Packenham swore. You infernal ass! Are you going to sea in a breeze like this by yourself? Wheres your crew?
The deevils wadna come wi me to look for a Papist. And Im not going to let the auld fule perish.
Then come alongside and take a couple of our Savage Island boys. I can spare them.
No, no, captain. Im not going tae delay ye when yere bound to the eastward and Im going the ither way. Yell find me here safe enough when ye come back in anither month. And Ill pick up the auld deevil and the wee bit lassie before mid-day.
And then, with his red beard spreading out across his shoulders, Macpherson let his boat pay off before the wind. In an hour he was out of sight.
Three weeks afterwards the Sadie Perkins sperm whaler of New Bedford, came across a boat, five hundred miles west of Mâdurô. In the stern sheets lay that which had once been Macpherson, the auld fule Papist, and the wee bit lassie.
A MAN OF IMPULSE
Blackett, the new trader at Guadalcanar in the Solomons, was entertaining a visitor, an old fellow from a station fifty miles distant, who had sailed over in his cutter to have a pitch with his nearest white neighbour. And the new mannew to this particular islandmade much of his grizzled visitor and listened politely to the veterans advice on many subjects, ranging from doctoring of perished tobacco with molasses to the barter of a Tower musket for a werry nice gal.
The new traders house looked snuggern anything hed ever seed, so the old trader had told him; and Blackett was pleased and very liberal with the liquor. He had been but a few months on the island, and already his house was furnished, in a rude fashion, better than that of any other trader in the region. He was a good host; and the captains of the Fiji, Queensland, and Samoan blackbirders liked to visit him and loll about the spacious sitting-room and drink his grog and play cardsand tell him that his wife was the smartest and prettiest woman in the group.
Blackett was especially vain of the young Bonin Island half-caste wife who had followed his varying fortunes from her home in the far north-west Pacific to the solitary, ghostly outlier of Polynesialonely Easter Island, and thence to and fro amongst a hundred other islands. He was vain of her beautythe beauty that had led him to almost abandon any intention of returning to civilisation; he was vain of the dark, passionate eyes, the soft, wavy hair, and the proud little mouth inherited from her Lusitanian father. Of this latter person, however, neither Blackett nor Cerita, his wife, were over-proudhe was a notorious old scamp and ex-pirate, even for that part of the Pacific, and Cerita knew that Blackett had simply bought her from him as he would buy a boat, or a bolt of canvas.
Blackett, finding it impossible to make old Hutton drunk or get him to turn in, resigned himself entirely to the old pirate, who, glancing to the far end of the room, to where Cerita and his own wife, a tall, lithe-limbed Aoba woman, were lying together on a mat smoking cigarettes, proceeded to pour out the story of his countless murders and minor villainies.
Blackett himself was a negatively-moral man. He could shoot a native if necessity demanded, but would not do so hastily; and the old traders brutal delight in recounting his pot-shots only excited a disgust which soon became visible in his face.
Thats all right, Mr. Blackett, said Hutton, with a hideous grin distorting his monkeyish visage; Im only a-tellin you of these here things for your own good, an I aint afeered of no man-o-war a-collarin me. This here island is a place where youve got to sleep with one eye open, an the moment you sees a nigger lookin crooked at you put a lead pill in himthat is, if hes a stranger from somewheres. An the more you shoots the better youll get on with your own nigs; they likes you more and treats you better.
With a weary gesture, Blackett rose from his seat. Thank you, Hutton, for your advice. If I thought a nigger meant to send an arrow or a spear through me Id try to get the drop on him first. But I couldnt kill any one in cold blood on mere suspicion. I could no more do that thanthan you could kill that Aoba wife of yours over there.
Old Hutton rose, too, and put a detaining hand on Blackett. Look here, now, an I suppose you think Im lyin. If I thought that that there Aoba wench was foolin me in any waysech as givin away my tobacco to a nigger buck, Id have to wentilate her yaller hide or get laid out myself.
Blackett shuddered. Im going to turn in. Let us have another drink, Hutton. If the Dutch firms schooner shows up this month Ill clear out of this accursed hole. I hate the place, and so does my woman. He used the term woman instead of wife purely out of deference to Island custom; but Hutton noticed it.
Aint she really your wife? he asked inquisitively.
Noyeswhat the devil does it matter to you? And Blackett, whose patience had quite worn out, filled the glasses, and passed one to his visitor, who uncouthly apologised. Then the two shook hands and laughed.
The night was close and sultry, and Cerita was lying on the cane-framed bed, fanning herself languidly. The man was leaning, with his face turned from her, against the open window, and looking out into the jungle blackness that encompassed the house. He was thinking of Huttons query, Aint she really your wife? His wife! No; but she would be yet. He would leave this infernal island, where one never knew when he might get a poisoned arrow or spear into him. He was making money here, yes; but money wasnt worth dying for. And Rita was more than money to him. She had been the best little woman in the world to himfor all her furious temper.
Yes, he would leave these blackguardly Solomons, with their hordes of savage cannibals, and go back to the eastward again, and Sydney, too. He could easily stow her away in some quiet house while he went and saw his people. And so Blackett thought and smoked away till Ritas voice startled him.
Give me a match, Harry: I want to smoke. I cant sleep, its so hot, and my arm is tired fanning, and the screen is full of mosquitoes. That devil of a girlwhere is she?
There! said Blackett, pointing to beneath the bed, where Europuai, his wifes attendant, lay rolled up in a mat.
The black beast!and the half-blood rose from the bed, throwing the mosquito-net angrily asideand I thought she was sleeping near the Aoba woman, the wife of that drunken old Hutton, and, stooping down so that her black hair fell like a mantle over her bare shoulders, she seized the short, woolly head of the sleeper and dragged her out.
Blackett laughed. Easy, Rita, easy! Youll frighten her so that shell clear out from us. Let her take her mat over there in the corner. Give the poor devil a chance. Shes terrified of old Hutton, so sneaked in here to hide. Shes only a wild bushyand he looked compassionately at the almost nude figure of the girl that his wife had bought from a bush town for a musketbecause she wanted something to worry, he used jokingly to say.
The savage creature took the mat sullenly, went to the far end of the room, and covered herself up again.
Youre too soft with women, said Rita, scornfully.
I know I amwith you, he answered, good-naturedly. And then the angry gleam in the black eyes died away, and she laughed merrily.
Two days had passed. Old Hutton had returned to his station, and Blackett was returning with a boatload of copra from a village across the bay. Heavy rain-squalls tore down upon the boat at short intervals, and Blackett, drenched to the skin, began to feel the first deadly chills and pains of an attack of island fever. Usually light-hearted, he now felt angry, and savagely cursed at his crew when the heavily-laden boat touched and ground against the coral knobs that lay scattered about her course. It was long past midnight when he reached his station, and, stepping wearily out of the boat, dragged his aching limbs along the beach. Rita had heard the boat, and Blackett could see that a bright fire was burning in the thatched, open-sided cook-house, and that Rita herself was there, with a number of native children making coffee.
Two days had passed. Old Hutton had returned to his station, and Blackett was returning with a boatload of copra from a village across the bay. Heavy rain-squalls tore down upon the boat at short intervals, and Blackett, drenched to the skin, began to feel the first deadly chills and pains of an attack of island fever. Usually light-hearted, he now felt angry, and savagely cursed at his crew when the heavily-laden boat touched and ground against the coral knobs that lay scattered about her course. It was long past midnight when he reached his station, and, stepping wearily out of the boat, dragged his aching limbs along the beach. Rita had heard the boat, and Blackett could see that a bright fire was burning in the thatched, open-sided cook-house, and that Rita herself was there, with a number of native children making coffee.
The quickening agonies of fever were fast seizing him, and, entering the house and throwing himself on a seat, he felt his brain whirling, and scarcely noticed that Tubariga, the local chief, was bending over him anxiously. Then Rita came with the steaming coffee, and one quick glance at Blacketts crouched-up figure told her that the dreaded fever had seized him at last.
Rita proved herself what Blackett always called her, one of the smartest little women going. With Tubarigas help, she carried him to the bed, and sent out for some women to come and rub and thump his aching joints while she dosed him with hot rum and coffee. And then Blackett asked her what she was doing out in the cook-house. Hadnt she a cook? Then the suppressed rage of the hot-blooded girl broke out in a flood of tears. Europuai, the wild bush-girl, had been sulky all the time he was away, and she had given her a little beating with a bamboo. And then the black devil had run away, andhere the angry beauty wept againshe (Rita) had to go out into a filthy cook-shed to boil water before a lot of man-eating savages! No one would help her, because they were all such fools that she always lost her temper with them.
Blackettunder the combined influences of rum, strong coffee, fever, and womans tearswent into a rage, and glared angrily at the chief, Tubariga.
Youre a dd nice fellow, he said in English; you get my wife to pay a good musket for a girl, and then as soon as I am away you let that girl run back into the bush. Youre a bad friend.
Tubariga felt hurt. He prided himself on two thingshis knowledge of English and his friendship for white men. He rose to his feet, grasped his rifle, and made for the door.
Here, come back, Tubariga. Perhaps it isnt your fault. Let her stay away. Shes no good, anyway.
Tubariga came back. Tell me, white man, do you want your servant to come back?
Yes, d you! answered Blackett, who now again was seized with that hideous brain-whirl that in fever is simple delirium, bring her back, alive or dead.
The chief nodded and went out.
Next morning the first fierce violence of the fever had temporarily left him, and Blackett was lying covered up with rugs, when the grim figure of Tubariga entered noiselessly, and stole to his side. Motioning the traders wife away, Tubarigas savage features relaxed with a pleased smile.
Well, Tubariga, how are you? said Blackett. Rita tell me I damn you too much last night, eh? Never mind, old chap, I was mad about that girl running away. You can tell her people to keep herand the musket too. Rita dont want her any more. Ship come soon, then we go away.
Again the pleased smile spread over the chiefs face. Bending over Blackett he placed his hideous lips, blood-red with the stains of betel-juice, close to his face, and said with the simple pride of a child, Me pinish him.
What? said Blackett, with a strange feeling at his heartWhat did you do to that girl, Tubariga?
Sitting down with his rifle across his knees, the chief told the conscience-stricken trader that he had followed the girl to a bush village, where he, Tubariga, as their chief, had demanded her from her parents. They insisted on her going back, but she whimpered and said that the white mans wife would beat her. She sprang for the jungle, and, ere she reached it, a bullet from the chiefs rifle struck her in the side. And then, with a feeling of horror, Blackett listened to the rest of the talethe poor wretch, with her life-blood ebbing fast, was followed up and a spear thrust through her heart.
He was sitting at the table with his face clasped in his hands when Rita came in. She was smoking her inevitable cigarette, and the thin wreaths of blue smoke curled upwards from her lips as she leant one arm on the table and caressed Blacketts ice-cold forehead with her shapely hand. Suddenly she stooped and sought gently to remove his hands from his face.
Harry, are you very ill, old fellow? What can I do for you?
Do for me? and the sudden misery that had smitten his heart looked out from his pallid face, give me back the peace of mind that was mine ten minutes ago. Leave me to die here of feverfor you I have become a murderera man no better than Hutton. The blood of that poor girl will for ever be between us. And then she saw that tears were falling through his trembling fingers.
Harry, she said, I thought you were more of a manand here her voice softeneddont grieve over it. It wasnt your fault, and I have been a good little girl to you. Dont be miserable because of such a little thing as that. If Tubariga hadnt killed her, I daresay I should have done so myself. She was a sulky little wretch.
I know Blackett well. The horror of that day has never entirely left him. But for that one dark memory he would have married Ritawho would have most probably run a knife into his ribs later on, when the influence of her beauty had somewhat waned and he began to look at other women. The fateful impulse of that moment when he told the chief to bring back the girl dead or alive wrecked and tortured his mind beyond description. And he can never forget.
His Rita and he left the island soon afterwards to wander away back to Eastern Polynesia, but his continued fits of melancholy annoyed the girl so much that she one day quarrelled with and left him, and made a fresh matrimonial engagement with a man less given to mawkish sentiment.
THE TRADER
I
The evening fires were lighting up the darkness of the coming night, when Prout, the only white man on the island, left his house on the edge of the lagoon, and, with his little daughter running by his side, walked slowly through the village.
As they passed through the now deserted pathways that intersected the straggling collection of grey, thatched-roofed houses, and Prouts heavy step crunched into the broken coral, the natives, gathered together for their evening meal, looked forth, and the brown women called out a word or two of greeting to the child, and smiled and beckoned her to leave her father for an instant and take the fruit or piece of cooked breadfruit that they held out to her with their brown hands. But only a solemn shake of the little head, and then she and the taciturn, bronzed-faced man went by, the childs tiny fingers grasping his tanned and roughened hand as they walked across the narrow island towards the sound of the muffled thunder of the surf on the outer ocean beach.
Here, with the little one perched beside him and looking wonderingly into his grave, impassive face, the white man would sit for long hours staring moodily out upon the tumbling breakers as they reared and fell upon the black, grim shelves of the reef.