The Lonely Island: The Refuge of the Mutineers Part 15

"Do you mean G.o.d's book?"

"Yes."

"Well, yes, I've been reading it, off and on, for a considerable time past; but I didn't quite see the way of salvation until recently."

"Ha! that's it; that's what must have turned your head."

"What!" exclaimed Christian, with a smiling glance at his perplexed comrade. "Do you mean turned in the right or the wrong direction?"

"Well, whether right or wrong, it's not for me to say but for you to prove, Mr Christian."

This reply seemed to set the mind of the other wandering, for he continued to lead his companion down the hill in silence after that. At last he said--

"John Adams, whatever turn my head may have got, I shall have reason to thank G.o.d for it all the days of my life--ay, and afterwards throughout eternity."

The silence which ensued after this remark was broken soon after by a series of yells, which came from the direction of Matthew Quintal's house, and caused both Christian and Adams to frown as they hastened forward.

"There's one man that needs forgiveness," said Adams, sternly. "Whether he'll get it or not is a question."

Christian made no reply. He knew full well that both McCoy and Quintal were in the habit of flogging their slaves, Nehow and Timoa, and otherwise treating them with great cruelty. Indeed, there had reached him a report of treatment so shocking that he could scarcely credit it, and thought it best at the time to take no notice of the rumour; but afterwards he was told of a repet.i.tion of the cruelty, and now he seemed about to witness it with his own eyes. Burning indignation at first fired his soul, and he resolved to punish Quintal. Then came the thought, "Who was it that tempted Quintal to mutiny, and placed him in his present circ.u.mstances?" The continued cries of agony, however, drove all connected thought from his brain as he ran with Adams towards the house.

They found poor Nehow tied to a cocoa-nut tree, and Quintal beside him.

He had just finished giving him a cruel flogging, and was now engaged in rubbing salt into the wounds on his lacerated back.

With a furious shout Christian rushed forward. Quintal faced round quickly. He was livid with pa.s.sion, and raised a heavy stick to strike the intruders; but Christian guarded the blow with his left arm, and with his right fist knocked the monster down. At the same time Adams cut the las.h.i.+ngs that fastened Nehow, who instantly fled to the bush.

Quintal, although partially stunned, rose at once and faced his adversary, but although possessed of bulldog courage, he could not withstand the towering wrath of Christian. He shrank backward a step, with a growl like a cowed but not conquered tiger.

"The slave is _mine_!" he hissed between his teeth.

"He is _not_; he belongs to G.o.d," said Christian. "And hark 'ee, Matthew Quintal, if ever again you do such a dastardly, cowardly, brutal act, I'll take on myself the office of your executioner, and will beat out your brains. _You_ know me, Quintal; I never threaten twice."

Christian's tone was calm, though firm, but there was something so deadly in the glare of his clear blue eyes, that Quintal retreated another step. In doing so he tripped over a root and fell p.r.o.ne upon the ground.

"Ha!" exclaimed Adams, with a bitter laugh, "you'd better lie still.

It's your suitable position, you blackguard."

Without another word he and Christian turned on their heels and walked away.

"This is a bad beginning to my new resolves," said Christian, with a sigh, as they descended the hill.

"A bad beginning," echoed Adams, "to give a well-deserved blow to as great a rascal as ever walked?"

"No, not exactly that; but--Well, no matter, we'll dismiss the subject, and go have a lark with the children."

Christian said this with something like a return to his previous good-humour. A few minutes later they pa.s.sed under the banyan-tree at the side of Adams's house, and entered the square of the village, where children, kittens, fowls, and pigs were disporting themselves in joyous revelry.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

TYRANTS AND PLOTTERS.

Leaving Christian and Adams to carry out their philanthropic intentions, we return to Matthew Quintal, whom we left sprawling on the ground in his garden.

This garden was situated in one of the little valleys not far from Bounty Bay. Higher up in the same valley stood the hut of McCoy.

Towards this hut Quintal, after gathering himself up, wended his way in a state of unenviable sulkiness.

His friend McCoy was engaged at the time in smoking his evening pipe, but that pipe did not now seem to render him much comfort, for he growled and puffed in a way that showed he was not soothed by it, the reason being that there was no tobacco in the pipe. That weed,--which many people deem so needful and so precious that one sometimes wonders how the world managed to exist before Sir Walter Raleigh put it to its unnatural use--had at last been exhausted on Pitcairn Island, and the mutineers had to learn to do without it. Some of them said they didn't care, and submitted with a good grace to the inevitable. Others growled and swore and fretted, saying that they knew they couldn't live without it. To their astonishment, and no doubt to their disgust, they did manage to live quite as healthily as before, and with obvious advantage to health and teeth. Two there were, however, namely, Quintal and McCoy, who would not give in, but vowed with their usual violence of language that they would smoke seaweed rather than want their pipes.

Like most men of powerful tongue and weak will, they did not fulfil their vows. Seaweed was left to the gulls, but they tried almost every leaf and flower on the island without success. Then they sc.r.a.ped and dried various kinds of bark, and smoked that. Then they tried the fibrous husk of the cocoa-nut, and then the dried and pounded kernel, but all in vain. Smoke, indeed, they produced in huge volumes, but of satisfaction they had none. It was a sad case.

"If we could only taste the flavour o' baccy ever so mild," they were wont to say to their comrades, "the craving would be satisfied."

To which Isaac Martin, who had no mercy on them, would reply, "If ye hadn't created the cravin' boys, ye wouldn't have bin growlin' and hankerin' after satisfaction."

As we have said, McCoy was smoking, perhaps we should say agonising, over his evening pipe. His man, or slave, Timoa, was seated on the opposite side of the hut, playing an accompaniment on the flute to McCoy's wife and two other native women, who were singing. The flute was one of those rough-and-ready yellow things, like the leg of a chair, which might serve equally well as a policeman's baton or a musical instrument. It had been given by one of the sailors to Timoa, who developed a wonderful capacity for drawing unmusical sounds out of it.

The singing was now low and plaintive, anon loud and harsh--always wild, like the song of the savages. The two combined a.s.sisted the pipe in soothing William McCoy--at least so we may a.s.sume, because he had commanded the music, and lay in his bunk in the att.i.tude of one enjoying it. He sometimes even added to the harmony by uttering a ba.s.s growl at the pipe.

During a brief pause in the accompaniment Timoa became aware of a low hiss outside, as if of a serpent. With glistening eyes and head turned to one side he listened intently. The hiss was repeated, and Timoa became aware that one of his kinsmen wished to speak with him in secret.

He did not dare, however, to move.

McCoy was so much taken up with his pipe that he failed to notice the hiss, but he observed the stoppage of the flute's wail.

"Why don't you go on, you brute!" he cried, angrily, at the same time throwing one of his shoes at the musician, which hit him on the s.h.i.+n and caused him a moment's sharp pain.

Timoa would not suffer his countenance to betray his feelings. He merely raised the flute to his lips, exchanged a glance with the women, and continued his dismal strain. His mind, however, was so engrossed with his comrade outside that the harmony became worse than ever. Even McCoy, who professed himself to be no judge of music, could not stand it, and he was contemplating the application of the other shoe, when a step was heard outside. Next moment his friend Quintal strode in and sat down on a stool beside the door.

"Oh, I say, Matt," cried McCoy, "who put that cocoa-nut on the bridge of your nose?"

"Who?" grow led Quintal, with an oath. "Who on the island would dare to do it but that domineerin' upstart, Christian?"

"Humph!" answered McCoy, with a slight sneer. He followed this up with a curse on domineerers in general, and on Fletcher Christian in particular.

It is right to observe here that though we have spoken of these two men as friends, it must not be understood that they were friendly. They had no personal regard for each other, and no tastes in common, save the taste for tobacco and drink; but finding that they disliked each other less than they disliked their comrades, they were thus drawn into a hollow friends.h.i.+p, as it were, under protest.

"How did it happen?" asked McCoy.

"Give us a whiff an' I'll tell 'ee. What sort o' stuff are you tryin'

now?"

"Cocoa-nut chips ground small. The best o' baccy, Matt, for lunatics, which we was when we cast anchor on this island. Here, fill your pipe an' fire away. You won't notice the difference if you don't think about it. My! what a cropper you must have come down when you got that dab on your proboscis!"

"Stop your howlin'," shouted Quintal to the musicians, in order to vent some of the spleen which his friend's remark had stirred up.

Timoa, not feeling sure whether the command was meant for the women or himself, or, perhaps, regarding McCoy as the proper authority from whom such an order should come, continued his dismal blowing.

Quintal could not stand this in his roused condition. Leaping up, he sprang towards Timoa, s.n.a.t.c.hed the flute from his hand, broke it over his head, and kicked him out of the hut.