HAVING discharged cargo, and parted from the Athenian and our gallant friend, Captain Case, I removed my belongings to the Pocklington and sailed for Sydney, intending to shorten the sail by trying a short cut through a group of islands at the north-west end of New Caledonia. Captain Oliver, who had often traded for sandal-wood in this part of the world, assured me that this route was quite safe, and that he had often sailed through the channel with vessels of deeper draught. Our first two days’ navigation were glorious—smooth sea, fine weather—sailing during the day amongst lovely islands, and anchoring at night with every appearance of safety so long as a good watch was kept on the natives’ canoes, which never failed to come alongside as soon as the anchor was dropped.
My new valet, “Sokymy,” even at that early stage proved most useful to us. Though he could not speak to us he knew well what the natives said, and could easily enough make us understand that they had better be kept at a distance.
On the second night the barometer fell considerably, and before morning the wind chopped suddenly from S.E. to N.W., blowing hard until it became almost a gale. The poor old brig began to drag towards the shore. We let go another anchor, but still at every successive wave which struck our bows we felt that sudden jerk and grating noise which indicates the dragging of the anchor. The distance between the stern of the Pocklington and the shore was visibly decreasing—a fact which evidently became quite as apparent to the natives on shore as it did to us on board, who felt by no means reassured when we noticed the exulting jubilation of the cannibals—evidently reckoning on immediate plunder and feasting! The position was critical, the danger imminent, the prospect anything but cheering.
Captain Oliver, like my friend Captain Case of the Athenian, was cast in the mould which has produced so many heroes in the British Navy—men in whom sterling worth only comes to light in moments of danger. The critical position of the brig demanded immediate action. Our crew consisted of a dozen Tanna natives, with only three Europeans on board besides the skipper, the mate, the cook, the steward, and myself. We were barely fifty yards from the beach, where hundreds of natives, already up to their waist in water, were throwing spears at any one whose head appeared above the taffrail.
Captain Oliver got us to bring up a hawser on to the deck. This was made fast round the foot of the main-mast; a freshly-ground axe was placed in my hands; orders given to get the jib and spanker ready for hoisting and sheeting home; the hawser made fast to the chain of one anchor, whilst the other was cast adrift. This hawser being amidships, the brig at once swung round; the spanker being sheeted tight gave the craft some headway; the jib being hoisted she got under way, and the order was given to chop the hawser.
Had my blow at this piece of hemp failed to sever it through, this book would never have been written. As it was, the poor old brig and its living freight had a very narrow shave. As we paid off slightly to get more way on her she grazed the coral reef on the lee side, but, however, got clear, and a few moments later we had the gratification to feel that we were in deep water, under close-reefed topsails, making headway towards Australia. We reached Sydney in a week, none the worse for having on two occasions disappointed the natives of New Caledonia, and deprived them of what might have been a three-course dinner. In both instances they would have had French, English, and native dishes—quite a recherche menu for a cannibal’s feast.