In a few minutes Martin told his troubles. Some seven months previously a ship had called at the island. He boarded her. She was a whaler making south to the Kermadecs “sperming.” The captain told Martin he had come through the Pelews and picked up a big canoe with a chiefs retinue on board, nearly dead from starvation. Many of them did die on board. Among those left were two women, the wife and daughter of the chief—who was the first to die. Making a long story short, Martin gave the captain trade and cash to the tune of five hundred dollars for the two women, and came ashore. Pensioning off his other wife, he took the young girl himself and sold the mother to the local chief for a ton of copra.
A week afterwards a young native came outside his house, cutlass in hand. He was a brother of the dismissed wife and meant fighting. Martin darted out, his new love standing calmly in the doorway, smoking. There was a shot, and the native fell with a bullet through his chest, but raising his voice he called to others and flung them his cutlass; and then Martin found himself struggling with two or three more and got a fearful stab. That night the head men of the village came to him and said that as he had always been a good man to them they would not kill him, but they then and there tabooed him till he either killed his new wife or sent her away. And when he looked out in the morning he saw the whole village going away in canoes to the other side of the lagoon. For six months neither he nor the girl—Lunumala was her name—had spoken to a native. And Martin gave himself up to love and drink, and, since the fracas had not done a cent's worth of trading.
Denison told Martin his instructions. He only nodded, and said something to the girl, who rose and brought the supercargo his books. A few minutes' looking through them, and then at his well-filled trade-room, showed Denison that everything was right, except that all the liquor was gone.
“Martin,” the supercargo said, “this won't do. I've got another man aboard, and I'll put him here and take you to Rotumah.”
But he swore violently. He couldn't go anywhere else. This island was his home. The natives would give in some day. He'd rather cut his throat than leave.
“Well,” said Denison, calmly, “it's one of two things. You know as well as I do that a tabu like this is a serious business. I know you are the best man for the place; but, if you won't leave, why not send the girl away?”
No, he wouldn't send her away. She should stay too.
“All serene,” said the man of business. “Then I'll take stock at once, and we'll square up and I'll land the other man.”
This was a crusher for poor Martin. Denison felt sorry for him, and had a hard duty to carry through.
Presently the sick man with a ten-ton oath groaned, “——— you, Mister Skipper, wot are you a-doin' of there, squeezin' my wife's hand?”