Silva, leaving three men on board, ordered us to get into his boat to return with him to the big schooner. As we were shoving off, old Surley, who had been smelling about after the other men, gave a loud bark, as much as to say, “Don’t leave me behind,” and leaped in after us. Truly glad were we to have him, poor fellow. He might prove to us a friend in need.
We stepped on deck; the crew, we thought, eyed us with very sinister looks, but no one spoke to us till a man we took to be the captain stepped up to the gangway. “Who are you, and where do you come from, who go about prying into other people’s affairs?” he exclaimed in a gruff voice. He stamped with his feet as lift spoke, as if lashing himself up into a rage. He was a pale, long-faced man, with a large beard, and a very evil expression in his eye.
“We have no wish to pry into anybody’s affairs,” answered the doctor quietly. “We missed a boat with some of the people belonging to this schooner, and we thought they might be aboard your vessel.”
“I know nothing of the people you talk of; but as you have seen more than you ought, I suspect you’ll remain with us. We happen to want just such a schooner as yours, so say no more about it. You may think yourselves fortunate in not losing your lives. There’s no disguise about us, you see.”
Had we before felt any doubts on the subject, these remarks would have revealed to us too clearly the character of the people among whom we had fallen. I was thankful, indeed, that we were not immediately murdered. Why the desperadoes allowed us to live was a mystery. The doctor, they thought, would be useful to them; and perhaps, as Jerry remarked, they did not think us worth killing. The doctor, he, and I, stood together near the gangway, with Surley at our feet, waiting what was next to happen. Meantime the poor wounded Sandwich islander had been handed up, and placed on the deck forward.
The vessel on board which we found ourselves was a large, handsome craft, of fully a hundred and eighty tons; and, from her great beam, her taunt, raking masts, the broad white ribbon outside, and the peculiar paint and fittings on her deck, she was evidently American. There were a good many white men among her crew; but there were also many blacks and mulattoes, of every shade of brown and hue of olive or copper. Never had I seen people of so many nations and tribes brought together, while every one of them to my eyes appeared most villainous cut-throats.
We saw the boat go back to the Dove and deposit a couple of more hands aboard her, and then both vessels hauled their wind and stood away to the south-west. Just then some of the crew hailed the doctor:—“Here; your patient seems to be about to slip his cable. You’d better come and see what’s the matter.” We accompanied the doctor, and knelt down by the side of the wounded man, who was evidently dying. He took the doctor’s hand. “You kind to us, but you no help me now,” he whispered, with his failing breath. “If you once more see Mr Callard—my love to him—I die happy. I trust in Him he taught me to cling to. Once I was poor savage. He made me rich.” These were the poor Kanaka’s last words. A few years ago, and how differently would one of his countrymen have died! The doctor closed the eyes and arranged the limbs of the dead man, and threw a handkerchief which he took from his neck over his face. “There,” he said, “he’ll not give you any more trouble.” The men said not a word, but walked about as composedly as if nothing had happened, while we went back to our place near the gangway. Shortly afterwards, a man, who seemed to be an officer, went forward. “Heave that corpse overboard,” he exclaimed; “why do you let it remain there cumbering the deck?” The men looked at each other, and then, lifting up the body of the poor Kanaka, threw it, without form or ceremony, into the water. We looked astern. There it floated, with the arms spread out, and the face turned towards us, for the handkerchief had fallen off the head. Its lips seemed to move. I thought it was uttering a well-merited curse on the hateful craft we were on board. It seemed to be about to spring out of the water. I could not help crying out. I shrieked, I believe. Many of the pirates looked with horror. “Is he following us?” I cried. No. Down sunk the body from sight, as if dragged by some force from below. “Ah, a shark has got him!” said Silva, who had been looking on with the rest. Many of the ruffians shuddered, for they knew full well that such might any day be their own fate.
While this scene was enacting, a similar one was taking place on board the Dove. Her captors, having time to look about them, had taken up the bodies of poor Captain Stone and the other Kanaka, and, without shroud or a shot to their feet, had hove them overboard. They also were immediately attacked by the sharks. Jerry and I shuddered, as well we might. The doctor looked on with more composure. “It matters little whether sharks or animalculae first devour a body,” he observed. “One or other will inevitably swallow it before long, only the sharks make greater speed with the process. Happily there is an essence which neither one nor the other can destroy, which survives triumphant over death; so, lads, when you mourn the loss of a friend, think of him as living in that essence, not in the mortal frame you see torn to pieces or mouldering in decay.” A new light seemed to burst on me as the doctor said this. The idea aided me to get over the horror I had felt at seeing the fate of the missionary captain, and enabled me better to bear the first remark which the pirate leader deigned to make us: “Well, youngsters, if you don’t behave yourselves, you’ll come to that very quickly, let me tell you.”
“We have no wish to do otherwise than behave ourselves, sir,” answered Jerry in his politest way. “Perhaps you will tell us what you wish to have done?”
“To hold your tongue and be hanged,” answered the ruffian, turning aside; for Jerry’s coolness puzzled and enraged him.