fall of the schooner beneath them. Above their heads the mainsail flapped. The cries of the islanders rose softly, their musical tones smothering the harsh commands of the mate.
The second mate’s boat was nearing. With her eyes upon it, the girl asked: