CHAPTER XII.

“A SHOWER OF POISONED DARTS FELL PATTERING ON THE STOCKADE.”

True; there was a village down there, for blue smoke was curling up over the green of the palm-trees.

Tom was rejoiced. What if Bernard himself were in that village! Perhaps he would be one of the first to come to meet them. And what a strange story it would be his to tell!

Tom could not think of his captain’s son as a slave. No white man ever remained long in a position of actual slavery among Indians; and Bernard, if indeed he were alive, would doubtless be some great chief or warrior.

They were nearing the land of the Jivaro Indians.

Two hours more of a toilsome march across ground which was partly marsh and partly fallen forest brought them to hard open ground. They could hear the beating of drums and shouting of the natives, and presently a dusky crowd swarmed out to meet them.

A halt was immediately ordered, for even among Indians etiquette must be obeyed.

Samaro advanced alone with Tom; who, by the way, much to the terror of some of the juvenile portion of this wild community, had his feline pet perched upon his shoulder.

But their reception on the whole was a hearty one. The general notion that appeared to prevail among these Indian villagers was that Tom and all his party were starving, for they brought them food of all kinds; and to refuse to taste at least would have been a grave offence.

That evening a grand festival was held at one of the chiefs’ houses. Tom was not quite sure, indeed, if the man was a chief, or held some office akin to that of our mayors in this country.

Every one in the village or town was armed in some form or another. Even the boys moved about with their blow-guns; while spears and shields formed the defensive weapons of their elders. Many of the latter had the awful-looking scalp hanging at their waists, just as Samaro wore his. This evidently entitled them to be looked upon as braves; for these scalps had all been taken in battle.

Tom spent a few days in this village, distributed a few presents, and went on again, having left nothing but good-will behind him, and being therefore assured of a welcome if ever he returned this way.

On the evening of the day of their departure from this village of Jivaros, and while resting by the camp fire in the solitude of the forest, Tom questioned Samaro about the probability of their finding Bernard among these tribes.

Samaro’s first reply was a negative and solemn shake of the head.

Then he became a little more explicit. He had feared he said to put questions too directly, but at a feast one evening he had led round deftly to the subject by asking an old warrior whether Tom was not the second Englishman ever he had seen; Tom’s Uncle Robert, who had been here, being reckoned the first. “Yes,” the brave had replied, “with the exception of a child.”

This child, he had told Samaro later on, had been the cause of a great quarrel; for the Jivaros on the other bank of the river had borne him off. The Canelo Indians had joined against these. But, meanwhile, the boy had been sold to a tribe who had taken him northward and east, perhaps to Napo or Zaparo-land, and he might be killed. The old warrior knew no more, or would tell no more.

This was far from encouraging intelligence to Tom, but he determined at all hazards to pursue his wanderings and his investigations until at all events he should discover the fate of Bernard Herbert.

They visited many more villages and scattered hamlets of the Jivaros. Each of these possess what is called a war-drum, which if beaten at one village is heard at another, and soon echoes throughout the length and breadth of the tribal land. This is a method of calling the warriors together, and is as much resorted to as was the fiery cross in the brave days of old in the Scottish Highlands.

. . . . . . .

About a month after his visit to the Jivaro Indians Tom found himself with his men descending a ridge of hills towards a river, where Samaro expected to find a village. He had been here before, and was somewhat surprised now to find as they drew near no appearance of smoke, nor any sound of life among the trees. True, many if not most of the tribes in these regions are nomads; but so well situated was this town, on the banks of the Aguarico, not far from its conjunction with the Napo, that something very remarkable must have occurred to account for its apparent desolation.

They were not left long in doubt; for Samaro, who had entered the town some distance in front of Tom, stopped short, then turning round beckoned to his master to hurry.

Here on its back lay a corpse. The neck had been fearfully gashed with a spear, and one hand was almost severed through. The unfortunate man must have been alive but a short time before, for decomposition, so rapid in these hot regions, had not yet set in.

They found the bodies of many more murdered Indians; indeed, almost every house told its sad story of massacre, not even the children nor old women having been spared. The huts had been all plundered, but otherwise left intact.

“Who has done these fearful deeds?” said Tom, addressing Samaro.

“The Awheeshiries, without doubt,” was the reply.

Some broken blow-guns and spears lay about, but otherwise there was scarcely any evidence of a struggle. The attack must have been made at the dead of night; and from the dreadful way the victims had been cut and hacked about, the probability is that revenge had instigated the attack quite as much as the hopes of plunder.

Close to the village, at a bend of the river, they came upon several boats drawn up on the beach. They had evidently been used very shortly before this, as evidenced by the number of fresh banana skins lying here and there. The hostile Indians must have come in these war-canoes therefore; and it was certain they had not gone. Indeed, from the care with which the paddles were secured, and the boats themselves shaded by bushes from the sun, it appeared certain they meant to return. Where were they now? In all probability they had gone farther inland, bent on plundering other peaceful villages; and Tom shuddered as he thought of the awful deeds that might be enacted in that lovely, still, forest land before the sun now declining towards the west should again rise and shine over the greenery of the woods.

What must now be done? was the next question to be considered. Savages on the war-path, their knives and hands still red with the fresh-drawn blood of fellow-savages, are but little likely to brook the presence of strangers in their midst. Tom knew he could not expect to gain anything by fair means. He must be on the defensive; and there was no time to lose.

So he held a council of war.

Tom proposed instant embarkation in the canoes, and a passage down the river. But wiser and more wary Samaro vetoed such a plan. They knew the dangers around them now, but to drop down an unknown river at night would almost certainly expose them to worse, not the least of which might be perils from rapids and cataracts.

But a sand bank or spit ran out into the river some distance down, and this could easily be fortified, and held against a whole cloud of hostile Indians. To decide was to act with Tom. The packages and stores were therefore immediately transferred to the boats, and landed on the spit; and at the land-side thereof a long trench was dug, where a kind of fort, formed of the bamboo fences dragged from the village, had been formed. Behind this they would be safe against even poisoned darts, for luckily there was no cover for the enemy anywhere very close at hand.

The sun was almost set, and Tom was having one final run round the village, to find out if there were not some poor wretch still alive that he might render assistance to. He came upon a footpath that led him for some distance directly away from the river, through the bush, to the very gates of an Indian compound of far greater pretensions than any he had yet seen. It must be a kind of palace, Tom thought. As he listened before pushing open the door of the hut, he heard the unmistakable moaning of someone in pain. He hesitated no longer, and next moment stood in the inner compartment. Here on a kind of raised wicker couch lay the insensible form of a woman, who, a glance told him, was certainly no Indian belonging to this land of Ecuador. Her face, though sadly racked by anguish, was very fair and finely chiselled. Her hair—long, dark, and straight, though now dishevelled—and her dress betokened her a kind of princess of the tribe.

She raised herself on her elbow as Tom entered, and looked at him for a moment wildly and wistfully.

“O,” she exclaimed, “an Englishman! You are not my boy, Bernard?”

“No, no,” cried Tom advancing excitedly. “I am not Bernard. I have come to seek him. O, it is awful to find you thus! You were the ayah on board the Southern Hope. Speak! tell me quickly where I can find Bernard.”

“Find? Find my boy? Yes, I will tell you.”

A spasm of pain passed over her pale face, and she fell back as if dead.

A calabash of water stood near, and Tom moistened her lips and brow, and presently she revived.

“You are wounded,” Tom said. “I am selfish to ask you to talk now. I will hurry away for help; but first let me bind your arm.”

It had been frightfully gashed with a knife while she was trying to ward off a blow aimed at her heart.

Tom brought the edges together, and bound the arm up with leaves and grass cloth. At that moment Samaro himself entered.

“Quick, señor,” he said, “the Awheeshiries are returning. If they find us here we will have but small mercy.”

“Help me then to bear this lady to our camp, my good friend. Pray heaven she may live, for she knows Bernard’s story.”

Between them they carried the ayah princess out and away to the fortified sand-spit. And none too soon. Hardly had they entered when savages appeared from the bush, and a shower of poison darts fell pattering upon the stockade.

As there was no reply from the fort they came nearer and nearer, brandishing spears and capering and howling like very demons. The reply they sought came at length, however. Tom’s rifle rang out sharp and clear in the evening air, and the foremost foeman fell never to rise more. Consternation seized the Indians, and they fled indiscriminately towards the bush; but before they could reach it Tom fired his revolver, and some of them were wounded. It was from no spirit of cruelty he opened fire on a retreating foe, but for the safety of his camp. He wished to show these savages what kind of an enemy they had to deal with, and the lesson was well merited.

It fell dark now; but presently the moon rose, silvering the beautiful river and casting a glamour over the now silent woods.

Yes, the woods were silent; for the savages appeared to have fled. But about midnight there were signs unmistakable that they were continuing their unhallowed work in other places; for every now and then, borne along on the light breeze, came sounds that made Tom’s heart thrill with anger—the exultant shouts of victorious Indians mingling with mournful cries of agony and fear.

Then a great red gleam appeared in the north, and dense white clouds of smoke rolled skyward. The savages had fired the forest.

Nearer and nearer came that red glare as the night wore on, and soon they could hear the crackling of the blazing wood; then the deserted village took fire, and burned with terrible fierceness for a time.

Constantly all night long after this, in the fitful light of the conflagration, creatures could be seen leaping madly into the river, and swimming towards the other bank for safety. These were the denizens of the woods and wilds; but many must have perished in the merciless flames.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE DYING AYAH TELLS OF BERNARD.

Tom spoke not. He feared to say anything to confuse the dying woman. He tried even to control his feelings as he listened to the ayah’s terrible story of her slavery, and that of the poor boy, among the Indians. She spoke with difficulty, pausing often, sometimes even fainting away entirely. But Tom’s patience was rewarded at last.

The mutineers of the good ship Southern Hope had taken Bernard and the ayah into the interior, as far as Riobamba, and there they were both sold. The poor ayah would have been happy even then had they both been bought by the same master, or even by the same tribe. But this was not so; for, while Bernard was first taken to the Jivaro country, and sold thence to one of the wildest tribes of the far interior, she had remained all along with the Zaparo Indians. They had not been altogether unkind to her, though the lord and master who had claimed her made her drudge and toil at household duties, like the slaves that the wives of the Indians there ever are. She had to prepare and cook his food with her own hands, see to his arms and clothing, make and dye the very material of which his garments were composed, and, while wandering from place to place and sleeping in the woods, she had even at night to lie down in the place most open to the attacks of the jaguar or puma, or more likely to be traversed by some deadly snake. For all these toils and acts of kindness her reward was nothing save the bite and the blow. Finally she had fled, and after adventures innumerable she had found her boy. Though it was many years since he had seen her, and he had grown up into a tall skin-clad young savage, he knew his second mother, and gladly ran away with her. Both had been captured by the Zaparos, and brought to the very village from which the ayah had fled. Here she was condemned to die, and her “injured” lord and master was to be the executioner.

As she lay in her grass hut on the night before her intended execution she heard some movement near her, and next minute a tiny dagger was put into her hands. Then she knew that her would-be deliverer was Bernard. She could have cut the cords that bound her now, and once more sought safety in flight, but she would not leave her boy. Dead or alive she would be with him.

The morning came, and she was led out to die. The Indians were there in their thousands to see the grand spectacle of a foreign woman being massacred by their chief. She was led to the stake; for death by torture was her intended doom. Bernard was placed close to her that he might witness her sufferings.

And now her master approached with stern, set brow to begin the torture.

Suddenly with her own hand her cords were severed, and with a yell like that of a panther she sprang upon the chief, and cast him on the ground stabbed to the heart.

For a moment the tribe was silent, paralysed as it were, and the ayah herself broke the spell.

Advancing to where Bernard stood she cut the

thongs that bound his hands, placed the spear of the dead chief in his hand, and waving her hands in the air above him:

“Behold your chief!” she cried. “The White Chief of the Zaparo Indians, sent by the Great Spirit to rule over them—and I am his mother!”

Then wild exclamations rent the air, as the Indians crowded round their new king and threw themselves on the ground before him.

All had been peace for years after this in the camping ground of the Zaparos. They became less nomadic in their tendencies, and built themselves better villages by the river. And whenever they were insulted by other tribes Bernard led them on the war-path; and they never failed to gain the victory, and to return home rejoicing, laden with spoil and many scalps.

The Zaparos are very warlike when roused; but prefer hunting to fishing, and are the most expert woodsmen probably in the world, and this is saying a great deal. The spear and the blow-gun are their weapons par excellence, and they are experts with either.

Bernard made a noble young chief. He had all the wisdom of the white race, combined with the cunning and training of the savages he had dwelt so long amongst. He had no fear, either when hunting or fighting. From hunting his party would return laden with skins and meat. He tackled single-handed either the jaguar or puma, and many a sturdy tapir fell beneath his spear. From a raid on the foe Bernard’s warriors came back with joy and song, and for weeks thereafter the sound of the war-drum was heard in all the villages by the river’s bank.

But Bernard was not wholly a savage; and it had come to pass that he was seized with an irresistible longing to see the ocean once more, and find out if possible if his mother still lived. So he chose from among his warriors fifty of the bravest and most trustworthy, and bidding the ayah adieu, amidst the tears of his people he departed on his dangerous journey.

Then fell the curtain over his life-drama. The dying ayah knew no more. He had never returned; but rumours reached the tribe that their white chief had been captured far beyond the rocky Andes, and that all his followers were killed by the hands of hostile Spaniards.

The poor ayah! She held Tom’s hand as her life was ebbing away. But she evidently was not afraid to die. The religion that had been instilled into her mind on board the Southern Hope had been all through her weary life a guiding star to her, and let us hope that when daylight streamed through the fence, and fell on her pale dead face, the soul had gone to a land where there is no more sorrow.

They buried her there deep down in the sand; and that same evening the boats were loaded up, and in the hour of darkness, ’twixt sunset and moonrise, they dropped silently down stream, and succeeded in eluding their dangerous foes, who, no doubt, lay in wait near the sand-spit ready to renew their attack whenever opportunity offered.

As soon as the moon began to glimmer over the distant mountains they paddled towards the shore, and hid under the thick foliage till morning. Then after a hurried breakfast, principally of fruit, they once more embarked and went gliding down the river.

It was no part of Tom’s intention, however, to keep to the stream. It would have led him on to the great Marañon, or even into the wilds of Brazil. So the very next morning, being now safe from pursuit, they once more took to the woods, and the long and toilsome march was commenced towards the distant shores of the Pacific, and Guayaquil.

All speed, however, was made on the backward journey. There was no more dallying to collect beautiful butterflies, or to seek for more skins of bird or beast. If Tom could but succeed in saving the splendid collection he had already made he felt he should be more than happy. The party still depended on their guns for their living, however, and killed each day just sufficient food to carry them on.

Their adventures were of the usual sort already described, and many a hair-breadth escape both Tom and his companions had by flood and field.

While nearing Guayaquil, however, the fatigues on this terribly-forced march began to tell on Tom’s excellent constitution, and he fell sick.

A few days’ rest became imperative now.

“Just a few days, Samaro,” Tom said, “and I shall be well, and able to go on again.”

That night he was in a burning fever, and for three long weeks he hovered betwixt life and death.

But his youth claimed victory at last; and Samaro had been a most faithful nurse. It would have been difficult to say which of the two—Samaro or Black Tom—showed the greatest exuberance of delight when the master became quiet and sensible once more. About the first food that Tom ate was a tenderly-cooked cavy that this strange puss had caught and brought in. Indeed, Samaro said that all through Tom’s terrible illness hardly a day passed that the cat did not bring either a cavy or dead bird in, and he invariably jumped into his master’s hammock with the offering, laid it by his cheek, and then sat down to watch his face.

So now that Tom was apparently out of danger, both Samaro and the faithful cat went about singing—each in his own way—from morning till night.

One day as Tom lay in his hammock, with the end of the tent thrown up to let him breathe the fresh, pure mountain air, and feast his eyes on the wild and beautiful scenery all around the camp, he heard strange voices, and in another minute, lo! there stood before him a tall and somewhat ungainly Quaker-looking Yankee.

That he was a Yankee Tom could tell at a glance, and the first words he spoke confirmed it.

“My name’s Barnaby Blunt,” he said, throwing his rifle on the grass; “and I’m mighty sorry to see a young Britisher in such a plight as you are, sirr. But precious glad I’ll be if I can do you a service.”

Tom smiled feebly, and thanked him; but he was far too languid to talk much.

That did not matter much, for this Yankee could talk for two, or even for half a dozen at a push. And he had not squatted beside Tom’s hammock much over ten minutes before his listener had his whole history, and that of his wife and wife’s family.

But Barnaby Blunt proved himself a true friend indeed, and to his disinterested kindness Tom no doubt owed his life.

“I’m only hunting about here,” he told Tom, “and it ain’t a deal o’ matter where I goes; but out o’ this camp I don’t budge for a week, and by that time I’ll have you taut and trim enough to come along. Trust Barnaby Blunt to do the right thing for a stranger, and all the more if that stranger be a Britisher.”

Tom smiled, and feebly thanked him.

“My wife’s a Britisher; but for all that ye won’t find a longer-headed old gal about anywhere’s than ’Liza Ann. ’Liza Ann is my wife’s name, and ’Liza Ann is the name o’ my ship; and now you see what kind o’ water you’re in.” “But,” he added, after a brief pause, “I’m not going to bother you now. I’ll come again. My camp’s only just over here.”

Barnaby did come again—that very evening, too. And he did not come empty-handed either. Before he sat down on a package—which was the only thing by way of a chair the tent contained—he began to empty his pockets, and Tom could not help smiling at the magnitude and diversity of their contents. Pots of jelly, parcels of Iceland moss, boxes of marvellous tonic pills, bags of arrow-root, and bottles of wine. He handed the things one by one to Samaro, and then he sat down.

“Now, young fellow,” he said, “you haven’t got anything else in this world to do or to think about but getting well. And as to that, why, your worthy servant and myself will shore you up in a brace of shakes. No, you mustn’t talk. You must listen, and I guess I’ll amuse you. See here, you’ve been in the wilds for about a year, haven’t you?”

Tom nodded.

“That’s right,” continued the Yankee. “Nod your head for ‘Yes;’ shut your eyes for ‘No.’ Give yourself no earthly trouble about anything, and we’ll get on like a boundless prairie on fire. You’ve been out o’ the world, I’ve been in it, and every night I’ll tell you or read you some news.”

Barnaby was as good as his word. He came regularly every forenoon and every evening, and read or talked to Tom; and no woman could have been more kind or more considerate. It is not wonderful then that, in less than a fortnight, the patient was able to sit once more by the camp fire, and could give information as well as receive it. He told Barnaby all his adventures, and those of his uncle and Bernard as well. The Yankee marvelled very much at all he heard.

“Of course you have a collection of curios, haven’t you?”

“Rather,” said Tom proudly.

“Then I guess we can deal.”

“I guess we can’t.” And Tom laughed.

“Will you sell the cat? Why, there’s a small fortune in that animile.”

But Tom refused to sell his favourite.

“And now,” said the Yankee one evening, “I’m going to sea for three months, and as you’ve nothing particular to do, why, come along. It’ll set you up for life. What say?”

“I accept your hospitality,” said Tom “and thank you very much.”

“Don’t you dare thank me. By thunder, sir, if you thank me I’ll throw you overboard. Barnaby Blunt wants no reward, not even a wordy one. But you’ll come?”

“Like a shot.”

“Spoken like a man and a Britisher. Tip us your flipper. Now, good-night; I’ll go and get ready for the march.”

“Good-night, and may God himself reward you.”

“Amen,” said Barnaby, and next minute he was out of sight.

A week after this Tom was back in Guayaquil, and had bidden his faithful servants a long farewell.

The boy Rooph was disconsolate in the extreme, and shed tears abundantly.

To comfort him in some measure Tom gave him his photograph.

“Ah,” said the lad, “you leave wid me, then, your soul! O, I shall ever love it, and I shall weep when I look at it when you are far from poor Rooph!”

Samaro was affected also, though he shed no tears.

“Perhaps,” he said somewhat sadly, “we shall meet again. I will live in hope, señor.”

CHAPTER XIV.

“FILLED WITH GOLD DOUBLOONS—SIRR, ARE YE LISTENING?”

Tom smiled to himself as he sized her up. Barnaby Blunt saw that smile. He was probably six hundred yards away at the time, and standing on the quarter-deck of his own ship; but he had eyes like a hawk, and “barnacles,” as he called the lorgnettes that hung in a patent leather case by his side, to aid those eyes.

“That Britisher is a-sizing of my ship up,” he said to Pebbles his mate. “Britishers don’t know everything. I’ll talk to him.”

The Yankee was politeness itself to his passenger. He had a seat all ready for him on deck under a snow-white awning, a delightfully easy deck chair, in which one might sleep as comfortably as in a hammock, or dream without sleeping.

The mate hastened to assist Tom on board, but the captain was before him.

“With all due deference to you, Mr. Pebbles,” he said, “I’m going to do everything for our guest with my own hands. If my wife was on board I’d turn him over to her. As she ain’t, I does the honours. Take my arm, young man. You ain’t so strong as you think. You’re as shaky as an old chimney-pot.”

“Thank you,” said Tom; “you really are good.”

“I’d do the same for a nigger, sirr, if he were as shaky as you; and if my wife were on board, she’d do more. Now, sit down there; I’m not going to pester you with any extra attentions. Whatever you needs you hollers for.”

“I don’t think,” said Tom, “I’ll have to holler for anything. This chair is delightful, and the awning is a happy thought.”

“We don’t sail before to-morrow morning, cause I’ve more stores to get off. And now, as we don’t dine for an hour yet, suppose we have a drink. What shall it be—wine, old rye, a cup o’ coffee, or a cock-tail?”

“I’d prefer coffee, I think; but isn’t it rather hot?”

“O, bless your innocence, we’ll have it iced! Ginger Brandy, where are you?”

A bullet-headed nigger boy, dressed in white calico, with face and calves as black as pitch, rushed up.

“Heeh I is, sah,” he said.

“Mr. Talisker, here’s your slave. His name is Ginger Brandy. If he irritates you, don’t hit him over the back with a capstan-bar, ’cause you’ll break the bar. Don’t heave a cocoa-nut at his head, ’cause you’ll damage the cocoa-nut. Just get up and toe his shins. Now, Ginger Brandy, bring the ice, and the coffee, and the lemons, and my pipe, and a bundle of smokes. Skedaddle!”

Ginger skedaddled quickly, brought out a little table from the raised poop, spread a white cloth, and in two minutes more had placed thereon two cups of fragrant coffee, with lumps of clear ice floating in each. And when Tom lit his cigar after drinking half of the coffee, Ginger Brandy took his stand beside his chair with a huge fan, and our hero felt as happy and comfortable as ever he had done in his life.

The Yankee’s pipe stood on deck, an immense hubble-bubble; the smoke, which passed through iced-water, being conducted to his lips by means of a tube that seemed yards in length. Sitting there in his rocker, with his long legs dangling over the bulwarks and his eyes half closed, Barnaby Blunt looked the quintessence of enjoyment.

“And what d’ye think o’ my little yacht, sirr,” he drawled at last. “Mind ye, I twigged you sizing her up. I see’d your smile; yes, sirr, I think I heard it.”

“Well,” said Tom, “to tell you the truth, I never saw so strange a craft before; and had I met her at sea, I shouldn’t have been able to say what was her nationality.”

“You do me honour. She’s my own idee. I’ve sailed in all kinds o’ craft, and saved a little pile. ‘Barn,’ says my wife to me onct, ‘why don’t ye build a boat o’ your own, and deal in notions?’ Well, sirr, the same thing had been runnin’ thro’ my head for months, and I set to work and planned out the ’Liza Ann. She is the safest brig that sails. She’s maybe not the fastest. Safety before speed, sirr. ‘I don’t mind waitin’ a month or six weeks,’ says my wife to me; ‘I don’t mind that, Barn,’ says she, ‘but always come home in your own ship, and not atop o’ the hencoop.’

“Yes, sirr, and the ’Liza Ann won’t broach to either, and she can’t be taken aback, and the sticks won’t blow out o’ her, and she’ll float in shoal water if a punt can, and if she does ship green seas, sirr, why they slide off again like rain off a garden roller. That’s what my ’Liza Ann is, sirr.”

Tom laughed at the Yankee’s enthusiasm.

“All my own idee—all my own and ’Liza’s remember.”

“Well, it must be a pleasant life—going anywhere and seeing anything.”

“You bet it is; making a few dollars too. There is nothing I won’t trade in. Now, those curios o’ yours—they did tempt me. I guess you’d better sell. The white ants may eat them all if they lie long at Guayaquil.”

“I’ve provided against that. They’re all preserved in tin cases; but as they are for my uncle, I wouldn’t sell them for the world.”

“What! you’re goin’ to pawn them then?”

“No, no, no; I don’t mean that uncle. I mean my uncle Robert; who, like yourself, is a splendid fellow and a thorough sailor. And I’m sure he’ll be delighted to make your acquaintance if ever he has the good luck to meet you.”

“Give us your hand, young man. That little speech is good enough for the senate. I say, what a pity you ain’t a true-born American. I guess you’re a sailor yourself out and out.”

Tom was indeed a sailor out and out. When he went on deck next day he found that the ’Liza Ann, with all sail set and almost dead before the wind, was ploughing and plunging southwards through the Gulf of Guayaquil. The anchor had been weighed, and a start made in the moonlight long before the sun or Tom either had dreamt of rising.

“Young man, come in to breakfast,” said a voice behind him. “Ye can’t live without eating, you know. Good-morning. I hope you slept—and your cat? Droll idee a cat. Ha, ha! Well, come and tuck in a bit. Why, you’re looking better already.”

Talking thus, Captain Barnaby Blunt led the way into the poop, which was flush with the upper deck in the grand old fashion. He pointed to two chairs.

“There’s a seat for you, sirr, and one for your friend. Droll idee, truly. Ha, ha, ha! Looks as wise as a Christian, and I daresay is better than many. Now, sirr, you see what’s on the table. Eat, drink, and be merry; and during all this voyage I’m your servant, Brandy’s your slave, and you’ve nothing to do but get well.”

Before touching a knife or fork, however, this strange Yankee lifted his right hand piously to his ear to ask a blessing. It was quite the length of a short prayer, but evidently came right away from the speaker’s heart.

Tom liked him better after this.

“Now fall to, sir. Ginger Brandy, keep that fan moving.”

It was pretty evident that during this voyage Barnaby Blunt was going to do most of the talking. Tom was rather pleased than otherwise that it should be so. He was now in that delightful, half-dreamy stage of convalescence that all must have experienced who have ever been downright ill, and in which existence itself seems a pleasure, and everything one looks at is seen through rose-coloured glasses.

But had Tom been even in robust health, a voyage like that he was now embarked in would have been pleasant in the extreme.

The ship was everything that could be desired from bowsprit to binnacle. She had every good quality except speed. But who could wish to speed over an ocean like that which sparkled all around them in the sun’s rays; a sun, mind, that did not feel a single degree too hot, albeit they were almost on the equator. The wind too was favourable, and kept so for over a week, and when it did at last die almost down, no one on board appeared to regret it; even the ship herself seemed to think it was the most natural thing in the world she should take it easy a bit.

There were plenty of books on board, plenty of ice, Ginger Brandy with his fan, and Barnaby Blunt with his ever cheery smile and his wealth of droll conversation.

“Say, young man,” said Barnaby to Tom one day as both reclined in their chairs on deck, “don’t you wonder where you’re goin’ to?”

“No,” said Tom with half-shut eyes. “It never occurred to me to ask. You said I was to come with you, and I’ve come. By the way, where are we going? To Tahiti, to Fife, New Zealand, or where?”

“Ha, ha, ha! Well, that cat and you are a pair, I guess. Ha, ha, ha! How ’Liza, my wife, would enjoy you. But now, look here. I’m going to tell you a story.”

“I’m all attention.”

“Well, don’t go to sleep. Once upon a time—”

“That’s a nice beginning,” said Tom.

“Once upon a time a ship filled with gold doubloons—Sirr, are you listening?”

“Yes, gold doubloons—”

“Seems to me you nodded. But never mind. She sailed away from Calla—O. It was all specie and nothing else she had on board. There must have been pretty near five million dollars. Are you awake?”

“I’m listening. I like to keep my eyes shut when anyone else is telling a good story. Go on.”

“Well, sirr, a certain bad lot who lived at Lima got wind of it, and pursued this craft in a hired cruiser, with a hired crew—assassins—overtook—ugly affair—spared none—plank—sharks—Australia—back—island—mutiny—gold hidden—terrible sufferings—death—nobody found—Galapagos Islands—”

The above disjointed sentences are the skipper’s strange story as Tom heard it—not as the Yankee told it; and at the word “islands” Tom dropped to sleep altogether, and did not awake until Barnaby had finished.

“Very remarkable story indeed!” said Tom; “very remarkable! And of course they hanged him?”

“Hanged whom—eh?”

“Why, didn’t you say that somebody—Why, I do believe I was half asleep.”

“I guess you were, and so was the cat. But there, it don’t matter. I mean to find that pile. If I don’t somebody else will, and then Barnaby Blunt won’t have it—eh?”

“Certainly not.”

“And when Barnaby Blunt does find it and does get it on board, then hurrah! for ’Frisco and my old woman ’Liza, and no more going to sea for me on this side the grave. Only, altho’ I must confess you ain’t the most inquisitive coon ever I came across, still I thought I’d tell you the strange story, and let you know where I was bearing up for, and the kind o’ notion Barnaby Blunt had in his long head.”

“Well, I’m much obliged, Captain Blunt, for your confidence in me; and all will, I hope, turn out well and for the best.”

It may as well be confessed here at once that Tom’s notions even now as to where the ship was going to were the most hazy imaginable.

All went well in the ’Liza Ann for two more weeks.

The men called her the lazy ’Liza; but certainly they appeared to enjoy the ship’s laziness very much. They were only ten all told, including Ginger Brandy; but dolce far niente was their motto, from Pebbles the mate all the way down.

The masts, as I have said, were not tall, and as there was patent reefing tackle they never had far aloft to go; so their work was very easy. But they kept the ship as clean as a new sovereign. They sang all day long, and danced in the evening—verily a happy-go-lucky crew.

Tom the cat was a favourite forward; indeed, this strange puss, being thoroughly up to the ways of ships and sailors, seemed happier now than ever he had been in his life.

He used to sit in the weather-bow of a night till a flying-fish came on board, then catch it and come aft with it to his master, and go back and wait for another. The men averred that these fish flew at Tom’s eyes, because they looked like a couple of ship’s lanterns in the dark. Perhaps this was the true explanation. At all events, the fish did fly on board, and were duly cooked for breakfast every morning; and if there be anything nicer for breakfast than a broiled flying-fish, I have yet to learn something new about the sea, and things in general.

Years and years after this, Tom—our hero, not the cat—used to look back to the days he spent on board of the lazy ’Liza as among the most delightful—dreamily delightful—in all his experience of a seafarer’s life.

Ah! but they came to an end in a sadly unexpected way.

CHAPTER XV.

“NEXT INSTANT THE SHIP WAS STRUCK AND STAVED.”

“Do you know where the ship is going to, and what she is going to do? Funny now, but I’ve never looked at the chart yet. I think I’ve eaten the lotus leaf.”

“’Spects you has, sah. I don’t know nuffin neider, sah. I’m jes’ like yourse’f, sah.”

“Well, I’ve been so happy and so—so—half asleep all the time; but now I’ll have a peep at the chart. Here we are—Guayaquil Gulf. Why, what a zig-zag course the tub has taken. Oh! here we are—Galapagos! Whatever are we going to do here? Ah! well, time will tell, and it’s nothing to me much.”

The day passed dreamily away, like all the other days; and night fell, and with it the wind. Before turning in Tom went on deck. Such a night of inky darkness and mysterious silence he could not remember ever experiencing. The blackness brooded over the sea—it was almost palpable, and the silence seemed to enter one’s very soul. Hardly a sound in board, no sound at all out yonder in the beyond. The men’s voices forward round the bow when they did speak sounded loud and strange. Tom even felt relieved when a sail flapped or a bolt creaked to some almost imperceptible roll of the ship. There was never a star in the sky to-night, and a mist that was not a mist appeared to completely envelop the ship.

Pebbles came aft quietly to where he could dimly see Tom’s figure in a ray of light streaming from the poop cabin.

He took Tom’s hand.

“Come with me,” he said, “and listen.”

He led Tom forward through the darkness to the bows.

“We’ve heard it again,” said one of the men in a half-suppressed whisper. “Listen! Away out yonder. It is coming this way; but what is it?”

They leant over the bows, “peering,” “keening” into the mysterious darkness.

The sound was like some great living monster steering through the water, breathing heavily with every stroke—sighing I had almost said—ceasing sometimes, to be heard closer to the ship the next minute.

Pebbles still held Tom’s hand, as if in his anxiety he had forgotten to let it go; and Tom could feel that hand tremble.

“Look! look! Oh—h!”

The “Oh—h!” was a simultaneous cry of fear from the men. Tom felt like one in a dream. For there in the sea, higher far than the bulwarks, blacker even than the blackness of night, was a shape!

Next instant the ship was struck and staved. Every timber of her shook and shivered from stem to stern, and some loose belaying-pins leapt clear of their holes and fell rattling on deck.

All was shouting and confusion on board now. The captain rushed out of his cabin, the mate ran aft; but no one could tell what had happened.

“She has run on a snag rock?” cried the captain.

“We cannot say, sir; but we saw—”

The carpenter, lantern in hand, appeared from below.

“She is making water at a tremendous rate, sir. Shouldn’t think she’d float an hour.”

Blunt went away with him to see for himself. When he came up again he entered the cabin, where Tom was standing by the table looking white and scared; for he was yet little more than an invalid.

“Well,” said the captain, “this is about the suddentest thing, I guess, I ever came across. It’s a sudden thing, sirr, and it’s a very solemn thing too. Mister Talisker, it’s a good thing your clothes is on.”

“Has it come to that?” said Tom.

“Well, sirr, it hasn’t come to the hen-coop quite; but it’s come to boats. Now, I always said the ’Liza Ann was the safest ship out; but I didn’t reckon on snags in deep water. Pebbles!”

“I’m here, sir.”

“Well, tell the hands to lay aft here. I guess we’ll have time for prayers.”

“She’s going fast, sir.”

“We’ll have time for prayers, I tell you.”

“Very good, sir.”

Tom had never known so cool a sailor as this. With the sound of the water rushing into the sinking, reeling ship, he nevertheless found time—nay, but made time, to kneel there and pray long and fervently for protection to Him who rules on sea as well as on earth, and whose hand and eye are everywhere, in the blackness of night as well as in the sunshine.

The men’s response of “Amen” was deep and solemn. Half a minute of dead silence, then all rose from their knees.

“Now, Pebbles!” roared Captain Blunt, “bustle about. Load up the dinghy and the jolly-boat. Put in everything we’re likely to want—arms, ammunition, water, food. Mr. Talisker, you’ll go in the dinghy with Ginger Brandy and Smith.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“Well, see after your own affairs. Don’t forget lights, for keep together we must.”

There were no signs of weakness about Tom now. He appeared to have grown suddenly strong and well.

Smith was a sort of hobble-de-hoy sailor—a lad of seventeen, with plenty of strength, but not much brains to command action. Ginger Brandy, the other half of Tom’s crew, was far more useful; so he gave the nigger charge of the white man. This was reversing the order of nature some might think, but it worked very well indeed on the present occasion.

Tom showed good generalship. He first had a run below to see how fast the water was gaining. It certainly was coming in at a very rapid rate. But she would last an hour, Tom thought; so he at once set to work to provision his boat.

The dinghy was not over twelve feet long, but she was broad in beam and with a good free-board. So Tom had her lowered, and swung a lantern over the side where she was that its light might shine right into her. Then under his directions the lads began to load up.

“You’ll have her too deep, I reckon,” said Captain Blunt as he passed.

“Thank you,” replied Tom, “but I do not think so; for you see if it comes on to blow we can lighten her by pitching the least necessary things overboard.”

The jolly-boat was ready first, and lay waiting till Tom and his crew embarked. Both boats had stepped their masts, ready for the least puff of wind; and both had compasses and a ready-made chart each.

“Good-bye!” cried pious Blunt. “Keep our light in sight; keep yours hanging on your mast as we have ours. Fire a rifle if ye want assistance. May the Lord be with you! Now, men, three farewell cheers for the dear old ’Liza Ann.”

What sorrowful cheers they were, and how strangely they sounded in the pitchy darkness!

“Pull round the bows, lads, in close. I just want to put my hand on her once more. Now give way.”

These are the last words Tom heard the Yankee skipper speak, and presently the jolly-boat was swallowed up in the blackness. All except her twinkling light—and by this the dinghy was steered.

Everything went well till morning. Then with the sun, that leapt up like a ball of fire and changed the waters to a pool of crimson, came a breeze of wind. Oars were taken in and a little sail set. Tom hoped it would not increase, for he desired to save all her stores if possible.

About noon that day the jolly-boat was distant nearly a league, about two points on the weather-bow. She was signalling to the dinghy, and presently she took in sail. Tom increased his, rightly judging that Captain Blunt wished him to come closer.

The dinghy leaned over now in a most uncomfortable way. Tom, still determined if possible to save his precious cargo, made his men sit well to the weather-side, and thus they managed to keep her lee-gunwale out of the water as they tried to get closer to the jolly-boat. The latter was seen to lower sail altogether, and Tom could not make out what the matter was. He understood soon, however; for down the wind at that moment he descried rolling along a dark wall of fog. In a few minutes the jolly-boat was engulphed, and soon after the dinghy.

All that day the fog lasted; but now and then Tom could hear the ring of a rifle, and steered by that. Towards evening the wind had increased in force, and he heard no more firing. The jolly-boat would doubtless lie to, however,—so Tom thought; and by next day, when the fog cleared, he should see the boat again. The fog did not clear next day, however, nor for many days; and when the sun shone at last there was no sail in sight!

There was no help for it; they must make the nearest land, and doubtless the other boat would do the same.

And now ensued a painful and weary time.

The wind had died down entirely. It seemed as though it would never blow again. The sea all round was like molten glass, a long rolling swell coming in from the north-west—a swell that was delusive in the extreme, causing them to believe they were making progress to the south, although the current was dead against them. The sun’s rays, beating straight down from the heavens and reflected from the waters, were doubly fierce, and there was no awning for protection.

Two days passed like this; then poor Smith sickened and died. Tom had given him the last drop of water that remained in the boat. So between them Ginger Brandy and he gently lifted the body up and dropped it astern, and the scene that followed was horrible to witness. Before their eyes the corpse was torn in pieces by those tigers of the sea—the hammer-headed sharks. There must have been at least a dozen at that dreadful feast, yet next minute several were floating alongside, and casting sidelong glances up at the rowers with their hungry, eager, and awful eyes.

On and on and on they rowed, resting often on their oars and gazing round them in the vain hope of descrying a sail.

A bird alighted in the water on the forenoon of next day. A strange weird-looking gull, the like of which Tom had never seen before. It was so tame that Brandy easily knocked it dead with his oar, and they sucked its blood and devoured the flesh raw and warm. Horrid meal though this appears to have been, it revived them better than anything else save water could have done. Of food there was abundance in the boat; it was water alone they craved for. That same evening it rained a little. They caught the water in their jackets and eagerly drank it.

Another long dark black starless night; but in the morning the clouds were dissolved, and the sun shone more fiercely than ever.

No rain, no mist even.

They dipped biscuits in the sea and sucked them, but the thirst grew more intense.

Tom suffered worst; his agony was fearful. With eyes and brow that felt bursting with pain, and swollen and parched tongue, he sat at the oar and rowed feebly and mechanically.

Birds came now in larger numbers, but none came near enough to be caught.

Surely they were nearing land! But nothing was in sight from where they sat. Only the burning sky, only the heaving sea!

A bright-eyed butterfly flew on board one day, and the negro boy shouted for joy. But Tom heeded it not; he was past heeding anything. Pain was gone though. He felt nothing. His very mind seemed to have fled. He remembered looking down at his own hands holding the oars, and wondering to whom they belonged. The birds screaming around the boat became spirits with human voices and kept saying things to him, and awful-looking black lizards swam in the water near.

Then through the mist and haze that had gathered before his eyes he could dimly see the negro lad approach nearer. The boy took someone’s oars gently out of his hand, and laid someone down in the bottom of the boat. But who was the someone, Tom wondered. It could not be himself, for he felt nothing.

Then all was a blank.

When he opened his eyes again he was no longer in the boat. The boy was pouring something down his throat. It revived him, and he sat up.

He pointed to some immense lizards—the same he had seen in the sea. They were lying together on some igneous rocks in the sunlight, as large as young alligators but ten times more ugly—broad in head with spreading legs, squalid, hideous, fearsome.

Tom tried to speak as he pointed to them, but could only utter a series of unintelligible vowel-sounds with the back of his throat.

But poor little Brandy understood him.

“Yes, sah, dey are dere all right. You not dream at all, sah. I see dem.”

Then the boy took a stick and forced them off the rock; though some of them turned round as if to bite, and others caught the stick in their hands in a way that curdles one’s blood to think of.

Tom lay back now and slept again.

It must have been near morning when he awoke, feeling almost well.

He was quite covered with a piece of sail, and lay on a bed of soft dry sea-weed.

For a few moments he could remember nothing, and sadly wondered where he was. But memory soon returned. The stars were shining brightly above. By its light he could see the foam of the wavelets that sang dolefully on the beach. He could see, too, the rocks and boulders near the water. As he gazed on these, to his horror and surprise some of them moved away inland slowly with a harsh and rattling noise.

“Surely I am on an island of enchantment,” thought poor Tom, “or I cannot be awake!”

“Ginger Brandy!” he cried as well as he could.

“I’se heah, sah. Tank de Lawd, marster, you hab got your voice once mo’, sah!”

“Brandy, I saw the rocks move slowly away. Was I dreaming?”

“No, sah. Nevah feah, sah. Dem not rocks; dey are to’toises, as big as elerphants. I ride on one to-day all ’long de beach. Dey are puffikly ha’mless, sah. Don’t you be ’larmed. I’se fit ’nuff to look arter you. Sleep, sah, sleep; de sun rise soon.”

As the boy spoke a gush of bird-melody came from a neighbouring bush, so entrancingly sweet but so wondrously strange, that Tom at once placed his head again on his pillow of sea-weed to listen.

Sleep the most refreshing ever he had enjoyed in his life succeeded; but all through his slumbers rang the bird-song, mingling with his dreams like chimes from elfin-land.

CHAPTER XVI.

“A VAST GREEN AND FLOWERY VALLEY SURROUNDED BY ROMANTIC HILLS.”

“O yes, Brandy; I’ll soon be all right. But where are we?”

“I don’t know nuffin’ ’t all. On’y dis is an island—I make shuah ob dat.”

“How long have I slept?”

“Two day, sah. I gib you plenty watah all de time; and you suckee he down all same’s modder’s milk, sah. You will lib now.”

“And thanks to you. But who helped you up with the boat?”

“He, he, he! You not believe, plaps. But Brandy neveh tell lie. I hab de paintah ob de boat all ready, and presently one big elerphant-to’toise come down. Plenty quick I hitch de bight ober dat varmint’s neck. Den I cried ‘shoo!’ Den he pull and I push, and ’way we go cheerily. But la! de elerphant-to’toise, he had strangle his little self. And I make soup of some of him, fo’ true!”

Hardly believing what Brandy said Tom got slowly up, and lo! there was the dead tortoise right enough; and Tom had never seen such a monster[1] before. Nor could he have seen one, for the creature belongs only to the Galapagos Islands.

“Why, Brandy,” he said, “it is bigger than a feather bed. I begin to believe, my boy, we have landed on one of the enchanted islands I used to read of long ago; and I can easily fancy a ship-wrecked mariner making a boat of the shell of one of these beasts, and with a bamboo for a mast and his jacket for a sail, crossing the ocean to the mainland. And you strangled him?”

“No, he strangle his little self, sah. I help jes’ a leetle wid de axe. Den he bleed—O, he bleed mo’ dan one big bull, sah.”

“And where is the blood, Brandy?”

“De fly eatee he all up plenty quick, and de ants eatee all de fly leave. Den I dink all de rest myself. But come, sah; de soup is all ready.”

On board the ’Liza Ann Ginger Brandy had gone about his duties in a very quiet way, indeed. He had shown himself smart enough, but had exhibited no extra talent of any kind. Now, lo and behold! all his nature was changed. He was in the wilds; he was part and parcel of the wilds, and his capabilities of making the best of everything appeared to know neither bounds nor limits. During the time Tom had been lying insensible, he had not only got the boat drawn up, but had built a hut inside a broken-down rocky cone, which looked like a small volcanic crater. It was cool and clean. The roof was formed of the sail, and inside was a soft bed of sea-weed. The provisions and ammunition were also carefully stored here; and as there appeared to be no destroying angels in the shape of ants about, everything was safe enough.

The soup was splendid. Tom felt a new man as soon as he had eaten a shellful. They had no basins, only shells. But several pannikins or billies were among the precious stores; so there seemed but little likelihood that they would have to live on raw meat for many a day.

After dinner Tom noticed that Ginger Brandy was carefully banking the fire with turf and ashes.

“Why not let it out, Brandy? You can light it again.”

“No, sah; nebber no mo’.”

“Why?”

“’Cause, sah, I let fall de packet of lucifire match. One box catchee fi’. Den I jump on de packet to stamp he out, and all de rest go puff. You bery angry, sah?”

“No, my friend; it can’t be helped. Cheer up. I say, Brandy?”

“Yes, sah.”

“Isn’t it fun being a Crusoe? I used to be the Hermit Hunter of the Wilds; now I’ve turned a Crusoe, and you’re my man Friday.”

“Befo’ de Lawd, sah,” said Ginger Brandy looking tremendously serious all at once, “I tink de sun or de soup hab affect you’ head!”

Tom laughed.

“Don’t you know what a Crusoe is?”

“Sumfin’ to eat, plaps?”

“No, Brandy; it’s nothing to eat or drink either. Come, I’ll tell you the story.”

And as far as he could remember it, Tom told Ginger Brandy all the romance of Juan Fernandez, much to his delight.

“Dat is fus’rate, sah. Aha! you and I play at Crusoes. Aha! dere is nuffin’ like fun. Is dere, sah? But now look, marster. De sun go down, all red like one big slice ob pomola. You not well yet, sah. S’pose you go to bed?”

And Tom did, and found himself so strong next morning that he was able for a good long stroll.

Ginger Brandy came with him and helped to carry his gun.

What a mysterious looking place it was, and how black and dreary everything a little way inland looked! Those fearsome lizards basking on the dark burned rocks near the sea seemed the evil genii of the place. Tom could not look at them without shuddering.

But bigger and more powerful genii than they have been at work here and all about in ages long since passed away. The genii of volcanic fire and water. The soil was everywhere brown and scorched looking, extinct craters like shafts of founderies stood here and there, and ugly dark boulders lay scattered in the open as if they had been rained from heaven. Among these, snakes of many kinds wriggled hither and thither, or lay coiled up in huge old half-broken shells. The very bushes appeared black and blighted, and at a little distance seemed to have no leaves; while the birds that flew from bough to bough were dusky, and even the moths and beetles were sad in colour. And yet high above, the sky was blue, and the billows out yonder sparkled in his rays as if diamonds were being scattered on them by angels’ hands.

The shrubs and cacti that grew further from the sea had branches so wildly erratic, and shapes so weird, that do what he would Tom could not disabuse his mind of the notion that either he was really on an island of enchantment, or that he was dreaming, and might awake at any moment on board the ’Liza Ann.

The gun so far was useless; there was nothing to shoot except those huge elephantic tortoises, and that would have been cruel. They were as deaf as posts, but wondrous quick in seeing. At a little distance many of them looked like flat or rounded rocks; and it was therefore rather startling to one’s nerves on getting alongside an immense slab of supposed rock to find it had a long neck and awful head, and that it hissed louder than a python, and began to move away.

Tom was not sorry when the walk was over, and he found himself once more reclining on his sea-weed couch reading Shakespeare, while Ginger Brandy busied himself not far off making tortoise stew, with a bit of bacon in it to give it a flavour. The delicious steam went all round Tom’s heart each time Brandy lifted the lid to peep inside.

Tom and Ginger Brandy spent many days at the seaside, dragging the boat down sometimes and going for a sail. In this way they cruised round a considerable portion of the coast. They found no signs of life anywhere, however, and though they landed at several places they found no tortoises.[2]

Inland they could see high hills, but all the coast-line was bordered with black rocks, boulders, and scoriæ. The ugly lizards were everywhere, and swam in the water as well as crawled on the beach.

As regards fish, Tom found the island coast a mine of luxury. Wherever the water was fairly shallow they found them in shoals, and could capture them with their hands—at least Ginger Brandy could; and his method of fishing was peculiar, to say the least of it. First he divested himself of his clothes, then overboard he sprang like a frog. Holding one hand under the water, he dropped a few crumbs of biscuit from the other. The fish, by no means shy, sailed up at once, and Brandy seized them one by one slowly but surely, and threw them into the boat.