21. CHAPTER XXI.
Slowly, fitfully, broke the morning in the East, showing
the desolate brig forging heavily through the water, which
sluggishly thumped under her bows. While leaping from
sea to sea, our faithful Chamois, like a faithful dog, still
gamboled alongside, confined to the main-chains by its painter.
At times, it would long lag behind; then, pushed by a
wave like lightning dash forward; till bridled by its leash,
it again fell in rear.
As the gray light came on, anxiously we scrutinized the
features of the craft, as one by one they became more plainly
revealed. Every thing seemed stranger now, than when
partially visible in the dingy night. The stanchions, or posts
of the bulwarks, were of rough stakes, still incased in the
bark. The unpainted sides were of a dark-colored, heathenish
looking wood. The tiller was a wry-necked, elbowed
bough, thrusting itself through the deck, as if the tree itself
was fast rooted in the hold. The binnacle, containing the
compass, was defended at the sides by yellow matting. The
rigging—shrouds, halyards and all—was of “Kaiar,” or
cocoa-nut fibres; and here and there the sails were patched
with plaited rushes.
But this was not all. Whoso will pry, must needs light
upon matters for suspicion. Glancing over the side, in the
wake of every scupper-hole, we beheld a faded, crimson stain,
which Jarl averred to be blood. Though now he betrayed
not the slightest trepidation; for what he saw pertained not
to ghosts; and all his fears hitherto had been of the supernatural.
Indeed, plucking up a heart, with the dawn of the day
my Viking looked bold as a lion; and soon, with the instinct
of an old seaman cast his eyes up aloft.
Directly, he touched my arm,—“Look: what stirs in the
main-top?”
Sure enough, something alive was there.
Fingering our arms, we watched it; till as the day came
on, a crouching stranger was beheld.
Presenting my piece, I hailed him to descend or be shot.
There was silence for a space, when the black barrel of a
musket was thrust forth, leveled at my head. Instantly,
Jarl's harpoon was presented at a dart;—two to one;—and
my hail was repeated. But no reply.
“Who are you?”
“Samoa,” at length said a clear, firm voice.
“Come down from the rigging. We are friends.”
Another pause; when, rising to his feet, the stranger
slowly descended, holding on by one hand to the rigging, for
but one did he have; his musket partly slung from his back,
and partly griped under the stump of his mutilated arm.
He alighted about six paces from where we stood; and
balancing his weapon, eyed us bravely as the Cid.
He was a tall, dark Islander, a very devil to behold, theatrically
arrayed in kilt and turban; the kilt of a gay calico
print, the turban of a red China silk. His neck was jingling
with strings of beads.
“Who else is on board?” I asked; while Jarl, thus far
covering the stranger with his weapon, now dropped it to the
deck.
“Look there:—Annatoo! was his reply in broken English,
pointing aloft to the fore-top. And lo! a woman,
also an Islander; and barring her skirts, dressed very much
like Samoa, was beheld descending.
“Any more?”
“No more.”
“Who are you then; and what craft is this?”
“Ah, ah—you are no ghost;—but are you my friend?”
he cried, advancing nearer as he spoke; while the woman,
having gained the deck, also approached, eagerly glancing.
We said we were friends; that we meant no harm; but
desired to know what craft this was; and what disaster had
befallen her; for that something untoward had occurred, we
were certain.
Whereto, Samoa made answer, that it was true that
something dreadful had happened; and that he would gladly
tell us all, and tell us the truth. And about it he went.
Now, this story of his was related in the mixed phraseology
of a Polynesian sailor. With a few random reflections,
in substance, it will be found in the six following
chapters.
