At dusk they returned and brought word that they had a lot of wood cut, but had left it ashore as the natives would lend them no assistance to load the boats.
The spokesman on this occasion was a big Maori from the Bay of Islands. Fordham gave him three dozen and put him in irons. Then he told the men they would get no supper till the wood was in the barque's hold—and he also stopped their grog.
“Well,” said the captain, eyeing them savagely, “what is it going to be? Are you going to get that wood off or not?”
“It's too dark,” said one; “and, anyway, we want our supper and grog first.”
Fordham made a step towards him, when the whole lot bolted below.
“They'll turn-to early enough to-morrow,” said he, grimly, “when they find there's no breakfast for 'em until that wood's on deck.” Then he went below to drink rum with his two mates, remarking to his first officer: “You mark my words, Colliss, we're going to have a roasting hot time of it with them fellows here at Pentecost!”
At daylight next morning the mate, who was less of a brute than the skipper, managed to get some rum and biscuit down into the fo'c's'le; then they turned-to and manned the boats. At noon the second mate, who was in charge of the cutting party, signalled from the shore that something was wrong.
On Fordham reaching the shore the second mate told him that all the native crew had run off into the bush.
The chief of the island was sent for, and Fordham told him to catch the runaways—fourteen in number—promising seven muskets in return. The white crew were working close by in sullen silence. They grinned when they heard the chief say it would be difficult to capture the men; they were natives, he remarked—if they were white men it would be easy enough. But he would try if the captain helped him.