Chapter Seventeen.
Crusoes on the Island of Flowers – a Threatened Armada
For weeks and weeks mourned poor Hall for his wife; for weeks and weeks mourned he. He was like Rachel weeping for her children, who would not be comforted “because they were not.”
But the anguish of his grief toned down at last. His sorrow was deep still, but he could listen now to the consolations that Dickson never forgot to give him morn, noon, and night.
“Ah, well,” he said at last, “I shall meet her again in the Bright Beyond, where farewells are never said, where partings are unknown. That thought must be my solace.”
And this thought did console both him and Ilda, his daughter. As for Matty, she was too young to know what grief really was, and romped with Reginald’s dog in the Queen’s beautiful gardens, just as she had done on board the unfortunate yacht – now, alas! a yacht no more.
But busy weeks these had been for the shipwrecked mariners. Yet far from unhappy. They were Crusoes now to all intents and purposes, and acting like Crusoes, having saved all the interior stores, etc, that they could, knowing well that the very next storm would not leave a timber of the poor Wolverine. So at every low tide they laboured at breaking her up. At high tide they worked equally energetically in building a wooden house on a bit of tableland, that was easy of access, and could not be reached by a tide, however high.
The house was very strong, for the very best wood in the ship was used. Moreover, its back was close to the straight and beetling mountain cliff.
The six men of the crew that were saved worked like New Hollanders, as sailors say. The house had sturdy doors, and the vessel’s windows were transhipped. But this wooden house did not actually touch the ground, but was built on two-foot high stone supports. Soot could be strewn around them, and the white ants thus kept at bay. Stone, or rather scoria, steps led up to the dwelling, one end of which was to be not only the sleeping-place of the men, but a kind of recreation-room as well, for Dickson had succeeded in saving even the piano and violins. The other room to the right was not so large, but, being furnished from the saloon of the Wolverine, was almost elegant, and when complete was always decorated and gay with lovely wildflowers. Indeed, all the flowers here were wild.
The Queen had begged that Miss Hall and wee Matty might sleep at the palace. This was agreed to; but to luncheon not only they but the Queen herself came over every fine day, and the days were nearly all fine.
One day a big storm blew and howled around the rocky mountain peaks. It increased in violence towards evening, and raged all night. Next day scarcely a timber of the wrecked yacht was to be seen, save a few spars that the tempest had cast up on the white and coralline beach.
Captain Dickson was far indeed from being selfish, and quite a quantity of saloon and cabin furniture saved from the wreck was carried on the backs of the natives over the mountain tracks to the beautiful Valley of Flowers, to furnish and decorate the house of the Queen.
Her Majesty was delighted, and when her rooms were complete she gave a great dinner-party, or rather banquet. She had much taste, and the table was certainly most tastefully decorated. The menu was a small one. There was fish, however, excellently cooked.
“I taught my cook myself,” said her Majesty, smiling.
This was followed by the pièce de résistance, a roast sucking-pig. The entrée was strange, namely, fillets of a species of iguana lizard. The huge and terrible-looking iguana lizard, as found on the coast of Africa, crawling on the trees, is very excellent eating, and so were these fillets.
But the fruits were the most delicious anyone around the festive board had ever tasted. There were, strangely enough, not only blushing pine-apples, but guavas, which eat like strawberries smothered in cream; mangoes, and many other fragrant fruits no one there could name.
Dickson had supplied the wine, but very little was used. Goats’ milk and excellent coffee supplied its place.
Poor Hall was still a patient of Reginald’s, and the latter compelled him to take a little wine for his grief’s sake.
Just a word or two about Queen Bertha. Though but twenty and five, her dark hair was already mixed with threads of silver. She was tall for a woman, very beautiful and very commanding. She never stirred abroad in her picturesque dress of skins without having in her hand a tall staff, much higher than herself. It was ornamented – resplendent, in fact – with gold, silver, precious stones and pearls.
“This is my sceptre,” she said, “and all my people respect it.” She smiled as she added: “I make them do so. I can hypnotise a man with a touch of it; but if a fellow is fractious, I have a strong arm, and he feels the weight of it across his shins. He must fling himself at my feet before I forgive him. My history, gentlemen, is a very brief one, though somewhat sad and romantic. I am the daughter of a wealthy English merchant, who had a strange longing to visit in one of his own ships the shores of Africa and the South Sea Islands. He did so eventually, accompanied by my dear mother and myself, then little more than a child, for I was only fifteen; also an elder brother. Alas! we were driven far out of our way by a gale, or rather hurricane, of wind, and wrecked on this island. My father’s last act was to tie me to a spar. That spar was carried away by the tide, and in the débris of the wreck I was washed up on shore. Every soul on board perished except myself. The superstitious natives looked upon the dark-haired maiden as some strange being from another world, and I was revered and made much of from the first. I soon had proof enough that the islanders were cannibals, for they built great fires on the beach and roasted the bodies of the sailors that were washed up. There were, indeed, but few, for the sharks had first choice, and out yonder in that blue and sunlit sea the sharks are often in shoals and schools. Some devoured the human flesh raw, believing that thus they would gain extra strength and bravery in the day of battle.”
“Are there many battles, then?” asked Reginald.
“Hitherto, doctor, my people have been the invaders of a larger island lying to the east of us. Thither they go in their war canoes, and so far fortune has favoured them. They bring home heads and human flesh. The flesh they eat, the heads they place on the beach till cleaned and whitened by crabs and ants; then they are stuck on poles in my somewhat ghastly avenue. I have tried, but all in vain, to change the cannibalistic ways of my people. They come to hear me preach salvation on Sundays, and they join in the hymns I sing; but human flesh they will have. Yes, on the whole I am very happy, and would not change my lot with Victoria of Britain herself. My people do love me, mind, and I would rather be somebody in this savage though beautiful island than nobody in the vortex of London society.
“But I have one thing else to tell you. The Red-stripe savages of the isle we have so often conquered are gathering in force, and are determined to carry the war into our country; with what results I cannot even imagine, for they are far stronger numerically than we are, though not so brave. These savages are also cannibals; not only so, but they put their prisoners to tortures too dreadful even to think of. It will be many months before they arrive, but come they will. I myself shall lead my army. This will inspire my people with pluck and from the hilltops I hope you will see us repel the Armada in beautiful style.”
She laughed right merrily as she finished her narrative.
“But my dear Queen,” said Dickson, “do you imagine that myself and my brave fellows saved from the wreck will be contented to act as mere spectators from the hills, like the ‘gods’ in a theatre gallery, looking down on a play? Nay, we must be beside you, or near you, actors in the same drama or tragedy. Lucky it is, doctor, that we managed to save our two six-pounders, our rifles, and nearly all our ammunition. Why are they called the Red-stripe savages, your Majesty?”
“Because, though almost naked, their bodies when prepared for war are all barred over with red paint. The face is hideous, for an eye is painted on the forehead, and a kind of cap with the pricked ears of the wild fox, which is half a wolf, worn on the head. Their arms are bows, spears, shields of great size, which quite cover them, and terrible black knives.”
“Our shrapnel, believe me, lady, will go through all that, and their heads as well.”
“Though loth to seek your assistance,” said Queen Bertha, “in this case I shall be glad of it. For if they succeed in conquering us the massacre would be awful. Not a man, woman or child would be left alive on our beautiful island.”
“Assuredly we shall conquer them,” said Dickson. “The very sound of our guns and crack of our rifles will astonish and demoralise them. Not a boat shall return of their invincible Armada; perhaps not a savage will be left alive to tell the tale hereafter.”
“That would indeed be a blessing to us. And my people have half-promised not to make war on them again. We should therefore live in peace, and fear no more Armadas.”
Mr Hall was now brightening up again, and all the survivors of the unfortunate Wolverine, having something to engage their attention, became quite jolly and happy. I scarce need mention Matty. The child was happy under all circumstances.
Ilda, too, was contented. Perhaps never more so than when taking long walks with Reginald up the lovely valley, gathering wildflowers, or fishing in the winding river.
Ilda was really beautiful. Her beauty was almost of the classical type, and her voice was sweet to listen to. So thought Reginald.
“How charmingly brown the sun has made you, dear Ilda,” said Reginald, as she leant on his arm by the riverside.
He touched her lightly on the cheek as he spoke. Her head fell lightly on his shoulder just then, as if she were tired, and he noticed that there were tears in her eyes.
“No, not tired,” she answered, looking up into his face.
Redder, sweeter lips surely no girl ever possessed.
For just a moment he drew her to his breast and kissed those lips.
Ah, well, Reginald Grahame was only a man.
I fear that Ilda was only a woman, and that she really loved the handsome, brown-faced and manly doctor.
They had now been one year and two months away from Scotland, and at this very moment the Laird Fletcher was paying all the attention in his power to Annie o’ the Banks o’ Dee. He was really a modern “Auld Robin Grey.”
“My mither she fell sick,
An’ my Jamie at the sea;
Then Aold Robin Grey came a-courting me.”
Chapter Eighteen.
A Cannibal Brewer and Cannibal Beer
Queen Bertha of the Isle of Flowers had industriously laboured among her people. It gave her pleasure to do so. She even taught them English, which all could now speak after a fashion.
Well, while Dickson and Hall were drilling a small company of blacks as soldiers, and trying to make them experts in the use of the rifle – for they had over a score of these to spare – Reginald spent much of his time on the hills with his gun, shooting small wild pigs, rock-rabbits, tuen-tuens, etc. He was always accompanied by Ilda, merry Matty, and Oscar the Newfoundland. No matter where a wild bird fell, in river or lake, or in the bush, Oscar found it, and laid it at his master’s feet.
But one day Reginald, while shooting, made a singular discovery indeed. Far up in the hills they came upon the grass hut of a very peculiar old man indeed. Before reaching the place quite, they met three natives, and they were evidently intoxicated, staggering, laughing, singing and dancing.
The old man was seated in his doorway. Around his hut were at least a dozen huge clay jars, with clay lids, and these contained beer of some sort. He was the most hideous old wretch that Reginald had yet clapped eyes on. Even Matty was terrified, and hugged the great dog round the neck as she gazed on that awful-looking and repulsive creature.
“These jars,” said Reginald, “evidently contain some intoxicating drink. And the old brewer doesn’t look a beauty, nor a saint either!”
Nor did he. Here he is, as I myself have seen him more than once. Squatting tailor-fashion outside the door of his dark and windowless hut, a man with a mop of rough silvery hair, thin lips, drawn back into a grin, so that one could see all his awful teeth – tusks they really seemed to be, each one filed into a pointed triangle, the better to tear human flesh. They were stained red. His eyes were red also, and like those of some scared wild beast and cheeks and brow were covered with symmetrical scars. But he was a brewer, and very busy plying his trade. Beside him were open cocoa-nuts and bunches of fragrant herbs.
“Go on,” said Reginald; “don’t let us interfere with business, pray.”
The horrid creature put a huge lump of cocoa-nut into his mouth, then some herbs, and chewed the lot together; then taking a mouthful of water from a chatty, he spat the whole mass into a jar and proceeded as before. This awful mess of chewed cocoa-nut, herbs, and saliva ferments into a kind of spirit. This is poured off and mixed with water, and lo! the beer of the cannibal islanders!
Reginald, noticing a strange-looking chain hanging across the old man’s scarred and tattooed chest, begged to examine it. To his astonishment, it consisted entirely of beautiful pearls and small nuggets of gold.
“Where did this come from, my man?”
“Ugh! I catchee he plenty twick. Plenty mo’. Ver’ mooch plenty.”
Reginald considered for a moment. Money was no good to an old wretch like this, but he wore around his waist a beautiful crimson sash. This he divested himself of, and held it up before the cannibal brewer.
“I will give you this for your chain,” he said, “and another as good to-morrow, if you will come now and show us where you find these things.”
The old man at once threw the chain at Reginald’s feet, and seized the scarf delightedly.
“I come quick – dis moment!” he cried. And he was as good as his word.
It was a long walk, and a wild one. Sometimes Reginald carried Matty; sometimes she rode on the great dog. But they arrived at last at the entrance to a gloomy defile, and here in the hillsides were openings innumerable, evidently not made by hands of man. Here, however, was an El Dorado. Caves of gold! for numerous small nuggets were found on the floors and shining in the white walls around them.
It was evident enough that it only needed digging and a little hard work to make a pile from any single one of these caves.
Next about the pearls. The old savage took the party to the riverside. He waded in, and in five minutes had thrown on shore at least a hundred pearl oysters. These, on coming to bank, he opened one by one, and ten large and beautiful white pearls were found, with ever so many half-faced ones.
Strange and wondrous indeed was the story that Reginald Grahame had to relate in private to Mr Hall and Captain Dickson on his return to his home by the sea.
At present the trio kept the secret to themselves. That gold was to be had for the gathering was evident enough. But to share it with six men was another question. It might be better, at all events, if they were first and foremost to make their own pile. Anyhow, the men’s services might be required; in that case they could choose their own claims, unless Reginald claimed the whole ravine. This he was entitled to do, but he was very far indeed from being mean and greedy.
But so intricate was the way to the ravine of gold that without a guide no one could possibly find it.
For six whole weeks no gold digging was thought about. Matters of even greater import occupied the minds of the white men.
The company of blacks was beautifully drilled by this time, and made fairly good marksmen with the rifle. They were, indeed, the boldest and bravest on the island, and many of them the Queen’s own bodyguards.
Well, the bay enclosed by the reefs on one of which the Wolverine had struck was the only landing-place in the whole island. Every other part of the shore was guarded by precipitous rocks a thousand feet high at least, rising sheer and black out of the ocean. The Armada must come here, then, if anywhere; and, moreover, the bay faced the enemy’s own island, although, with the exception of a mountain peak or two, seen above the horizon, it was far too distant to be visible.
A grass watch-tower was built on the brow of a hill, and a sentry occupied this by night as well as by day. Only keen-eyed blacks were chosen for this important duty, and they were told that if any suspicious sign was observed they must communicate immediately with Captain Dickson.
And now, facing the sea, a strong palisaded fort was built, and completely clayed over, so as to be almost invisible from the sea. It was roofed over with timber, as a protection against the enemy’s arrows; it was also loop-holed for rifles, and here, moreover, were mounted the two six-pounders. Plenty of ammunition for both rifles and guns was placed at a safe distance from the ports.
One evening the sentry ran below to report that, seeing a glare in the sky, he had climbed high up the mountain side, and by aid of the night-glass could see that fires were lighted on the brow of every low hill on the enemy’s island, and that savages in rings were wildly dancing around them. The sentry had no doubt that the attack on the Isle of Flowers would soon follow this. Dickson thanked the man heartily for his attention, gave him coffee and biscuit, and sent him back to the sentry hut. So kind was the captain, and so interested in the welfare of the blacks, that any one of those he had trained would have fought at fearful odds for him. For kindness towards, a savage soon wins his heart, and his respect as well.
Three days more passed by – oh, so slowly and wearily! For a cloud hovered over the camp that the white men tried in vain to dispel. There was this fearful Armada to face and to fight, and the anxiety born of thinking about it was harder to bear than the actual battle itself would be.
Dickson was a strictly pious man. Never a morning and never an evening passed without his summoning his men to prayers, and in true Scottish fashion reading a portion from the little Bible which, like General Gordon, he never failed to carry in his bosom.
I think he did good. I think he made converts. Mind, without any preaching. He simply led these darkened intellects to the Light, the glorious Light of revealed religion.
The portion of the fort where the guns were placed was so fashioned as to be able to cover a wide space of sea on both sides, and from this arrangement Dickson expected great results.
A whole week had worn away since the first fires had been seen from the hilltop; but every night those fires had blazed.
It was evident enough the enemy was endeavouring to propitiate their gods before sailing. For by day, on climbing a mountain, Dickson, by means of his large telescope, could see on the beach that human sacrifices were being offered up.
It was fearful to behold. Men, or perhaps women, were chained to stakes on the beach, and pyres of wood built around them. As the fire curled up through the smoke in tongues, he could see the wretches writhing in agony, while round them danced the spear-armed savages.
Reginald had little to do at present, and would have but little to do until summoned to tight. So he was often at the Queen’s palace, and a very delightful conversationalist she proved herself to be. She had avowed her intention of being at the great battle herself. Her presence, and the sway of her pole-like sceptre, she assured the doctor, would give her people confidence, and mayhap be the turning point which would lead to victory.
Many a ramble together had Reginald and Ilda, nearly always followed by sweet wee Matty and her canine favourite Oscar.
One day, however, Matty was at the seaside camp, and Reginald went out with Ilda alone to collect bouquets for the Queen’s table. The day was a hot one, but both were young, and when they zigzagged up a mountain side they found not only shade on a green mound beneath some spreading trees, but coolness as well.
All this morning Reginald had been thinking sorrowfully about his lost love, as he now called Annie, and of the country he never expected again to see, because never did ships visit this unknown island unless driven hither by storm or tempest.
But now there was the soft and dreamy light of love in Ilda’s eyes, if ever there were in a woman’s.
Reginald was very far indeed from being unfaithful at heart to his betrothed, but – well, he could not help thinking how strangely beautiful Ilda was. When she leant towards him and gave one coy glance into his face, it might have been but passion – I cannot say; it might be budding love. At all events, he drew her to his breast and kissed those red lips over and over again, she blushing, but unresisting as before.
What he might have said I do not know. But at that moment a half-naked armed savage burst hurriedly in upon the scene.
“Come, sah, come; de capatin he sendee me. De bad black mans’ war canoes dey is coming, too. Plenty big boat, plenty spear and bow.”
Reginald thought no more of love just then. His Scottish blood was on fire, and when he had seen Ilda safe in the palace he bade her an affectionate but hurried farewell, and hurried away to the front.
The Armada was coming in deadly earnest, and no one in the Isle of Flowers could even guess how matters might end.