Nuka Hiva once more—The Deserted Grog Shanty—Benbow’s Second Home-coming—He hears the Truth—A Mournful Carouse—Knight-errants in the Bell Bird—A Letter from Grimes—Another Fruitless Serenade

ONE can imagine that I did not weep when at last we sighted the wild shores of Nuka Hiva and entered the beautiful rugged bay of Tai-o-hae. Though I had signed on for the trip to San Francisco, no sooner had the anchor dropped than I proceeded to make myself scarce. At first I had thought of doing a bolt, but on reflection I made up my mind to be straightforward with the skipper, so I went to him and revealed the fact that I wanted to leave ship at once. He turned out a good sort, and even gave me a month’s money, though according to sea agreements he need not have given me a cent.

To pack up and leave the ship was nothing to me. I was leading the life of primeval man, so I was always at home, wherever I happened to be, and I was always in the best possible place that I could possibly be in at that precise moment. My luggage consisted of my violin, a steel-toothed hair-comb, two flannel shirts and the blue Chinese-cloth midshipman’s suit that I lived in.

I see by my diary notes that I stopped on the s.s. Rockhampton for the first night in port and arrived at the grog shanty at Tai-o-hae on the 9th December.

I will make no attempt to describe my disappointment when I arrived at the old place and missed the friendly faces of most of the rough men I had known. The tale that Mrs Ranjo told me sounded more like some wild romance than anything else.

My first inquiry was about Waylao. Had she turned up? I awaited Mrs Ranjo’s reply with intense interest. She only shook her head and stared at me seriously. Indeed she looked a bit spiteful, for Waylao had been the cause of taking away her most generous and oldest customers from Tai-o-hae, under circumstances which I will describe later.

It was a glorious starlit night when I strolled out of the grog shanty with my head fairly humming with all the strange things that I had heard from the Ranjos.

I would have given anything at that moment to have had old Grimes beside me, but alas! it could not be.

As I strolled along the silent track by the shore, my steps instinctively strayed in the direction of the old hulk, and ere long I stood on that friendly derelict—alone. My heart was heavy with the silence that had greeted me wherever I sought the sweet music of the voices of comradeship. As I stood beneath the broken masts, and stared on the old scenes, the changelessness of Nature’s face oppressed me.

The same stars shone over the mountains, the old figurehead still stretched its hands to the dim western constellations and those far-off worlds seemed as remote as my own hopes. I felt the loneliness of heaven enter my heart. Inland, just over the rows of forest bread-fruit trees, I could see the ascending smoke from the native villages and, near the shore, the tiny light of the solitary window of Father O’Leary’s mission-room.

Gazing on the dim sky-line, the old figurehead and I became dear comrades who communed in the silence of some great twinship of sorrow. We were both alone. Hardly a sound came from the grog shanty. I saw its lights twinkling beneath the palms. No familiar sounds of rollicking songs disturbed the silence. I felt like one who stood on some old shore of far-away memories, the shores of some world that I had known ages ago. Below the decks silence reigned, dark and deep. The tinkling of the banjo and the wild encore yells were missing. Not one song or muffled oath greeted my ears. Grimes, Uncle Sam, Benbow and all the men I had known so well were far away at sea.

When Ranjo and his wife told me all, I had gone straight up to Father O’Leary. He, too, depressed me as he described what had happened since I left Tai-o-hae.

“Ah! my son,” he said, “I have known many troubles since I came across the seas to these isles, but few of them have been so bad as the sorrow that has come to me of late.”

“Did they not find out who was the cause of all this unhappiness, Father?”

The old priest shook his head for reply, then said:

“My son, what matters it all, the how and why, since the girl has gone? What use in trying to avert the evil when evil has done the worst that it could do?”

“That’s so,” I responded. Then I took the Father aside and told him all that I knew about Waylao since she left Tai-o-hae. The telling took a long time. As I sat by that grey-bearded old priest the tears came to his eyes.

“My lost sheep, my pretty Waylao, the best of all—and so, the easiest to fall, the swiftest to lose!” Saying this, he pressed my hands.

“My son, have hope. I feel assured that she will come again,” said the old Catholic as I bade him good-night, and went away feeling less hopeful than ever. Ere I left the Father I had asked him if Pauline was still on the island. To tell the truth, I half-expected to hear that she had flown away to sea also. When the priest told me that Pauline still roamed that spot by the mountains my heart leapt with a strange thrill of joy. She at least is left on earth, I thought, as I wandered away into the night.

Next day I went and saw Madame Lydia, and I shall never forget the welcome of the old native woman when I walked into her cottage. She almost jumped into my arms as I greeted her. I was pleased to find that she was not quite alone. It so happened that one of her own relations was staying with her till Benbow returned to Tai-o-hae with all the shellbacks who had gone away as his crew.

I will now describe, as well as I am able, all that I heard from old Lydia and the Ranjos about Benbow’s home-coming and why he went to sea with the beachcombers.

It appeared that, about a week after the Sea Swallow, with Waylao and me on board, left, Benbow arrived home. All the beachcombers had stopped in the shanty instead of going down to the shore to greet him as was their custom when he put into Tai-o-hae Bay. They anticipated trouble.

Possibly Benbow himself wondered why everyone looked so damnably serious instead of greeting him in the usual boisterous fashion when he entered the grog shanty. Not one dare tell him the truth about the trouble awaiting him at home, but their hearts were pretty full, I am sure, when he called for drinks all round. He must have thought that the hot weather had affected them as the beachcombers lifted their mugs, clinked and drank his health in a subdued voice.

When the burly old skipper had left the shanty, and passed away up the little track that led to his home, the shellbacks all rushed to the door, watched and listened. Though Benbow’s bungalow was several hundred yards away, they waited the thunderous voice of the skipper, the ejaculations that would escape from his lips when trembling old Lydia told him all.

As Benbow entered the old parlour he looked around. What was the matter? Why did his wife look at him like a whipped hound? Where was the welcoming voice of his pretty Waylao?

“Waylao!” he shouted. Then he stared round him wildly. Had old Lydia gone mad, he wondered, as he yelled once again.

“What the hell’s the matter? Where’s Waylao?”

As the sailorman yelled again and again, in his wild impatience, the old woman only wailed. Suddenly the stricken sailor stared aghast. “Is she dead?” came his husky query. For what else but the death of his beautiful Waylao could make this terrible silence and that terrible look in the eyes of his native wife? Ah! reader, you know all, but Benbow, the British sailor who had left his daughter in the care of his wife, knew nothing.

“She’s gone, Benbow; she go run away into forest, days and weeks ago!”

“Gone!” that was all the skipper could say as he stared at the woman and stamped his foot.

“Some man deceive our pretty Wayee—she like THAT! She run! She run! O ze great white Gods helps us!”

Old Lydia wailed out the foregoing information, and looked into the haggard face of the white man, trembling the while like a dead leaf.

For a moment he stared like an idiot. Then he passed his hand across his brow.

“Gone? Like what?” came his response in a clash of thunderous passion. It sounded like the voice of doom to the native woman’s ears as the sailor yelled forth his inquiry.

The shellbacks, who were all huddled by the grog shanty door, heard that yell. They shivered as they looked into one another’s awestruck, staring eyes.

“Gawd blimey! to fink that oive lived to see this ’ere day!” murmured Grimes as the huddled shellbacks breathed heavily, swayed in their sea-boots and listened.

When Lydia had at length told her husband all that she could tell, and dared tell, she clung to his knees.

For a moment the cottage shook. It was even reported that the shellbacks heard muffled screams. Indeed they had prepared to rush up the slopes to see if old Lydia was being murdered. But they did not go, nor was their presence needed, for it was only the cries of Lydia in hysterics at the sight of the Britisher’s anguish-stricken face.

Then the reaction came. The white man sat down in his arm-chair by his old grandfather clock and cried like a child.

While Lydia told me those things, that old grandfather clock still ticked on like doom. As we sat there in the silence, and the woman wept and wailed out all her sorrow to my sympathetic ears, the “tick! tick! tick!” seemed to chant out in a terribly relentless monotone:

“What happened then?” I said, as the woman still wept on and I pressed her hand. I hardly knew how to tell her all that I could tell: how Waylao had stowed away on my ship, and then of her last disappearance from the kind Matafas in Samoa. When at length I told her all that I knew, she stared at me like a bronze statue; her nose looked brittle, her eyes quite glassy. I cannot describe how affected I was by that South Sea mother’s grief over her lost child, and how I raised her hopes, swearing that I thought that Waylao was safe and sound, and would soon return, while my heart, alas! belied all that my voice uttered.

She was a brown-skinned woman, born and reared up in a savage land, yet I could see no difference between her grief and that of any other mother of the civilised world.

When the distraught woman had at length somewhat recovered, she continued to tell me about Benbow.

It appeared that as soon as the sailor had relieved his feelings he had quietly put on his cap and gone back to the grog shanty. As he entered the grog bar, the shellbacks faced him with steady eyes and silent lips. He looked into their eyes and knew through one glance that he gazed on honest men.

“Boys,” he said, “come up to my home. I want you to tell me all that you know—then we will breach the rum cask!”

Saying this, without another word he walked away. The tense silence of that rough crew of sympathetic men was dispelled by a huge sigh. Though the rum cask was to be broached as usual, a fact quite outside their expectations, they were sincerely sorry. That sigh came from the depths of their hearts, that warmed at the thought of the rum, which was of the very best brand.

As soon as the stricken father had departed, they all swallowed their drinks and filed out into the dusk of the hot evening.

Following the little track by the colonnade of palms they soon arrived outside Benbow’s cottage, and entered the little doorway in solemn silence, like a funeral procession.

Each man hitched up the knees of his pants and sat down, half nervously, in the old chairs to await events. The silence was broken only by the tick of the grandfather clock and the small coughs of expectation as Benbow stooped forward and, with tears in his eyes, broached the rum cask. Benbow had by this time drunk several pick-me-ups to steady his nerves, and he seemed more like himself again. Looking up at the crew as he sat in the old arm-chair he said:

“Boys, you know all that’s happened during my absence; now, I want you to tell me all that you know about this affair.”

For a moment all the beachcombers were silent. They remembered how Waylao had slept in the hulk, and each one wondered what Benbow would think when he heard about it all. Suddenly Ken-can, the ever-silent, saturnine chum of Benbow’s, stared at them all and sneered. Uncle Sam returned the gaze of those fixed, soulless eyes and muttered a fearful oath beneath his breath. Uncle Sam knew the significance of that sneer, but after a moment’s reflection determined to ignore it.

Under the influence of the same inspiration, each lifted his mug of rum and relieved his feelings. Then Uncle Sam braced up his pants, coughed as he looked round, and commenced in this wise:

“Captain, we feels right-down sorry about this ’ere business. We ain’t going to hold nothing back about all that we knows. I guess I’ll tell yer right here all that we know about your daughter, Waylao.”

He then slowly proceeded, with almost mathematical precision, to narrate the whole story as far as he knew it.

“Ah, me,” said old Lydia to me. “He kind Melican man, Uncle Sams.”

It appeared that the good-hearted American shellback had put in many little touches which were calculated to melt Benbow’s heart where his old wife Lydia was concerned. Indeed Uncle Sam illustrated the native woman’s grief over her daughter’s flight. He knew that it was well to do this for Lydia’s sake, for she had wandered about the isle in a demented condition screaming out: “I’ve driven my daughter Wayee away into the forest for ever!” Of course, island scandal had made a lot out of the native woman’s incoherent cries.

I’ve no doubt that it took Uncle Sam a long time to tell his story, and much moistening of his throat with rum, but when the tale was told, and Uncle Sam had described Waylao’s grief, Benbow pulled out his big red pocket-handkerchief and blew his nose. All the beachcombers saw through the ruse, for the British sailor slipped the corners to his eyes as though he were ashamed of the tears. It appeared that they drank considerably that night, and became emotional. I suppose the sight of the old sailor’s grief was too much for them. There had been a regular pandemonium of sorrowful expressions after that speech of Uncle Sam’s. Some sneezed, some coughed and wiped their eyes with their sleeves. To tell one the truth, even the jockey chap, who wore checked trousers and made bets on the most sacred things, was overcome. He told me afterwards that he’d never seen anything so sad since the “dead cert” came in last and fell down dead. Then he said: “Well, I’ll never say that Bret Harte’s characters were not taken from life again.”

Ere that renowned night of sorrow commingled with rum was old, Benbow rose from his chair and called for volunteers who would go with him in search of Waylao.

“I’ll search the b—— Pacific till I find her!” he roared.

Without any hesitation the whole assemblage of beachcombers had lifted their mugs and, with voices thick with emotion as well as rum fumes, had said: “Captain, put me down for one!”

Thus did Benbow get together his volunteer crew who would go and search the seas for the missing Waylao.

As the old native woman rambled on, telling me these things in her emotional, descriptive way, I saw that scene before my eyes, and even regretted that I had been absent from so romantic a night. I knew those rough men so well that I could easily imagine how the thought of going away with Benbow after Waylao thrilled their hearts and struck some dormant, romantic note of their souls!

Before the solemn meeting broke up, songs were sung. Perhaps it is best to tell the whole truth—ere daybreak had painted the sea-line with grey, only three beachcombers were able to creep back to the hulk without immediate assistance. At least four of them slept under the palms, some were carried back to the hulk with their feet dragging behind them, for the rum cask in Benbow’s cottage was empty.

“Ah mees,” wailed old Lydia, as she continued. “The great white mans were sorry for mees and so they did drink and drink.”

When I asked her about Bill Grimes her face became very sympathetic. “Ah, good Grimes, it was he who put Benbows to beds. Benbow very ill, no take boots off—feet pained!”

Then the old woman looked at me and said: “Ah, Glimes bad mans, but old Lydia forgives him for stealing.”

“What did he steal?” said I, at hearing this strange accusation about my honest Grimes.

“He steal my brass locket, with my pretty Wayee’s poto [photo] in it.”

As the woman told me of this slight indiscretion of my honest pal I felt sorry for Grimes. I easily imagined the temptation, considering his infatuation for the girl. I could almost see him slipping the image of the girl off the bedroom toilet-table as he put Benbow to bed, and could hear him unconsciously express the one great truth of modern civilisation as he murmured: “What the eye don’t see the ’eart don’t grieve abart!”

Suddenly Lydia ceased her tears and darted across the room to the pocket of some old skirt. Then she returned to me and handed me a little note. It was a letter from Grimes, left by him in the care of Lydia for me, should I return ere he came back to Tai-o-hae. This is how it ran. I copy it from the dirty bit of paper that lies before me on my desk as I write:

“Dear Old Pal.—’Ave goned away on the Bell bird, hoff to find Wayler, Benbow’s dorter, you knows. Opes to be back soone. Missed you afully like. rote some fine poultry [poetry]. Aint alf ad a spree since you went hoff on the Sea Swaller. If you gets back to Ty-o-hae afore I comes back, wait for me. If I finds Waylayer I moight marry ’er. You can come and stay wif us. Good-bye pal, dont forgit Grimes, we’ll meet soone

When I had read this note I felt depressed, and a bit wild, too, that I had not been back in time to tell them all that I knew about Waylao. I gathered from Lydia that the Bell Bird had gone to Fiji.

It appeared that, before the schooner sailed, Benbow had had a hint that Waylao had been in Suva. I never found out how he got this information, probably he had heard it from some sailor who called in at Tai-o-hae when the Sea Swallow came into port again.

After I bade the native woman good-night I went straight away towards the grog shanty to see the Ranjos again. In their little bar parlour I heard a full account of the sailing of the Bell Bird. It appeared that the whole township had been agog with the excitement of the start. The whole population had turned out to see the beachcombers off. Bill Grimes, Uncle Sam and nearly all who had attended the council at Benbow’s cottage were on board as the crew. Ranjo said: “There never was such a hell of a pandemonium of farewell cheers down on the beach before as when Benbow put to sea with my Tai-o-hae customers on his ship—and fourteen casks of the best rum in the cuddy!”

Some of the island folk sneered and said Benbow had gone daft.

“What a fuss to make about a sinful girl!” said some.

Others shook their heads about the ways of the world and of Benbow’s wisdom in sailing away on such a mad search with such a desperately bad crew. The Tai-o-hae Missionary Times devoted a special article to the sailing of the Bell Bird. Its tone was sarcastic: it said something about Helen of Troy in the Southern Seas and of the benefit she had conferred on the island by ridding Tai-o-hae of so many wastrels.

Many ventured their opinions as to the ultimate result of the voyage. Some said that they would safely return with Waylao, others shook their heads as though they were dubious about it. But not one, I am sure, prophesied or dreamed of the far-off port that Benbow and his crew had set sail for.

But to return to my own immediate experiences. As soon as I saw a chance of speaking to Mrs Ranjo alone I took her aside and asked for news of John L——.

“Does L—— still come to the shanty and imbibe?” I asked.

I asked this question because I had walked under the palms to and fro to that grog bar quite twenty times, hoping that I might meet Pauline. I knew that so long as her father had a chance of getting drunk the daughter would be seeking his whereabouts.

When Mrs Ranjo informed me that he was laid up, crippled with gout, I felt truly sorry. I must confess that I was not so sorry about his gout and suffering as at the thought that he could not get tight at the shanty and so give me a chance of meeting his daughter.

What with the absence of Grimes, the death of Tamafanga, and various other aids to depression, I felt that something must be done to dispel my cloudy thoughts and make a little artificial sunshine. With this idea, I went straight off that same night to L——’s little homestead by the mountains. It may be remembered I had been up to that silent hamlet in the hills long before, serenading the girl who haunted my mind.

I recall the very atmosphere of that night as I left the shanty full of hopes that I should see Pauline. Even as I write, I can almost fancy that I smell the rich, warm scents of the wild cloves and faded orange blossoms that hung on the boughs as I strolled by that silent bungalow. The night was thick with stars, staring as though pale with fright at the rising moon on the eastern horizon.

I crept through the thickets of bamboos and went across the small pathway that ran across the patch of garden. All was silent except for the chirruping monotone of the locusts that haunted the taro and pine-apples that grew in wild profusion around.

Peering through the branches, I saw a light glimmering through the crack of the doorway. I knew that it came from the small compartment wherein lay John L—— and his weird companion. As I drew nearer, I saw the shadow figure of that eternal watcher. That shadow bobbed about the wall as the patient groaned and asked, presumably, for just a little drop of spirit to moisten his fevered lips.

I became brave, and crept closer, to within three feet of the little room wherein Pauline slept. I suppose that it was the worry I had had and the sound of the breath of heaven that roamed through the trees that made me madly romantic. I whistled a soft melody that Pauline had once admired. I listened and watched, but only the stars winked over the giant trees.

Ah! how my heart beat as I looked up at that moonlit window-pane. I fancied I saw the scarlet blossoms of the tangled vines quiver in the brilliant night gleam. It seemed to me that the small window by the coco-palms was some ghostly, glassy eye staring down at me and watching over that sleeping girl. In the vivid inward light of a romantic boy’s imaginings, I fancied I saw Pauline lying like a warm, white-limbed angel between the sheets, her eyes closed in sleep as she dreamed of what—me? Alas! why should she dream of me?