“Wait God’s time,” answered Waroonga simply. “But time presses. The pirate vessel, where-ever it may be, is escaping me,” said the captain, unable to repress a smile. “However, I will at all events let you make the trial and await the result; reminding you, however, that you will run considerable risk, and that you must be prepared to accept the consequences of your rather reckless proceedings.”
“I hope, Waroonga,” said Orlando, when the captain left them to give orders as to the course of the ship, “that you will let me share this risk with you?”
“It will be wiser not. You are a strong man, an’ sometimes fierce to behold. They will want to fight you; then up go your blood, an’ you will want to fight them.”
“No, indeed, I won’t,” said Orlando earnestly.
“I will promise to go in the spirit of a missionary. You know how anxious I am to get news of my dear father. How could you expect me to remain idle on board this vessel, when my soul is so troubled? You may depend on me, Waroonga. I will do exactly as you bid me, and will place myself peaceably in the power of natives—leaving the result, as you advise, to God.”
The young man’s tone was so earnest, and withal so humble, that Waroonga could not help acceding to his request.
“Well, well,” said Captain Fitzgerald, when he heard of it; “you seem both to be bent on making martyrs of yourselves, but I will offer no opposition. All I can say is that I shall have my guns in readiness, and if I see anything like foul play, I’ll bombard the place, and land an armed force to do what I can for you.”
Soon the frigate came in sight of Ongoloo’s village, ran close in, brought up in a sheltered bay, and lowered a boat while the natives crowded the beach in vast numbers, uttering fierce cries, brandishing clubs and spears, and making other warlike demonstrations—for these poor people had been more than once visited by so-called merchant ships—the crews of which had carried off some of them by force.
“We will not let a living man touch our shore,” said Ongoloo to Wapoota, who chanced to be near his leader, when he marshalled his men.
“Oh! yes, we will, chief,” replied the brown humorist. “We will let some of them touch it, and then we will take them up carefully, and have them baked. A long-pig supper will do us good. The rest of them we will drive back to their big canoe.”
By the term “long-pig” Wapoota referred to the resemblance that a naked white man when prepared for roasting bears to an ordinary pig.
A grim smile lit up Ongoloo’s swarthy visage as he replied—
“Yes, we will permit a few fat ones to land. The rest shall die, for white men are thieves. They deceived us last time. They shall never deceive us again.”
As this remark might have been meant for a covert reference to his own thievish tendencies, Wapoota restrained his somewhat ghastly humour, while the chief continued his arrangements for repelling the invaders.
Meanwhile, these invaders were getting into the boat.
“What! you’s not goin’ widout me?” exclaimed Ebony, as one of the sailors thrust him aside from the gangway.
“I fear we are,” said Orlando, as he was about to descend the vessel’s side. “It was as much as I could do to get Waroonga to agree to let me go with him.”
“But dis yar negro kin die in a good cause as well as you, massa,” said Ebony, in a tone of entreaty so earnest that the men standing near could not help laughing.
“Now then, make haste,” sang out the officer in charge of the boat.
Orlando descended, and the negro, turning away with a deeply injured expression, walked majestically to the stern to watch the boat.
Waroonga had prepared himself for the enterprise by stripping off every article of clothing save a linen cloth round his loins, and he carried nothing whatever with him except a small copy of God’s Word printed in the language of the islanders. This, as the boat drew near to shore, he fastened on his head, among the bushy curls of his crisp black hair, as in a nest.
Orlando had clothed himself in a pair of patched old canvas trousers, and a much worn unattractive cotton shirt.
“Stop now,” said the missionary, when the boat was about five or six hundred yards from the beach. “Are you ready?”
“Ready,” said Orlando.
“Then come.”
He dropped quietly over the side and swam towards the shore. Orlando, following his example, was alongside of him in a few seconds.
Both men were expert and rapid swimmers. The natives watched them in absolute silence and open-mouthed surprise.
A few minutes sufficed to carry the swimmers to the beach.
“Have your rifles handy, lads,” said the officer in charge of the boat to his men.
“Stand by,” said the captain of the “Furious” to the men at the guns.
But these precautions were unnecessary, for when the swimmers landed and walked up the beach they were seen by the man-of-war’s-men to shake hands with the chief of the savages, and, after what appeared to be a brief palaver, to rub noses with him. Then the entire host turned and led the visitors towards the village.
With a heart almost bursting from the combined effects of disappointment, humiliation, and grief, poor Ebony stood at the stern of the man-of-war, his arms crossed upon his brawny chest, and his great eyes swimming in irrepressible tears, a monstrous bead of which would every now and then overflow its banks and roll down his sable cheek.
Suddenly the heart-stricken negro clasped his hands together, bowed his head, and dropped into the sea!
The captain, who had seen him take the plunge, leaped to the stern, and saw him rise from the water, blow like a grampus, and strike out for land with the steady vigour of a gigantic frog.
“Pick him up!” shouted the captain to the boat, which was by that time returning to the ship.
“Ay, ay, sir,” was the prompt reply.
The boat was making straight for the negro and he for it. Neither diverged from the straight course.
“Two of you in the bow, there, get ready to haul him in,” said the officer.
Two sturdy sailors drew in their oars, got up, and leaned over the bow with outstretched arms. Ebony looked at them, bestowed on them a tremendous grin, and went down with the oily ease of a northern seal!
When next seen he was full a hundred yards astern of the boat, still heading steadily for the shore.
“Let him go!” shouted the captain.
“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the obedient officer.
And Ebony went!
Meanwhile our missionary, having told the wondering savages that he brought them good news, was conducted with his companion to Ongoloo’s hut. But it was plain that the good news referred to, and even Waroonga himself, had not nearly so great an effect on them as the sight of Orlando, at whom they gazed with an expression half of fear and half of awe which surprised him exceedingly.
“Your story is not new to us,” said Ongoloo, addressing the missionary, but gazing at Orlando, “it comes to us like an old song.”
“How so?” exclaimed Waroonga, “has any one been here before with the grand and sweet story of Jesus and His love.”
The reply of the savage chief was strangely anticipated and checked at that moment by a burst of childish voices singing one of the beautiful hymns with which the inhabitants of Ratinga had long been familiar. As the voices swelled in a chorus, which distance softened into fairy-like strains, the missionary and his companion sat entranced and bewildered, while the natives looked pleased, and appeared to enjoy their perplexity.
“Our little ones,” said Ongoloo, after a few minutes’ pause, “are amusing themselves with singing. They often do that.”
As he spoke the party were startled and surprised by the sudden appearance of Ebony, who quietly stalked into the circle and seated himself beside the missionary with the guilty yet defiant air of a man who knows that he has done wrong, but is resolved at all hazards to have his way. Considering the turn that affairs had taken, neither Orlando nor
Waroonga were sorry to see him.
“This is a friend,” said the latter in explanation, laying his hand on the negro’s shoulder. “But tell me, chief, we are impatient for to know, where learned you that song?”
“From one who is mad,” replied the chief still gazing earnestly at Orlando.
“Mad!” repeated the youth, starting up and trembling with excitement—“how know you that? Who—where is he? Ask him, Waroonga.”
The explanation that followed left no doubt on Orlando’s mind that his father was bereft of reason, and wandering in the neighbouring mountain.
If there had been any doubt, it would have been swept away by the chief, who quietly said, “the madman is your father!”
“How does he know that Waroonga?”
“I know, because there is no difference between you, except years—and—”
He did not finish the sentence, but touched his forehead solemnly with his finger.
“Does he dwell alone in the mountains?” asked Orlando.
“Yes, alone. He lets no one approach him,” answered Ongoloo.
“Now, Waroonga,” said Orlando, “our prayers have been heard, and—at least partly—answered. But we must proceed with caution. You must return on board and tell Captain Fitzgerald that I go to search for my father alone.”
“Wid the help ob dis yar negro,” interposed Ebony.
“Tell him on no account to send men in search of me,” continued Orlando, paying no attention to the interruption; “and in the meantime, you know how to explain my purpose to the natives. Adieu.”
Rising quickly, he left the assembly and, followed modestly but closely by the unconquerable negro, set off with rapid strides towards the mountains.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Zeppa, as related in a previous chapter, staggered up the mountain side with Richard Rosco in his arms, his great strength was all but exhausted, and it was with the utmost difficulty that he succeeded at last, before night-fall, in laying his burden on the couch in his cave.
Then, for the first time, he seemed to have difficulty in deciding what to do. Now, at last, the pirate was in his power—he could do to him what he pleased! As he thought thus he turned a look of fierce indignation upon him. But, even as he gazed, the look faded, and was replaced by one of pity, for he could not help seeing that the wretched man was suffering intolerable anguish, though no murmur escaped from his tightly-compressed lips.
“Slay me, in God’s name, kill me at once, Zeppa,” he gasped, “and put me out of torment.”
“Poor man! poor Rosco!” returned the madman in a gentle voice, “I thought to have punished thee, but God wills it otherwise.”
He said no more, but rose hastily and went into the bush. Returning in a few moments with a bundle of herbs, he gathered some sticks and kindled a fire. A large earthenware pot stood close to the side of the cave’s entrance—a clumsy thing, made by himself of some sort of clay. This he filled with water, put the herbs in, and set it on the fire. Soon he had a poultice spread on a broad leaf which, when it was cold, he applied to one of the pirate’s dreadfully burnt feet. Then he spread another poultice, with which he treated the other foot.
What the remedy was that Zeppa made use of on this occasion is best known to himself; we can throw no light on the subject. Neither can we say whether the application was or was not in accordance with the practice of the faculty, but certain it is that Rosco’s sufferings were immediately assuaged, and he soon fell into a tranquil sleep.
Not so the madman, who sat watching by his couch. Poor Zeppa’s physical sufferings and exertion had proved too much for him; the strain on his shattered nerves had been too severe, and a burning fever was now raging within him, so that the delirium consequent on disease began to mingle, so to speak, with his insanity.
He felt that something unusual was going on within him. He tried to restrain himself, and chain down his wandering, surging thoughts, but the more he sought to hold himself down, the more did a demon—who seemed to have been especially appointed for the purpose—cast his mental fastenings adrift.
At last he took it into his head that the slumbering pirate had bewitched him. As this idea gained ground and the internal fires increased, the old ideas of revenge returned, and he drew the knife which hung at his belt, gazing furtively at the sleeper as he did so.
But the better nature within the man maintained a fierce conflict with the worse.
“He murdered my son—my darling Orley!” murmured the madman, as he felt the keen edge and point of his knife, and crept towards the sleeper, while a fitful flicker of the dying fire betrayed the awful light that seemed to blaze in his eyes. “He carried me from my home! He left Marie to die in hopeless grief! Ha! ha! ha! Oh God! keep me back—back from this.”
The noise awoke Rosco, who sat up and gazed at Zeppa in horror, for he saw at a glance that a fit of his madness must have seized him.
“Zeppa!” he exclaimed, raising himself with difficulty on both hands, and gazing sternly in the madman’s face.
“Ha!” exclaimed the latter, suddenly throwing his knife on the ground within Rosco’s reach, “see, I scorn to take advantage of your unarmed condition. Take that and defend yourself. I will content myself with this.”
He caught up the heavy staff which he was in the habit of carrying with him in his mountain rambles. At the same instant Rosco seized the knife and flung it far into the bush.
“See! I am still unarmed,” he said.
“True, but you are not the less guilty, Rosco, and you must die. It is my duty to kill you.”
He advanced with the staff up-raised.
“Stay! Let us consider before you strike. Are you not a self-appointed executioner?”
The question was well put. The madman lowered the staff to consider. Instantly the pirate made a plunge at and caught it. Zeppa strove to wrench it from his grasp, but the pirate felt that his life might depend on his retaining hold, and, in his extremity, was endued with almost supernatural strength. In the fierce struggles that ensued, the embers of the fire were scattered, and the spot reduced to almost total darkness. During the unequal conflict, the pirate, who could only get upon his knees, was swept and hurled from side to side, but still he grasped the staff with vice-like power to his breast. Even in that fearful moment the idea, which had already occurred to him, of humouring his antagonist gained force. He suddenly loosed his hold. Zeppa staggered backward, recovered himself, sprang forward, and aimed a fearful blow at his adversary, who suddenly fell flat down. The staff passed harmlessly over him and was shattered to pieces on the side of the cave.
“Ha! ha!” laughed the pirate lightly, as he sat up again, “you see, Zeppa, that Providence is against you. How else could I, a helpless cripple, have held my own against you? And see, the very weapon you meant to use is broken to pieces. Come now, delay this execution for a little, and let us talk together about this death which you think is due. There is much to be said about death, you know, and I should like to get to understand it better before I experience it.”
“There is reason in that, Rosco,” said Zeppa, sitting down on the ground by the side of the pirate, and leaning his back against the rock. “You have much need to consider death, for after death comes the judgment, and none of us can escape that.”
“True, Zeppa, and I should not like to face that just now, for I am not fit to die, although, as you truly say, I deserve death. I have no hesitation in admitting that,” returned the pirate, with some bitterness; “I deserve to die, body and soul, and, after all, I don’t see why I should seek so earnestly to delay the righteous doom.”
“Right, Rosco, right; you talk sense now, the doom is well deserved. Why, then, try to prevent me any longer from inflicting it when you know it is my duty to do so?”
“Because,” continued the pirate, who felt that to maintain the conflict even with words was too much for his exhausted strength, “because I have heard that God is merciful.”
“Merciful!�
� echoed Zeppa. “Of course He is. Have you not heard that His mercy is so great that He has provided a way of escape for sinners—through faith in His own dear Son?”
“It does not, however, seem to be a way of escape for me,” said the pirate, letting himself sink back on his couch with a weary sigh.
“Yes, it is! yes, it is!” exclaimed Zeppa eagerly, as he got upon the familiar theme; “the offer is to the chief of sinners, ‘Whosoever will,’ ‘Turn ye, turn ye, for why will ye die?’”
“Tell me about it” said Rosco faintly, as the other paused.
Zeppa had delayed a moment in order to think for his disordered mind had been turned into a much-loved channel, that of preaching the Gospel to inquiring sinners. For many years he had been training himself in the knowledge of the Scriptures, and, being possessed of a good memory, he had got large portions of it by heart. Gathering together the embers of the scattered fire, he sat down again, and, gazing thoughtfully at the flickering flames, began to point out the way of salvation to the pirate.
Sleep—irresistible sleep—gradually overcame the latter; still the former went on repeating long passages of God’s word. At last he put a question, and, not receiving an answer, looked earnestly into the face of his enemy.
“Ah! poor man. He sleeps. God cannot wish me to slay him until I have made him understand the gospel. I will delay—till tomorrow.”
Before the morrow came Zeppa had wandered forth among the cliffs and gorges of his wild home, with the ever-increasing fires of fever raging in his veins.
Sometimes his madness took the form of wildest fury, and, grasping some bush or sapling that might chance to be near, he would struggle with it as with a fiend until utter exhaustion caused him to fall prostrate on the ground, where he would lie until partial rest and internal fire gave him strength again to rise. At other times he would run up and down the bills like a greyhound, bounding from rock to rock, and across chasms where one false step would have sent him headlong to destruction.
The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales Page 182
