'You also will do well to remember what you have heard, Mr. Bigham,' George said, translating Te Karearea's speech for him. 'I hope you were sincere in what you said just now,' he continued with some severity. 'We have to deal with a very clever man, and I earnestly advise you not to measure your wits against his.'
Bigham's grin widened, and he winked more portentously than before. Otherwise he made no reply.
CHAPTER V
THE GRATITUDE OF TE KAIHUIA
For the first few days the voyage was uneventful, and the Maoris, revelling in the freedom which the courage and skill of their leader had won for them, behaved like a parcel of children unexpectedly let loose from school. Te Karearea himself devoted a good deal of time to the conciliation of the young Englishman, with whom he would often engage in conversation with a charm of manner which was hard to resist. Invariably, too, he bewailed his inability to converse in the Pakeha tongue, though he admitted that he had mastered a few words which served him well enough upon unimportant occasions.
Nevertheless, one night when Bigham—who was for ever whispering among the men after dark—dismissed three of his cronies after a muttered colloquy, the dark form of the chief rose from the lifeboat, beneath which the meeting had taken place. He looked cautiously about him, and then, seeing no one but his own guards, who patrolled the deck night and day, leaped lightly down and stole away.
But George had observed him, and deliberated whether he should warn Bigham. Finally, however, he decided to wait, feeling confident that the mate would not take any important step without consulting him, in which case he would be in a better position to protest against any foolhardy venture.
The days wore on, the light winds growing lighter and lighter, until at length there fell a dead calm; the Stella floated idly upon the vast bosom of the sea, and the lively chatter of the Maoris gave way to gloomy silence, while their scarred faces scowled, and their fierce brown eyes flashed wrath at the white sailors, as if they alone were responsible for the vagaries of the weather.
One afternoon—it was the third day of the calm—as George swung drowsily in his hammock, he was aroused by a shrill scream and the patter of feet along the deck. Again the scream rang out, high and quavering, and presently was drowned by a deep-toned chant, chorussed by a hundred rich male voices which rose and fell in unison.
'They are propitiating the wind-god, I suppose,' mused George, feeling too lazy to get up and find out. 'Yesterday they threw their greenstone ornaments overboard; but it did no good. What children they are for all their strength and—Hullo! Good heavens!'