Carteret left for the coast on the following day. His next letter was from Honolulu, whence he had formulated a plan, and taken the first steps towards [183] ]the fulfilment of a long-devised scheme of relief. The ‘hour had come,’ he wrote, and, what was of more importance, ‘the man.’
Plentiful, and easy to be secured for adequate pay, as were the sailors of fortune on or around the beaches of Ponapé and Ocean Island, there were difficulties in the way.
They were bold sea-rovers, brave to recklessness, seasoned to all manner of tragedies—mutinies, wrecks, ‘cuttings out’ by savage islanders, what not. But they were short of the wherewithal with which to begin a campaign. They had neither cash nor credit,—proverbially without the first requisite, while the second indispensable was absolutely nil.
Throughout the wide ocean world of the South Pacific there was, however, one master mariner, owning the far-famed brig Leonora, and a name to conjure with from New Zealand to the Line Islands. This was the celebrated, perhaps more correctly termed notorious, William Henry Hayston, the dreaded captain of the Leonora—the smartest vessel of that strange fleet which the South Sea traffic bred and maintained. Half-traders, half-slavers, or wholly privateers, on occasion equally ready to play either part at a pinch, and wholly indifferent to flag, or maritime law, if the pay or prize-money were but adequate to the risk. It was freely asserted that there was no adventure which this ‘pirate king’—so to speak—would not undertake on adequate remuneration. Lawless, dangerous, even desperate he might be, but he had rarely been known to fail [184] ]when perfect seamanship, dauntless courage, and contempt of all ordinary, even extraordinary, risks were indispensable. And whatever contract he elected to accept, he always commanded a crew fully prepared to stand by him to the death.
Captain William Henry Hayston, formerly of the United States Navy, but now unattached, owner and commander of the brig Leonora, may have had misunderstandings, more or less serious, with Her Britannic Majesty’s and other Governments in an earlier day, but if so, no one apparently cared to remind him of such trifles. As he walked up the principal thoroughfare with his supercargo, and first mate, a half-caste, well known (and feared also) throughout the island world, he did not give people the idea of a man to be lightly interfered with. Not that there was anything suggestive of unlawful callings or piratical ferocity about his manner or appearance. Perfectly dressed and appointed after the naval fashion of the day, his air was serene, his accent affable and courteous. Friends and acquaintances, official and otherwise, were greeted with the free speech and ready smile which had served him so well in many a close encounter with the myrmidons of the law.
Marching up to the Consulate of France, he presented himself to that dread official, and transacted a short interview with easy assurance and consummate policy; sympathised with the official view of some later native troubles; and after mentioning Callao as the port he thought would be probably his destination, gracefully made adieu, leaving his interlocutor utterly in the [185] ]dark as to his movements, his business, or his intentions.
. . . . . . . . .
With a well-found steamer, hope in his heart, and joy irradiating his every sense, Carteret on board the Morana is now nearing Honolulu—which, if the breeze holds fair, will be reached to-morrow night. Here he is to meet Captain Hayston, of the Leonora, with whom he has already arranged terms and conditions, and who has signified his willingness to land a crew at Molokai, prepared to carry off the arch-fiend himself, or the Governor of the Straits Settlements, always provided that the sum mentioned between them should be ‘planked down,’ and that the cost of any prosecution on behalf of the Crown be repaid within a specified time.
An unobtrusive entrance by the Leonora had been made late at night, and in the morning it was announced that Captain Hayston had once more honoured their waters with his presence. The famous schooner had slipped in and taken up her anchorage without aid from pilot or other functionary, but she was no sooner discovered at dawnlight, placidly reposing like a strange waterfowl in a pond among the ducks and geese of a farmyard, amid the ships of all nations, than a distinct feeling of unrest, not unaccompanied by apprehension, began to manifest itself.
‘Some darned villainy afloat, I guess,’ said a grizzled American whaleman, ‘when William H. Hayston, master mariner, drops his anchor. Sometimes it’s contraband o’ war—blackbirdin’—or [186] ]smuggled opium—but thar was always some game on hand afore he quit—which he did sudden-like.’