Chapter 23 | Before the Captain | The Adventures of Don Lavington

Bosun Jones was right in his hint. The captain forgot all about Don’s offence as soon as he was comfortable and rested. He had struck out in his hasty irritation, but his anger soon passed, and had the matter been brought to his notice again, he would have laughed, and said that it was the boy’s nature to resent being struck, and that he would make the better sailor.

The time passed pleasantly enough in the beautiful harbour, and every day a boat went ashore with a surveying or exploring party, all of whom were examined and cross-examined by their messmates on their return, as to the habits of the New Zealand savages, and many a yarn was invented about the Maoris’ acts.

Both Don and Jem found their messmates rough, but good-tempered enough, and the days glided by rapidly; but the opportunity was never given Don for joining one of the exploring parties. In every case he was told he was too much of a boy.

“Never mind, Mas’ Don. You’ll grow into a man some day,” Jem used to say.

The Maoris were quite friendly, and the very stringent rules made at first were relaxed. The officers and men who went ashore were always armed, and limits were placed to the number of savages allowed to visit the ship; but the boarding netting was dispensed with, and it was not deemed necessary to double the sentries.

More than once parties of men were allowed on shore, and upon these occasions Don and Jem encountered the tattooed Englishman.

“Haven’t made up your minds to come and join us?” he said, laughing; and Don shook his head.

“Ah, well! I won’t persuade you, my lad. P’r’aps you’re best where you are. But if you do make up your mind, come to me.”

“How should we find you?” said Jem, who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful.

“Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he’ll bring you to me.”

“Tomati Paroni,” said Don thoughtfully; “is that New Zealand for Tom—Tom—?”

“Tom Brown,” said the chief, laughing. “They have all sorts of English words like that.”

The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals.

“Lots of ’em would desert,” Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don’s that they touched, “only—”

“Well, only what?” said Don.

“They say they’d rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks.”

“They’re not blacks, Jem; and I don’t believe about the cannibal work.”

“Well, they arn’t blacks certainly, Mas’ Don; but I’m pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it’s all true. Why, what d’yer think I see only yes’day?”

“Numbers of things. But what in particular?”

“Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?”

“Yes; I know.”

“Well, he’d got a flute.”

“What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one.”

“What was it made on?” whispered Jem.

“Box-wood, with ivory mountings.”

“Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether—I mean, of bone.”

“Well?”

“Guess what bone it was.”

“How can I tell?”

“Bone of a man’s leg, Mas’ Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was.”

“How do you know?”

“Why, Tomati telled me.”

“Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting.”

Don was wearied out with a long day’s work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch.

Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore.

“This is what I hate in being a sailor,” grumbled Jem. “No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you’re roused up to keep some watch.”

“Yes, it is wearisome, Jem.”

“Wearisome’s nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas’ Don, when they routed us up.”

“So was I, Jem.”

“What was you dreaming about, Mas’ Don?”

“Home.”

“Hah!” said Jem, with a sigh; “so was I. Wonder what my Sally’s doing now.”

“Sitting down to tea, Jem.”

“What! In the middle of the night?”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world.”

“Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn’t that one stealing out from behind that island?”

“No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow.”

“Then p’r’aps it arn’t; but I’m always thinking I see ’em coming out full of men.”

“Fancy, Jem.”

“So it is, I s’pose. Know how long we’re going to stop here, Mas’ Don?”

“No, Jem. Getting tired of it?”

“Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home.”

That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed.

“Wish we was in her,” sighed a voice at his ear.

Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed.

“What for, Jem?”

“To get away from here, Mas’ Don. Wish you’d alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more.”

“Here, you two! This way,” said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. “This way. The captain wants a word with both of you.”

“The captain?” began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind.

“That will do. Now then, this way,” said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will.

Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant.

Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward.

“Now,” he said sharply, “repeat what you told me just now.”

“Yes, sir. I had to go below yes’day evening when, as I was going along ’tween the ’ammocks, I hears the word desert and I was that took aback, sir, I—”

“Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word,” said the first lieutenant, with a sneer.

“Yes, sir,” said Ramsden.

“Let him speak,” said the captain, scowling to hide a smile.

“Soon as I heard that word desert, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore.”

“What did they say?”

“Can’t rec’lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals.”

“Yes, I saw them watching that canoe,” said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem.

“Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them.”

The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped.

“That will do, my man,” said the captain; “I know quite enough. Now look here,” he continued, turning to Don and Jem, “I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?”

Don’s lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too.

“Come,” said the captain, “I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours.”

“Didn’t commit no offence,” said Jem sturdily.

“Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is—death.”

Jem started, but Don did not stir.

“Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should be sorry for you—either of you—to be guilty of such a mad trick as desertion. If you tried it, you would almost certainly be retaken, and—the punishment must follow. If, on the other hand, you escaped, it would be into the savage country before you, where you would fall into the hands of some enemy tribe, who would kill you both like dogs. I daresay you have heard what takes place afterwards, when the Maori tribes have taken prisoners?”

Jem shuddered, but Don made no sign.

“Ah! I see you know,” continued the captain, “so I need say little more. I am satisfied that you will neither of you be guilty of such an act of madness as you contemplated, especially now that I tell you that I stop at nothing which the law gives me power to do for the preservation of the discipline of my ship. These two lads,” he said, turning to give an order, “will be placed in irons for the present.”

He made a sign, and the two prisoners were taken below deck, and placed in irons.

“Better than being hung, my lads,” said the armourer gruffly; and soon after they were alone, with a sentry on duty not far from where they were seated.