by Louis Becke
THE REVENGE OF MACY O'SHEA
A Story Of The Marquesas
I.
Tikena the Clubfooted guided me to an open spot in the jungle-growth,and, sitting down on the butt of a twisted TOA, indicated by a sweep ofhis tattooed arm the lower course of what had once been the White Man'sdwelling.
"Like unto himself was this, his house," he said, puffing a dirty claypipe, "square-built and strong. And the walls were of great blocks madeof PANISINA--of coral and lime and sand mixed together; and around eachcentre-post--posts that to lift one took the strength of fifty men--waswound two thousand fathoms of thin plaited cinnet, stained red andblack. APA! he was a great man here in these MOTU (islands), althoughhe fled from prison in your land; and when he stepped on the beach themarks of the iron bands that had once been round his ankles were yetred to the sight. There be none such as he in these days. But he is nowin Hell."
This was the long-deferred funeral oration of Macy O'Shea, sometimemember of the chain-gang of Port Arthur, in Van Dieman's Land, andsubsequently runaway convict, beachcomber, cutter-off of whaleships,and Gentleman of Leisure in Eastern Polynesia. And of his many knowncrimes the deed done in this isolated spot was the darkest of all.Judge of it yourself.
* * * * *
The arrowy shafts of sunrise had scarce pierced the deep gloom of thesilent forest ere the village woke to life. Right beside thethatch-covered dwelling of Macy O'Shea, now a man of might, theretowers a stately TAMANU tree; and, as the first faint murmur of women'svoices arises from the native huts, there is a responsive twitteringand cooing in the thickly-leaved branches, and further back in theforest the heavy, booming note of the red-crested pigeon sounds forthlike the beat of a muffled drum.
* * * * *
With slow, languid step, Sera, the wife of Macy O'Shea, comes to theopen door and looks out upon the placid lagoon, now just ripplingbeneath the first breath of the trade-wind, and longs for courage to goout there--there to the point of the reef--and spring over among thesharks. The girl--she is hardly yet a woman--shudders a moment andpasses her white hand before her eyes, and then, with a sudden gust ofpassion, the hand clenches. "I would kill him--kill him, if there wasbut a ship here in which I could get away! I would sell myself over andover again to the worst whaler's crew that ever sailed the Pacific ifit would bring me freedom from this cruel, cold-blooded devil!"
* * * * *
A heavy tread on the matted floor of the inner room and her face palesto the hue of death. But Macy O'Shea is somewhat shy of his two years'wife this morning, and she hears the heavy steps recede as he walksover to his oil-shed. A flock of GOGO cast their shadow over the lagoonas they fly westward, and the woman's eyes follow them--"Kill him, yes.I am afraid to die, but not to kill. And I am a stranger here, and if Iran a knife into his fat throat, these natives would make me work inthe taro-fields, unless one wanted me for himself." Then the heavy stepreturns, and she slowly faces round to the blood-shot eyes anddrink-distorted face of the man she hates, and raises one hand to herlips to hide a blue and swollen bruise.
The man throws his short, square-set figure on a rough native sofa,and, passing one brawny hand meditatively over his stubbly chin, says,in a voice like the snarl of a hungry wolf: "Here, I say, Sera, slewround; I want to talk to you, my beauty."
The pale, set face flushed and paled again. "What is it, Macy O'Shea?"
"Ho, ho, 'Macy O'Shea,' is it? Well, just this. Don't be a fool. I wasa bit put about last night, else I wouldn't have been so quick with myfist. Cut your lip, I see. Well, you must forget it; any way, it's thefirst time I ever touched you. But you ought to know by now that I amnot a man to be trifled with; no man, let alone a woman, is going toset a course for Macy O'Shea to steer by. And, to come to the point atonce, I want you to understand that Carl Ristow's daughter is cominghere. I want her, and that's all about it."
* * * * *
The woman laughed scornfully. "Yes, I know. That was why"--she pointedto her lips. "Have you no shame? I know you have no pity. But listen. Iswear to you by the Mother of Christ that I will kill her--kill you, ifyou do this."
O'Shea's cruel mouth twitched and his jaws set, then he uttered ahoarse laugh. "By God! Has it taken you two years to get jealous?"
A deadly hate gleamed in the dark, passionate eyes. "Jealous, Mother ofGod! jealous of a drunken, licentious wretch such as you! I hateyou--hate you! If I had courage enough I would poison myself to be freefrom you."
O'Shea's eyes emitted a dull sparkle. "I wish you would, damn you! Yetyou are game enough, you say, to kill me--and Malia?"
"Yes. But not for love of you, but because of the white blood in me. Ican't--I won't be degraded by you bringing another woman here."
"'Por Dios,' as your dad used to say before the devil took his soul,we'll see about that, my beauty. I suppose because your father was ad----d garlic-eating, ear-ringed Dago, and your mother acome-by-chance Tahiti half-caste, you think he was as good as me."
"As good as you, O bloody-handed dog of an English convict. He was aman, and the only wrong he ever did was to let me become wife to adevil like you."
The cruel eyes were close to hers now, and the rough, brawny handsgripped her wrists. "You spiteful Portuguese quarter-bred ----! Call mea convict again, and I'll twist your neck like a fowl's. You she-devil!I'd have made things easy for you--but I won't now. Do you hear?" andthe grip tightened. "Ristow's girl will be here to-morrow, and if youdon't knuckle down to her it'll be a case of 'Vamos' for you--you cango and get a husband among the natives," and he flung her aside andwent to the god that ran him closest for his soul, next to women--hisrum-bottle.
* * * * *
O'Shea kept his word, for two days later Malia, the half-caste daughterof Ristow, the trader at Ahunui, stepped from out her father'swhaleboat in front of O'Shea's house. The transaction was a perfectlylegitimate one, and Malia did not allow any inconvenient feeling ofmodesty to interfere with such a lucrative arrangement as this, wherebyher father became possessed of a tun of oil and a bag of Chiliandollars, and she of much finery. In those days missionaries had notmade much head-way, and gentlemen like Messrs Ristow and O'Shea tookall the wind out of the Gospel drum.
And so Malia, dressed as a native girl, with painted cheeks and barebosom, walked demurely up from the boat to the purchaser of hersixteen-years'-old beauty, who, with arms folded across his broadchest, stood in the middle of the path that led from the beach to hisdoor. And within, with set teeth and a knife in the bosom of her blousebodice, Sera panted with the lust of Hate and Revenge.
* * * * *
The bulky form of O'Shea darkened the door-way. "Sera," he called inEnglish, with a mocking, insulting inflection in his voice, "come hereand welcome my new wife!"
Sera came, walking slowly, with a smile on her lips, and, holding outher left hand to Malia, said in the native language, "Welcome!"
"Why," said O'Shea, with mocking jocularity, "that's a left-handedwelcome, Sera."
"Aye," said the girl with the White Man's blood, "my right hand is forthis"--and the knife sank home into Malia's yellow bosom. "A cold bosomfor you to-night, Macy O'Shea," she laughed, as the value of a tun ofoil and a bag of Chilian dollars gasped out its life upon the mattedfloor.
