Denison hastened to explain. “Indeed he has not. He remembers you very well, and would have come with me, but he is putting the schooner on the beach to-day to clean her. And I am sure he will be delighted to come and see you to-morrow.”
“Of course he must. Surely every English and American in the South Seas should come and see me; for my husband was ever a good friend to every sailor that ever sailed in the island trade—from Fiji to the Bonins. There now, I won’t chatter any more, or else you will be too frightened to come back to such a garrulous old creature. Ah, if God had but spared to me my eyesight I should come with you into the mountains. I love the solitude, and the sweet call of the pigeons, and the sound of the waterfall at the side of Taomaunga. And I know every inch of the country, and blind as I am, I could yet find my way along the mountain-side. Kate, and you, Harry, do not keep Mr. Denison out too late.”
By sunset the shooting party had returned, and after a bathe in the cool waters of the mountain stream Denison returned to the house. Kate Handle and her sister, assisted by some native women, were plucking pigeons for the evening meal. Harry was lying down on the broad of his back on the grassy sward with closed eyes, smoking, and their hostess was sitting on a wide cane bench outside the house. She heard the young man’s footstep, and beckoned him to seat himself beside her. And then she told him her story.
II
“I don’t know where I was born—for, as I daresay Randle has told you, I was only five years of age when I was picked up at sea in a boat, the only other occupant of which was a Swedish seaman. The vessel which rescued us was one of the transports used for conveying convicts to New South Wales, and was named the Britannia, but when she sighted the boat she was on a voyage to Tahiti in the Society Islands. I imagine this was sometime about 1805, so I must now be about seventy years of age.
“The Swedish sailor told the captain of the Britannia that he and I were the only survivors of a party of six—among whom were my father and mother—belonging to a small London barque named the Winifred, She was employed in the trade between China and Valparaiso, and my father was owner as well as captain. On the voyage from Canton, and when within fifty miles of Tahiti, and in sight of land, she took fire, and the Chinese crew, when they saw that there was no hope of the ship being saved, seized the longboat, which had been prepared, and was well provisioned, and made off, although the cowardly creatures knew that the second boat was barely seaworthy. My father—whose name the Swede did not know—implored them to return, and at least take my mother and myself and an officer to navigate their boat to land. But they refused to listen to his pleadings, and rowed off. The second boat was hurriedly provisioned by my father and his officers, and they, with my mother and myself and the Swede—all the Europeans on board—left the burning ship at sundown. A course was steered for the eastern shore of Tahiti, which, although the wind was right ahead, we hoped to reach on the evening of the following day. But within a few hours after leaving the barque the trade wind died away, and fierce, heavy squalls burst from the westward upon the boat, which was only kept afloat by constant bailing. About dawn the sea had become so dangerous, and the wind had so increased in violence, that an attempt was made to put out a sea-anchor. Whilst this was being done a heavy sea struck the boat and capsized her. The night was pitchy dark, and when the Swede—who was a good swimmer—came to the surface he could neither see nor hear any of the others, though he shouted loudly. But at the same moment, as his foot touched the line to which the sea anchor was bent, he heard the mate’s voice calling for assistance.
“‘I have the child,’ he cried. ‘Be quick, for I’m done.’
“In another minute the brave fellow had taken me from him; then the poor mate sank, never to rise again. Whether I was alive or dead my rescuer could not tell, but being a man of great physical strength, he not only kept me above water with one hand, but succeeded in reaching first the sea-anchor-four oars lashed together—and then the boat, which had been righted by another sea.
“How this brave man kept me alive in such a terrible situation I do not know. By sunrise the wind had died away, the sea had gone down, and he was able to free the boat of water. In the stern-sheet locker he found one single tin of preserved potatoes, which had been jammed into a corner when the boat capsized—all the rest of the provisions, with the water-breakers as well, were lost. On this tin of potatoes we lived—so he told the master of the Britannia—for five days, constantly in sight of the land around which we were drifting, sometimes coming to within a distance of thirty miles of it. All this time, by God’s providence, we had frequent heavy rain squalls, and the potato tin, which was about eighteen inches square, and was perfectly water-tight, proved our salvation, for the potatoes were so very salt that we would have perished of thirst had we been unable to save water. Ohlsen cut down one of his high sea-boots, and into this he would put two handfuls of the dried potatoes, and then fill it up with water. It made a good sustaining food after it had been softened by the water and kneaded into a pulp.
“An hour before dawn, on the sixth day, Ohlsen, who was lying on the bottom boards of the boat, was awakened by hearing me crying for my mother. The poor fellow, who had stripped off his woollen shirt to protect my little body from the cold, at once sat up and tried to comfort me. The sea was as smooth as glass, and only a light air was blowing. Drawing me to his bare chest—for I was chilled with the keen morning air—he was about to lie down again, when he heard the creaking of blocks and then a voice say, ‘Ay, ay, sir!’ and there, quite near us, was a large ship! In a moment he sprang to his feet, and hailed with all his strength; he was at once answered, the ship was brought to the wind, a boat lowered, and in less than a quarter of an hour we were on board the Britannia.
“On that dear old ship I remained for five years or more, for the captain had his wife on board, and although she had two young children of her own, she cared for and loved me as if I had been her own daughter. Most of this time was spent among the Pacific Islands, and then there came to me another tragedy, of one of which I have a most vivid remembrance, for I was quite eleven years old at the time.
“The Britannia, like many South Seamen of those times, was a letter of marque, and carried nine guns, for although we were, I think, at peace with Spain, we were at war with France, and there were plenty of French privateers cruising on the South American coast, with whom our ships were frequently engaged. But none had ever been seen so far eastward as the Galapagos Islands, and so we one day sailed without fear into a small bay on the north-west side of Charles Island to wood and water.
“On the following morning the captain, whose name was Rossiter, ordered my old friend Ohlsen, who was now gunner on the Britannia, to take four hands and endeavour to capture some of the huge land tortoises which abound on the islands of the group. I was allowed to go with them. Little did I think I should never again see his kindly face when I took my seat in the boat and was rowed ashore. Besides Ohlsen and myself, there were two English seamen, a negro named King and a Tahitian native. The youngest of the English sailors was named Robert Eury; he was about twenty-two years of age, and a great favourite of the captain who knew his family in Dorset, England.
“We hauled the boat up on a small sandy beach, and then started off into the country, and by noon we had caught three large tortoises which we found feeding on cactus plants. Then, as we were resting and eating, we suddenly heard the report of a heavy gun, and then another and another. We clambered up the side of a rugged hill, from the summit of which we could see the harbour, a mile distant, and there was the Britannia lying at anchor, and being attacked by two vessels! As we watched the fight we saw one of the strange ships, which were both under sail, fire a broadside at our vessel, and the second, putting about, did the same. These two broadsides, we afterwards heard, were terribly disastrous, for the captain and three men were killed, and nine wounded. The crew, however, under the mate, still continued to work her guns with the utmost bravery and refused to surrender. Then a lucky shot from one of her 9-pounders disabled the rudder of the largest Frenchmen, which, fearing to anchor so near to such a determined enemy, at once lowered her boats and began to tow out, followed by her consort. At the entrance to the bay, however, the smaller of the two again brought-to and began firing at our poor ship with a 24-pounder, or other long-range gun, and every shot struck. It was then that the mate and his crew, enraged at the death of the captain, and finding that the ship was likely to be pounded to pieces, determined to get under weigh and come to close quarters with the enemy, for the Britannia was a wonderfully fast ship, and carried a crew of fifty-seven men. But first of all he sent ashore Mrs. Rossiter, her two children, a coloured steward, and all the money and other valuables in case he should be worsted. His name was Skinner, and he was a man of the most undaunted resolution, and had at one time commanded a London privateer called the Lucy, which had made so many captures that Skinner was quite a famous man. But his intemperate habits caused him to lose his command, and he had had to ship on the Britannia as chief mate. He was, however, a great favourite with the men, who now urged him to lead them on and avenge the loss of the captain; so the moment the boat returned from landing Mrs. Rossiter he slipped his cable, and stood out to meet the enemy.