Pitcairn's Island
Page 31
We did a cruel wrong when we set Captain Bligh adrift with all them innocent men. He was a hard man and an unjust man. But, no matter how sore we was tried, we should never have seized the ship, and none knew it better than Mr. Christian when it was too late. Ye'll know from what I said that he never had a moment's pleasure or peace of heart from that time to the day of his death. Aye, it was a cruel, lawless deed, and all that can be said for us is that the mutiny wasn't a cold-blooded, planned-out thing. It was the matter of half an hour and was over with afore it came in to us what we'd done. Then it was past mending. We was punished for it as we deserved, but I'll say no more o' this, for it's over and ended.
Ye'll never know the joy it's give me to hear that Captain Bligh and his men won through to safety. I can be truly a peace from this time on. That knowledge was the one thing needful, and I never thought to have it.
Now I've done what Mr. Young wished I should do: told ye the story from start to finish, and kept nothing back. I'd have told ye, regardless, Mr. Webber, for it's been a burden on my heart all these years. I thank ye kindly that ye've let me ease the weight of it.
It's a late hour. Ye'll be ready for bed, and we'll go along to the house.
The last of the casks is filled, Thursday says, and ready to be towed out. It's been a rare treat to the children to be of service to ye. They've a sea stock on the beach will last ye halfway home, I shouldn't wonder—pigs and fowls and fruits and vegetables. We've food and to spare here. Bless ye! We could fill a score of ships like the Topaz and never miss it in the least.
There's one thing more I'd like to speak of. It's about the children. If only I could keep 'em as they are, Mr. Webber—ignorant of the world, and the world ignorant of them! That would be my heart's wish! Maybe ye'll say it's a foolish wish; but if ye could be in my place, see and be with 'em from day to day, ye'd feel as I do. Aye, ye would so—I'm certain of it. They've missed so much that children outside is laid open to, almost from babyhood. I'd not have ye think they're perfect, without flaw or blemish. They're human. But I do believe ye might search the world around without finding children more truly innocent and pure-minded than these.
When I think they was sprung from rough, hard seamen, for the most part, mutineers and pirates, I can scarce believe they're our own flesh and blood. It's a miracle! There's no other name for such a thing! Never a night passes that I don't thank God that He's let these Indian mothers and me live to see it.
Aye, if only we could keep 'em so! I'll not forget the morning the Topaz was sighted. It was Robert Young spied ye first. We was in the school when he came runnin' up from the bluffs. "Alex," said he, "there's a great canoe comin' over the sea!"
There was an end of lessons. The lads had never seen a ship, though I'd told 'em there was such things. I had to, for they'd seen what's left of the old Bounty . We rushed to the bluffs, and when I saw the vessel, Mr. Webber, my heart sank. Shall I tell ye what I wished to do? Ye was still miles off and couldn't have seen the smoke of our fires. I wanted to put 'em out, gather the womenfolk and the lads and lasses—every chick and child—and hide with 'em in the forest, in the deepest part of the valley. It wasn't that I was afeared for myself. I was thinkin' of the children. I wanted to keep 'em clear of all knowledge of the world their fathers was raised in. I wished sore to do it! But they was so stirred up and eager, it would have broke their hearts if I'd not let 'em go off to ye and ask ye ashore.
And now ye've found us, it'll soon be known we're here. I've no doubt it'll cause a bit of a stir, outside, when Captain Folger tells that he's found the hiding-place of the old Bounty's men. I wouldn't try to coax him or yerself to keep silent about us, Mr. Webber. It's your duty to report us—that I know. And other ships will come, once it's known that Pitcairn's Island is summat more than a lonely rock for sea birds...Aye. Soon or late they'll come, as Mr. Young said...Well...
But God bless me! I mustn't keep ye up longer. Ye'll be perished for sleep. I'll warrant I could talk the night through, it's been so long since I've had a seaman to yarn with. Good night, sir, and rest well. I'll be astir bright and early to meet Captain Folger.
EPILOGUE
At sunset on the following day, Alexander Smith was seated with half a dozen of the children on the highest pinnacle of the crag, Ship-Landing Point, overlooking Bounty Bay. Below them, at various places along the seaward cliffs, were the other members of the Pitcairn colony, all steadfastly gazing eastward. The Topaz , with all sail set, under a fresh westerly breeze, had drawn rapidly away from the land and was now far out, looking smaller than a child's toy vessel against the lonely expanse of blue water.
The hush of early evening was over land and sea. The ravines and valleys were filled with purple shadow, deepening momentarily, and, in the last level rays of the sun, crags, ridges, mountain peaks, and the lofty cliffs that bounded the island on the west stood out in clear relief, bathed in mellow golden light.
The old seaman turned to a little girl at his side, who was weeping softly, her head in her arms.
"There, lass! Comfort ye now. Bless me! Ye'll have the lot of us weepin' with ye directly."
The girl raised her head, making an attempt to smile through her tears.
"It's sad to have them go so soon," she replied. "Will they never come back?"
"That I couldn't tell ye, darlin'. But who knows? They might."
"But where is it they're going, Alex?" one of the boys asked.
"Home...a long way...thousands of leagues from where we are."
"What is a league?"
"A league? Well, let me think...If the land here was half again as big as it is, ye'd have just about a league from one end to the other."
"And they have thousands of leagues to sail before they reach their home?"
"Aye—thousands, the way they'll go."
"Then we'll never see them again!"
"Now, Mary, lass! Don't ye start weepin' along of Rachel! Wouldn't ye have Captain Folger see his dear ones? And there's Mr. Webber with three children, the oldest the age of yourself, waitin' for him in his own land. Think of the joy there'll be the day he comes home!"
"I want them to go home; it isn't that. But I want them to come back. And if it's so far...they do hope to come again, don't they?"
"Aye; and mebbe they will. But ye can't never tell about ships—where they'll be off to next."
"Where is their home?"
"Off yonder."
"Is it like ours?"
"Aye, in a way, but in some ways it's nothing like. It's a great country they live in. Ye could put together hundreds of lands the size of ours—thousands of 'em—and it wouldn't make one as big as theirs. And it's cold in the winters. It's that cold the water freezes in the brooks and streams."
"What does that mean—freezes?"
"Well, I don't know as I can tell ye, exactly. It gets colder and colder, and the end of it is the water in all the streams is froze till it's hard like rock, and ye can walk on it."
"Alex! It couldn't be so! You can walk on the water as Jesus did?"
"Nay, Robbie, it's not the same. Jesus walked on water like we have here. But in them perishin' cold places...well, it freezes and gets hard, like I said. Anybody can walk on the froze water. I've done it myself."
Another of the lads turned to him eagerly.
"I'd like to see it! Alex, if they come again, couldn't I go with them to their land?"
"Would ye wish to go?"
"Aye."
A girl of twelve years seized the boy's arm.
"You wouldn't go, Dan! We'd never let you go!"
"I'd come back."
"I've no doubt ye'd wish to come back," said Smith; "but ye might be away years and years. Ye might never have the chance to come home again. Think how lonesome ye'd be, Dan, and all of us, without ye. Nay, lad, bide here, whatever comes. Never any of ye leave home. Ye don't know how it is out yonder."
"But we want to know! All of us do! Why have you never told us of the other lands?"
> "It's been so long since I've seen 'em I'd most forgot there was such places."
"But you'll tell us about them now?"
"Aye, Alex, do!"
"Will you tell us to-night?"
Taking their eyes, for a moment, from the distant ship, all turned to him eagerly.
"There, now. We'll see..."
"No, Alex! Promise you will!"
"Not to-night, children. But like enough I will, one of these days, if ye've still the wish to hear. There's Thursday and Matt comin' in. Run down and help 'em up with the canoe, Dan—ye and John and Robbie...Rachel, ye lasses had best go home, now, afore it's dark. Tell Mother I'll be along directly."
The sun had set and the last light faded swiftly from the sky. In the east the first stars appeared. The ship was now but a mere speck almost on the verge of the horizon. Motionless, his chin in his hands, elbows on his knees, the old seaman gazed after her till she was lost to view in the gathering darkness. At length he rose and turned away, slowly descending the steep northern slope of the crag to the path which led to the settlement.
THE END
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