The Madman and the Pirate
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For some minutes the madman and the pirate sat gazing at each other in silent horror. Then the latter rose hastily and turned to leave the hold. As he did so, the madman sprang towards him, but he was checked by the chains which bound him, and fell heavily on the deck.
Returning to the cabin, Rosco went to a locker and took out a case bottle, from which he poured half a tumbler of brandy and drank it. Then he summoned the man who had been appointed his second in command.
“Redford,” he said, assuming, by a mighty effort of self-restraint a calm tone and manner, “you told me once of a solitary island lying a long way to the south of the Fiji group. D’you think you could lay our course for it?”
“I’m sure I could, sir; but it is very much out of the way of commerce, and—”
“There is much sandal-wood on it, is there not?” asked Rosco, interrupting him.
“Ay, sir, plenty of that, an’ plenty of fierce natives too, who will give us a warm reception. I would—”
“So much the better,” returned the captain, with a cynical smile, again interrupting; “we may be able to obtain a load of valuable wood for nothing, and get rid of our cowards at the same time. Go, lay our course for—what’s the island’s name?”
“I don’t know its right name, sir; but we call it Sugar-loaf Island from the shape of one end of it.”
“That will do. And hark ye, friend, when I give orders or ask questions in future, don’t venture to offer advice or raise objections. Let the crew understand that we must be able to pass for lawful traders, and that a load of sandal-wood will answer our purpose well enough. It will be your wisdom, also, to bear in mind that discipline is as useful on board a Free Rover as on board a man-of-war, and that there is only one way to maintain it.”
The pirate captain pointed to a brace of pistols that lay on the table beside him, and said, “Go.”
Redford went, without uttering another word. His was one of those coarse natures which are ever ready to presume and take advantage when there is laxity in discipline, but which are not difficult to subdue by a superior will. He forthwith spread the report that the new captain was a “stiff un,” a fact which nearly all the men were rather glad than otherwise to hear.
For some days after leaving Ratinga a stiff breeze enabled the schooner—which had been re-named by its crew the “Free Rover”—to proceed southward rapidly. Then a profound calm succeeded, and for a couple of days the vessel lay almost motionless on the sea.
During all this time the poor maniac in her hold lay upon his blood-stained couch, for no one dared—at least no one cared—to approach him. At meal times the cook pushed a plate of food within his reach. He usually took no notice of this until, hunger constrained him to devour a little, almost savagely. No word would he speak, but moaned continually without intermission, save when, in a burst of uncontrollable anguish, he gave vent to the terrible cry which so weighed on the spirits of the men, that they suggested to each other the propriety of throwing the father overboard after the son. Redford’s report of his interview with the captain, however, prevented the suggestion being acted on.
It is possible that the two tremendous blows which Zeppa had received during the mutiny may have had something to do with his madness; but there can be no doubt that the intense mutual affection which had subsisted between him and his only child, and the sudden and awful manner of that child’s end, were of themselves sufficient to account for it.
For Orlando had been all that a father could wish; loving, gentle, tender, yet lion-like and courageous in action, with a powerful frame like that of his father, and a modest, cheerful spirit like that of his mother. No wonder that both parents doted on him as their noblest terrestrial gift from God.
“And now,” thought the crushed man, as he crouched on his mattress in the hold, “he is gone,—snatched away before my eyes, suddenly and for ever!”
It was when this thought recurred, again and again, that the cry of agony burst from him, but it was invariably succeeded by the thought, “No, not for ever. Orlando is with the Lord. We shall see him again, Marie and I, when we reach the better land.”
And then Zeppa would laugh lightly, but the laugh would merge again into the bitter cry, as the thought would recur persistently—“gone—gone—for ever!”
Oh! it was pitiful to see the strong man thus reduced, and reason dethroned; and terrible were the pangs endured by the pirate chief as he heard and saw; but he had now schooled himself to accept what he called his “fate,” and was able to maintain a calm, indifferent demeanour before his men. Of course he never for a moment, during all that time, thought of crying to God for mercy, for as long as a man continues to ascribe his sins and their consequences to “fate,” he is a rampant and wilful, besides being an unphilosophical, rebel against his Maker.
At last, one afternoon, the peak of Sugar-loaf Island was descried on the horizon, close to where the sun was descending amid a world of golden clouds.
“Which side is the best for landing on!” asked the captain of his mate.
“The southern end, sir, which is steep and uninhabited,” said Redford.
In half an hour they were under the shelter of the cliffs close to a creek, at the inner end of which there was a morsel of flat beach. Beyond this lay a richly wooded piece of land, which seemed to be connected with a gorge among the hills.
“Lower the boat” said Rosco. “Have three men ready, and, when I call, send them to the hold.”
He descended as he spoke, and approached Zeppa, who looked at him with unmistakable ferocity.
“You are going on shore,” he said to the poor madman, who seemed neither to comprehend nor to care for what he said.
“Once again,” continued Rosco, after a pause, “I tell you that I had no hand in the death of your son. My men, if they had their way, would soon treat you as they treated him. They want to get rid of you, so, to save your life, I must send you on shore. It is an island—inhabited. I hope the natives will prove friendly to you. I hope you will get well—in time. Do you understand what I say?”
Zeppa neither spoke nor moved, but continued to glare at the man whom he evidently regarded as his deadliest foe.
A touch of pity seemed to influence the pirate captain, for he added in a softer tone, “I would have taken you with me, if it had been possible, and landed you on Ratinga. Perhaps that may yet be done. At any rate I will return to this island—we shall meet again.”
At last the madman spoke, in a harsh, grating tone,—“If we meet again, you shall die!”
“I will do my best to avoid that fate,” returned Rosco, with a touch of sarcasm. “Ho! lads! come down.”
Three powerful seamen, who had stood at the hatchway awaiting the summons, descended, and at once laid hold of Zeppa. To their surprise, he made no resistance. To every one but the captain he behaved liked a lamb. Having been placed in the bottom of the boat alongside, with his hands still bound, they shoved off, and Rosco, taking the tiller, steered for the little creek.
The instant the keel touched the land two of the men jumped out and hauled the boat ashore. The others assisted Zeppa to land. They led him to a grassy bank, and bade him sit down. He obeyed meekly, and sat there gazing at the ground as if unable to comprehend what was being done. Rosco remained in the boat while a small box of biscuit was conveyed to the spot and left at the side of Zeppa.
Then, removing his bonds, the men re-embarked and returned to the schooner, which soon left that part of the island far astern. While it receded, the pirate captain kept his glass fixed on the wretched man whom he had thus forsaken. He saw that Zeppa never once turned his head seaward, but, after gazing in a state of abstraction at the ground for some time, rose and sauntered slowly inland. He did not appear to observe the small supply of provision left for his use. With his chin sunk upon his breast and his hands clasped behind him, he appeared to wander aimlessly forward until his tall figure was lost to view among the palm-groves that fringed the bottom of the mountain.
Leaving him there, we shall turn now to poor Orlando, who had been tossed so unceremoniously into the sea. Probably the reader is aware that the water of the southern seas is, in many parts, so much warmer than that of our northern climes, that people may remain in it for hours without being chilled. Hence natives of the coral islands are almost amphibious, and our young hero, having spent much of his life among these islands, could swim for the greater part of a day without becoming exhausted.
When, therefore, he caught hold of the life-preserver, as stated in the last chapter, he clung to it with some degree of confidence; but by degrees the depressing influence of continued darkness began to tell upon him, and he became less and less hopeful of deliverance. He bethought him of the great distance they had sailed from Ratinga before the mutiny broke out, and the utter impossibility of his being able to swim back. Then he thought of sharks, and a nervous tendency to draw up his legs and yell out affected him. But the thought of his father, and of the probable fate that awaited him, at length overbore all other considerations, and threw the poor boy into such a state of despair, that he clung to the life-preserver for a long time in a state of semi-stupor.
At last the day dawned faintly in the east and the glorious sun arose, and Orley’s heart was cheered. From earliest infancy he had been taught to pray, so you may be sure he did not fail at this crisis in his young life. But no answer was returned to his prayer until a great part of the weary day had passed, and he had begun to look forward with dread to the approaching night.
As evening advanced, exhaustion began to creep over him, and more than once he felt himself slipping from his support under the influence of sleep. The struggle to retain consciousness now became terrible. He fought the battle in many ways. Sometimes he tried to shake himself up by shouting. Then he again had recourse to prayer, in a loud voice. Once he even attempted to sing, but his heart failed him, and at last he could do nothing but grasp the life-buoy and cling with all the tenacity of despair. And, oh! what thoughts of his mother came over him then! It seemed as if every loving act and look of hers was recalled to his mind. How he longed to clasp her once more in his arms and kiss her before he died!
While these thoughts were gradually taking the form of a hazy dream, he was rudely aroused by something grasping his hair.
Sharks, of course, leaped to his mind, and he struggled round with a wild gurgling shriek, for the grasp partially sank him. Then he felt himself violently dragged upwards, and his eyes encountered the dark face and glittering eye-balls of a savage.
Then was Orley’s cry of fear turned into a shout of joy, for in that dark countenance he recognised the face of a friend. A canoe full of Ratinga natives had nearly run him down. They had been absent on an expedition, and were alike ignorant of the visit of the Free Rover and the departure of Antonio Zeppa.
Their astonishment at finding Orlando in such a plight was only equalled by their curiosity to know how he had come there; but they were compelled to exercise patience, for the poor boy, overcome by mingled joy and exhaustion, fell back in a swoon almost as soon as he was hauled out of the water.
Need we describe the state into which poor Madame Zeppa was thrown when Orlando returned to her?—the strange mingling of grief and terrible anxiety about her husband’s fate, with grateful joy at the restoration of her son? We think not!
Ebony, the faithful and sable servitor of the family, got hold of Orlando as soon as his poor mother would let him go, and hurried him off to a certain nook in the neighbouring palm-grove where he was wont to retire at times for meditation.
“You’s quite sure yous fadder was not shooted?” he began, in gasping anxiety, when he had forced the boy down on a grassy bank.
“I think not,” replied Orley, with a faint smile at the negro’s eagerness. “But you must remember that I was almost unconscious from the blow I received, and scarce knew what was done.”
“But you no hear no shootin’?” persisted Ebony.
“No; and if any shots had been fired, I feel certain I should have heard and remembered them.”
“Good! den der’s a chance yous fadder’s alive, for if de no hab shooted him at first, de no hab de heart to shoot him arterwards. No, he’d smile away der wikitness; de couldn’ do it.”
Orlando was unable to derive much comfort from this sanguine view of the influence of his father’s smile—bright and sweet though he knew it to be—yet with the energy of youth he grasped at any straw of hope held out to him. All the more that Ebony’s views were emphatically backed up by the chiefs Tomeo and Buttchee, both of whom asserted that Zeppa had never failed in anything he had ever undertaken, and that it was impossible he should fail now. Thus encouraged, Orlando returned home to comfort his mother.
Chapter Three
But Orley’s mother refused to be comforted. What she had heard or read of pirates induced her to believe that mercy must necessarily be entirely banished from their hearts; and her husband, she knew full well, would sooner die than join them. Therefore, she argued in her despair, Antonio must have perished.
“But mother,” said Orley, in a soothing tone, “you must remember that Rosco and his men are not regular pirates. I only heard them shout ‘Hoist the black flag!’ when they seized me; but that does not prove that they did hoist it, or that Rosco agreed to do so. They were only mutineers, you see, and not hardened villains.”
“Hardened enough when they threw you overboard, my son,” returned poor little Madame Zeppa, with a sob.
“True; but that was in the hurry of the rising, and without orders from Rosco, as far as I know. Besides, mother, have you not often told me that God will never forsake His own children? Surely, then, He will not forsake father.”
“No, oh, no! the good Lord will never forsake him. He will certainly deliver his soul from sin and death; but God sometimes sees fit to allow the bodies of His children to suffer and die. It may be so now.”
“Yes, mother, but also it may not be so now. Let us take a hopeful view, and do what we can to find out—to find—to—”
Poor Orlando broke down here, laid his head on his little mother’s shoulder, and wept for his mind had suddenly run itself blank. What was there to find out? what could they do? Nothing, absolutely nothing, except pray; and they did that fervently.
Then Orley went out to consult again with his friends. Alas! there was no other outlet for their grief, save prayer and consultation, for action was, in the circumstances, impossible.
“Bin t’ink, t’inkin’ horroble hard all last night. Couldn’ sleep a wink,” said Ebony one day, some weeks after the return of Orlando, when, according to custom, he and the native missionary and his wife, with the chiefs Tomeo and Buttchee, assembled for a consultation in the palm-grove.
“What have you been thinking about?” asked Orley.
“Yous fadder, ob course.”
“Of course,” repeated the boy, “but what have you been thinking about him—anything new?”
“Not zackly noo,” returned the negro, with a very earnest look, “but ole t’oughts turned in a noo d’rection. Sit down, Tomeo, an’ I will tell you—an’ try to forgit yous hat if poss’ble. It’s ’xtroarnar good lookin’, a’most as much good lookin’ as yousself, so you got no occashin to be always t’inkin’ about it.”
We may remark here that both Tomeo and Buttchee understood a little of Ebony’s English, though they could not speak a word. The reader will understand, therefore, that when we put words in their mouths we only give a free translation of their language. In like manner Ebony understood a little of the Ratinga tongue, but could not speak much of it, and Waroonga, who himself spoke uncommonly bad, though fluent, English, interpreted when necessary.
“Well, you mus’ know,” said Ebony, “dat jus before I goes to bed las’ night I heat a little too much supper—”
“You doos that every night” interrupted Buttchee, with a grin.
Ebony ignored the interruption, and continued—
“So, you see, I dream berry bad—mos’ drefful dreams! Yes. Well, what I dream was dis. I see Massa Zeppa forced by de pierits to walk de plank—”
“What’s that?” asked Tomeo.
Waroonga looked at Ebony for an explanation, and then translated—
“When pirates want to kill people they sometimes tie up their eyes, and bind their hands, and make them walk along a plank stickin’ over the ship’s side, till they fall off the end of it into the sea, where they are left to drown.”
Tomeo looked at Buttchee with a grin and nodded, as though he thought the mode of execution rather a good one; then, recollecting suddenly that any mode of slaying innocent men was inconsistent with his character as a convert to Christianity, he cast a glance of awful solemnity at Waroonga, and tried to look penitent.
“Well, hims walk de plank like a man,” continued Ebony, “hims dood eberyting like a man. An’ w’en hims topple into de sea hims give sitch a most awful wriggle dat his bonds bu’sted. But hims berry sly, was Massa Zeppa—amazin’ sly. I t’ought him lie on’s back zif him be dead. Jest move a leetle to look like drownin’, an’ w’en he long way astern, he slew round, off wid de hanky fro hims eyes an’ larf to hisseff like one o’clock. Den he swum’d to a island an’ git ashore, and climb up de rocks, an’ sit down—an’—an’—dat’s all.”
“What! be that all?” asked Waroonga.
“Dat’s all,” repeated the negro. “I no dream no more arter dat, ’cause I was woked by a fly what hab hoed up my nose, an’ kep’ bumblin’ in it like steam inside ob a kittle.”
“Well, Ebony,” asked Orlando, “what conclusions do you draw from that dream?”
“I di’nt draw no kungklooshins from it ’cos I dunno what de are. Nebber hab notin’ to do wid what I don’ understan’. But what I was t’ink was dis: in de days ob old, some time after Adam an’ Eve was born, a sartin king, called Fair-ho, or some sitch name (Waroonga there knows all about him) had a dream, that siven swine came up—”
“Kine, Ebony—not swine,” interrupted the missionary, with a good-humoured smile, “which is all the same as cows.”
“Well, den, siven fat cows come up out ob a ribber, an’ hoed slap at siven thin cows—mis’rable skinny critters that—”
“All wrong, Ebony,” again interrupted Waroonga. “It’s just the other way. The skinny ones went at the fat ones.”
“Well, ob course you must be right,” returned the negro, humbly, “though I’d have ’spected it was t’other way. But I s’pose the skinny ones was so hungry that the fat ones hadn’t a chance wid ’em. However, it don’t matter. What I was goin’ to say was that a good man, called Joseph, went to Fair-ho an’ ’splained all his dream to him. Now, if Joseph could do dat, why shouldn’t Waroonga ’splain my dream to me?”
“Because I’s not Joseph, Ebony, an you’re not Pharoah,” returned Waroonga promptly.
Tomeo and Buttchee turned looks of inquiry on Ebony as if to say, “What d’ye say to that, you nigger?” But the nigger said nothing for some moments. He seemed not to have viewed the matter in that light.
“Well, I don’no,” he said at last with a deep sigh, “I t’ought I’d get hold ob suthin’ when I kitch hold ob dat dream. But, I do b’lieve myself, dat part of it means dat Zeppa hims git on an island, anyhow.”
“If my dear father got upon anything, it must have been an island,” said Orlando sadly.
“That’s troo,” remarked Mrs Waroonga. “Keep your mouth shut, my da’lin’.”
She referred to her brown baby, which she placed with some violence on her knee. It is well to remark here that little Zariffa had been supplied with a coal-scuttle bonnet proportioned to her size, made by her mother out of native straw, and that she did not wear anything else in the way of costume.
After Ebony’s dream had been thoroughly discussed in all its bearings, and viewed in every possible point of relation to their great sorrow, the council adjourned, as usual, to various duties about the flourishing little village, and Orlando went to lay the result before his mother, who, although she could not believe these deliberations would end in anything practical, found it impossible, nevertheless, to resist the influence of so much faith and strong hopefulness, so that she was somewhat comforted, as it were, in spite of herself. Time flew by, and upwards of three years elapsed without anything happening at Ratinga Island to throw a single ray of light on the fate of the lost man.
During that period, however, much that was interesting and encouraging occurred to comfort the heart of the native missionary and the sorrowing Marie Zeppa. In the first place they received several visits from the mission-vessel, with small supplies of such luxuries as sugar, tea, and coffee for the body, and, for the spirit, a few bundles of tracts and books printed in the native tongue, among which, you may be sure, were many copies of the Book of books, the blessed Bible. Carpenters’ and smiths’ tools were also brought to them, so that they not only carried on their house-building and other operations with greater ease than heretofore, but even essayed the building of small boats with considerable success.
On the occasion of these visits, supplies of clothing were also left for the use of those converts who could be persuaded to put them on. But in these matters of taste Waroonga was not so successful as he had been in spiritual things. After his first disastrous landing, he had found no difficulty in persuading the natives to burn their false gods, and put away their too numerous wives—reserving only one to each man;—but when it was suggested that the usual bit of cloth round the loins was not quite sufficient for Christians, and that additional clothing was desirable, they betrayed decided symptoms of a tendency to rebel.
Savages in all parts of the world are usually much influenced for good or evil by the example of their chiefs. Those of Ratinga were no exception to the general rule, and the chiefs Tomeo and Buttchee did not encourage the putting on of clothes. In the matter of head-dress they had indeed given in; but when one day, Waroonga presented Tomeo with a pair of what are called slop-made trousers, and advised him to put them on, slapping his own at the same time, and asserting (we trust truthfully) that they were comfortable, Tomeo looked at them with an air of contempt and Buttchee, who was irreverent, laughed.
After much persuasion, however, and being good-natured, he consented to try. He got one leg in easily enough, but when he attempted to put in the other, not being accustomed to the feat, he staggered and had to let the leg down. Raising it a second time, he made a successful plunge, got the foot in, lost his balance, made a frantic effort to disengage his foot, and fell to the ground.
“Sit down, my friend, and try it again,” said Waroonga, encouragingly.
Our missionary was of a gentle, loving disposition. His successes were in every case the result of suasion. He never sought to coerce men. Tomeo with childlike simplicity rebuked his own awkwardness, and humbly seated his huge body on a bank for another effort. In this position he got his legs easily into the trousers and drew them on, but when he stood up to complete the operation, it was found that they were very much too small for him, besides which he had put them on with the back to the front!
“Ah! my friend, they do not fit,” said Waroonga, thinking it unnecessary to refer to the error. “I will find a larger pair for you in the store. But try this coat. It is the kind worn by the white man when he goes to see his friends. It will be much easier to put on, I think.” So saying, Waroonga produced a blue surtout with bright brass buttons.
“No,” said Tomeo, drawing himself up with dignity, and putting the garment aside, “I do not require it. Has not a coat of skin been given to me? I want no other.”
And truly, the dark brown skin which fitted so perfectly to his muscular frame—tattooed as it was with many elegant devices—seemed to warrant his rejection of the ill-made surtout. But in Ratinga, as elsewhere, tastes differ. Buttchee’s fancy was caught by the brass buttons, and he volunteered to put on the coat, although he had looked with scorn on the trousers.