John Frewen, South Sea Whaler

“Do you think he is going to die?” inquired Rivas, with a gesture towards the cabin.

“How can I tell, comrade?” replied the Greek with an angry snarl. “Only that we want him badly to navigate the ship, it would be best for us if he does die—for two reasons.”

His fellow-scoundrels nodded assent. The two reasons they knew were, firstly, that Almanza had proved to be too timorous as regarded the taking of life, and secondly that his death would give them a greater share of plunder.

“Well, what are we to do?” asked Rivas.

“What can we do?” exclaimed Foster fiercely, as he shook his black-haired, greasy and ear-ringed head. “We must wait and see if he gets better—unless we drift ashore in the night and get our throats cut by los Indios over there,” and he indicated the islands.

“Bah!” growled his countryman. “Did I not tell you that I heard the captain say over and over again that these people are not savages? But what we do want is a breeze, so that we can work off the land—for how are a few men going to tow a heavy ship like this against a two-knot current? We could not move her.” Then he called out, with a sneering inflection in his tones, “Come aft, comrades, and we shall drink to our brave captain’s speedy recovery.”

The rest of the mutineers but one obeyed with alacrity, just as the man who remained, and who was standing on the topgallant foc’sle, gave a loud cry—

“A boat is coming from the shore!”

In an instant confusion ensued; but Ryan, picking up Marston’s glass, angrily bade them be silent. The boat had approached to within a mile of the ship, and Ryan saw that she was pulling four oars.

“It is not the captain’s boat, amigos,” he said, “and there seem to be only a few people in her. But be ready.”

The Esmeralda, in addition to the six guns she carried, was plentifully provided with small-arms—enough for a crew of thirty men; and all of these, as well as the big guns, were kept loaded, for after the escape of the captain’s boat the mutineers had worked most energetically to put the ship in a state of defence—both Almanza and Ryan recognising the possibility of the survivors of Marston’s party reaching Apia, and there obtaining assistance to enable them to recapture the ship.

The boat came on steadily, the blades of her four oars flashing in the bright sunlight. Ryan continued to look at her, and felt quite satisfied when he saw she contained but seven persons, three of whom were Europeans, and four natives.

“It is a whale-boat,” he cried; “and there are three white men in her and four natives. She is very deep in the water, and I can see a lot of green stuff in the bows.” (These were the bunches of bananas, purposely stowed in a pile for’ard, so as to indicate the boat’s peaceful mission.)

The mutineers—with the exception of the two Greeks—who remained on the quarter-deck, dressed in Mars-ton’s and Villari’s clothes—stood in the waist. All were armed with pistols, and a number of loaded muskets were lying along the waterways close to their hands, if needed.

When within easy speaking distance of the ship Ryan went to the rail and hailed the boat.

“Boat ahoy!”

The four oars ceased pulling, and Frewen, who was steering, stood up and answered the hail.

“Good morning, captain. I’ve seen you since daylight. You are drifting too close in, so I’ve come off to warn you to tow off.”

“Come on board, please,” replied the Greek, who, as Frewen spoke, saw that the boat was deeply-laden with fruit; and the cackling of fowls and sudden squeal of a pig convinced him that everything was right. And then, in a few minutes, Frewen and Raymond clambered up the side and walked quickly aft to where Ryan stood on the poop.

“How do you do, captain?” said Frewen, holding out his hand. “Where are you from, sir?”

“Valparaiso to Batavia,” was the glib reply, as the mutineer shook hands with his visitors. “Are you living on shore there?” and he nodded towards Samatau.

“Yes, this is my partner. We have a cotton plantation there. We have brought you off a boatload of fresh provisions. Perhaps you can spare us a cask of salt beef in exchange? Pork is the only meat we have on shore.”

“Very well, I can easily do that,” was the reply.

Frewen went to the side and hailed the watchful Cheyne.

“Pass up all that stuff, Randall,” he said.

Aided by the Chileno seamen, Cheyne and the four natives soon cleared the boat of the livestock and fruit, whilst Ryan, who had not yet asked his visitors below, continued to talk to them on deck, although he told one of the crew, whom he addressed as “steward,” to bring up refreshments.

“Now, captain,” continued Frewen, speaking in the most friendly manner, “you must set to and tow your ship away from here as quietly as possible, or you will go ashore if this calm lasts. You can’t anchor anywhere near here, the water is too deep.”

“Perhaps you will help me? I am short-handed. Twelve of my crew took the longboat and deserted from me during the voyage, and I am in a tight place.”

“Oh, well, captain, we must try and help you out of it to the best of our ability.” He raised his glass. “I am glad to have met you, Captain–,” and he paused.

“Ryan is my name. The ship is the Esmeralda.”

“And a beautiful ship she is, too. You must be proud to command such a splendid vessel, sir.”

“She is a fine ship,” was the brief reply. “Now will you please tell me how you are going to help me?”

CHAPTER VIII

Frewen seemed to think for a moment or two ere he replied; then he looked at Raymond inquiringly.

“How long would it take to send to Falealili,[5 - A large native town on the south side of Upolu.] and ask Tom Morton, the trader, to come with his two boats and help the captain?” he asked.

“A day at least—too long altogether with such a strong current setting the ship towards the reef.”

“Ah, yes, I daresay it would,” he said meditatively; then, as if struck with a sudden inspiration, he added quickly, “What about Malië? He has any number of boats—a dozen at least.”

“Just the man!” replied Raymond. “He will let the captain have all the boats and men to man them that are wanted—but he’ll want to be paid for it.”

“Certainly,” interrupted the mutineer, who little imagined how adroitly he was being meshed. “I’ll pay anything reasonable. Who is he?”

“Oh, he is a big chief living quite near me, and a decent enough fellow. He has a number of large native-built boats. The natives call them taumualua, which means sharp at both ends.[6 - These boats are usually built from the wood of the breadfruit-tree. Not a single nail is used in their construction; every plank is joined to its fellow by lashings of coconut fibre.] They seat from six to eight paddlers on each side. Five, or even four such boats, well manned, would make the ship move along. Three or four hours’ towing will put her into the edge of the counter current setting to the south and eastward away from the land, and then she’ll be out of danger, no matter how long the calm lasts.”

In a few minutes it was decided that the boat should return to the shore, where Raymond was to see the chief and arrange with him to provide five or six well-manned taunwalua, which Frewen said should be alongside to receive the tow-lines within two or three hours.

As he (Frewen) was about to go over the side Ryan made a half apology for the ship’s crew carrying arms, at which the young man smiled and said—

“Oh, a good many captains that touch at Samoa for the first time keep their crews armed, imagining the natives might try to cut them off. But the Samoans are a different kind of people to the savages of the Western Pacific; there has only been one ship cut off in this group, and that must have occurred fifty years ago. ”[7 - A fact.]

Just as he had taken his seat beside Raymond and Cheyne, the Greek said politely—

“If there is no necessity for both of you gentlemen to go on shore again, won’t one of you stay on board and have some supper?”

This was just the invitation that Frewen was looking for, but he appeared to hesitate for a moment or two.

“Thank you, captain, I think I will. There is certainly nothing for me to do on shore that my partner cannot do as well or better than myself. And I should like to hear any news from Europe that you may have to tell.”

As he clambered up the side again the boat pushed off, and the stalwart native crew sent her, now she was lightened of her load of provisions, skimming through the water.

When the American returned to the quarter-deck, Ryan introduced to him “Mr. Foster, my second mate,” and added that in addition to the misfortune of losing twelve of his crew when coming through the Paumotu Group, his chief officer had accidentally shot himself, and shattered his collar-bone.

“Indeed!” said Frewen, with an air of concern, instantly surmising that the injured man was either Almanza or the Chileno sailor whom Villari had shot. “Is he getting on all right?”