Читать книгу Pitcairn's Island - James Norman Hall - Страница 6

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The Bounty’s people were astir with the first light of day, and preparations for disembarking supplies went rapidly forward. The mutineers, with the exception of Brown, the gardener, were to remain on board under Young’s charge, sending the supplies ashore. This done, they were to proceed with the dismantling of the vessel. The native men and most of the women were to constitute the beach party, transporting cargo to the landing place by means of the ship’s cutters and two canoes brought from Tahiti. As soon as a path had been made, they were to carry the stores on to the site above the cove selected for the temporary settlement. Williams, the blacksmith, had converted some cutlasses into bush knives by filing off the upper part of the long blades. Provided with these, and with axes, mattocks, and spades, Minarii and two of his native companions were soon hard at work on shore, hacking through the dense thickets and digging out a zigzag trail to the level ground above.

Although the Bounty’s stores had been shared with the mutineers who remained on Tahiti, there was still a generous amount on board: casks of spirits, salt beef and pork, dried peas and beans, an abundant supply of clothing, kegs of powder and nails, iron for blacksmith work, lead for musket balls, and the like. There were also fourteen muskets and a number of pistols. The livestock consisted of half a dozen large crates of fowls, twenty sows, two of which had farrowed during the voyage, five boars, and three goats. The island being small, it was decided to free both the fowls and the animals and let them fend for themselves until the work of house-building was under way.

The weather was all that could be desired; the sky cloudless, the breeze light and from the southwest. So it remained for five days. By the end of that time the precious stock of plants and animals had been carried ashore as well as most of the ship’s provisions, and shelters made of the Bounty’s spare sails had been erected on a spot overlooking the cove.

An incident occurred at this time which aroused intense excitement among the Maori members of the company. It was an immemorial custom, among the Polynesians, when migrating from one land to another, to carry with them several sacred stones from their ancestral maraes, or temples, to be used to consecrate their temples in a new land. The Tahitians had brought with them two such stones from the marae of Fareroi, on the northern coast of their homeland. Minarii, the chief in whose charge they were, had brought them on deck to be taken ashore, and Martin, seeing them at the gangway and knowing little and caring less of their significance to the natives, had thrown them overboard. The native men were all ashore at the time, but Martin’s act had been witnessed by some of the women, who were horrified at what he had done. One of them leaped overboard and swam to the beach, informing the men of what had happened. They returned in all haste, and the white seamen, forward, resolved to brazen out the sacrilegious act performed by Martin. A pitched battle was averted only by the quick-wittedness of Maimiti and the tactfulness of Young, who had the liking and respect of the native men. Fortunately, the stones could still be dimly seen lying on the white sand below the vessel, and it was the work of only a few minutes to dive, secure them with lines, and draw them up. This done, peace was restored and the natives returned to their work ashore.

On the morning of the fifth day the wind shifted to the northeast and blew freshly into the cove. All had agreed that the vessel was to be beached as soon as the wind favoured, and Young now put everything in readiness for the Bounty’s last brief voyage. Christian, who had spent the night ashore, returned at once. Most of the native women were aboard at this time and the mutineers were at their stations, waiting, talking in low voices among themselves. Christian clambered over the rail, glanced briefly around, and went to the wheel.

“It could not have happened better for us, Ned,” he said quietly. “There’s been no trouble aboard?”

“Thus far, no,” Young replied. “We’ll have her ashore before Mills gathers his wits together. I’ve kept Martin working aft with me until a moment ago.”

Christian called to the men forward. “Stand by to back the fore-topmast staysail!”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

“Break out the anchors!”

The men at the windlass heaved lustily, their sunburned backs gleaming with sweat. The stronger of the women assisted at this task, while others ran aloft to loose the fore-topsail. With her staysail backed, the vessel swung slowly around, the topsail filled, and, while the anchors were catted, the ship gathered way and drove quietly on toward the beach.

The spot selected for running the vessel ashore lay under the lofty crag, later called Ship-Landing Point, on the left side of the cove. Yielding the wheel to Young, Christian now went forward to direct the vessel’s course. It was a tense moment for all the Bounty’s company; men and women alike lined the bulwarks, gazing ahead across the narrowing strip of water. Martin, McCoy, and Quintal stood together on the larboard side.

Martin shook his head, gloomily. “Mark my word, mates! Many’s the time we’ll rue this day afore we’re done!”

Quintal thumped him on the back. “Over the side with ’ee, Isaac, and swim back to Tahiti if ye’ve a mind that way. I’m for stoppin’.”

“Aye, ye was easy won over, Matt Quintal,” Martin replied. “It’s all for the best, is it? We’ll see afore the year’s out.... God a mercy! There’s bottom!”

The vessel, still a quarter of a mile from shore, struck lightly. The rock could be seen, but it was at such a depth that it no more than scraped the hull gently; in a few seconds she was clear of it, but her end was near. Riding more and more violently to the onshore swell, she approached two rocks, barely awash and about four fathoms apart. A moment later the ground swell carried her swiftly forward, lifting her bow high, and she struck heavily.

The impact was both downward and forward; with her own movement and the sea to help her, she slid on until her bow was lifted two or three feet. There, by a lucky chance, she stuck, so firmly wedged that the sea could drive her no further. The broken water foamed around her, and now and then a heavier swell, breaking under her counter, showered her decks with spray.

No time was lost in making the vessel as secure as possible. The rocks where she struck lay at about thirty yards from the beach, and were protected in a southeasterly direction by the cliff that formed that side of the cove. Two hawsers were now carried from the bow to the shore and made fast to trees. The vessel remained in the position in which she had struck, canted at a slight angle to starboard. Christian, having satisfied himself that she was as secure as he could make her, set the men to work at once at the task of dismantling.

There was no respite for anyone during the following week. The topgallant masts were sent down as soon as the ship was beached. The topmasts now followed, whereupon the fore, main, and mizzenmasts were cut into suitable lengths for handling and for use as lumber ashore. Most of the men were employed on board, and the women, excellent swimmers, helped to raft the timbers through the surf. So steep was the slope above the landing beach that it was necessary to dig out the hillside and bank up the earth so that the timbers and planking might be stacked beyond reach of the sea until such time as they could be carried on to the settlement. Realizing the need for haste, all worked with a will. Fortunately, the shift in wind had been no forerunner of heavy weather. The breeze remained light and the sea fairly calm.

At length the vessel had been gutted of cabins, lockers, and storerooms, the deck planking had been removed, and the men were ripping off the heavy oaken strakes. Their task being so nearly finished, a day of rest was granted, and for the first time since the Bounty had left England, no one was aboard the vessel. An abundance of fish was caught during the morning, and with these, fresh breadfruit, plantains, and wild yams the native men had found, the Bounty’s people made the most satisfying meal they had enjoyed since leaving Tahiti. Never before had they eaten together, and the feeling of constraint was apparent to all. Christian and Young tried to put the men at ease, but the meal passed in silence for the most part. The women, according to Polynesian custom, waited until the men had finished before partaking of the food. Their hunger satisfied, the men drew apart and lay in the shade, some sleeping, some talking in desultory fashion. Early in the afternoon, Martin, Mills, and McCoy, who had seen little of the island thus far, set out to explore it with Alexander Smith as their guide.

They toiled slowly on into the depths of the valley, making their way with difficulty through the dense forests and vine-entangled thickets. An hour had passed before they reached the ridge overlooking the western side of the island. The breeze was refreshingly cool at that height, and they seated themselves in a shady spot overlooking the wild green lands below. No sound was heard save their own laboured breathing and the gentle rustling of the wind through the trees that shaded them. Mills sat with his arms crossed on his knees, gazing morosely into the depths of the thickets beneath them.

“And this is what Christian’s brought us to!” he said. “There’s what we can see from here, and no more.”

“There’s room enough,” said McCoy.

“Room? Ye’re easy pleased,” Martin put in, gloomily. “A bloody rock, I call it!”

“Aye, Tahiti’s the place,” said Smith, scornfully. “Ye’d have us all go back there to be took by the first ship that comes out from England. Ye’re perishin’ to be choked off at a rope’s end, Isaac. None o’ that for me!”

McCoy nodded. “It’s no such a grand place for size, this Pitcairn’s Island; but Christian’s right—it’s safe. We’ll never be found.”

“And here we’ll bide to our last day!” said Mills. “Have ’ee thought o’ that, shipmates?” He smote his horny palms together. “God’s curse on the pack of us! What fools we’ve been to break up the ship!”

McCoy sat up abruptly. “Hearken to me, John. Ye and Isaac had your chance to stay at Tahiti, but I mind me weel ye was all for comin’ awa’ with the rest of us to a safer place. And now we’ve found it, ye’ll nae hae it. And what would ye hae done with the ship? Hoist her three hunnerd feet up the rocks? Where could we keep her?”

“It’s as Christian says,” Smith added. “We’re not free to go where we like.”

“And whose fault is that?” Mills replied. “If he’d minded his own bloody business ...”

“Aye,” said Martin, “we’d ha’ been home by now, or near it. We’ve a deal to be thankful for to Mr. Fletcher Christian!”

“I’d like well to hear ye tell him that,” said Smith. “Ye’ll be sayin’ next he drove us into the mutiny. There was no man more willin’ than yerself, Isaac Martin, to seize the ship.”

“That’s truth,” said McCoy. “Give Christian his due. We was all of a mind, there.”

“The man’s clean daft. Is there one of ye can’t see it?”

“Daft! ...”

“Sit ye quiet, Alex. So he is, and we’ve all been daft with him. He’s queer by nature, that’s my belief, and since we took the ship he thinks the world ain’t big enough to hide him and us in. He’s a master talker when he’s a mind to talk; that I’ll say, else he’d never coaxed a man of us off Tahiti. What if a ship did come there? Couldn’t we ha’ hid in the mountains? There’s places a plenty where God himself couldn’t ha’ found us. Or if we was afeared o’ that, we’d only to take a big Indian canoe and sail to Eimeo or one of them islands to leeward, a good hundred miles from Tahiti. We could ha’ played hide-and-seek with a dozen King’s ships till they got sick o’ the chase and went off home. Then we’d live easy for ten or fifteen years till the next one came. Ain’t that common sense? Speak up, Will!”

“Aye,” McCoy replied, uneasily. “Like enough we might hae done it.”

“Might! Damn my eyes! I’ve spoke o’ ships because Christian’s got ships on the brain, but I’ll warrant them as stayed on Tahiti is as safe as we’ll be here. Bligh’ll never get home; Christian himself knows that. Does anyone but him think they’ll send a ship out from England, halfway round the world, to see what’s become of a little transport? Bloody likely! They’ll mark her down as lost by the act o’ God, and that’ll be the end of it.”

“Damn your blood!” said Mills, scowling at him. “Why couldn’t ye ha’ spoke like this to Christian? What’s the good o’ talkin’ of it now?”

“Didn’t I say we was daft, the lot of us? He’s made us believe what he told us, and now we’re done for.”

“I’d like to see ye with a rope around your neck, waitin’ to be hoisted aloft,” said Smith. “It’s not Christian ye’d be callin’ daft then.”

“Leave all that, lads,” said McCoy. “We’re to stop here now, and there’s an end of it.”

“And Christian’s always to have his way, is he, whatever’s done?” Martin asked.

“No, damn my eyes if he is!” Mills exclaimed. “We’re jack-tars no longer, mates! Don’t forget it! We’re to have a say here as good as his own. He’s promised it.”

“There’s no need to fash yersel’,” said McCoy. “Wasn’t it Christian that made the offer? And he’ll bide by it; that we know.”

“Who’s sayin’ he won’t? But I want us to mind what he’s said.... There’s the rum, now. He’s promised us our grog as long as it lasts, and we’ve had none these two days.”

“Curse ye, John, for mindin’ us o’ that,” said McCoy with a wry smile.

“And how would we have it with us workin’ aboard and the spirits ashore?” said Smith.

“Aye, we’re no settled yet,” said McCoy. “Gie him time. We’ll have our tot afore the evening.”

“There’s Alex would a had us go without altogether,” said Mills.

“Ye’ve a thick skull, John. I was for makin’ it last a good few years, and, as Christian says, ye can’t do that and claim seamen’s rations now. How much do we have? Ye know as well as myself, there’s but the two puncheons—that’s 164 gallons—and the three five-gallon cags.”

“There’s but eight of us to drink it, Alex. Brown’s an abstainer.”

“Aye,” said McCoy, fervently. “God be thanked for Brown and the Indians! If they was fond o’ grog ...”

“Like it or not, none the Indians would have. We could see to that,” said Mills.

“What I say is this,” Smith continued. “Christian’s give ye yer choice with the rum, and ye was all for yer half-pint a day. With eight of us to drink it, there’s three and a half gallons a week. Afore the year’s out, where’ll we be for grog? And mind ye, there’s no Deptford stores here. When it’s gone, it’s gone, and we’ll do without for the rest of our lives.”

“We’ll no think of that, Alex,” said McCoy. “We’ll just relish what we’ve got and thank God it’s no less. Mon, but I’d like my dram this minute!”

“What would ye say, messmates, to better than a dram for the four of us within the half-hour?” Martin asked. McCoy turned his head quickly.

“What’s that ye say, Isaac? How should we hae it, and the rum stored in Christian’s tent?”

“Oh, it’s rum ye must have, is it?” Martin replied, with a sly smile. “Ye wouldn’t look at brandy, I doubt? And fine old brandy, too?”

“What are ye drivin’ at, man?” asked Mills, harshly. “Can’t ye speak out plain? There’s no brandy in the stores.”

“Have I said it was in the stores?”

“Hark ’ee, Isaac! If ye’ve been thievin’ from the medicine chest ...”

“I’ve done no such thing. I’ll tell ’ee, mates,” he proceeded, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “A few days back while we was rippin’ out the cabin partitions, I found eight quarts o’ brandy under what was Old Sawbones’s bed-place. I reckon he’d hid it away for his own use on a thirsty day. Anyway, there it was, packed careful in a canvas bag. Sez I when I found it: ‘This’ll belong to nobody but Isaac Martin. It’s not ship’s stores, it’s finder’s luck’; so I hid it away, and last night, after we’d come ashore, I found a safe place to stow it. But I’d no mind to be greedy with it. Ye’ll allow that, for I’ve told what there was no need to tell if I’d meant to keep it.”

“That’s plain truth, God bless ye!” said McCoy. “If I’d found it I doubt but I’d been hog enough to drink the lot of it on the sly.”

“Ye would so, Will,” said Mills. “Ye’ve your good points, but sharin’ anything in the way o’ grog’s not one of ’em. Where’s this brandy now, Isaac?”

“We passed where I hid it on the way up here. It’s a good piece from the camp. We can drink it somewheres thereabout and the rest none the wiser. What do ye say, Alex? Must I give it up as ship’s stores?”

“That’s no called for,” McCoy put in earnestly.

“To my thinkin’ it belongs to the ship and calls to be shared by all.”

“There’s three of us to say no to that,” said Mills.

Smith rose. “Do as ye please,” he said, “but it’s a bad beginning ye’re makin’. I’ll go along and leave ye to it.”

For a moment his companions looked after him in silence; then Martin called out, “If we’re asked for, Alex, tell ’em we’re walkin’ the island and will sleep the night out.”

Smith turned and waved his hand. A moment later he was lost to view in the forest, below.

McCoy shook his head admiringly. “He’s a grand stubborn character. And there’s no man fonder of his grog; there’s the wonder of it.”

“If we’d the brandy with us we could ha’ won him over for all his fine notions o’ what’s fair to the rest,” Martin replied. He rose to his feet. “Well, shipmates?”

“Aye, lead on, Isaac,” said McCoy, eagerly. “We’ll no be laggin’ far behind.”

Once below the ridge they lost the breeze and sweat streamed from their half-naked bodies as they pushed their way through the tall fern into the thickets below. At length they reached the depths of the valley, where the air was moist and cool. Martin led the way, walking in the bed of a small stream. Presently he stopped and looked about him uncertainly. McCoy gave him an anxious glance. “Ye’ve not lost yer bearin’s, Isaac?”

“It’s somewhere hereabout,” said Martin.

“Curdle ye, Isaac! Don’t ye know? What like was the place where ye hid it?” said Mills.

“It was by just such a tree as this. There was a hollow by the roots and I put it there.... No, it’ll be a step farther down.”

They proceeded slowly, Martin glancing from side to side. Presently his face lighted up. “Yon’s the one,” he said, hurrying forward. A wide-spreading hibiscus tree that looked as ancient as the land itself overhung the stream, its branches filled with lemon-coloured blossoms. Martin knelt by the trunk and reached to his arm’s length among the gnarled and twisted roots. The eyes of his companions glistened as he drew out, one by one, eight bottles. He sat back on his heels, glancing triumphantly up at them.

“God love ye, Isaac!” McCoy exclaimed, in an awed voice.

“And it’s old Sawbones’s best brandy, mind ye that! Whereabout shall we go to drink it? We can’t sit comfortable-like here.”

McCoy and Martin carrying three bottles each, and Mills with two, they proceeded down the valley for another fifty yards until they came to a little glade carpeted with fern and mottled with sunlight and shadow. At this point the tiny stream made a bend, and in the hollow against the further bank was a pool of still water, two or three yards wide. Here they seated themselves with grunts of satisfaction. Martin, taking a heavy clasp knife which he carried at his belt, knocked off the neck of a bottle with one clean even blow.

“Ye needna be so impatient as all that,” said McCoy. “Bottles’ll be handy things here.”

Martin took a long pull before replying. “If there was one, there was fifteen dozen empties took ashore from the spirit room,” he said. His companions were not far behind him in enjoying their first drink. McCoy, replacing the cork in his bottle, leaned it carefully against the tree beside him.

“Isaac, I’ll never forget ye for this,” he said. “It fair sickens me to think I could nae hae done the same if I’d found the brandy.”

“Enjoy yourself hearty, Will. There’s a plenty for all. I’ll be blind drunk afore I’ve finished my second.”

“We needna be hasty, there’s a blessing,” McCoy replied. “We’ve the night before us, and there’s water close by to sober us up now and again.”

“I’m as willin’ Matt Quintal’s not with us,” said Mills.

“Aye,” Martin replied. “There’s a good shipmate when he’s sober, but God spare me when he’s had a drop too much!”

McCoy nodded. “There’s no demon worse. D’ye mind his wreckin’ the taproom at the Three Blackamoors the week we left Portsmouth? When it took five of us to get him down?”

“Mind! I’ve the marks on me yet,” said Mills.... “God strike me! What’s this?”

A tiny bouquet of flowers and fern, attached to a slender ribbon of bark, came dropping down through the foliage of the tree that shaded them. After dangling in front of Mills’s nose for a moment, it was jerked up again. A ripple of laughter was heard, and, looking up quickly, they could see an elfin-like face peeping down from among the green leaves.

“It’s your own wench, Mills! Damme if it’s not!” said Martin.

Mills’s rugged face softened. “So it is! Come out o’ that, ye little witch! What are ye doin’ here?” he called.

The girl descended to the lowest branch and perched there, out of reach, smiling down at them.

“She’s a rare lass for roamin’ the woods and mountains,” said Mills, fondly. He held out his arms. “Jump, ye little mischty!” The girl leaped and he caught her in his arms. She was dressed in a kirtle of bark cloth reaching to her knees, and her thick hair fell in a rippling mass over her bare breasts and shoulders. Mills held her off at arm’s length, gazing at her admiringly.

“Ye’ve spoke truth, John,” said Martin. “She’s a proper little witch.”

“Aye,” said McCoy, “ye’ve the prettiest lass o’ the lot. I wonder she’d come awa’ from her kinfolks and a’ with a dour old stick the like o’ yersel’.”

Mills stroked her hair with his great rough hand. “Ye’ll allow this, Will: ye’ve not seen her weepin’ her eyes out for Tahiti like some o’ the women.”

“Nay, I’ll grant that,” said McCoy. “She seems a contented little body.”

“I’d be pleased to say the like o’ my wench, Susannah,” said Martin, glumly. “She was willin’ enough to come away with us, but now we’re here she’s fair sick to be home again. I’ve had no good of her since we beached the ship.”

“It’s in reason she should be, Isaac,” McCoy replied. “My woman’s the same way. Gie ’em time; they’ll joggle down well enough. Mills’s lass here’ll learn ’em how to make the best of things, won’t ’ee, Prudence?”

The girl’s lips parted in a ready smile, revealing her small white teeth.

“How d’ye manage with her, John?” Martin asked. “Ye’re the dumbest o’ the lot for speakin’ the Indian lingo. Is it sign talk ye use with her?”

“Never ye mind about that,” Mills replied gruffly. “I’ve no call to learn their heathen jabber. Prudence takes to English like a pigeon picks up corn.”

“They’re a queer lot, all these Indian wenches,” said Martin. “Why is it, now, they make such a fuss about cookin’ the food?”

“It’s against their heathen notions,” said McCoy. “Young’s told me how it is. Indian men won’t have their womenfolks fussin’ with their vittles. It’s contrary to their religion, he says.”

“I’ll learn mine better’n that, once we’re settled,” Martin replied. “She’ll bloody well do as I tell her.”

“There’s no need to beat it out of ’em, Isaac. They’ll come around well enough, once they see how it is with us.”

“Aye, give ’em time; they’ll follow our ways,” said Mills. “It ain’t in reason to expect it at the start.”

“And the men with ’em, if they know what’s good for ’em.”

“Ye’ll go easy there, Isaac,” said McCoy, “else we’ll have a fine row on our hands one o’ these days. Minarii and Tetahiti’s a pair not to be trifled with.”

“Say ye so, Will?” Mills replied grimly. “They’d best learn at the start who’s masters here.”

“Christian and Young treat ’em like they was as good as ourselves,” said Martin.

“There’s three we can do as we like with, but mind the others!” said McCoy. “Will the lass ken what we say, John?”

“She’s not that far along. Will ’ee sing ’em a song, Prudence?” he asked.

The girl laughed and shook her head.

“It strikes me she knows more’n she lets on,” said Martin.

“I’ve been learnin’ her one,” Mills went on proudly. “Come, now, lass:—

We hove our ship to when the wind was sou’west, boys,

We hove our ship to for to strike soundings clear ...

Ye mind how it goes? Come, there’s a good wench.”

After considerable urging the girl began singing in a soft, clear voice and a quaint pronunciation of the English words that delighted her listeners. She broke off and they cheered her heartily.

“Damme if that ain’t pretty, now!” said Martin. “Give her a sup o’ brandy; there’s nothin’ better to wet the whistle.”

“Will ’ee have a taste, sweetheart?” said Mills, holding out the bottle. Prudence shook her head. “She don’t fancy the stuff,” he said, “and I ain’t coaxed her to relish it.”

“And it’s right ye are,” said McCoy, “seeing there’s none too much for oursel’s. If the women learned to booze we’d be bad off in no time for grog.”

“What! A wench not drink with her fancy-man?” said Martin. “That’s not jack-tar’s fashion. Give her a sup.”

“Aye, ye’re right, Isaac,” Mills replied. “It ain’t natural on a spree. Come, lass, just a drop now.”

He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her to him, holding the bottle to her lips. Thus urged, the girl closed her eyes and took two or three resolute swallows. Choking and sputtering, she pushed the bottle away and ran to the near-by stream. The three men laughed heartily.

“Fancy a dolly-mop at home makin’ such a face as that over good brandy,” said Martin.

“My old woman could drink her half-pint in two ticks, not winkin’ an eye,” said McCoy.... “There’s an odd thing,” he added; “I doubt I’ve thought of her twice this past twelvemonth.”

“Was ye wedded to her, Will?”

“Aye; all shipshape and Bristol-fashion. I liked her well enough, too.”

“If I know women she’ll not be sleepin’ cold the nights ye’ve been away,” said Mills.

“Aye, she’ll hae dragged her anchor long afore this,” McCoy replied. He raised his bottle. “Well, here’s luck to her wherever she is.”

Prudence returned from the brook and seated herself again at Mills’s side.

“How is it with ye, lass?”

She laughed and pointed to the bottle. “More,” she replied.

“There’s a proper wench, John,” said Martin, admiringly. “Damn my eyes if she won’t make a proper boozer, give her time. All she needs is a sup o’ water to follow.”

Mills smiled down at her, proudly. “She’ll do,” he said. “Here, darlin’, drink hearty.”

“Ahoy there, mates!”

The three men looked up quickly to find Quintal standing behind them.

“God love us! It’s Matt himself,” said McCoy, uneasily.

“Come aboard, Matt; we was wishin’ for ye,” Martin put in with an attempt at heartiness.

Quintal squatted on the balls of his feet, his brawny hands on his knees, and grinned at them accusingly. “I’ve no doubt o’ that,” he said, “and searchin’ for me far and wide. And where did ye find all this?”

“Never ye mind, Matt. We ain’t thieved it. It’s private stock. Would ye relish a taste?”

Quintal looked longingly at the bottle. “Ye know damned well I would. No, don’t coax me, Isaac. I’d best leave it alone.”

“That’s common sense, lad,” said McCoy. “Ye ken yer weakness. We’ll no think the less o’ ye for standin’ out against it.”

Quintal seated himself in the fern with his back to a tree. “Go on with your boozin’,” he said. “What’s this, Mills? The little wench ain’t shakin’ a cloth?”

“She’s havin’ her first spree,” said Mills. “She’s took to brandy that easy. Where’s Jack Williams?”

“I’ve not seen him these two hours.”

“Not alone, I’ll warrant, wherever he is. And it won’t be Fasto that’s with him.”

“Aye, he’s fair crazed over that—what’s her name? Hutia?”

“Why can’t he keep to his own?” Mills growled.

“Where’s the need, John?” Martin asked. “I mean to take a walk with Hutia myself, once we’re well ashore.”

“Aye, ye’ll be a proper trouble-maker, Isaac, give ye half a chance,” said Quintal. “The Indians can play that game as well as ourselves. I’m with John. Let each man keep to his own.”

“Aye, aye, to that!” said McCoy. “Once there was trouble started ’twixt us and the Indians, there’d be the deil and a’ to pay. We’ve the chance, here, to live quiet and peaceful as ever we like. I say, let’s take it and hold fast by it.”

“And how long will the Indians hold by it, think ye?” asked Martin. “There’s three without women. They’ll be snoopin’ after ours, fast enough.”

“They’ll leave mine alone,” said Mills. “That I’ll promise!”

“Say ye so, John? She’ll be amongst the first. I’ll warrant some of ’em’s had her before now.”

Mills sprang to his knees and grasped Martin by the shoulders, shaking him violently.

“What d’ye say, ye devil? Speak up if ye’ve seen it! Tell me who, or I’ll throttle ye!”

“Let me go, John! God’s name! I’ve seen naught! I was only havin’ a game wi’ ye.”

Mills glared at him suspiciously, but upon being reassured by the others he released him and resumed his place.

“Christian’s gone aboard again,” said Quintal; “him and Young.”

“There, lads, we can take it easy,” said McCoy in a relieved tone. “Prudence, will ’ee gie us a dance?” He turned to Mills: “Ye don’t mind, John? It’s a joy to see her.”

“Mind? Why should he?” said Martin. “Come, Prudence, up wi’ ye, wench!”

The fumes of the brandy had already mounted to the girl’s brain and she was ready enough to comply. The men well understood the quick rhythmic slapping of hands upon knees that marked the time for the dances of the Maori women. Prudence danced proudly, with the natural abandon of the young savage, pausing before each of the men in turn, her slim bare arms akimbo, gazing tauntingly into their eyes as she went through the provocative movements of the dance. Of a sudden she broke off with a peal of laughter and ran lightly away into the thickets.

The men cheered heartily. “Come back, ye little imp,” Martin called. “We’ll have more o’ the same.”

“That we will,” said McCoy. “John, I’ll trade wenches wi’ ye any day ye like.”

“Keep your own,” said Mills, with a harsh laugh. “I’m well pleased with what I got. Come back, ye little mischty! We’ve not done wi’ ye yet.”

The girl feigned reluctance for a moment; then, running back to Mills, she seized the bottle from his hands and drank again. Quintal watched her with fascinated eyes, nervously clasping and unclasping his great hairy hands. By this time the others were in the mellow state of the first stages of a spree.

“Matt Quintal,” Martin exclaimed, “I’ll see no man sit by with a dry gullet! Ye’re perished for a drink, that’s plain. Come, have a sup.”

He passed over a bottle which Quintal accepted, hesitatingly. “Thank ’ee, Isaac. I’ll have a taste and no more.”

It was a generous taste that called for another, and yet another, freely offered by Mills and Martin. A few moments later Quintal reached across and seized the partly emptied bottle at McCoy’s side.

“Damn yer blood, Matt!” McCoy exclaimed anxiously. “Easy, now! There’s but eight quarts for the lot of us!” Quintal held him off with one hand while he drank. “D’ye grudge me a drink, ye hog?” he said, grinning. “Ye’ve another full bottle beside ye. I’ll take that if ye’ll like it better.”

“It’s nae that I grudge ye a drink, Matt, but there’s enough in the bottle wi’ what ye’ve had to make ye mad drunk, and well ye know it.”

“Aye,” said Mills. “Drink slow, Matt, and water it a-plenty. It’ll last the night if ye do that.”

The afternoon was now well advanced, and the shadow of the high ridge to the westward had already crept beyond the little glade where the men were seated. They drank and lolled at their ease. There was no need, now, to urge Prudence to dance. Martin, Quintal, and McCoy slapped their knees and cheered her on as her gestures and postures became more and more wanton and provocative, but the expression on Mills’s face was increasingly sullen. “That’ll do, lass,” he said, at length. “Off wi’ ye, now. Go back wi’ the others.” But the girl laughed without heeding and, as though with intent to enrage him, passed him by without a glance, dancing before Quintal, gazing into his eyes with a sultry smile. Of a sudden Quintal seized her by the arm, pulling her into his lap, and gave her a bearlike hug, kissing her heartily. Mills sprang to his feet.

“Let her go, damn yer blood! Let her go, I say!”

The girl, sobered a little, began to struggle, but Quintal held her fast. He turned to Mills with a drunken leer. “She knows who’s the best man, don’t ’ee, wench?” Pinioning her arms, he kissed her again and again, but as Mills strode forward he got to his feet just in time to receive a blow in the face, delivered with all the strength of Mills’s arm. The blood streamed from his nose and he staggered back, but recovered himself. An insane light came into his closely set blue eyes. He tossed the girl aside and clenched his enormous fists.

“Ye bloody bastard! I’ll kill ye for that!” He gave Mills a blow on the chest that knocked him full length, but he was up again in a second. Rushing forward, he grappled Quintal around the waist. McCoy and Martin were both on their feet by this time, looking anxiously on.

“Stop it, lads!” McCoy called, earnestly. “Matt, think what ye do.”

Glaring wildly, Quintal turned his head and gave McCoy a backhanded blow that sent him sprawling. Mills, for all his strength, was no match for the younger man, and in a moment Quintal had him down, with a knee on his chest and his fingers around his throat. Mills’s eyes started from their sockets and his tongue protruded from his mouth.

“He’ll kill him, Isaac! Pitch in!” McCoy shouted. The two men sprang upon his back, tugging and straining with all their strength. Quintal loosed one hand to seize Martin’s arm, giving it such a wrench that he cried out with pain. Meanwhile, with the pressure partly relieved from his throat, Mills gave a desperate heave and, with the others to help him, managed to topple Quintal over. The three men were upon him at once, but their combined strength was not sufficient to keep him down. Breaking Mills’s hold on his legs, he struggled to his feet, the others clinging to him desperately.

“God be praised! Here’s Alex,” McCoy panted. “Quick, mon!”

Before Quintal had time to turn his head, Smith’s burly form was upon him with the others. He fought like a demon, but the odds were now too great. Presently he lay helpless, breathing heavily, his face streaming with sweat and blood, his eyes glaring insanely. “Will ye give in, ye devil?” said Smith. With a bellow of rage Quintal resumed the struggle, and his four antagonists needed all their strength to hold him. “Is there a bit o’ line amongst ye?” Smith panted. “We must seize him up.” “Prudence!” Mills called; “fetch some purau bark!” The girl, who had been looking on in terror, understood at once. Running to a near-by hibiscus tree, she bit through the tough smooth bark of some of the low-hanging branches and quickly ripped it down, in long strips. After a prolonged struggle the four men had Quintal bound, hand and foot. Presently his eyes closed and he fell into a heavy sleep.

“Ye was needed, Alex,” said McCoy, in a weak voice. “He’d ha’ done for the three of us.... Ye’ll not let on ye’ve seen us?” he added. “We can booze quiet now Matt’s asleep.”

“I was sent to look for ye,” said Smith. “Mr. Christian’s decided to burn the ship. Ye can stay, or go to see her fired, as ye’ve a mind; but he wanted ye to know.”

“Burn and be damned to her, now,” said Mills.

“He reckons what timbers there is left in her will be more trouble to get out than they’re worth.”

“I could ha’ told him that three days back,” said Martin. “See here, Alex! We’ve a good sup o’ brandy left. Ye’d best stay and have a share.”

He held out a bottle while Smith stood irresolutely, looking from one to another of them. Of a sudden he threw himself on the ground beside them. “So I will, Isaac!” he said, as he seized the bottle. “We’re hogs for drinkin’ it on the sly, but away with that!”

Dusk deepened into night. Quintal was snoring loudly, and Martin had now reached the maudlin stage of drunkenness. His thoughts had turned to home and he blubbered half to himself, half to his companions, cursing Christian the while, and the hard fate that had left them stranded forever on a rock in mid-ocean. Smith and McCoy, having vainly tried to quiet him, at length gave it up and paid no further heed to him. Mills drank in silence; when deep in his cups he became more and more dour and taciturn. Prudence was asleep with her head in his lap.

“Ye’re a marvel for drink, Will,” Smith was saying. “I’ll warrant ye’ve had twice as much as Martin, but there’s none would know it from yer speech.”

“I’ve a good Scotch stomach and a hard Scotch head,” McCoy replied. “Ye maun go north o’ the Tweed, mon, if ye’s see an honest toper. We’ve bairns amangst us could drink the best o’ ye English under a table, and gang hame to their mithers after, and think nae mair aboot it.”

Smith grinned. “Aye, ye’re grand folk,” he replied, “and well ye know it.”

“We’ve reason to, Alex; but aboot this burnin’ o’ the ship ...”

“Christian’s aboard of her now, with Young and Jack Williams. They’ll be firin’ her directly.”

Presently a faint reddish glow streamed up from behind the seaward cliffs to the east. It increased from moment to moment until the light penetrated even to where they sat.

Smith got to his feet. “We’d best go and see the last of her, Will. I’ll cut Matt loose; there’s no harm in him now. What’ll ye do, John, stay or come with us?”

Mills rose and took the native girl up in his arms. “Go past the tents,” he said. “I’ll leave her there.”

Martin was asleep. McCoy took up the bottle beside him and held it up to the light. “Isaac’s a good sup left here, lads.”

“Leave that,” Mills growled. “It’s his, ain’t it?”

“Will it be safe, think ye? Matt might wake ...”

“So he might; there’s a good Scotch reason,” said Smith. “Pass it round, Will.”

Having emptied the bottle, they left it at Martin’s side, and the men proceeded slowly down the valley, Smith leading the way. They found no one at the tents; Mills left Prudence there and they went along the roughly cleared path to the lookout point above the cove. The ship was burning fiercely, flames and sparks streaming high in the air. In the red glare they could plainly see the other members of the Bounty’s company seated among the rocks on the narrow foreshore.

“She makes a grand light,” McCoy, glumly.

“Aye,” said Smith.

They were silent after that.