Book Three—Chapter Seven.
Strange Adventures in a Crystalline Cave.
Ten months more, and not another ship was seen.
It was now two years and over since the beautiful barque Sea Flower had sailed away from Southampton. Not a very long time, it may be said. No; and yet it seemed a century to look back upon, so many strange events and adventures had been crowded into those four-and-twenty months, and so much sorrow and suffering too.
“Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.”
Ah! the hearts of all were sad and sick enough by this time.
“Some day, some day a ship will come!”
Every one fore and aft was weary with repeating these words.
They went not now so often to the foot of Fire Hill, as the volcano had come to be called, in search of the buried cave.
A buried cave it doubtless was, covered entirely by the flow of lava from the crater, and lost, it would seem, for ever.
But whole days would be spent in rambling about in search of the only kind of game the lonely island afforded, those small black pigs and the rock-rabbits, or in fishing by stream or at sea.
When I say “at sea,” it must not be imagined that they fished in Treachery Bay. No; for to have done so would doubtless have invited the attention of the savages, and they might have paid the island a visit that would have been very little relished. Natives of those South Pacific islands have keen eyesight.
But the dinghy boat had been hauled right across the island and launched in a little bay there. A cave was found, and this formed a capital boat-house, for it rose so high behind that the tide could not reach it.
The time had come when fishing was very necessary indeed, for well “found” though the Sea Flower had been, especially with all kinds of tinned provisions and biscuits, these had been nearly all consumed, and for some months back the Crusoes had depended for their support almost entirely on rod and gun. I say almost advisedly; for many kinds of vegetables and roots grew wild in this lonely island, not to mention fruits, the most wholesome and delicious that any one could desire.
Ah, reader, do not imagine that because you have eaten bananas, or even guavas, which you have purchased in this country, that you can form a perfect idea of the flavour and lusciousness of those fruits when gathered from the trees in their native wilds. Moreover, there are fruits in the woods of the Pacific islands so tender that they could not be carried by sea, nor kept for even a day in the tropics; and these are the best of all. So that on Misfortune Island there was no danger of starvation, unless indeed the Crusoes should have the misfortune to be surrounded by the savages and placed in a state of siege.
It was against such an eventuality that the last of the tinned meats was so carefully reserved: and the last of the coals too, because these latter would be needed for the donkey engine, to make steam to be condensed and used as drinking water.
Three times a week, at least in good weather, did a little band set out for the fishing cove, and this consisted of Ransey Tansey himself, Nelda, and little Fitz, to say nothing of Bob.
Now the cove was quite six miles away. Six miles going and six coming back would have been too long a journey for Nelda; but as the child liked to accompany the boys, and they were delighted to have her company, the two lads consulted together and concluded they must carry her at least half the way.
This was a capital plan for Nelda, and quite romantic, for the modus portandi was a grass hammock suspended from a long bamboo pole, one end resting on Ransey’s shoulder, the other on Fitz’s.
Nelda would be talking or singing all the way. But on the return journey she got down more often, because she never went back without a basket well filled with fruit and flowers.
Bob used to trot on in front always. This he deemed it his duty to do. Was he not a guard?
On rare occasions the Admiral also formed part of the expedition, but he preferred not going to sea in that wobbly boat.
When invited to embark, he would simply look at Babs or Ransey with one wise red eye, and say, “No, thank you, dear. A sea life doesn’t quite suit my constitution; and if it is all the same to you, I’ll just hop about the beach here until you all return.”
It did not take a very long time for the children, as I may still call them, to find all the fish they could conveniently carry. Then they returned to the beach, entered the cave, and cooked their dinner.
They invariably started to go back two or three hours before sunset.
About this cave there was a kind of mystery to the imaginative mind of little Nelda, and she peopled the gloom and darkness far beyond with all sorts of strange beings.
But when one day Ransey Tansey proposed exploring it, she evinced very much reluctance to going herself.
“I’m afraid,” she said; “the giants might catch me and kill me.”
Fitz laughed, and Ransey assured her that the cave was not inhabited by even a single giant. It was all imagination.
“There might be snakes,” she persisted, “or awful alligators.”
Fitz laughed again, and Nelda felt more assured.
“You see me go, sah!” he said; “Is’e not afraid. Ha, ha! it take one much big giant and plenty big ’gator to flighten dis chile.”
He ran out of the cave now, but soon came back carrying a heap of withered grass and foliage.
Then he snatched up a burning brand.
“Now!” he cried, “dis chile done go to ’vestigate.”
Fitz was fond of exploiting a big word, although he never succeeded in pronouncing much more than three-quarters of it.
Presently the brave little lad disappeared, for the darkness had swallowed him up.
The cave at its other end turned to the right and then to the left, so that although Fitz lit his fire it could not be seen by those left behind.
Ransey and Nelda were becoming quite uneasy about him, when suddenly his voice was heard in the dark distance, coming nearer and nearer every moment, till he once more stood in the broad glare of day at the main entrance to the cave.
“So glad you’ve come back, Fitz,” cried Ransey, “for we had almost given you up; we thought the ’gators had swallowed you.”
Nelda, too, was glad, and so was honest Bob. He ran round and round him, barking.
The echo of the far interior took up the sound and gave back “wowff” for “wowff,” much to the dog’s astonishment. He made quite sure that another dog was hiding away in the darkness somewhere, and promised himself the infinite pleasure of shaking him out of his skin some day.
But the story of exploration that Fitz had to tell was indeed a wonderful one.
He had found an interior cave, and when he lit his fire, the sight of it, he declared to Ransey, was far more beautiful than Paradise. All around him, he said, was a mass of icicles, but all of crystal, and on the floor were hundreds and hundreds of great crystal candles.
“I not can splain (explain) propah,” he said. “Too much foh one leetle niggah boy to splain, but all about me dat cave sparkle and shine wid diamonds, rubies, and rainbows.”
So before they got home that night they made up their minds to explore the marvellous cave in company.
Nothing was said to any one else about their intention; only when they set out some days after this to go to the cave as usual, Ransey Tansey took with him several blue, red, and white lights. He determined in his own mind that this stalactite cave should be turned into a kind of fairy palace for once in a way.
He also carried a small bull’s-eye lantern, so that when lights went out they should not be plunged into darkness altogether.
They had been rather longer than usual in starting on this particular morning, and as the day was very beautiful, and the trees and flowers, butterflies and birds, all looking bright and gay, they must have lingered long on the road. At all events, it was quite one o’clock before they arrived at the cove, reached the cave, and launched their boat.
The fish, moreover, seemed to-day anxious to be caught, and excellent sport was enjoyed.
It only wanted two hours to sunset when they regained the mouth of the cave.
There would be moonlight to guide them home, however, even if they should be half an hour late.
Yes, and it was a full moon too. Mark this, reader, for with each full moon comes a spring tide!
I have no words to convey to any one the glorious sight they beheld when they at last entered the stalactite cave and lit their fire of wood and grass. Fitz had described it well—crystal icicles all around hanging from the vaulted roof, and raised high above the snow-white floor; walls of crystal, and strange, weird statues of a kind of marble.
They sat there in silent admiration until the fire began to burn low; then Ransey Tansey lit up the cave, first with a dazzling white light, then with blue, and finally with crimson.
And this ended the show, but it was one that Nelda would dream about for weeks to come.
How long they had stayed in this wondrous cave they could not tell, but, lo! to their dismay, when they reached the place where they had drawn up the boat, it was gone, and the waves were lapping up far inside. The dinghy had been floated away, and they were thus imprisoned for the night.
The moon, too, had gone down, for in these seas it neither rises nor sets at the same time it does in Britain.
Little Nelda was afraid to spend the night near to the dark water. Some awful beast, she said, might come out and drag her in, so back they went to the crystal cave. Alas! it had lost its charm now.
What a lonesome, weary time it was, and they dared not leave before daylight!
The fearless boy Fitz, after many, many hours had passed, went away, like a bird from the ark, to see if the waters were yet assuaged. He brought back word that the sun was rising, but that the water was still high.
The truth is, they had all slept without knowing it, and during this time the tide had gone back and once more risen, or, in other words, it had ebbed and flowed.
The anxiety of Tandy and the others on board the hulk may be better imagined than described when night fell and the wanderers did not return. For a time they expected them every minute, for the moon was still shining bright and clear in the west and tipping the waves with silver.
Tandy set out by himself at last, hoping to meet the little party. He walked for fully two miles along the track by which they most often came. Again and again he shouted and listened, but no answering shout came back to his, though he could hear now and then the dreary cry of a night-bird as it flew low over the woods in the gauzy glamour that the moon was shedding over everything.
But the moon itself would shortly sink, and so, uncertain what to do next, he returned, hoping against hope that the children might have reached the hulk before him.
What a long, dreary night it was! No one slept much. Of this I am sure, for the lost ones were friends both fore and aft.
But the greatest sorrow was to come, for, lo! when next morning at daybreak they reached the cave, the first thing that caught their eyes was the dinghy—beached, but bottom uppermost. Fishing gear and the oars were also picked up; but, of course, there was no sign of the children.
With grief, poor Tandy almost took leave of his senses, and it was indeed a pitiable sight to see him wandering aimlessly to and fro upon the coral beach, casting many a hopeless glance seawards.
Good, indeed, would it have been for him had tears come to his relief. But these were denied him. Even the consolations that honest James Malone poured into his ears were unheeded; perhaps they were hardly even heard.
“Death comes to all sooner or later. We do wrong to repine. Ah, my dear Tandy, God Himself knows what is best for us, and our sorrows here will all be joys in the land where you and I must be ere long.”
Well-meant platitudes, doubtless, but they brought no comfort to the anguished heart of the poor father.
It was noticed by one of the men that the strange bird Admiral, who had accompanied the search party, seemed plunged in grief himself. He walked about the beach, but ate nothing. He perched upon the keel of the upset boat, and over and over again he turned his long neck downwards, and wonderingly gazed upon the fishing gear and oars.
Then he disappeared.
We must now return to the cave where we left our smaller heroes.
Ransey Tansey’s greatest grief was in thinking about his father. It would be quite a long time yet before the tide ebbed sufficiently to permit them to leave the cave and scramble along the beach to the top of the cove. Well, there was nothing for it but to wait. But this waiting had a curious ending.
They had returned to the stalactite cave, and Ransey had once more lit his lamp, when suddenly, far at the other end, they heard something that made poor Nelda quake with fear and cling to her brother’s arm.
“Oh, it is a ghost!” she cried—“an old woman’s ghost!”
I cannot otherwise describe the sound than as a weary kind of half sigh, half moan, on a loud falsetto key.
No wonder Nelda thought it emanated from some old lady’s ghost; though what an old lady’s ghost could possibly be doing down here, it would have been difficult indeed to guess.
Bob took another view of the matter. He barked loudly and lustily, and rushed forward. It was no angry bark, however.
Next minute he came running back, and when Ransey Tansey turned the light on him he could see by the commotion among the long, rough hair which covered his rump that the fag-end of a tail he possessed was being violently but joyfully agitated.
“Come on,” he seemed to say; “follow me. You will be surprised!”
Without fear now, the children followed the dog, and, lo! not far off, standing solemnly in a kind of crystalline pulpit, was the Admiral himself. No wonder they were all astonished, or that the bird himself seemed pleased. But off the crane hopped now, the dog and the children too following, and there, not thirty yards from the place where they had been all night, was a landward opening into the cave.
It was surrounded with bush, and how the Admiral had found it must ever remain a mystery.
Ten minutes after this poor Tandy was clasping his children to his breast.
Innocent wee Babs was patting his cheek, and saying, “Never mind, daddy—never mind, dear daddy.” Childish consolation certainly, but, oh, so sweet! No wonder his pent-up feelings were relieved by tears at last.
The crane allayed his feelings by dancing a pas de joie on the coral sand. Bob gave vent to his by rushing about and barking at everything and everybody, but especially at the boat, which he seemed to regard as the innocent cause of all the trouble.
“Wowff—wowff—wow! Why did it run away anyhow?”
That is what Bob wanted to know.
But the tide had ebbed sufficiently to permit of a visit to the cave of delight, as Ransey called it.
James and Tandy, with Ransey and Fitz, embarked, the others remaining on shore.
Both men were as much delighted and astonished at what they saw as the children themselves had been. A large quantity of withered branches and foliage had been taken in the boat, to make a fire in the crystalline cave.
“But oh, father,” said Ransey, “you should have seen it last night when we lit it up with crimson light!”
“We’ll come again, lad,” replied his father.
They then made their way to the outer opening, and back once more to the inner, where they had left the boat.
It was noticed that James Malone was somewhat silent all the way back to the wreck. And so he continued during breakfast. After this he slowly arose. “Brother,” he said, laying his hand on Halcott’s shoulder, “I have something strange to tell you. Come to the cliff-top, and you too, Tandy, and bring your pipes.”
Book Three—Chapter Eight.
Entombed Alive.
It was a very lovely day now. The sea all round towards the eastern side of the island was deep and blue; but the waters to the west were here and there more shallow, so that the ocean here was patched with splendid colouring—tints of opal, tender green, and crimson were set off by the deep dark-brown of a rocky bottom, whereon masses of sea-weed waved with the ebb or the flow of the tide.
There was not a breath of wind to-day, not a whisper in the woodlands; scarce a sound was to be heard, save the drowsy hum of the waves as they broke far below on the beach of snow-white sand, or the occasional screaming of the sea-birds sailing round and round the beetling crags where their nests were.
In very joy they seemed to scream to-day. Happy birds! There was no one to molest them on this far-off beautiful isle of the ocean. No gun was ever levelled at them, not a pebble ever thrown even by Fitz; and so tame were they that they often ran about the cliff-top, or even alighted on the ship itself.
But slowly indeed to-day does James Malone walk towards the cliff. Out through the inner, out through the great outer gate; for he will not feel comfortable until he is clear of the encampment, and seated near to the very brink of that great wall of rocks.
“Gentlemen,” he said, when at last he had filled and lit his pipe with all the coolness of a North American Indian—“gentlemen, hitherto all our efforts to find the gold mine have been in vain, but mere chance has revealed to us the secret that has been hidden from us so long—”
“James,” said Tandy, excitedly, “you don’t mean to say—”
“But,” interrupted James, “I do mean to say it, Tandy. Halcott there knows that I seldom make an assertion till I have well-considered the matter on all sides.”
“You never do, brother.”
“That cave, gentlemen, which in so strange a way the children have found, is a gold mine—the gold mine!
“The land entrance I can now remember, although it is somewhat changed. Show me the map of the island, brother.”
Halcott spread it out before him.
He pointed out Fire Hill, then drew his finger along until it rested on the spot where the cave was.
“The fault has been all mine, gentlemen; I alone led you astray, for appearances deceived me. But it is not yet too late.
“And so you see, Tandy, that, after all, Providence has changed our mourning into joy. I do not now despair of anything. God moves in a mysterious way, brothers, and you may rest assured we shall yet return in peace to enjoy the fruits of our labours in the land of our birth.”
Halcott was silent; so too was Tandy for a time.
Need I tell you what they were thinking about? If they could but return with enough gold to give them an independence, how pleasant would be their prospects for the future!
Well, this world is not all sorrow, and it is only right we should enjoy it. I think I can honestly go further, reader, and say it is a sin not to make the best of the beautiful world we live in, a sin to look always at the darkest side when clouds surround us. Let us not believe in the pessimism of Burns when he wrote his dirge “Man was made to mourn,” a verse or two of which run as follows:—
“Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood’s active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right:
But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn;
Then age and want—oh! ill-matched pair!—
Show man was made to mourn.
“A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure’s lap carest;
Yet think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.
But, oh! what crowds in every land
Are wretched and forlorn!
Through weary life this lesson learn—
that man was made to mourn.”
Tandy had risen to his feet, and was looking somewhat anxiously towards Observatory Hill.
The seaman who took day and day about with Fitz in watching was at this moment signalling.
“He wants us to come up,” said Tandy.
“Who knows,” said James, with far more cheerfulness in his voice than usual—“who knows but that our deliverance is already at hand? The man may have seen a ship!”
Halcott and Tandy, about an hour after this, stood beside the man on the brow of the hill, with their glasses turned towards the far-off island.
They could see the beach with far greater clearness than usual to-day.
It was crowded with savages running to and fro, into the bush and out of it, in a state apparently of great excitement.
At this distance they resembled nothing more than a hive of bees about to swarm.
Independent of innumerable dug-outs drawn up here and there were no less than five huge war-canoes.
Tandy turned away with a slight sigh.
“Just as the cup of joy,” he said, “was being held to our lips, ill-fortune seems to have snatched it away.”
“Heigho!” sighed Halcott, “how I envy honest James for the hopefulness that he never appears to lose, even in the very darkest hours, the hours of what we should call despair.
“But look,” he continued, pointing towards Fire Hill. “Not a cloud to be seen!”
“The volcano is dead!” said Tandy, with knitted brows; “and now, indeed, we shall have to fight.”
Halcott took Tandy’s hand, while he looked calmly into his face.
“My friend,” he said, “we have come through many and many a danger side by side, and here we are alive and well to tell it. If fighting it must be with these savages, neither you nor I shall be afraid to face them. But we may succeed in making peace.”
“Ah, Halcott, I fear their friendship even more than their enmity. But for my dear boy and my little girl, I should care for neither.”
And now all haste back to the camp was made.
All hands were summoned, and the case laid plainly before them.
The story of the cave was told to them also, and it did Halcott’s heart good to hear the ringing cheer with which their words were received.
The next thing Halcott ordered was a survey of stores. Alas! this did not take long; and afterwards the defences were most carefully inspected.
On the whole, the outlook was a hopeful one, even if the savages did come in force and place the strange little encampment in a state of siege. Their provisions and even their ammunition would last for three weeks at least.
And—and then?
Ah! no one thought of an answer to that question. They meant to do their best, and trust in Providence for everything else.
But the expected arrival of these warlike natives was not going to prevent them from finding gold, if gold there were in the Medicine-man’s Cave, as it was now named.
So early next morning the discovery party had reached the landward opening. They were provided with lamps to light and hang, with tools, and with provisions for the day.
At the mouth of the cave Fitz was stationed with glass in hand, to watch for a signal to be given from Observatory Hill, in case the boats should start from the distant island.
The lamps were lit at the entrance to the cave, which was gloomy enough in all conscience.
“Surely,” cried Tom Wilson, when they reached the interior and saw the great stalactites, the candles and icicles of glass, and the walls all shining with “rubies and rainbows,”—“surely this is the cave of Aladdin. Ah, it is diamonds as well as gold we ought to be able to collect here, maties!”
And now hours were spent in a fruitless search for the mine. Even the floor of the seaward cave was dug up and its walls tapped, but all in vain.
It was not until they were preparing to leave, that, chancing to hear Bob whining and scraping not ten yards from the outer entrance, Halcott turned his attention in that direction.
A ghastly sight met their gaze! For here lay a pile of human bones half covered with dust, and half buried in the débris that had fallen from the roof.
And near this awful heap, but above it, was a hole about five feet high, and wide enough to admit two men at a time.
The excitement now was intense, but for a time all stood spell-bound with horror.
“Here,” said James, slowly, “is the spot where that fiend, the medicine-man, murdered the boys as an offering to the great fire-fiend. Now we shall find the gold. Come, follow me, men!”
He took a lamp from Tom Wilson’s hand as he spoke, and boldly entered the cave.
It was far from an inviting place where they now stood.
What did that signify to those determined gold-seekers? For hardly had they dug two feet down ere they were rewarded by finding one large, rough nugget of pure gold and several small ones.
They forgot all about the savages now, and nothing could exceed the eagerness with which the men laboured. But fatigue, at last, overcame them, and they were obliged to retire, carrying with them more of the precious ore than many an Australian digger has found during a whole lifetime.
It was very dark as they made their way through the bush; but Fitz was an excellent guide, so they got back in time for supper.
A very happy evening this was, fore and aft, and Tom Wilson seemed the gayest of the gay. The poor fellow had sinned and fallen, it is true, but surely God had already forgiven him. Tom believed so, and it was this belief, he told James more than once, that made him forget his sorrow.
“I’ll meet my wife and children on the other shore,” he said once, with a sad smile, “and they’ll forgive me too.”
In a week’s time the gold fever was at its height. And no wonder, for in whatever direction they dug nuggets were found in this marvellous cave.
The fortune of every man there was made.
But would the gold be of any use to them?
One day, about a fortnight after the wonderful discovery, something very startling occurred. Almost every hour while digging they had heard strange sounds, like the rumbling of heavy artillery along a rough road, with now and then a loud but muffled report, as of a great gun fired in the distance.
No wonder James had remarked that the heathen minds of the savages believed that a great fire-fiend dwelt deep down here, and must be propitiated with human sacrifice.
But on this particular day, after a terrible report, the earth shook and quivered, great masses of soil fell crashing down here and there, and the lamps were all extinguished.
The noise died away like the muttering of a thunderstorm in the far distance.
“Keep quiet and cool, men; we are all right. We can relight the lamps.” It was Halcott who spoke.
Yes, and so they quickly did; but judge of their horror when, on making their way to what had been the entrance to the cave, they found no exit there!
Then the terrible truth revealed itself to them—they were entombed alive!
At first the horror of the situation rendered them speechless.
Was it the heat of internal fires, or was it terror—I know not which—that made the perspiration stand in great beads on their now pale faces?
“What is to be done?” cried one of the men.
“Never despair, lad!”—and Halcott’s manly voice was heard once more—“never despair!”
His voice sounded hollow, however—hollow, and far away.
Book Three—Chapter Nine.
“On Swept the War-Canoes towards the Coral Beach.”
“It was just here, was it not,” said Halcott, “where the entrance was? Keep up your hearts, boys, we shall soon dig ourselves clear.”
Cheered by his voice, every one set himself bravely to the task before him.
But a whole hour went by, and they were now nearly exhausted.
One or more had thrown themselves on the ground panting.
The heat increased every minute, and the atmosphere became stifling. The thirst, too, was almost unendurable.
Even James himself was yielding at last to despair, and already the lights were burning more dimly.
But hark! the sound of the dog barking. His voice seemed ever so far away, but every heart was cheered by it.
Again, lads, again! Up with your spades; one more effort.
The men sprang up from the floor of the cave and went to work now with a will.
Nearer and nearer the dog’s anxious barking sounded every minute.
At last, with a joyous cry, Bob burst through, and with him came a welcome rush of pure air.
They were saved!
Is it any wonder that when they found themselves once more out in the jungle, with flowers and foliage all around them and the breath of heaven fanning their faces, James Malone proposed a prayer of thankfulness?
They rose from their knees at last.
“We have been taught a lesson,” said this honest fellow; “our ambition was far too overweening. Our lust for gold all but found us a grave.”
They had arrived early at camp, so Tandy and Halcott determined to make another visit to Observatory Hill, for the man had once more signalled.
Extra activity was apparent among the savages in the northern island. It was evident enough now that they would not long delay their coming.
The sun set, and soon afterwards darkness fell, but still the man lingered on the hill-top.
And now they could see a great fire spring up, just a little way from the water’s edge, and soon the savages were observed dancing wildly around it in three or four great circles.
It was evident that some horrible orgie was taking place, and they might easily presume that the medicine-man was busy enough, and that a human sacrifice was being offered up to appease the fiends of war, in which those benighted beings so firmly believed.
Next day, and just after breakfast, on looking towards the hill-top, behold the red British ensign afloat on the flag-pole!
Shortly after this the signalman himself ran in.
“They are coming!” he cried; “they are coming!”
“And their strength?” asked Halcott calmly.
“Five great war-canoes, and each one of them contains at least thirty armed warriors.”
“And there may be more to follow. Humph! Well, we shall have to reckon with between two and three hundred at least. What about making overtures of peace to them, brother James?”
Now brother James, as has already been said, was a very practical kind of a Christian.
“Well,” he said, slowly and thoughtfully, “I think, Charlie Halcott, that in this case our duty lies straight and clear before us, and we’ve got to go for it. We shall just be content to make war first, and leave the peace to follow.”
Every man heard him, and the hearty British cheer they gave was re-echoed even from the hill itself.
It was agreed by all, however, that to fight these savages in the open would be but to court death and destruction to all hands.
Other tactics must be adopted. The enemy would no doubt land on the beach, and so the big gun was dragged towards the cliff-top. Here they would make their first stand, and, if possible, sink some of the war-canoes before they had a chance to land.
In savage warfare cover is considered of very great importance. It was determined, therefore, to deprive the invaders of this at any cost, so heaps of withered branches and foliage were collected and placed here and there all around the bay and close to the edge of the wood; and not only there, but on the table-land itself, between the encampment and Observatory Hill.
One of the most active young men was told off to fire those heaps, beginning at the farther side of the bay. His signal to do so would be a rifle, not the gun, fired from the top of the cliff.
In less than three hours’ time the great war-canoes were quite in view, slowly approaching the land. They were still ten miles away, however, and it was evident to every one that they meant to time themselves so as to land on the beach at Treachery Bay about an hour after sunset.
Another hour went slowly by. Through the glasses now a good view could be had of the cannibal warriors. One and all were painted in a manner that was as hideous as it was grotesque. In the first boat, standing erect in the bows, with a huge spear in his hand, the head of which was evidently of gold, for it glittered yellow in the sun’s rays, was a stalwart savage, whom James Malone at once pronounced to be the king. Beside him squatted two deformed and horrible-looking savages, and they also were far too well-known to James. They were the king’s chief medicine-men.
At the bow of each war-canoe, stuck on a pole, was a ghastly human head, no doubt those of prisoners taken in battles fought with tribes living on other islands. There was no doubt, therefore, that their intentions in visiting the Crusoes were evil and not good, and that James Malone’s advice to fight first and make peace afterwards was wise, and the only one to be pursued.
At sunset they were within two miles of the land, and lying-to, ready to make a dash as soon as darkness fell.
The gun belonging to the Sea Flower was a small breechloader of good pattern, and could carry a shell quite as far as the boats.
It was trained upon them, and great was the terror of the king when in the air, right above his head, the shell burst with a terrible roar.
They put about and rowed further off at once.
And now, after a short twilight, the night descended quickly over land and sea.
It was very still and starry, and in a very short time the thumping and noise of the oars told those on watch that the boats were rapidly approaching. And now the rifle was fired.
Sackbut, the young sailor, had been provided with a can of petroleum and matches, and hardly had the sound of the rifle ceased to reverberate from the rocks ere those on the cliff saw the first fire lighted. Running from heap to heap he quickly set fire to them one by one. Up on to the table-land he came next, and so in less than twenty minutes the whole of this part of the island presented a barrier of rolling fire towards the sea.
The fire lit up the whole bay until it was as bright almost as if the sun were shining on it. But the savages were not to be deterred or denied, and so on swept the great war-canoes towards the coral beach.
Yet, although they succeeded at last in effecting a landing, they had paid dear for their daring.
Seven rifles played incessantly on them, and the howls and yells that rose every now and then on the night air told that the firing was not in vain.
Only a few shots were fired from the gun, there being no time, but a shell crashed into the very midst of one of the war-canoes, and the destruction must have been terrible. She sank at once, and probably not more than ten out of the thirty succeeded in swimming ashore.
The sharks had scented the battle from afar, and were soon on the field enjoying a horrid feast.
With that bursting shell the war might be said to have commenced in earnest, and it was to be a war à outrance, knife to knife, and to the death.
The yelling of the savages now, and their frantic gestures as they rushed in mass to the shelter of the rocks, mingling with the crackling and roaring of the flames and the frightened screams of myriads of sea-gulls, was fearful—a noise and din that it would be difficult indeed to describe.
All haste was now made to get the gun inside the first line of defence, load it with canister, and place it where it would be most handy.
And nothing more could be done now until the savages should once more put in an appearance. So Tandy hurried on board, a sadly anxious man indeed. His anxiety was, of course, centred in his little daughter.
Janeira was the first to meet him.
“Miss Nelda?” he said quickly; “where is she, and how is she, Jane?”
“Oh,” replied Jane, “she cry plenty at fuss, sah, cry and dance, but now she done go to bed, sah; come, sah, come.”
And down below she ran.
Poor Nelda! There she lay in her bunk, pale and frightened-looking.
No tears now though; only smiles and caresses for her father. She had one arm round Bob, who was stretched out beside the child, as if to guard her from threatened danger.
But strange and earnest were the questions she had to ask.
Were the savages all killed, and shot, and drowned? Would they come back again? Would Ransey, and Bob, and the ’Rallie, and poor daddie be killed and roasted if the awful men came with their spears and knives, and their bows and arrows?
Tandy did all he could to assure her, and if in doing so he had to equivocate a little, surely he would be forgiven.
As they were still talking, in at the door stalked the Admiral himself. He looked more solemn than any one had ever seen him before. Poor fellow! he too had received a terrible fright, and I suppose he felt that he would never, never care to dance again.
The child called to him, and he came to the bunk-side at once, and lowering his long, beautiful neck, laid his beak across her neck. This was ’Rallie’s way of showing affection.
Then he went slowly and sadly away to the other end of the cabin, and “trussed” himself in a corner.
Tandy stopped for two whole hours with Nelda. She promised to be very good, and not to cry, even if the bad men did come back again.
Then she fell soundly asleep, holding her father’s finger.
He kissed her now and quietly left the cabin, and Janeira herself slipped in and took the camp-stool Tandy had just vacated.
The fire was by this time a long distance away, only the trees that had not been destroyed stood at one moment like black spectres in the starlight, but like rugged pillars of crimson and gold when a puff of wind swept through the woods.
Waiting and watching! Ah, what a weary thing it is! Hours and hours passed by, and if the men of this little garrison slept at all, it was on the bare ground, and with only their elbows for pillows.
But not until far on in the morning watch did the enemy show signs of activity, or give a single token of their presence.
The fire was now too far back for the crackling of the flames to be heard, though its red glare and the cloud of rolling smoke that obscured the sky told that it was still blazing fiercely. The sea-birds had gone to rest once more in the rocks, and everything around the encampment was as silent as the grave. A dread silence—a stillness like that which precedes the outbreaking of some fearful storm!
And all too soon the storm burst.
Book Three—Chapter Ten.
“An Eye for an Eye, and a Tooth for a Tooth.”
With a yell that once more scared the sea-birds, and sent them screaming in terror across the waves, a yell that seemed to awaken the echoes in every rock and hill from end to end of the island, the savages sprang to their feet, and rushing towards the palisade, made their first fearful onset.
Not twenty yards away were they when they had given voice. So quickly, too, did they rush across the intervening ground, that scarce was there time to fire a rifle volley, far less to train the gun upon the spear-armed mass, before it was close alongside and had surrounded the stockade.
In their hundreds, these fearsome savages attempted to scale it; but their bodies were frightfully torn with the spikes, and cries of pain now mingled with those of anger. The defenders ran from one part of the stockade to another, firing from the loopholes; and so densely massed together was the foe that every bullet must have found a billet. In spite of all this, several managed to get over, but were immediately shot down with revolvers, or cut down with sword or cutlass.
Small though the loopholes were, spears were several times thrust through, and as each of them was poisoned, a single scratch would have resulted in the agonised death of the receiver.
Dark enough it was, and with nothing now but the stars to direct their aim, yet the little band fought well and determinedly, and at last the foe retired, leaving scores of their dead behind—drew off, dragging the wounded away.
At that black mass, just as it was nearing the woods, and while the rifles still played upon it, the breechloader, grape-loaded, was trained and fired.
So close together were the natives that the carnage must have been terrible.
But twice again ere morning they attacked the fort, receiving the same treatment, and being obliged at last to withdraw.
When morning broke, the defenders were completely wearied out, and so the little garrison, after two sentries were set, lay down to snatch a few hours’ much needed rest. There was no fear of the attack being renewed before sunset, for darkness seemed best to suit the tactics of these sable warriors.
In the afternoon of this first day of siege a sally was made from the great gate, and seven men stood ready with their rifles, while four began to remove the dead. Each was dragged to the edge of the cliff and thrown over into the sea. When all were cleared away the gate was once more shut and barred. But though the burial must have been witnessed, no rush was made by the savages to attack them. The afternoon was spent in taking pot-shots at every figure that could be seen in the burned bush.
The next attack was made at midnight, and in a manner quite as determined as the first.
One of the Sea Flower’s men was killed by a spear. It had been thrust with tremendous force through a loophole, and pierced the poor fellow’s brain.
Tandy himself had a narrow escape. He was about to fire, but, stumbling, fell, and next moment a poisoned arrow whizzed past and over him. There was surely a Providence in this, for only fools believe in blind chance.
With the exception of the death of poor Ross, who was an able seaman, there was no other casualty that night.
The savages withdrew, but when, next day, the men of the Sea Flower sallied forth to remove the enemy’s dead, which they succeeded in doing, it was noticed that many of the spike-nails had, during the fight, been removed. These, however, were easily replaced by others, and many more were added.
There was no attack this evening. The savages had determined to endeavour once more to propitiate their “fiend of war,” and an immense fire could be seen burning at midnight in the centre of their camp, not more than half a mile from the stockade. The big gun was trained upon this, and a shell planted right in the centre of the dusky mob seemed to work great destruction, and quickly put an end to the orgie.
The terrible siege was kept up for three whole weeks, and, harassed beyond measure with the constant night attacks, affairs were becoming very desperate indeed, and the little garrison was already almost worn out. Day after day it was becoming more apparent to all that utter annihilation was merely a question of time.
A council of war was held now, at which every man was present, and various proposals were made, but few indeed were feasible.
The number of the defenders was so small, compared to the hundreds of armed savages opposed to them, that a “sally in force,” as Tom Wilson who proposed this called it, was out of the question.
To attempt to make peace would only be to give themselves away. The savage king would be ready enough to promise anything, but in a few weeks afterwards not one of the poor Crusoes would be left alive.
Should they get the largest boat ready, provision her, and put to sea? Surely the ocean itself would be less cruel at its very wildest than those bloodthirsty savages.
The question had been put by Tandy himself. He was hoping against hope; he was like a drowning man clutching at straws. For himself he had no thought. He was brave almost to a fault, and, like any other brave man, was willing to die, sword in hand, fighting the foe.
“And where can man die better,
Than in facing fearful odds?”
But his children, especially innocent wee Nelda—ah! that was what softened that heart of his.
“My dear Tandy,” said Halcott, “the idea of being once more away out on yonder beautiful and peaceful ocean, even if only in an open boat, is one that commends itself to us all, but, alas, it would in this case be but a choice of death. Even if we should succeed in eluding the savages and escaping, which I believe would be almost impossible, we could never reach the mainland.”
So the council ended, and the little garrison remained precisely as before.
It was evident to all, however, that the end could not be far distant, for not only provisions, but ammunition itself, would soon give out. All hands saving Nelda were therefore put on short allowance. Coals were carefully saved, no more being used than was necessary to make steam to be condensed and used as drinking water; and not an unnecessary shot was to be fired.
But now there came a lull which lasted for three whole days and nights. Two things were evident enough: first, that the enemy were making some change in their mode of warfare; secondly, that the final struggle would soon take place—and indeed, as regards that, many of the men within the little encampment would have preferred to rush forth, cutlass in hand, and finish the fighting at once.
Most of the country was devastated by the fire that had been kindled, with the exception of a patch away south and east at the foot of Observatory Hill, on which the proud ensign was still floating, as if to give the besieged some hope and comfort.
But one day this patch of jungle, like the famous Birnam Wood, seemed to be slowly advancing towards the camp.
Tandy was gazing at it, and looking somewhat puzzled, when Halcott came up.
“That is more of their fiendish tactics,” he said; “and the scheme, I fear, will be only too successful. You see,” he added, “they are piling up heaps of branches; these will defy our rifle bullets, and unfortunately we have no shells left to fire them. Gradually these heaps will be advanced, and under cover of them they will make their next and, I fear, final attack, and it will be made by day.”
Halcott was right, and in a few days’ time the savages were within a hundred yards of the palisade. They no doubt meant to advance as near to it as possible during the hours of darkness, and with might and main attack at sunrise.
It was midnight when the movement on the part of the besiegers began, and the cover was then slowly advanced. A gentle breeze had begun to blow away from the camp, and the night was moonless and dark.
Presently a hand was laid on Halcott’s shoulder. He had been lying near the outer stockade quietly talking with James; while Tandy was in the ship’s state-room keeping his little girl company. The poor child was sadly uneasy to-night, and the father was trying his best to comfort her.
“What! you here, Lord Fitzmantle?” said Halcott.
“I’se heah, sah.”
It was probably well he said so, for excepting his flashing teeth and rolling eyes, there wasn’t much else of him to be seen.
“And you’re pretty nearly naked, aren’t you?”
“I’se neahly altogedder naked, sah. I’se got noddings much on, sah, but my skin. I go on one ’spedition (expedition) all same’s Dabid of old go out to meet de giant Goliah. Dabid hab sling and stone though; Fitz hab no sling, on’y one box ob matches. You open dat gate, sah, and I go crawl, crawl, all same’s one snake, and soon makee one big fire to wahm de hides ob dose black niggahs.”
“Brave and generous little fellow!” cried Halcott, shaking the boy’s hand. “But I fear to risk your life.”
“You no feah foh me, sah, all I do. I jes’ done gone do foh de sake ob dat pooh deah chile Babs.
“Good-night, ge’men. You soon see big fire, and you heah de niggahs fizz. Suppose dey killee me, dey no can kill de soul. Dis chile findee his way to Hebben all the same, plenty quick.”
They let the little lad out.
Whether the acute ears of the savages had heard the bolts drawn or not will never be known. Certain it is, however, that Fitz was discovered and wounded. But wounded as he was, he had the determination to light the pile.
The savages threw themselves at it, and tore at the burning branches, but this only helped to scatter the flames about.
Fitz crawled back, just in time to die inside the stockade.
“I go to Hebben now,” he said faintly to James, who was kneeling beside him holding his hand. “I’se dun my duty I fink—heah below. I see my pooh old mudder to-night—she—she—”
He said no more, and never spoke again. The noble little fellow had indeed done his duty, and doubtless would receive his reward.
James Malone was like a wild man now.
“Brother Halcott,” he cried, “summon all hands to arras, and let us sally forth and give these fiends a lesson. They have done to death this noble little fellow. Come, Halcott, come. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth!”
He waved his sword aloft as he spoke.
So sudden and determined was the sally now made by ten resolute men that, taken thus unexpectedly, the savages became at once unmanned and demoralised.
The men of the Sea Flower advanced in a semicircle, and well spread out. After the first volley, the blacks threw a few spears wildly into the darkness, for the terrible conflagration blinded their eyes; but, huddled together as they were, they made an excellent target for the riflemen.
Volley after volley was poured into their midst with terrible effect, increasing their confusion every minute.
“Lay aft here now, lads!” shouted James. “Down with your guns! Charge with cutlass and revolver. Hurrah!”
High above the demoniacal shrieks of the savages and the roaring of the flames rose that wild British cheer. Next moment the revolvers poured upon the foe a rain of death.
Again a cheer. Sword and cutlass flashed in the firelight. Right and left, left and right, the men struck out, and blood flowed like water.
Towering above all was James himself, with flashing eyes and red-stained blade, his long hair streaming behind in the breeze that fanned the flames.
Short but fearful was that onslaught. In the eyes of the terror-stricken savages every man must have seemed a multitude. And no wonder. It was death or victory for the poor Crusoes; and never before did soldier on battlefield, or sailor on slippery battle-deck, fight with greater fury than they did now.
But, lo! James has seen the king himself, with his golden-headed spear, which he tries in vain to poise, so crushed and crowded is he in the midst of his mob of warriors.
“It is I,” shouts James, in the native tongue, “I, whose blood you would have drunk. Drink it now if you dare!”
Nothing can withstand him, and soon he has fought his way towards the chief, and next moment the savage throws up his arms and falls dead where he stands.
As if moved now but by a single thought, the enemy, with a howl of terror, go rushing away and disappear in the darkness. The victors are left alone with the dead!
But, alas! the victory has cost them more than one precious life.
Here, stark and stiff, lies the brave young fellow Sackbut, who had fired the bush on the first landing of the savages.
And not far off poor Tom Wilson himself.
At first they can hardly believe that Tom is dead. He is raised partly on his elbow, and his eyes are fixed on a portrait he has taken from his bosom. Tandy, who found him, had seen that picture before. It was that of his wife.
Ah, well, he had sinned, he had suffered, but his sorrows were all past now.
Another man is wounded—honest Chips himself.
Is this all? Ah, no, for James himself, as he turns to leave the scene of carnage, leans suddenly on his sword, his face looks ghastly pale in the firelight, and Halcott springs forward only in time to prevent him from falling.