They had defeat behind them, and even if it were only momentary defeat, ahead of them lay explanations. How would the remainder of the crew take the killing of Sru and his companions? There was also the fact that they had lost four divers.
The Kermadec was close to them now but not a soul showed on her deck, not even Le Moan, who on sighting the returning boat had slipped into the galley where she sat crouched in a corner by the copper with eyes closed as if asleep.
She had told the fellows below that she would warn them on the return of the boat. She had forgotten her promise, her mind was far away, travelling, circling in a nebulous world like a bird lost in a fog, questing for a point to rest on. She knew well that though the boat was returning, this was not the end of things. To-morrow it would all begin again, the destroyed canoes, the implacable firing from the boat; the face of Rantan as he pushed off all told her this. Crouching, with closed eyes, she heard the oars, the slight grinding of the boat as it came alongside and the thud of bare feet as Carlin came over the side on to the deck. No voices.
The beachcomber had taken in the situation at a glance, the crew were down below, smoking or sleeping, leaving the schooner to look after herself. It was just as well—down there they would have heard nothing of the distant firing, seen nothing of the killing. He knew kanakas, knew as well as though he had been told that as soon as he and Rantan had pushed off, the crew had taken charge of the foc’sle.
Leaving Rantan to tie up, he went below to the cabin for some food, where, a moment later, the mate joined him.
In a few minutes, their hunger satisfied, they began to speak and almost at once they were wrangling.
“Shooting up the lagoon—well, you’ve shot it up and much good it has done us,” said Carlin. “I’m not against killing, but seems to me the killing has been most on their side. What’s the use of talking? It will take a year at this game to do any good and how are you to manage it from the boat?”
“To-morrow,” said Rantan, “I’ll move the ship up, anchor her off that village and then we’ll see. Chaps won’t come swimming out to attack a ship, and we can pot them from the deck till they put their hands up. We’ve no time to wipe them all off, but I reckon a few days of the business will break them up and once a kanaka is broken, he’s broken.”
Carlin without replying got into his bunk and stretching at full length, lit his pipe; as he flung the Swedish match box to Rantan, a sound from the deck above like the snap of a broken stick, made him raise his eyes towards the skylight. Rantan, the box in his hand paused for a moment, then the sound not being repeated, he lit his pipe.
Throwing the box back to the other he came on deck.