“Shall we give the Pitcairn Islanders some rope and canvas this trip, Captain?”
We were only about fifty miles from Pitcairn, and by nine o’clock that evening we would be hove to off it.
“Yes. We’ve lost our cargo, so we might as well divide up our supplies.”
The Pitcairn Islanders wait months and months for sailing ships to come. Very few ships ever go so far off the beaten sailing tracks, and when one does, the islanders offer up devout thanksgiving. Along about nine o’clock, Pitcairn loomed ahead. On the top of it fires were burning. First they appeared on one end of the island, then on the other. They had sighted us. The fires were beacon lights to us, so that we would not strike the shoals by sailing in too close.
“Give them the freedom of the ship when they come aboard,” Father instructed the mate. “These natives never steal anythin’.”
Within an hour from the time we hove to, three boats from Pitcairn were alongside, and about thirty-five islanders came on board. I studied them closely for signs of native blood, but they were as white as I am. They spoke English, simply, and with a peculiar accent. The women were delighted to see me, another white woman. One old dame stroked my hair; a young girl offered to trade her native fibre dress for a pair of overalls.
We went up behind the companionway and swapped the clothes. She thought she had made a grand bargain as she strutted around with my faded blue overalls on. She ran down on the main deck and brought back a tall, quiet young woman, who seemed to be revered by the natives.
“This is Frances McCoy, who is saving our people.” Miss McCoy placed both hands on my shoulders—a custom of greeting probably inherited from her native maternal ancestors.
“Did you have a peaceful voyage?” she asked, and her voice was smooth and quiet.
“No. We had the goddamndest trip we’ve ever had. We struck icebergs south of Tasmania and had to shoot our cargo of salt to hell.”