Pitcairn's Island

by Charles Nordhoff

The mate waited for him to proceed. The old fellow sat staring before him. At length he said: "Are ye a patient man, Mr. Webber? Could ye listen to a story 'twould take me a couple of evenings to tell?"

  "An account, you mean, of what has happened here?"

  "Aye."

  "I should like nothing better! Why, man, there are scores in England would travel a hundred leagues to hear the tale from your lips! Have no fear! You'll find me a patient listener, I promise you!"

  "I've no wish to tell it, God knows," Smith continued, earnestly. "And yet, if so be as I could...it would ease my heart more than I could well say. I've little learning—that ye can see for yourself; but I've forgot nothing that's happened here. Ye shall have the truth, Mr. Webber. I'll keep nothing back, but I'll ask ye to bear in mind that the Alex Smith who speaks is not the Smith of the Bounty days.

  "Well, sir, to begin at the beginning..."

  § § §

  As he listened, the mate of the Topaz was lost to the present moment. He felt himself carried, in an all but physical sense, into the past. In place of Alexander Smith—stout, middle-aged, and fatherly—he saw a rough young seaman in the midst of as strange a company as ever sailed an English ship. He was conscious of the heave of the Bounty's deck beneath his feet, of the hot suns, the wind and weather of bygone days. He found himself looking on at old unhappy scenes, sharing the emotions and hearing the voices of men long since dead—voices that had broken the silence of this lonely sea and still lonelier island, nearly twenty years before.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Where was I, sir? (Smith proceeded, on the following evening). Aye, if ye recollect, Mr. Christian and me was lying wounded in the house. Save for what I learned afterwards, I can tell ye nothing of the time that followed. Ye can fancy the state the women was in. Moetua and Nanai went off into the bush by themselves after they'd fetched Mr. Christian. Jenny and Taurua stopped with Mrs. Christian, who kept asking for her husband and wondering why he didn't come back. Ye'll recollect that she'd been brought to bed of a daughter on the morning the killing began.

  Hutia stopped with Balhadi to care for us. Mr. Christian had lost so much blood, he lay quiet as a dead man. I'd a high fever; for three days without a let-up, they told me, I babbled, and cursed and raved. The rest of the women, with McCoy's children and little Matt Quintal and Eliza Mills, gathered in one house. They was that dazed and listless they might have starved, I reckon, if they'd not had the little 'uns to think on. They sat huddled on the floor the day long, with scarce a word exchanged, some of 'em crying softly with heads covered, as Indians do. The days was bad enough; it was the nights they dreaded most. They've strange notions, not like ours. They reckon that the spirits of the new dead, no matter if dear friends or husbands in life, are fierce, ravening things, hating the living. Of a night, the women in Mills's house would bar every door and window, and huddle with the children by their candlenut torch, quaking at every little sound outside.

  Quintal stopped alone at his place, sitting on the doorstep most of the time, with his chin in his hands, and he'd speak to no one. I've no notion what was going on in his mind. It may be he felt the loss of Mills and Jack Williams, or was thinkin' of the fix Mr. Christian was in, and how he'd brought the trouble on by burning Minarii's house.

  The killing started at dawn, as ye know. September twenty-second, it was, 1793, a date I'll not forget. The last of the Indians was killed on the night of the twenty-third. Next morning, when Moetua and Nanai was gone, Taurua came across from Mr. Christian's house to speak to my old woman. She told her Mrs. Christian was in such a state it was all they could do to keep her in bed. It was agreed by all she'd have to be told.

  Mr. Young said, long afterwards, he'd as soon face the hangman as live through that morning again. They tried to soften the news to Mrs. Christian, but she guessed what they held back.

  Up she got, in her kirtle, threw a mantle over her shoulders, took up her newborn babe, and went out the door without a word. When they reached our house, she went straight to the bed-place, motioning Hutia away.

  Mr. Christian's eyes was closed and his fever was high. Hutia took the child, and his wife settled herself at the head of the bed-place to keep the cloths on his forehead wrung out cool and fresh. Ye know what a shock the like of that will do to a woman. Mrs. Christian's milk had begun to flow strong and good that morning; by nightfall her breasts was dried up. When the baby cried, Balhadi fed it on what the Indians call ouo , the sweet jelly they scrape out of young coconuts. Aye, and she throve on it; for the next year she'd naught else.

  All that night, through the next day and the night following, Mr. Christian and I lay there, tended by the women and Mr. Young. He'd told Mrs. Christian what had happened; after that she scarce spoke a word. It must have been the morning of the third day when the fever left me and I opened my eyes.

  Here I was in my own house, weak as a cat and bad wounded. My left shoulder and my neck was all stiff and sore. When I tried to move, it pained me cruel. My head was light from the fever and it was a good bit afore I could set my thoughts in order. It came back slow—how Jenny'd come to my taro patch, how I'd climbed the Goat-House, hoping to meet up with Mr. Young, and hid myself alongside the path in the Main Valley, on the chance of cutting down one of the Indians and getting his musket. Towards sunset I'd crept down to Mr. Young's plantain walk, for I'd had naught to eat all day. Then I recollected Te Moa, and Nihau, with Mills's head at his belt, stepping out sudden as I was reaching up for some ripe fruit, and the shot that knocked me down; how I'd scrambled up and made a run for it; then something to do with Jenny, and no more. Three was killed, she'd told me at the taro patch. That was all I knew.

  My bed-place was on the north side of the room, by an open window. It was a calm, sunny morning, with scarce enough breeze to move the tree-tops. Here and there, where the screen of bush was thin, the sea showed blue through the trees. Beautiful, it was, and peaceful; ye'd never have thought men could plot murder in such a place. I set my teeth and turned my head the other way.

  I saw someone on the other bed, across the room, but couldn't make out who it was. Mrs. Christian sat on the floor beside him with her back to me, and I could see neither her face nor his. He never moved, and I took a notion he was dead. Taurua and my old woman was feeding a tiny baby on a mat, and Mr. Young stood near by. I called out to him.

  Balhadi sprang up, baby and all; and Mr. Young came across to me. "Hush, Alex!" said he. "Thank God ye're better, now the fever's down!" My old woman tried to smile at me, and nodded with a hand on my head.

  "Who's that yonder?" said I.

  "Mr. Christian."

  "Is he living?"

  "Aye."

  Mrs. Christian came over and spoke to me kindly.

  When she'd gone back to sit by Mr. Christian, I had a glimpse of his face. One look was enough. There's no mistaking a dying man. Mr. Young signed to Balhadi to take the baby away, and sat on a stool close by.

  "Ned," I whispered, "tell me what's happened, else ye'll have me in a fever again."

  When he had, I lay there thinking on it and wondering what the outcome'd be. It was a black business. Ye won't wonder I felt bitter toward Quintal and McCoy. They'd done more'n anyone else to bring on trouble with the Indians, and come through scot-free. God meant this island to be a little Garden of Eden, and we'd made a hell of it. Mr. Christian had done all a man could. Now he lay dying for his pains. Knowing him as I did, I reckoned he'd be glad to go. We'd had our chance, and we'd failed. Why? It wasn't the Indians' fault; they'd had cause enough for what they'd done. I thought of Tetahiti, who'd been my friend; and of Minarii—both high chiefs on their own islands. Because their skins wasn't white, McCoy and Quintal and Martin and Mills reckoned they wasn't fit to own land. I went back to the beginning, to the day we landed here, trying to make out how we'd got on the wrong course. No, it was no fault of the Indians. All the men asked was to be treated like men; they'd have been our best friends had we met 'em halfway. As for the girls
, ye'd travel far to find a better lot. Real helpmates, they was, ready to take their share in all that was going. And none o' your sour, scolding kind. We was to blame, and no one else. In the first place, we should have seen to it, afore ever we left Tahiti, that each man had his girl, with some to spare. That might have kept Williams out o' mischief. Might , I say, for ye could never tell with a man like Jack. He and his precious Hutia was the start o' the trouble. But it was bound to come, girls or no girls. There was them amongst us reckoned the Indians was made to be used like dogs. That's the first and last of it, sir, in few words.

  I slept most of the morning. I felt a deal better when I woke up again, and grateful just to be alive. Maimiti was still at the foot of Mr. Christian's bed, watching him with a look on her face would have melted a heart of stone. All at once I saw her eyes light up; she came quickly and softly to the head of the bed and knelt down beside him, taking his hand. The fever had left him and he was conscious.

  He looked at her in a puzzled way at first. "What's this, Maimiti?" said he. "Where are we?"

  "In Ned's house."

  She fetched him some water, and I could see by the look in her eyes that hope was springing up in her. He drank a little and said no more for a bit; then he asked, "Is Ned here?"

  Mr. Young was at the door. He came in and stood at the foot of the bed. He didn't trust himself to speak.

  "What is it, Ned? What has happened?"

  "Don't worry or try to talk just now," said Mr. Young. "Where is Minarii?"

  "He is dead."

  "And the other Indian men?"

  "All dead."

  Mr. Christian turned his head slow on the pillow and saw me. "Are ye hurt, Smith?"

  "Aye, sir, but not bad," said I.

  His voice was stronger when he spoke next.

  "Ye must tell me the whole of it, Ned. I want to know."

  There was no getting out of it. Mr. Young told him, quick and short. However he felt, he gave no sign; just lay there, a-starin' up at the ceiling; then his eyes closed, and Mr. Young tiptoed out o' the room.

  Mrs. Christian never moved from her place at the foot of the bed, where she could watch his face. She was blind to what I could see. Trust a good woman to hope. It was afternoon when he came round again and drank a little of the water she offered him. Then a long time passed without a word said. It was well on toward eight bells when young Thursday October came to the door. He was three at the time, and ye never saw a handsomer little lad. He'd a finger in his mouth as he stood in the doorway, looking into the room with his round eyes. At last he came in on tiptoe, half afraid, even after he'd made his father out. Mr. Christian turned his head and saw the little fellow. Desolate, his face was; such a look as I hope never to see another man wear.

  "Take the child out," said he.

  His wife took up the lad and set him down outside the door. She was gone for a minute or two; I think it took her that long to get herself in hand.

  The afternoon wore through. Balhadi fed me a bit of sweet coconut water now and again. I could look out the window, as I told ye. A fine breeze had made up; the trees was swaying, and there was whitecaps out at sea. All the womenfolk was gathered outside, waiting. Mr. Christian was conscious this while, but he spoke no more than a word or two. He knew he was dying, most like, and felt glad to go. All he'd touched was ruined, he'd be thinking: the Bounty's voyage, the men set adrift with Captain Bligh in the launch, those who'd stopped on Tahiti, and now our little settlement, where he'd hoped for so much. Aye...I'll warrant there was never a man waited his end with greyer thoughts than Mr. Christian. My heart bled for him.

  The breeze died away after sundown, as it often does here. I don't recollect a stiller, more beautiful evening. It was spring in these parts, as ye'll remember, and the twilight came on slow. Mrs. Christian gave her husband a sip of water, set down the cup, and stopped where she was, seated on the bed beside him. He put a hand on hers and looked up with a faint smile. Then he turned his head, slow.

  "Alex," he said.

  "Sir?"

  When he spoke again it took me by surprise, and I'm not certain of the words to this day. He said, "There's a chance, now," or "There's still a chance"—one or the other.

  He seemed to expect no reply, so I made none, but lay there trying to make out just what he meant. If he'd said, "There's a chance, now," the words was the bitterest ever spoke, for he must have meant that with him dead and out of the way there might be hope for us. I can scarce believe he spoke so, but it may have been.

  After a long time I heard his voice again: "Never let the children know!" and those was the last words I heard him say.

  I must have dozed off then, and when I opened my eyes it was dark in the room.

  It was Mrs. Christian's low, hopeless cry that woke me. I couldn't see her, or Mr. Christian, but I knew the end had come.

  CHAPTER XVII

  The month that followed was a sorry time, with the silence of death over all. I was afeared, at first, that Mrs. Christian might lose her reason. She wasn't one to weep, and that stony kind of grief ain't natural in a woman. Tears would have helped but none came. It made my heart sore to see her going about the house with that dazed, dead look on her face, like as if the truth hadn't come home to her yet. And there was nothing ye could do to help. She had to fight it through alone. Sometimes a whole day'd pass without her speaking a word.

  Aye, it was a numb, hopeless time for all, and I'll never forget how lonesome it seemed with so many gone. There was one, Martin, I'd have had no wish to see back. We was all of a mind about him: he was better dead; but the others, whites and Indians alike, was sore missed and most of all, of course, Mr. Christian. We could see better, now, the man he'd, been, and the deep need we had for him: There was no one could take his place. We was like sheep without a shepherd.

  Mr. Young was the hardest hit of any of the men, I reckon; ye'd scarce believe the change that came over him. He'd sit on the bluffs for hours at a time, lookin' out over the sea, or wander about the settlement like a man walkin' in his sleep. There'd been no one fonder of a joke in the old days, but after Mr. Christian's death I never again heard him laugh. My bein' hurt and needin' a bit of care was a help to him. When Maimiti or Balhadi wasn't settin' by me, he was, and I'd try to get his mind on other things: plans for the future—how we'd divide ourselves up, now, amongst the houses, the new gardens we'd make, and the like. He'd try to show interest, but it was plain he had no heart for anything.

  But Mrs. Christian wouldn't give in, and having the children to see to and the other women to comfort was a godsend to her. Little by little she became more like her old self, and she'd hearten the others with her quiet ways. I don't know what some would have done without Maimiti.

  One day when she and Mr. Young was by me in the house, she spoke of Moetua and Nanai. Ye'll mind that they was the wives of Minarii and Tetahiti. They'd not been near the settlement since the day they brought Mr. Christian down, but lived by themselves in Jack Williams's old house on the other side of the island. Some believed they must have known their men meant to kill all the whites, and there might have been a war and a massacre amongst the womenfolk if it hadn't been for Maimiti and Taurua; they knew well enough that Moetua and Nanai had naught to do with it and was as innocent as themselves.

  Well, Mrs. Christian asked Mr. Young to go across and coax 'em down, if he could. "Tell 'em to come for my sake, Ned," said she.

  All the women liked Mr. Young; they'd do anything he said. Inside of an hour he was back, and they with him. He came in first and they stood at the door. Ye've seen Moetua, sir; ye can picture what she was in her young womanhood. I've seen thousands of Indian women, whilst on the Bounty , on islands scattered all over this ocean, but none to match Moetua for strength and beauty. She was like a young oak tree. I can't say better than that she was a fit wife for Minarii. It'd done my heart good just to see them two going about together.

  It wasn't fear of Prudence and Hutia or all the womenfolk toge
ther that kept her away from the settlement at this time. She'd have been more than a match for the lot of 'em. But she knew Quintal had killed her husband, and she was afeared she might take her revenge on him. She'd not his great brute strength, but, with the fire of hate in her heart, I'll not say she couldn't have mastered him and put him to death.

  Nanai had a softer nature. She was of the best Indian blood: ye could tell at a glance the difference there was between her and women the like o' Jenny or Hutia. She was gentle. She needed someone to cling to, and it was a blessing she had Moetua, after Tetahiti was killed. Half crazed as some o' the women was, after the killing, I reckon they might have found a way to murder Nanai if she hadn't been with Moetua.

  As I've said, they stood at the door, waiting. The minute she saw 'cm, Maimiti came across and took 'em by the hands and brought 'em in. "Moetua," said she, "what our men have done is done. It may be that your husband killed mine; now both lie dead. Nanai, Christian and Tetahiti were friends. We have been like sisters in the past. I have nothing but love in my heart for ye two. Will ye come here and live with me?"

  I can tell ye what was said, but not how it was said. Never a woman lived with a more kind, gentle nature than Mrs. Christian. Moetua took her in her arms and held her close. She had a beautiful husky voice, near as deep as a man's. "Aye, that we will!" said she. Then the three of them wept together, with their arms round each other. Glad I was to see that meeting. It was the first time Mrs. Christian had shed tears.

  As soon as I was able to walk, she asked me if I'd let her have my house and move over to hers. I knew how it was with her: she'd a terror of setting foot in the house where she and Mr. Christian had lived. So we moved down there—my old woman, and Hutia, and Prudence, who was to live with us. Mr. Young took Mills's house, with Taurua and Jenny. Quintal and McCoy stopped where they always had, with their own two girls and Susannah.

  My wound healed slow. I was able to walk by the end of October. But it was close to Christmas before I had any use of my left arm. I was good for little this while and had to stop indoors. It was a quiet time, but desperate lonesome, as I've said. Quintal and McCoy kept clear o' me, and I was glad they did, for my heart was bitter towards both. I knew we'd mostly them to thank for bringin' trouble to a head with the Indians. I wouldn't have cared if I'd never set eyes on either of 'em again.