27. CHAPTER XXVII.
A GLANCE AT PAPEETEE.—WE ARE SENT ABOARD THE FRIGATE.
The village of Papeetee struck us all very pleasantly. Lying
in a semicircle round the bay, the tasteful mansions of the chiefs
and foreign residents impart an air of tropical elegance, heightened
by the palm-trees waving here and there, and the deep-green
groves of the Bread-Fruit in the background. The
squalid huts of the common people are out of sight, and there is
nothing to mar the prospect.
All round the water, extends a wide, smooth beach of mixed
pebbles and fragments of coral. This forms the thoroughfare
of the village; the handsomest houses all facing it—the fluctuations
of the tides[12]
being so inconsiderable, that they cause no
inconvenience.
The Pritchard residence—a fine large building—occupies a
site on one side of the bay: a green lawn slopes off to the sea;
and in front waves the English flag. Across the water, the tricolor
also, and the stars and stripes, distinguish the residences
of the other consuls.
What greatly added to the picturesqueness of the bay at this
time, was the condemned hull of a large ship, which at the
farther end of the harbor lay bilged upon the beach, its stern
settled low in the water, and the other end high and dry. From
where we lay, the trees behind seemed to lock their leafy
boughs over its bowsprit; which, from its position, looked nearly
upright.
She was an American whaler, a very old craft. Having
sprung a leak at sea, she had made all sail for the island, to
heave down for repairs. Found utterly unseaworthy, however,
her oil was taken out and sent home in another vessel; the hull
was then stripped and sold for a trifle.
Before leaving Tahiti, I had the curiosity to go over this poor
old ship, thus stranded on a strange shore. What were my
emotions, when I saw upon her stern the name of a small town
on the river Hudson! She was from the noble stream on whose
banks I was born; in whose waters I had a hundred times
bathed. In an instant, palm-trees and elms—canoes and skiffs
—church spires and bamboos—all mingled in one vision of the
present and the past.
But we must not leave Little Jule.
At last the wishes of many were gratified; and like an aeronaut's
grapnel, her rusty little anchor was caught in the coral
groves at the bottom of Papeetee Bay. This must have been
more than forty days after leaving the Marquesas.
The sails were yet unfurled, when a boat came alongside
with our esteemed friend Wilson, the consul.
“How's this, how's this, Mr. Jermin?” he began, looking
very savage as he touched the deck. “What brings you in
without orders?”
“You did not come off to us, as you promised, sir; and there
was no hanging on longer with nobody to work the ship,” was
the blunt reply.
“So the infernal scoundrels held out—did they? Very good;
I'll make them sweat for it,” and he eyed the scowling men
with unwonted intrepidity. The truth was, he felt safer now,
than when outside the reef.
“Muster the mutineers on the quarter-deck,” he continued.
“Drive them aft, sir, sick and well: I have a word to say to
them.”
“Now, men,” said he, “you think it's all well with you, I
suppose. You wished the ship in, and here she is. Captain
Guy's ashore, and you think you must go too: but we'll see
about that—I'll miserably disappoint you.” (These last were
his very words.) “Mr. Jermin, call off the names of those who
did not refuse duty, and let them go over to the starboard side.”
This done, a list was made out of the “mutineers,” as he
was pleased to call the rest. Among these, the doctor and
myself were included; though the former stepped forward, and
boldly pleaded the office held by him when the vessel left Sydney.
The mate also—who had always been friendly—stated
the service rendered by myself two nights previous, as well as
my conduct when he announced his intention to enter the harbor.
For myself, I stoutly maintained, that according to the
tenor of the agreement made with Captain Guy, my time aboard
the ship had expired—the cruise being virtually at an end,
however it had been brought about—and I claimed my discharge.
But Wilson would hear nothing. Marking something in my
manner, nevertheless, he asked my name and country; and
then observed with a sneer, “Ah, you are the lad, I see, that
wrote the Round Robin; I'll take good care of you, my fine
fellow—step back, sir.”
As for poor Long Ghost, he denounced him as a “Sydney
Flash-Gorger;” though what under heaven he meant by that
euphonious title, is more than I can tell. Upon this, the doctor
gave him such a piece of his mind, that the consul furiously
commanded him to hold his peace, or he would instantly have
him seized into the rigging, and flogged. There was no help
for either of us—we were judged by the company we kept.
All were now sent forward; not a word being said as to what
he intended doing with us.
After a talk with the mate, the consul withdrew, going aboard
the French frigate, which lay within a cable's length. We now
suspected his object; and since matters had come to this pass,
were rejoiced at it. In a day or two the Frenchman was to
sail for Valparaiso, the usual place of rendezvous for the English
squadron in the Pacific; and doubtless, Wilson meant to put us
on board, and send us thither to be delivered up. Should our
conjecture prove correct, all we had to expect, according to
our most experienced shipmates, was the fag end of a cruise in
one of her majesty's ships, and a discharge before long at Portsmouth.
We now proceeded to put on all the clothes we could—frock
over frock, and trowsers over trowsers—so as to be in readiness
for removal at a moment's warning. Armed ships allow
nothing superfluous to litter up the deck; and therefore, should
we go aboard the frigate, our chests and their contents would
have to be left behind.
In an hour's time, the first-cutter of the Reine Blanche came
alongside, manned by eighteen or twenty sailors, armed with
cutlasses and boarding-pistols—the officers, of course, wearing
their side-arms, and the consul in an official cocked hat, borrowed
for the occasion. The boat was painted a “pirate
black,” its crew were a dark, grim-looking set, and the officers
uncommonly fierce-looking little Frenchmen. On the whole
they were calculated to intimidate—the consul's object, doubtless,
in bringing them.
Summoned aft again, every one's name was called separately;
and being solemnly reminded that it was his last chance to
escape punishment, was asked if he still refused duty. The
response was instantaneous: “Ay, sir, I do.” In some cases
followed up by divers explanatory observations, cut short by
Wilson's ordering the delinquent into the cutter. As a general
thing, the order was promptly obeyed—some taking a sequence
of hops, skips, and jumps, by way of showing, not only their
unimpaired activity of body, but their alacrity in complying
with all reasonable requests.
Having avowed their resolution not to pull another rope of
the Julia's—even if at once restored to perfect health—all the
invalids, with the exception of the two to be set ashore, accompanied
us into the cutter. They were in high spirits; so much
so, that something was insinuated about their not having been
quite as ill as pretended.
The cooper's name was the last called; we did not hear
what he answered, but he stayed behind. Nothing was done
about the Mowree.
Shoving clear from the ship, three loud cheers were raised;
Flash Jack and others receiving a sharp reprimand for it from
the consul.
“Good-by, Little Jule,” cried Navy Bob, as we swept under
the bows. “Don't fall overboard, Ropey,” said another to the
poor land-lubber, who, with Wymontoo, the Dane, and others
left behind, was looking over at us from the forecastle.
“Give her three more!” cried Salem, springing to his feet
and whirling his hat round. “You sacre dam raskeel,” shouted
the lieutenant of the party, bringing the flat of his sabre across
his shoulders, “you now keepy steel.”
The doctor and myself, more discreet, sat quietly in the bow
of the cutter; and for my own part, though I did not repent
what I had done, my reflections were far from being enviable.
