Now, I honestly believe that these two men thought that there would be serious trouble if I was so foolishly obstinate as to await the coming boat, when we could so easily lift anchor, rip down the lagoon, and be out through the south passage and in smooth water under the lee of the land in less than an hour; but at the same time they cocked their eyes so lovingly at the Sniders and Evans's magazine rifles which Niâbon passed up to me that I knew they were secretly delighted at the prospect of a fight.
Niâbon said something in a low voice to Lucia, who then spoke to me, and said nervously—
“Please do not think I am a coward, Mr. Sherry. But do you not think it is better for us to get away?”
“No, I don't,” I answered so rudely that her face flushed scarlet, and her eyes filled with tears; “I shall stay here if fifty of King Apinoka's boats were in sight.” And as I spoke I felt a strange, unreasoning fury against the approaching boat.
I picked up an Evans rifle—we had two on board—filled the magazine, handed it to Niâbon, told her to lay it down in the little cabin, out of sight, with the other arms—three Snider carbines, my breechloading shotgun, and three of those rotten pin-fire French service revolvers—the Lefaucheux. My own revolver was a Deane and Adams, and could be depended upon—the Lefaucheux could not, for the cartridges were so old that twenty-five per cent, of them would miss fire. Years before, at a ship chandler's shop in Singapore, I had bought twenty of these revolvers, with ten thousand cartridges, for a trifling sum, intending to sell them to the natives of the Admiralty Islands, who have a great craze for “little many-shooting guns,” as they call repeaters; but the cartridges were so defective that I was ashamed to palm them off as an effective weapon, and had given all but three away to various traders as curiosities to hang upon the walls of their houses.
As the boat drew near I saw that she was steered by a white man, who sailed her beautifully. He was dressed in a suit of dirty pyjamas, and presently, as the wind lifted the rim of the wide Panama hat he was wearing, I caught a glimpse of his features and recognised him—Florence Tully, one of the greatest blackguards in the Pacific, and whom I had last seen at Ponape, in the Carolines. As he saw me looking at him, he took off his hat and waved it.
“That is 'Florry' Tully, Jim,” said Lucia. “I have often seen him. He is the man who shot his wife—a native girl—at Yap, in the Carolines, because she told the captain of a Spanish gunboat that he had been selling arms to the natives.”
“I know the fellow too,” I said; “the little scoundrel used to be boatswain of Bully Hayes's brig, the Leonora. Hayes kicked him ashore at Jakoits Harbour, on Ponape, for stealing a cask of rum from the Leonora, and selling it to the crew of an American whaler.”