Gabrielle of the Lagoon: A Romance of the South Seas

by W. H. Myddleton

There was an intense note of appeal in the girl’s voice, such a note as would have touched the heart of the vilest of men, but Macka never moved a muscle. He had stolen so many girls, men and youths, watched their tears, heard their heartrending appeals, and thrown their bodies over the vessel’s side when they had died of terror and malaria down in the stinking, hot-fevered hold, that it seemed nothing awful to him to see a girl kneel before him and weep.

He was overjoyed that the girl was awake. He had quite thought that she had been doped too much and that there was a possibility of her never recovering sensibility again. As she stood before him, with the oil lamp swinging to and fro to the heave and roll of the flying ship, Gabrielle’s eyes, which had been agleam with fright, suddenly changed, and shone with a new strength. She had realised, with a woman’s unerring instinct, the uselessness of appealing to the man before her. As she steadily returned his gaze, the dark man saw the courage of her father’s race.

A cowed look leapt into his face. Even in that swift glance he had realised that all would not go as smoothly as he had anticipated. To steal helpless Papuans, Samoans, Marquesans, Tahitian maids, to defile them, pitch them overboard when they were dead or dying, and amuse himself by revolver shots at the poor, floating, bobbing bodies was one thing; but to steal a white girl and defile her was quite another. That much he realised most forcibly, for before he could realise anything more than that Gabrielle had rushed out of the cabin and bolted.

She raced along the ship’s rolling deck. She looked about her and called loudly in the dark, still hoping that one of the crew might be a white man. When she saw the fierce, mop-headed, dark-faced men rush out of the forecastle at hearing her terrified screams she almost collapsed in her despair. For one moment she stood still and gazed up at the bellying sails as they swayed along beneath the high moon. Nothing but the illimitable sky-lines gleamed around her. She heard the moan of the dark tossing ocean. She did not hesitate, not the slightest indecision preceded her act—splash! she had leapt overboard! It all happened in a few seconds. The Rajah and the mulatto mate at once gave orders for the crew to heave to and lower a boat. It seemed ages to the Rajah as the swarthy crew climbed slowly about like dusky ghosts, as though they had a century in which to fulfil his orders. At this moment the captain of the blackbirder (to give him his correct title) revealed his solitary virtue; he could see the girl’s struggling form in the dark waters astern. Not a sound came from the girl’s lips, only the tossing white hands were visible on the moon-lit waters—then they vanished—she had gone! In a second he had pulled off his coat and boots and plunged into the sea. The men of his race could swim like fish, and dive too, for they took to the water before they could toddle. Even as it was, the Rajah had to dive twice before he could grip hold of Everard’s daughter. He had a tremendous struggle to get the girl back on board, for the sea was a bit heavy that night. When he did get her on deck the half-caste mate and the crew stared on her prostrate figure in astonishment. She had been kept from their sight till then.

Lying there on the hatchway, her white face turned towards the sky, she looked like some angel who had mysteriously fallen from heaven and lay dead before them. They were a superstitious lot, and several of them began to moan some heathen death chant. Even the Rajah was strangely influenced at seeing that pallid face, the drenched, dishevelled hair, the curved, pale lips. The bluish tropical moonlight bathed her form like a wonderful halo. He looked at the watching crew, a fierce light in his eyes. In a moment they had all gone, slinking away. “Awaie!” he said to one who, bolder than the rest, looked back over his shoulder. And then, as the crew obeyed the mulatto mate’s orders to get the vessel under way once more, the Rajah lifted Gabrielle’s prostrate form and carrying her into the cuddy laid her down on the low saloon table. Grabbing a decanter, he poured a small drop of spirit between her lips. Then he closed the door so softly that only the sudden disappearance of the stream of light on the deck from the lamp inside told that the door had been closed.

They were alone, he and she—the frail, helpless girl in the vile power of passion and hypocrisy. For a second the Papuan Rajah gazed around the saloon. Even he was startled by the look on the swarthy face that gazed back on him from the long mirror—his own reflection. Stooping over the recumbent form, he gently rubbed her hands. They were cold and very limp. He began to think that it was too late, that she was dead. Gently pulling the wet bodice open, he slowly unfastened the blue strings of her underclothing. He gazed in silence on the curves of her breasts, which were faintly revealed to his eyes by the dim, swaying oil lamp. That fragile whiteness seemed to appeal even to him; the mute lips, the closed eyelids, the helpless attitude paralysed the dark cruelty of his natural self. And it is only, we must think, because God made all men, be they black or white, that he was loyal to the great trust that the irony of inscrutable Fate had placed in his hands—he of all men on earth.

The seas were beating against the vessel’s side as she lay there. The vessel pitched and rolled as once more it started on its course, and as it rolled the girl’s recumbent form moved and swayed to the lurch of the table. Her drenched bronze-gold hair fell in a mass to the cuddy floor, the brown-stockinged ankles fully revealed through the disarrangement of the soaking skirt.

Could anyone have peeped from the deck through the cuddy port-hole they would have seen the Rajah bending over the helpless girl. A strange fire flashed in his eyes as he gazed and gazed and gently rubbed where her heart lay. The gleam in his eyes died away, but still he watched, waiting anxiously. His face was set and wild looking. “Ar-a va loo!” (“She’s gone!”) he muttered. He tried to feel the pulse of the wrist, but he dropped it with a sigh. At last it came! His hand visibly trembled as he lifted her arms up and gently spread them away from her body. Then he put his ear to her heart and listened—there was a sound like a tiny echo coming from the remotest distance. Throb! throb! it came—Gabrielle’s soul was hovering between heaven and earth—in more senses than one. Then the throb ceased as though for an eternity of time, but once more it came—throb! throb! throb! And before the Rajah was prepared for it Gabrielle’s eyes were staring at him!

Instinctually the girl’s helpless fingers half clutched the wet fringe of her loosened bodice. And, strange as it may seem, the heathen Papuan even helped her cold fingers to close the delicate folds.

The instinctive action of the girl told him more of her true character than a thousand dissertations on racial codes, morals and inherent virtue could have done. In a flash he had realised that if he wanted to gain her respect it had to be gained by astute cunning based on strict emotional principles. Recovering his embarrassment, he rolled his eyes and blinked—which is the equivalent of a blush in New Guinea folk. He was really pleased to see that she was recovering. Immediately flinging himself on his knees, he sobbed out: “Oh Gabriel-ar-le, Marsoo cowan, nicer beauty voumna!” In his excitement he had lapsed into execrable pidgin-English. He heard her sigh. He fondled her hand. “’Tis I who saved you,” he murmured. He fancied that he was a hero. In his perverted ignorance he saw Gabrielle no longer a kidnapped girl on his ship, but a maiden whom he had saved from the cruel seas. He was bold enough to press her hand to his lips.