Читать книгу Men Against the Sea – Book Set - James Norman Hall - Страница 58

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A few days after the burning of the Bounty, Minarii had chosen a site for the temple he and the other Polynesian men were to build. A homeless wanderer might worship kneeling in the wash of the sea, the great purifier and source of all holiness, but settled men must erect a temple of their own. The six native men were worshipers of the same god, Ta’aroa, and their marae would be dedicated to him.

Sometimes alone, sometimes in company with Tetahiti, Minarii had made a leisurely exploration of those parts of the island least likely to attract the whites, and at last, on a thickly wooded slope to the west of the ridge connecting the two peaks, he had found the spot he was searching for. He was alone on the afternoon when he began his clearing, and had not long plied his axe when he perceived that other worshipers had assembled here in the past. As he made his way through the dense undergrowth he discovered a platform of moss-grown boulders, set with upright stones before which men had once kneeled. Close by, on rising ground, stood two images of gross human form and taller than a man, and before one of them was a slab of rock which he stooped to raise. The task required all of his strength, but he was rewarded by the sight of a skeleton laid out in the hollow beneath, with hands crossed on the ribs and the mouldering skull pillowed on a large mother-of-pearl shell.

“Ahé!” he exclaimed under his breath. “A man of my own race, and from a land where the pearl-oyster grows!”

He gazed at it for some time, then replaced the heavy slab carefully and descended from the marae. Religion entered into every act of a Polynesian’s life, and save in time of war they held the dead and the beliefs of others in deep respect. The bones would lie in peace, and no stone of the old temple would be employed to build the new.

Minarii chose another site that lay a stone’s throw distant, and measured off a square six fathoms each way. There was a plentiful supply of boulders in the ravine below. Here the leisurely task began, all six of the natives working at it whenever they had an hour to spare. Little by little the temple of Ta’aroa took form—a rocky platform set with kneeling stones and surrounding a small pyramid three yards high, made sacred by the two stones brought from the ancestral temple at Tahiti. The clearing was shaded by majestic trees, and a neat fence enclosed the whole, bordered with a hedge of flowering shrubs.

On a morning early in April, Minarii and his companions were sweeping the pavement and tidying the enclosure in preparation for the ceremony of awakening the god. The shoulders of all six were bared in sign of respect. Presently while the others waited in deep silence, Minarii stepped aside to put on the sacred garments of his office. The flush of dawn was in the east when he returned, clad in flowing lengths of tapa, dyed black. His companions knelt by their stones, their faces now clearly revealed in the increasing light, while their priest turned toward the still hidden sun, holding his hands aloft as he chanted:—

“The clouds are bordering the sky; the clouds are awake!

The rising clouds that ascend in the morning,

Wafted aloft and made perfect by the Lord of the Ocean,

To form an archway for the sun.

The clouds rise, part, condense, and reunite

Into a rosy arch for the sun.”

Bowing his head, he awaited in silence until the sun began to touch the heights with golden light. He then made a sign to Tetahiti, who stepped behind the little pyramid and returned with a small casket, curiously carved and provided with handles like a litter. This was the dwelling place of the god, now believed to be present. Minarii addressed him solemnly:—

“Hearken to us, Ta’aroa!

Grant our petitions.

Preserve the population of this land.

Preserve us, and let us live through thee.

Preserve us! We are men. Thou art our god!”

The chanting ceased, and a moment of profound silence followed; then the priest concluded: “O Ta’aroa, we have awakened thee. Now sleep!”

The ceremony was over. The casket had been conveyed to its niche at the base of the pyramid, and Minarii had returned to the small hut near-by to resume his customary garments, when voices were heard from the thicket and a moment later Mills and McCoy appeared at the edge of the clearing. They halted at the sight of the native men and then came forward to the fenced enclosure. McCoy gazed at the stonework admiringly.

“A braw bit o’ work,” he remarked. “And the six of ye built this, Tetahiti?”

The native regarded him gravely. “This is our marae,” he explained, “where we come to worship our god.”

“What’s that he says?” Mills asked, contemptuously. Without waiting for a reply, he passed through the gate and stood surveying the marae. He was about to mount the stone platform when Minarii, who had now returned, laid a hand on his arm.

“Your shoulders! Bare your shoulders before you set foot there!”

Knowing scarcely a dozen words of the native tongue, Mills shook him off and was about to proceed when McCoy called out anxiously: “Are ye horn-mad, John? Bare yer shoulders, he says. It’s their kirk, mon! Would ye enter a kirk wi’ a covered head?”

Mills gave a harsh laugh. “Kirk, ye call it? It’s a bloody heathen temple, that’s what it is! I’ll have a look, and I’ll peel my shirt for no Indian!”

Before he had mounted three steps Minarii seized him by the arm and threw him to the ground so fiercely that he lay half stunned.

“Ye fool!” McCoy exclaimed. “Ye’ve slashed a het haggis now!”

Minarii stood over the prostrate Englishman threateningly, his eyes blazing with anger. The faces of the other native men expressed the horror they felt at this act of desecration. Fortunately for Mills, McCoy, who spoke the native tongue with considerable fluency, was able to smooth matters over.

“Let your anger cool, Minarii,” he said, rapidly. “You are in the right, but this man meant no harm. He is ignorant, that is all.”

“Take him away!” ordered Minarii. “Come here no more. This is our sacred place.”

Mills struggled to his feet, dazed and enraged, and stood with clenched fists, eyeing the native while McCoy spoke.

“Pull yersel’ together, John! Say naught and get out o’ this afore there’s blood shed! Come along, now. They’ve right on their side, and he’s an unchancy loon to meddle with.”

Mills was in middle age, and Minarii’s stern face and gigantic figure might have intimidated a far younger man. He turned aside and permitted McCoy to lead him away. The natives gazed after them in silence as they climbed the ridge and disappeared on the path leading to the settlement.

“Go you others,” said Minarii, “and let no more be thought of this. The man was ignorant. As McCoy said, he meant no desecration.”

Tetahiti remained behind and the two men lingered outside the enclosure surveying their handiwork with deep satisfaction.

“The building was auspicious,” said Minarii, after a long silence. “The sacredness is in the stones.”

Tetahiti nodded. “Did you not feel the god lighten the heavy boulders as we worked?” he asked.

“They were as nothing in our hands. Ta’aroa is well pleased with his dwelling place. Here we can offer prayers for our crops and for fishing, and dedicate the children who will come. Now for the first time my heart tells me that this is indeed my land—our land.”

Minarii was silent for some time before he asked: “You know these white men better than I; have they no god?”

“Christian has never spoken to me of these things and I do not like to ask; but I would say that they worship none.”

“It is strange that they should be godless. Captain Cook came three times to Matavai; I remember his visits well. He and his men were of the same race as these, but they worshiped their god every seventh day, in ceremonies not unlike our own. They bowed their heads; they knelt and listened in silence while one of them chanted. Our white men do none of these things.”

“It must be that they have no god,” Tetahiti replied.

Minarii shook his head gravely. “Little good can come to godless men. It would be well if we were alone here with our women. The ways of these whites are as strange to us as our ways to them.”

“There are good men among them,” said Tetahiti.

“Aye, but not all. Some yearn for Maori slaves.”

“Martin, you mean? Tihé! He is slave-born!”

“It is not Martin alone,” Minarii remarked, gravely. “Humble folk like your man Te Moa and my Hu rely upon us to protect them, and yet already Quintal and Williams and Mills treat them as little better than slaves. We want no bad blood here. We must be patient for the good of all, but the day may come ...” He broke off, gazing sombrely before him.

“Christian knows nothing of this,” said Tetahiti. “Shall I open his eyes?”

“It would be well if he knew, but these things he must learn for himself. We must wait and say nothing.”

For a month or more after the burial of Fasto, Williams had seen nothing of Hutia. The girl was fond of him, in her way, and was wise enough to bide her time. Strive as he might, the blacksmith could not rid his mind of the thought that Fasto had learned of the intrigue, and that in her chagrin she had thrown herself from the cliffs. Though rough and forthright, he was by no means an unkindly man. For a time he had gone about his work in silence, without a glance at Hutia when she passed, but little by little his remorse was dulled, and the old desire for the girl overpowered him. Once more their meetings in the bush had begun, conducted, on her part at least, with greater discretion than at first.

But Williams was far from satisfied; he wanted the girl for his own. What had begun as mere philandering gradually became an obsession. On many a night he lay awake far into the morning hours, torturing his brain in attempts to conjure up some means of obtaining Hutia. Now at last he felt that he could endure no more. One afternoon when he was working with Mills at the forge he put down his hammer.

“Stand by for a bit, John,” he said.

Mills straightened his back with a grunt. “What’s up?” he asked, incuriously.

“I can’t go on the like o’ this. Every man of ye has his woman. I’ve none.”

“Ye’ll not get mine,” growled Mills. “Take a girl from one of the Indians.”

“Aye, Hutia’d do.”

The other gave a dry laugh. “Ye should know! A pretty wench, but an artful one, Prudence reckons.”

“I’m thinkin’ what Christian would say; and Minarii ...”

“Damn the Indians! Call for a show of hands. Ye’ve the right. Where’d we be without Jack Williams and his forge?”

Christian’s house was the most westerly in the settlement, and stood on rising ground close to the bluffs, which sloped more gently here than at Bounty Bay. To the west, a deep ravine led the waters of Brown’s Well to the shingle, three hundred feet below. A belt of trees and bush along the verge of the bluffs screened the house from the sea.

The dwelling was of two stories, heavily framed and planked with the Bounty’s oaken strakes; the bright russet of its thatch contrasted pleasantly with the weathered oak. The upper story was a single large, airy room, with windows on all sides, which could be opened or closed against the weather by means of sliding shutters. It was reached by an inside ladder which led through a hatchway in the floor. It was here that Christian and Maimiti slept.

A partition divided the lower floor into two rooms. One was reserved for Christian’s use. A roughly fashioned chair stood by a table of oak which held a silver-clasped Bible and a Book of Common Prayer, the Bounty’s azimuth compass, and a fine timekeeper by Kendall, of London. Christian wound the instrument daily, and checked it from time to time by means of lunar observations, taken with the help of Young.

Christian had finished his noonday meal and was seated with Maimiti on a bench by the door, on the seaward side of the house. The sun was hot, and the sea, visible through a gap in the bush below, stretched away, calm, blue, and lonely, to the north. Looking up, presently, Christian observed Williams approaching.

The blacksmith touched his forelock to Christian, and saluted Maimiti as though she had been an English lady. “Might I speak with ye a moment, sir?” he asked.

“Yes. What is it, Williams? Do you wish to see me alone?”

“Aye.”

The blacksmith remained standing, after the girl had gone, and hesitated for some time before he spoke.

“I doubt but ye’ll think the less of me for what I have to say, but I must out with it. Men are fashioned in different ways—some hot, some cold, some wise, some fools. I reckon ye’ll admit I’m no laggard and know my trade; but I’ve a weakness for the women, if weakness that be. ... It’s this, sir: I’ve lost my girl, and must have another.”

He waited, clasping and unclasping his hands nervously. Christian reflected for a moment and said, slowly: “I foresaw this. It was bound to come. I don’t blame you, Williams; your desire is a reasonable one. But surely you can see that no man is likely to give up his woman to you. What I propose might seem abhorrent at home, but the arrangement was an honourable one in ancient times. Have you no friend who would share his girl with you?”

Williams shook his head. “It won’t do, sir; I’m not that kind. I must have one for myself.”

“Which would you have?”

“Hutia.”

“Tararu’s wife? And what of Tararu?”

“He’s but an Indian, and should give way.”

“He’s a man like ourselves. Consider your own feelings, were the situation reversed.”

“I know, sir,” Williams replied stubbornly, “but I must have her!” He clenched his fists and looked up suddenly. “Damn the wench! I believe she’s cast a spell on me!”

“Well, it has come, with a vengeance,” Christian said, as though to himself. He raised his head. “Your seizure of another man’s wife might have the gravest consequences for all of us. My advice is, do nothing of the kind.”

“Ye’re right, sir; I know that well enough. But I’m past taking advice.”

“You mean that you would seize the woman regardless of the trouble you may cause the rest of us? Come, Williams! You’re too much of a man for that!”

“I can’t help it, Mr. Christian; but I’ll do this, if ye’ll agree. Put it to a vote. If there’s more say I shan’t have her, I’ll abide by that.”

“You’ve no right to ask for a show of hands over such a matter,” Christian replied, sternly; “the less so since you are not denied the favours of this woman as matters stand.” He paused to reflect. “Nevertheless, this is a question that does concern us all, and I will do as you ask. We’ll have it out to-night. Fetch the others here when you have supped.”

The evening was windless, after the long calm afternoon, and the stars were bright as the mutineers assembled before Christian’s house. Brown was the last to arrive. When he had joined the group, Christian rose and the murmur of conversation ceased.

“Williams, have you told the others why we are gathered here?”

“No, sir; I reckoned that would come best from ye.”

Christian nodded. “A question has arisen that concerns every man and woman on the island. Williams has lost his girl. He says that he must have another.” He paused, and a voice in the starlight growled, “He’ll have none of ours!”

“He wants Hutia,” Christian explained, “Tararu’s wife.”

“He’s had her times enough,” Quintal put in.

Williams sprang up, angrily, and was about to speak when Christian checked him.

“That is no business of ours. He wants her in his house. He wishes her to leave her husband and live openly with him, and has asked me to put the question to a vote. His desire for a woman is a natural one; under other circumstances it would concern him alone, but not as we are situated. Differences over women are dangerous at all times, and in a small community like ours they may have fatal consequences. The girl’s husband is a nephew of Minarii, whom you know for a proud man and a chief among his own people. Is it likely that he would stand by while Tararu’s wife was seized? And what of Tararu himself? Justice is universal; the Indian resents injustice as the Englishman does. We are of two races here; so far there has been no bad blood between us. To stir up racial strife would be the ruin of all.”

He paused, and a murmur of assent went up from the men on the grass. But Mills spoke up for his friend.

“I’m with Jack. Ain’t we to be considered afore the Indians?”

“Aye, well spoke!” said Martin.

“Well spoke?” said McCoy. “I winna say that! I’m wi’ Mr. Christian. It’s no fault o’ Jack’s there’s not been trouble afore now. I’m nae queasy. I’ll share my Mary wi’ him.”

“Keep your Mary!” growled Williams.

“Are you ready for the vote?” Christian said. “Remember, this is to decide the matter, once and for all. We are agreed to abide by the result. Those who would allow Williams to take Tararu’s wife, show hands.” He peered into the darkness; the hands of Mills and Martin alone were lifted.

“We’re six to three against you, Williams,” said Christian. “I believe you’ll be glad of this one day.”

“I’ll abide by the vote, sir,” the blacksmith replied in a gruff voice.

May passed and June ushered in the austral winter, with cold southwest winds and tempestuous seas. The evenings grew so chill that the people were glad to remain indoors after sundown, natives and whites alike.

Those evenings were far from cheerful in the blacksmith’s house. Since the night of the meeting he had become more and more gloomy and taciturn. Mills tried in vain to draw him into talk; at last he gave up and turned to Prudence for company. Williams avoided Hutia. He had given his word, and he knew that if he were to keep it their meetings must cease. He found no peace save in the exhaustion of hard work.

In the dusk of a morning late in June, Mills rose to find Williams already up and gone. He felt mildly surprised, for the blacksmith brooded and paced the floor so late that he seldom wakened while it was still dark. Williams had been busy with a pair of the Bounty’s chain plates, converting them into fish spears for the Indian men, and during the early forenoon, while Mills worked at clearing a bit of land not far off, he was again surprised, as he rested from his labour, to hear no cheerful clink of hammer on anvil. Toward nine o’clock his vague feeling of uneasiness grew so strong that he wiped the sweat from his face and dropped his axe. Martin limped out of the house as he approached. For a moment Mills forgot the blacksmith.

“Damn ’ee!” he exclaimed. “Ye’ve done naught but lie abed, I’ll warrant!”

“It’s all I can do to walk, man!” said Martin. “Work? With an old musket ball in me leg, and the nights perishin’ cold? Let the Indians work! That’s what we fetched ’em for.”

“Where’s Jack?” Mills asked.

“That’s what I want to know.”

“Ye’ve not seen him?”

“No. And the large cutter’s gone. Alex Smith came up from the cove an hour back. He and Christian are on the mountain now. Not a doubt of it: Jack’s took the boat and made off.”

Mills turned to take the path that led past Christian’s house and on to the Goat-House Peak. Halfway to the ridge he met the others coming down. “Is it true that Jack’s made off with the boat?” Christian nodded, and led the way down the mountainside at a rapid walk.

They halted at Christian’s house while he acquainted Maimiti with the situation and sent for some of the Indian men. He then hastened on to the landing place. The little crowd on the beach watched in silence while Christian had the larger of the two canoes dragged to the water’s edge. With Minarii in the stern, they shot the breakers and passed the blackened wreck of the ship, wedged between the rocks. Christian waved to the northeast, took up a paddle, and plied it vigorously.

The wind had died away two hours before, and the sun shone dimly through a veil of high cloud. The sea was glassy calm, with a gentle southerly swell. Before an hour had passed, Minarii pointed ahead. The cutter’s masthead and the peak of her lugsail were visible on the horizon, though the boat was still hull-down.

Williams sat on the cutter’s after-thwart, his chin propped in his hands. From time to time he raised his head to glance back toward the land. He feared pursuit, but hoped the wind might make up before it came. It was useless to row, he had discovered; with only one man at the oars, the heavy boat would scarcely move.

One of the Bounty’s compasses lay in the stern sheets, with Williams’s musket, a small store of provisions, and several calabashes filled with water. The blacksmith had some idea of where Tahiti lay, and knew that he would have a fair wind, once he could work his way into the region of the trades. But the thought that obsessed him was to get away from Pitcairn; as a destination, any other island would do. He might fetch Tahiti, he thought vaguely, or pick up one of the coral islands which they had passed in the Bounty. He cared little, in fact, where he went, or whether he died of thirst or was drowned on the way.

Presently he stood on a thwart, peering ahead with narrowed eyes for signs of wind. Then, turning to glance backward, he perceived the canoe, scarcely a mile away. He stepped down from the thwart, took up his musket, measured a charge from his powderhorn, and rammed the wad home. With sombre eyes, he selected a ball from his pouch.

The canoe came on fast. When it was half a cable’s length distant, the blacksmith stood up and leveled his piece. “Stop where ye are!” he ordered, hoarsely.

Christian rose to his feet, waving the paddlers on. “Williams!” he ordered sternly, “lay down your musket!”

Slowly, as if in a daze, the black-bearded man in the boat obeyed, slumping down on the thwart with shoulders bowed. The canoe lost way, riding the swell lightly alongside, and Christian sprang aboard the cutter.

“Are you mad?” he asked, with the sternness gone from his voice. “Where could you hope to fetch up?”

“Aye, Jack,” put in Mills, “ye must be clean daft!”

“Leave be, Mr. Christian,” muttered Williams. “I’ll not go on as I have. Where I fetch up is my own concern.”

Christian seated himself beside him. “Think, Williams,” he said kindly. “This boat is common property. And how would we fare without a blacksmith? Tahiti lies three hundred leagues from here. You would be going to certain death.... Come, take yourself in hand!”

Williams sat gazing at his bare feet for a long time before he spoke. “Aye, sir, I’ll go back,” he said reluctantly, without raising his head. “I’ve done my best. If trouble comes o’ this, let no man hold me to account.”