Читать книгу Men Against the Sea – Book Set - James Norman Hall - Страница 17

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On the day following our decision to escape, should the ship put in at Tahiti, Christian sent for me once more. I found him with Churchill in his cabin, and when he had motioned me to the settee he dismissed the sentinel and closed the door. Christian looked stern, sad, and careworn, but Churchill, who stood by the door with folded arms, greeted me with a smile. He was a tall, powerful fellow, in middle life, with cold blue eyes and a determined reckless face.

“I have sent for you, Mr. Byam,” said Christian formally, “to acquaint you with our decision regarding you and your companions who had no hand in the taking of the ship. We bear you no ill-will, yet circumstances oblige us to take every precaution for our own safety. We are now steering for Tahiti, where we shall stop for a week or more while we load livestock and stores.”

My face must have betrayed my thoughts, for Christian shook his head. “My first thought,” he went on, “was to leave you there, where sooner or later you might hope for a ship to take you home. But the men would have none of it, and I fear that they are right.”

He glanced at Churchill, who nodded, still standing with folded arms. “No, Mr. Byam,” said the master-at-arms, “we had it out in the forecastle last night—a regular Dover-court. Not a man on the ship but wishes you well, but we can’t allow it.”

“They are right,” said Christian gloomily; “we can neither leave you on Tahiti nor let you set foot on shore. The men were for keeping the lot of you below decks, under guard, but I persuaded them that if you and Mr. Stewart and Mr. Morrison would give parole not to mention the mutiny to the Indians, nor to say anything which might prejudice our interests, we might safely permit you to come on deck while we are at anchor in Matavai.”

“I think I understand, sir,” I replied, “though I must admit that we had hoped to be left in Tahiti, whither we supposed the ship to be bound.”

“Impossible!” Christian said. “I hate to carry you away against your will, but it is essential to the safety of your shipmates. None of us will ever see England again—we must make up our minds to that. You may tell the others that it is my intention to search out one of the many unknown islands in this sea, land our stores and livestock, destroy the ship, and settle there for good, hoping never again to see a strange white face.”

“Aye, Mr. Christian,” put in Churchill approvingly. “It is the only way.”

Christian stood up, to notify me that the interview was at an end, and I went on deck with a sinking heart. With the fresh east wind abeam, the Bounty was sailing fast on the starboard tack, rolling slowly and regularly to the lift of the swell. I stood by the lee gangway, watching the blue water swirl past the ship’s side, and striving to collect my thoughts. Stewart and I had often discussed in privacy our hopes and fears for the future, and now, unless we found means to escape during the ship’s sojourn in Matavai, our hopes seemed destined to come to naught. It was true that the parole demanded of us, if we were to be allowed on deck, contained no mention of escape, but I had no doubt that we should be closely watched. And even if we were lucky enough to escape, I realized that the chances were a hundred to one we should be retaken. Christian would have invented some plausible tale to account for the absence of Bligh and the others, and, as captain of the ship, the chiefs would be on his side. For the reward of a musket or two, they would have the mountains and valleys of the interior scoured by men certain to find us, no matter how distant and secret our hiding-place. Our only chance—a slender one, indeed—would be to get possession of a fast sailing canoe and make for the islands to leeward of Tahiti, whither the authority of Teina and the other great chiefs of north Tahiti did not extend. Once there, even though Christian learned our destination and gave pursuit, we might be able to dodge from island to island till he wearied of the chase.

To leave the ship under the eyes of the mutineers would be hard indeed; to set sail at once, in a fast and seaworthy canoe, watered and provisioned for a voyage across the open sea, would be harder still. Yet hardest of all was the thought of the alternative: “England—home, lost to us forever.”

As I stood by the gangway, deep in these disquieting reflections, Stewart touched my arm. “Look,” he said; “they are throwing the plants overboard!” Directed by Young, a line of men had formed on the ladderway, and they were beginning to pass the pots from hand to hand. A man by the rail, aft, pulled up each young plant by the roots and flung it overboard, while others emptied the earth into the sea and carried the pots to the fore-hatch. We carried more than a thousand young breadfruit trees, all in flourishing condition, and now the Bounty left a wake of their rich green foliage tossing on the blue swell. They had been gathered and cared for with infinite pains; to obtain them we had suffered hardships, braved unknown seas, and sailed more than twenty-seven thousand miles, in fair weather and foul. And now the plants, eagerly awaited in the West Indies, were going overboard like so much unwanted ballast.

“Waste!” remarked Stewart presently. “Futility and waste! And, like a good Scot, I hate both!”

It was sad to reflect on the results of the expedition: the plants thrown overboard; Bligh and his companions probably drowned or killed by savages; the mutineers, desperate and unhappy, planning to hide away forever from the face of mankind; ourselves forced to share the same hard fate.

Later, in the privacy of the berth, I told Stewart of my interview with Christian and of the gloomy prospect ahead of us. “We must tell Morrison as soon as possible,” he said.

He was silent for some time, his thin, bronzed face expressionless. At last he looked up. “At least I’ll see Peggy.”

“That’s certain, if you give your parole.”

“I’d give that, and more, for a glimpse of her!” He rose abruptly and began to pace back and forth nervously. I said nothing, and presently he went on in a low voice: “Forgive me for inflicting my thoughts on you—seamen are sentimental, and I have been long at sea. But Peggy might be the means of effecting our escape—I can think of no other.”

“That she might!” I exclaimed, for I had given the subject much anxious thought. “She could obtain a canoe for us—a favour we could ask of no other person in Matavai. Since we must give our parole we cannot make known the true state of affairs, nor why we desire to leave the ship. You will have to tell Peggy that we are planning to desert, as Churchill and the others deserted, in order to live among the Indians after the ship is gone. The chiefs alone own vessels large enough to take us to the Leeward Islands, and both Teina and Hitihiti feel themselves too much indebted to the friendship of King George to take part in what they would regard as a conspiracy against him. Peggy’s father is under no such obligation.”

Stewart seated himself once more. His mind was quicker than my own, and he had perceived in an instant what had taken me some time to puzzle out.

“Precisely,” he said. “Peggy is our only chance. I could arrange everything in ten minutes alone with her. It must be on a night when the wind holds from the east. The canoe will be paddled past the ship as if outbound on one of their night passages to Tetiaroa, and her crew must make some disturbance which will draw the men of the watch to that side of the Bounty. We can then slip overboard on the other side and swim to Peggy’s vessel, which will lie hove-to while they get sail on her. With good luck, no one will observe us in the dark.”

“By God, Stewart! I believe it can be done!”

“Must be done, rather! Morrison and I are Navy men, and we have our careers to think of. But there have been many times when I have longed to stay here.”

On the evening of the fifth of June we raised the highlands of Tahiti, far ahead and ghostly among the clouds, and on the following afternoon we sailed into Matavai Bay and dropped anchor close to Point Venus. Every man on board had been instructed what to tell the Indians of his acquaintance who might make inquiries: at Aitutaki we had fallen in with Captain Cook, Bligh’s father, who was forming an English settlement on that island. Bligh, Nelson, and others of the Bounty’s crew had been taken aboard Cook’s ship, and he had ordered the Bounty to leave the breadfruit plants with him, and return to Tahiti to trade for further stores and whatever livestock it might be possible to obtain. The ship was then to set sail in search of another island suitable for settlement.

The Indians flocked out to the ship—Teina, Hitihiti, and the other chiefs curious to know why we had returned so soon and what had become of the absent members of the ship’s company. The story invented by Christian satisfied them completely, and since he was popular—much more so than Bligh—the natives promised to furnish everything we desired, and the trading was friendly and brisk.

I dined with Christian that evening; his sweetheart and old Hitihiti, my taio, were the other guests. With the girl—who would eat nothing—at his side, Christian seemed to have shaken off for the moment the sombre mood from which he had not emerged since the mutiny. He raised his glass and smiled at me across the table.

“To our sweethearts,” he said lightly. “You can drink to mine, Byam, since you have none of your own.” Maimiti smiled gravely and touched the glass with her lips, but my taio drained his wine at a gulp.

“Stop ashore my house, Byam,” he said.

I could feel Christian’s eyes on me as I replied. “I’m sorry,” I said; “but we shall be here only a few days, and Mr. Christian has informed me that I shall be needed on board.”

Hitihiti was evidently surprised at this. He turned to Christian, who nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “He will be needed on board during the whole time we are at anchor here.” The old chief understood enough of discipline on a British ship to let the subject drop.

Peggy had come on board during the afternoon, and when I went on deck after dinner I saw the couple seated by the mainmast, in the shadow of the pumps. Stewart’s arm was about her waist and they were speaking together in the Indian tongue. When she had gone ashore, Stewart, Morrison, and I met by agreement on the main hatch. Young was the officer of the watch, and since we were at anchor and the night was calm, he had given his men permission to sleep on deck. He was a carefree, unsuspicious fellow, and now he lolled on the poop, his head turned toward the dark loom of the land. Taurua, his Indian sweetheart, kept the watch with him—a slender ghostly figure, shrouded in white tapa. The night was chilly, for it was winter in Tahiti, and Matavai Bay was a black mirror to reflect the stars.

“I have talked with Peggy,” said Stewart in a low voice, “and explained our determination to desert the ship. She thinks that I am leaving for her sake—a half-truth, at least. As for you two, she believes that you are enamoured of the Indian life, or of some of the young ladies on shore. Peggy will aid us with her whole heart. Unfortunately, the only large canoe her family possesses is at Tetiaroa. She will send a small vessel to fetch it to-morrow if the wind is fair.”

“Then let us pray for a fair wind,” said Morrison seriously.

“I wish we could take the others,” I said.

“There will be no chance of that,” Morrison replied. “Christian means to keep them confined below till the ship sails.”

“In any case there would be too many,” said Stewart. “Their very numbers would make escape impossible.”

Morrison shrugged his shoulders. “No—we can think only of ourselves. I have only one desire, one thought—to return to England. A ship will come, you may count on that, though we may have to wait two or three years for her. We shall have to be patient, that is all.”

“Patient?” Stewart remarked. “Well, I could put up with three years here—or with four or five! And Byam is a lover of the Indian life.”

“Damn the Indian life,” said Morrison without a smile. “Who knows what wars are going on, what chances for prize money and promotion we are missing!”

I went to sleep with a light heart that night, for our escape seemed a certainty, and the prospect of a year or two among the Indians was far from displeasing. At dawn I saw Peggy’s light double canoe, paddled by half-a-dozen stalwart fellows, set out for Tetiaroa, and all through the forenoon I watched every sign of the weather anxiously. Nature herself now took a hand against us. The day turned chilly and films of cloud began to stream seaward off the mountains. We were in the lee of the high land, and Matavai Bay remained still as a lake, but the wind had chopped around to the south and was blowing up one of the boisterous southerly storms the Indians call maraai. Gazing out to sea, I perceived the line of whitecaps at the end of the lee, and knew that as long as the south wind held, no canoe would even attempt to return from the island north of us.

Day after day the strong south wind blew, while we traded for our strange cargo. Hogs, fowls, dogs, and cats came on board till the ship resembled a menagerie, and finally the bull and the cow left on Tahiti by Captain Cook. Goats skipped about comically on deck, among mounds of taro, sweet potatoes, and yams. And little by little our hope, which had run so high, began to change to fear. There were signs that Christian was nearly ready to sail, and Peggy’s face, when she visited her lover on board, grew haggard with anxiety. I shall not dwell on our suspense. It is enough to say that on the ninth day the wind shifted to northeast and brought our sailing canoe in, four hours after the shift. This was at noon and all was arranged for our escape the same night, but now at the last moment fate turned against us once more. At two o’clock in the afternoon Christian ordered the anchor up and, close-hauled on the starboard tack, the Bounty sailed out of Matavai Bay.

The months from June to September of that year, 1789, are a nightmare in my memory, and since they have little to do with the main thread of this narrative, I shall give them no more space than they deserve.

In spite of our hostile reception when we first visited Tupuai, Christian had determined to settle on that island. We were now southbound, like modern Noahs on our Ark, with livestock of various kinds to increase and multiply on the island, and even a few Indian Eves to become the grandmothers of a new race—half white, half brown. Christian’s Maimiti was on board, and Young’s Taurua; and Alexander Smith, distrustful of the ladies of Tupuai, had persuaded Bal’hadi to accompany him. Nor was any great degree of persuasion necessary, for the Indians were passionately fond of travel and adventure of any sort. Long after Tahiti had disappeared below the horizon north of us, it was discovered that we had on board nine Indian men, twelve women, and eight boys, most of them stowaways.

Our reception on Tupuai was at first friendly, owing to the Tahitian passengers, who explained our desire to settle on the island. With incredible labour we hauled the ship up on land and built thatched shelters to protect her decks from the sun. We then built a fort, on a point of land purchased from one of the chiefs, and surrounded it with a moat twenty feet deep and twice as wide, all hands, including Christian himself, taking part in the work. The men murmured much at this truly Herculean labour, but Christian’s foresight was soon evident. Our goats, loosed to increase among the mountains of the interior, descended on the taro gardens of the Indians, which they cultivate and water with infinite pains. Unable to capture or kill the wary animals, the people came to us, asking us to shoot them with our muskets. When we refused, explaining that the progeny of the marauders would provide an important supply of food, the Indians at first murmured and then broke out in open hostility, declaring that they would never cease their efforts until we were either exterminated or driven from the island for good. Time after time they attacked our fortress furiously, only to be driven off by the fire of our four-pounders and swivels, and before long it became impossible to venture outside save in strong parties, heavily armed. Our lives grew insupportable; even the hardiest among us wearied of the constant fighting, and early in September, perceiving that all hands were heartily sick of the place, Christian assembled the lot of us and called for a show of hands. All were for leaving Tupuai; sixteen expressed a desire to be left on Tahiti, and the rest wished to sail away with the Bounty to search for some uninhabited island where they might settle in peace. On being informed of our decision to leave Tupuai, the Indians agreed to cease hostilities while we launched and watered the ship, and after a week of labour such as falls to the lot of few men, we got the Bounty launched, her sails bent, and water and stores aboard. At the last moment, on the verge of leaving this ill-omened place, we nearly lost the ship in a tremendous squall which made up unperceived during the night. As it was, we lost the spare gaff of the driver and all our spare topgallant yards.

At daybreak, with a fresh breeze at east, we weighed and sailed out through the narrow passage, heartily glad to be clear of a place where we had met with nothing but misfortune and strife, and five days later, after an agreeable voyage, we were at anchor once more in Matavai Bay. The following men had decided to remain on the ship:—Fletcher Christian, Acting Lieutenant; John Mills, Gunner’s Mate; Edward Young, Midshipman; William Brown, Gardener; Isaac Martin, William McCoy, John Williams, Matthew Quintal, and Alexander Smith, Able Seamen.

The rest of the Bounty’s company had elected to remain on Tahiti. I was overjoyed at this sudden change in my fortunes, as were Stewart and Morrison. My old friend Hitihiti was among the first of the Indians to come off to us, and when I informed him that I hoped to go ashore and make my home at his house, his face beamed with smiles. As he had come out in a double canoe large enough to freight all my belongings ashore, I lost no time in asking Christian’s permission to leave the ship. I found him at the main hatch, superintending the division of the muskets, cutlasses, pistols, and ammunition, of which each man was to have his share.

“By all means,” he said, looking up from the paper in his hand. “Go ashore whenever you like. And take a musket with you and a supply of lead to mould bullets. We are so short of powder that I can give only a few charges to each man. You will stop with Hitihiti, of course?”

“That is my intention, sir.”

“I shall see you to-night, then. I wish to speak to you and to Stewart—I shall ask him to be there an hour after sundown.”

My hammock man and his lusty Indian wench lent me a hand to get my things out of the berth, and after a farewell glance about the Bounty’s decks, and a silent handshake with Edward Young, I followed my belongings into Hitihiti’s canoe.

It was like a homecoming to return once more to the house of my taio, to greet Hina and her husband, and to see Hitihiti’s grandchildren running to welcome me. I had lived so long among these kind people that they seemed joined to me by ties closer than those of mere friendship.

When I had stowed my belongings and precious manuscript I became at once the centre of a circle of all ages, eager to hear the story of our adventures. I recounted at length, in the Indian tongue, the history of our attempt to settle on Tupuai, and ended by expressing some sympathy with the people of that island, who, after all, had done no more than repel what they considered an invasion of their home. Hina shook her head indignantly.

“No!” she exclaimed; “you are wrong. I have seen some of those people, who came here in a large canoe five years ago. They are savages! You should have killed them all and taken their island!”

“You are fierce, Hina,” I said with a smile. “Why should we kill innocent men, whose only fault was love of their land? Had we desired to kill them, Christian would not have allowed it.”

“He was foolish, then. Did they not try to kill him, and you? But what will you do, now that you have returned? Shall you be long among us?”

“To-morrow or the day after, Christian and eight of the others will set sail for Aitutaki to rejoin Captain Cook. The rest of us, who love your island, have permission to settle here.”

All of us who were to be left on Tahiti had given our words to tell the same story, and, little as I liked the task, I lied with a brazen face. Hina leaned towards me and seized me in a strong embrace, smelling at my cheek affectionately.

“Ah, Byam,” she said, “we are delighted, all of us! The house has been empty since you sailed away!”

“Aye,” said her husband heartily. “You are one of us, and we shall not let you go!”

Early in the evening Stewart appeared on the path from Matavai, accompanied by Peggy and her father, old Tipau. Hitihiti had returned to the ship, to fetch Christian and his niece. I walked down to the beach with Stewart and his sweetheart, leaving the old chief to gossip with the others in the house.

The calm Pacific nuzzled lazily at the sands, and we sat quietly, as if the beauty of the evening had cast upon us a spell of silence and immobility.

Twilight was fading to night when Stewart started slightly and gazed out to sea. “There they come!” he said. Rising and falling on the gentle swell outside the reef, I saw the double canoe—a moving shadow on the waters. She came on rapidly, and before long her prows grounded on the sand and Christian sprang out, turning to help Maimiti over the high gunwale. He nodded to us, saying only, “Wait for me here,” and followed Hitihiti to the house to take leave of his sweetheart’s family. At a word from Stewart, Peggy followed him.

The sight of Christian on the twilit beach had moved me deeply. It was not hard to imagine his feelings on the eve of this final departure from Tahiti. Presently I heard a rustle in the bushes behind us, and his step falling softly on the sand. We rose, but he motioned us to seat ourselves, and sank down cross-legged beside us, casting aside his hat and running his fingers through his thick dark hair.

“This is the last time I shall see you,” he said abruptly, after a long silence. “We shall sail in the morning, as soon as the wind makes up.

“I have told you the story of the mutiny,” he went on; “remember that I, and I alone, am responsible. In all probability, Bligh and those with him are long since dead—drowned or killed by savages. In the case of Bligh, I have no regrets; the thought of the others, innocent men, lies heavy on my conscience. You know the circumstances; they may explain, even to some extent excuse, the action I took, but they can never exonerate me. I am a mutineer and, since I made off with one of His Majesty’s ships, a pirate as well. It is my duty to guide and protect those who have chosen to follow me. You know my plans. This is the greatest ocean in the world, set with innumerable islands. On one of them—north, or south, or east, or west of here—we shall settle, and destroy the ship. You shall see us no more—I promise you that.”

Again silence fell upon us. The stillness of the night was broken only by the faint lap and wash of the sea, and far down the beach, where a fire of coconut husks made a ruddy point of light, I heard the wail of an awakening child.

“Sooner or later,” Christian went on, after a long pause, “a British man-of-war will drop anchor here. If Bligh, or any of his men, succeed in reaching England, the Admiralty will dispatch a ship at once, to apprehend the mutineers. If, as I fear, all those in the Bounty’s launch are lost, a vessel will be sent out, after a reasonable period of waiting, in search of us. When she comes, I desire you earnestly to go out to her at once and give yourselves up to the officer in command—you two, and the others who had no hand in the mutiny. You are innocent, and no harm can come to you. As for the others, let them behave as they think best. Since they refuse to follow me, I am forced to wash my hands of them.

“Once before, Byam, in a moment of desperation, I requested you to communicate with my father, in the event of my not reaching home. Fate was against me that night! Had I succeeded in leaving the ship.... My father is Charles Christian, of Mairlandclere, in Cumberland. Will one of you, the first to reach England, go to him and explain the circumstances of the mutiny? Tell him the story as I have told it to you, and explain particularly that my design was only to relieve Bligh of his command and take him home in irons. A full acquaintance with the truth may extenuate in my father’s eyes, though never justify, the crime I have committed. Will you do this for me?”

Christian stood up and Stewart and I sprang to our feet. I was the first to seize Christian’s hand.

“Yes,” I said, too moved for further speech.

A moment later Christian turned to hail the house. “Maimiti!” he called, in his strong seaman’s voice. She must have been awaiting the call, for she appeared almost instantly, a slender white figure flitting under the palms. The paddlers followed her, seized the canoe, and dragged it into the wash of the sea. The Indian girl came to me without a word and embraced me tenderly in the fashion of her people. Still in silence she embraced Stewart, and sprang into the canoe. Christian shook our hands for the last time. “God bless you both!” he said.

We stood on the beach, watching the double canoe fade into the night. At dawn, when I walked out of the house for a plunge in the sea, the Bounty was standing offshore with all sail set, heading north, with the light easterly breeze abeam.