The Lonely Island: The Refuge of the Mutineers

by R. M. Ballantyne

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

  TYRANTS AND PLOTTERS.

  Leaving Christian and Adams to carry out their philanthropic intentions,we return to Matthew Quintal, whom we left sprawling on the ground inhis garden.

  This garden was situated in one of the little valleys not far fromBounty Bay. Higher up in the same valley stood the hut of McCoy.Towards this hut Quintal, after gathering himself up, wended his way ina state of unenviable sulkiness.

  His friend McCoy was engaged at the time in smoking his evening pipe,but that pipe did not now seem to render him much comfort, for hegrowled and puffed in a way that showed he was not soothed by it, thereason being that there was no tobacco in the pipe. That weed,--whichmany people deem so needful and so precious that one sometimes wondershow the world managed to exist before Sir Walter Raleigh put it to itsunnatural use--had at last been exhausted on Pitcairn Island, and themutineers had to learn to do without it. Some of them said they didn'tcare, and submitted with a good grace to the inevitable. Others growledand swore and fretted, saying that they knew they couldn't live withoutit. To their astonishment, and no doubt to their disgust, they didmanage to live quite as healthily as before, and with obvious advantageto health and teeth. Two there were, however, namely, Quintal andMcCoy, who would not give in, but vowed with their usual violence oflanguage that they would smoke seaweed rather than want their pipes.Like most men of powerful tongue and weak will, they did not fulfiltheir vows. Seaweed was left to the gulls, but they tried almost everyleaf and flower on the island without success. Then they scraped anddried various kinds of bark, and smoked that. Then they tried thefibrous husk of the cocoa-nut, and then the dried and pounded kernel,but all in vain. Smoke, indeed, they produced in huge volumes, but ofsatisfaction they had none. It was a sad case.

  "If we could only taste the flavour o' baccy ever so mild," they werewont to say to their comrades, "the craving would be satisfied."

  To which Isaac Martin, who had no mercy on them, would reply, "If yehadn't created the cravin' boys, ye wouldn't have bin growlin' andhankerin' after satisfaction."

  As we have said, McCoy was smoking, perhaps we should say agonising,over his evening pipe. His man, or slave, Timoa, was seated on theopposite side of the hut, playing an accompaniment on the flute toMcCoy's wife and two other native women, who were singing. The flutewas one of those rough-and-ready yellow things, like the leg of a chair,which might serve equally well as a policeman's baton or a musicalinstrument. It had been given by one of the sailors to Timoa, whodeveloped a wonderful capacity for drawing unmusical sounds out of it.The singing was now low and plaintive, anon loud and harsh--always wild,like the song of the savages. The two combined assisted the pipe insoothing William McCoy--at least so we may assume, because he hadcommanded the music, and lay in his bunk in the attitude of one enjoyingit. He sometimes even added to the harmony by uttering a bass growl atthe pipe.

  During a brief pause in the accompaniment Timoa became aware of a lowhiss outside, as if of a serpent. With glistening eyes and head turnedto one side he listened intently. The hiss was repeated, and Timoabecame aware that one of his kinsmen wished to speak with him in secret.He did not dare, however, to move.

  McCoy was so much taken up with his pipe that he failed to notice thehiss, but he observed the stoppage of the flute's wail.

  "Why don't you go on, you brute!" he cried, angrily, at the same timethrowing one of his shoes at the musician, which hit him on the shin andcaused him a moment's sharp pain.

  Timoa would not suffer his countenance to betray his feelings. Hemerely raised the flute to his lips, exchanged a glance with the women,and continued his dismal strain. His mind, however, was so engrossedwith his comrade outside that the harmony became worse than ever. EvenMcCoy, who professed himself to be no judge of music, could not standit, and he was contemplating the application of the other shoe, when astep was heard outside. Next moment his friend Quintal strode in andsat down on a stool beside the door.

  "Oh, I say, Matt," cried McCoy, "who put that cocoa-nut on the bridge ofyour nose?"

  "Who?" grow led Quintal, with an oath. "Who on the island would dare todo it but that domineerin' upstart, Christian?"

  "Humph!" answered McCoy, with a slight sneer. He followed this up witha curse on domineerers in general, and on Fletcher Christian inparticular.

  It is right to observe here that though we have spoken of these two menas friends, it must not be understood that they were friendly. They hadno personal regard for each other, and no tastes in common, save thetaste for tobacco and drink; but finding that they disliked each otherless than they disliked their comrades, they were thus drawn into ahollow friendship, as it were, under protest.

  "How did it happen?" asked McCoy.

  "Give us a whiff an' I'll tell 'ee. What sort o' stuff are you tryin'now?"

  "Cocoa-nut chips ground small. The best o' baccy, Matt, for lunatics,which we was when we cast anchor on this island. Here, fill your pipean' fire away. You won't notice the difference if you don't think aboutit. My! what a cropper you must have come down when you got that dab onyour proboscis!"

  "Stop your howlin'," shouted Quintal to the musicians, in order to ventsome of the spleen which his friend's remark had stirred up.

  Timoa, not feeling sure whether the command was meant for the women orhimself, or, perhaps, regarding McCoy as the proper authority from whomsuch an order should come, continued his dismal blowing.

  Quintal could not stand this in his roused condition. Leaping up, hesprang towards Timoa, snatched the flute from his hand, broke it overhis head, and kicked him out of the hut.

  Excepting the blow and the kick, this was just what the Otaheitanwanted. He ran straight into the bush, which was by that time growingdark under the shades of evening, and found Nehow leaning against a treeand groaning heavily, though in a suppressed tone.

  "Quick, come with me to the spring and wash my back," he cried, startingup.

  They did not converse in broken English now, of course, but in theirnative tongue.

  "What has happened?" asked Timoa, anxiously.

  While Nehow explained the nature of the cruel treatment he had justreceived, they ran together to the nearest water-course. It chanced tobe pretty full at the time, heavy rain having fallen the day before.

  "There; oh! ha-a! not so hard," groaned the unfortunate man, as hisfriend laved the water on his lacerated back.

  In a few minutes the salt was washed out of the wounds, and Nehow beganto feel easier.

  "Where is Menalee?" he asked, abruptly, as he sat down under the deepshadow of a banyan-tree.

  "In his master's hut, I suppose," answered Timoa. "Go find him andTetaheite; fetch them both here," he said, with an expression offerocity on his dark face.

  Timoa looked at him with an intelligent grin.

  "The white men must die," he said.

  "Yes," Nehow replied, "the white men shall die."

  Timoa pointed to the lump which had been raised on his shin, grinnedagain, and turning quickly round, glided into the underwood like an evilspirit of the night.

  At that time Menalee was engaged in some menial work in the hut of JohnMills. Managing to attract his attention, Timoa sent him into the woodsto join Nehow.

  When Timoa crept forward, Tetaheite was standing near to a large bush,watching with intense interest the ongoings of Christian, Adams, andYoung. These three, in pursuance of the philanthropic principle whichhad begun to operate, were playing an uproarious game with the childrenround a huge bonfire; but there was no "method in their madness;" thechildren, excepting Thursday October Christian and Sally, were still tooyoung for concerted play. They were still staggerers, and the game wassimply one of romps.

  Tetaheite's good-humoured visage was glistening in the firelight, themouth expanded from ear to ear, and the eyes almost closed.

  Suddenly he became aware of a low hissing sound. The mouth closed, andthe eyes opened so abruptly, that there seemed some
necessary connectionbetween the two acts. Moving quietly round the bush until he got intoits shadow, his dark form melted from the scene without any oneobserving his disappearance.

  Soon the four conspirators were seated in a dark group under shade ofthe trees.

  "The time has come when the black man must be revenged," said Nehow."Look my back. Salt was rubbed into these wounds. It is not the firsttime. It shall be the last! Some of you have suffered in the sameway."

  It scarcely needed this remark to call forth looks of deadly hate on theOtaheitan faces around him.

  "The white men must die," he continued. "They have no mercy. We willshow none."

  Even in the darkness of that secluded spot the glistening of the eyes ofthese ill-treated men might have been seen as they gave ready assent tothis proposal in low guttural tones.

  "How is it to be done?" asked Menalee, after a short pause.

  "That is what we have met to talk about," returned Nehow. "I would hearwhat my brothers have to say. When they have spoken I will open mymouth."

  The group now drew closer together, and speaking in still lower tones,as if they feared that the very bushes might overhear and betray them,they secretly plotted the murder of the mutineers.