The captain had said that Ellyon had had some advantages, but the reference to terra cotta drew a smile from one at least of the crew. I think he saw it, for his expression changed. Then in a moment he was pleasant again, and insistent that we should accept his hospitality. It was now time for our good manners, so we thanked him cordially and pleaded our excuses. One man had not walked any distance for so long that he had almost forgotten the use of his limbs; another preferred to rest by the sea and simply enjoy the beautiful prospect; a third was so exhausted from rowing that he was incapable of further effort, and so on. The beach comber now played his last card. “Shipmates,” he declared, “there’s a lot of rum up in my place. I can’t bring it down here, but, if you want to go up there with me, you shall have all you want of it.”
Most of the men became greatly interested. No grog had been served during the voyage, and the very word “rum” had a pleasant sound.
“You see, shipmates,” the beach comber continued, “you folks at home don’t know what rum is. The rum you drink is made from molasses—that is, made second-hand. Did you ever hear of Jamaica rum, worth its weight in gold—the smartest drink on the other side of land that ever tickled the palate? And why, shipmates? Made from the cane first-hand, and not from molasses, second-hand. And how is it on this side of land? Right here on this lovely island is the finest rum that is made on any island in the Pacific. From what? The sugar cane. By whom? Peter Ellyon. I’ve got a still that beats the Dutch. Now come along with me and enjoy yourselves.”
If safety had been assured I think most of the men would have accompanied him, but the old ship, which had been our home for so many months, now began to look more attractive than this garden spot. One of the crew, who during the voyage had bewailed his lot in being deprived of liquor, accepted the invitation cheerfully. We all stared at him, but there was no disposition to sound a warning in the presence of Ellyon.
The two men walked up the beach to a little opening in the trees and disappeared. Our men were ordered to be ready to man the boats. I heard a man say, with a laugh, “He didn’t call himself Pete, but Peter. He’s pretty high-toned, even out here among savages.” Another man said in a very low tone, “What was Lakeum up to in not stoppin’ that man from goin’? He’ll never come back, sure.”
The women and children showed no disposition to go, and this seemed to indicate to me that, while our departed shipmate was rather imprudent, there was reason to believe that he would return. I was right. He did return and in a hurry. Suddenly there rang out a piercing shriek; the women and children disappeared, and out of the thicket sprang our shipmate, followed by Ellyon, and ran for us like a deer. Word came to push off, and into his place leaped the man as agile as a cat. The crews bent to the oars, and there on the beach stood our would-be entertainer, his face fairly livid with rage. He sent after us a torrent of vile language; strange to say, no natives appeared on the shore, and, as we widened the breach, the form of our late associate was still visible and still active, but the billingsgate language kept growing less and less distinct.
Out of the thicket sprang our shipmate.
It was no time to learn the story of our shipmate’s adventure. When we reached the Seabird our boat remained in the water while the other boats were raised. There was soon commotion on the deck, and the hostage appeared in the custody of a couple of the men. By sign and gesture he was ordered into our boat, and he complied. It was not a long haul to a spot suitable to dump him. Lakeum declared:
“See here, hostage, there’s your friend on shore. He’s waiting for you and you’d better go overboard.”