John Frewen, South Sea Whaler

“There is another letter for thy husband, lady,” he said to Mrs. Raymond, “which also cometh from the papalagi12 Villari.”

Mrs. Raymond directed him where to find her husband, and then was about to return to the house, but her friend, who had not yet opened the letter in her hand, asked her to stay.

“Don’t go, Marie. I shall not open this letter. It is too bad of Mr. Villari to again write to me. Shall I send it back, or take no notice of it?”

“I hardly know what to say, Amy. He is very rude to annoy you in this way. Wait and hear what Tom thinks.”

A quarter of an hour later, the planter came up from the beach, and sat down beside the ladies.

“I have a letter from Villari, Marie,” he said, “and have brought it up to see what you and Mrs. Marston think of it.”

“Amy has also received one, Tom, but would not open it nor send it back till she had your advice. I think it is altogether wrong of him to persecute her in this way.”

“Oh, well, you’ll be glad to know that he is sorry for what has occurred. Here is his letter to me, Mrs. Marston—please read it.”

The letter was a courteously worded and apparently sincere expression of regret for having forced his attentions upon Mrs. Marston, and asking Raymond and his wife to intercede for him with her. “It will give me the greatest joy if she will overlook my conduct, and accept my sincere apologies, if she does not, I shall carry the remembrance of her just anger to the end of my life. But when I think of her past friendliness to me, I am excited with the hope that her ever-kind heart will perhaps make her forget my unwarrantable presumption, which I look back upon with a feeling of wonder at my being guilty of such temerity.” Then he went on to say that Raymond would be interested to learn that he had bought a small schooner of 100 tons called the Lupetea, on easy terms of payment, and that he hoped to make a great deal of money by running her in the inter-island trade. “I was only enabled to do this through Mrs. Marston’s generosity,” he concluded—“the £500 she gave me enabled me to make a good ‘deal.’ I leave Apia to-morrow for a cruise round Upolu, and as I find that I have some cargo for you, I trust that you, your wife, and Mrs. Marston will at least let me set foot on your threshold once more.”

“Well, the poor devil seems very sorry for having offended you so much by his persistence, Mrs. Marston,” said the planter with a laugh, “and he writes such a pretty letter that I’m sure you won’t withhold your forgiveness.”

“I don’t think I can. But I must see what he has written to me,” and she opened the letter. It contained but a very few lines in the same tenour as that to Raymond, deploring his folly and begging her forgiveness.

“I’m very glad, Tom, that Amy sent him the £500, and that he had the sense not to again refuse it. It would always be embarrassing to you, Amy, whenever you met him.”

“It would indeed. But I doubt if he would have accepted it if it had not been for Mr. Raymond’s strongly worded letter on the subject,” (The planter had sent the money to him in Apia with a note saying that whatever her feelings were towards him, Mrs. Marston would be additionally aggrieved if he refused to accept a bequest from her late husband; it would, he said, have the result of making the lady feel that his rejection of the gift was uncalled-for and discourteous.)

“So that’s all right,” said Raymond, as he rose to return to the beach. “I always liked the man, as you have often heard me say. And you really must not be too angry with him, Mrs. Marston. These Italians—like all Latins—are a fearfully idiotic people in some things—especially where women are concerned. Now almost any decent Anglo-Saxon would have taken his gruelling quietly if a woman told him three times that she didn’t want him. Frohmann thinks that that crack on the head has touched his brain a bit; and at the same time, you must remember, Mrs. Marston, that whether you like it or not, you won’t be able to prevent men from falling in love with you—look at me, for instance!”

Marie Raymond threw a reel of cotton at him—

“Be off to your work!”

CHAPTER XVI

A few days later the Lupetea (White Pigeon) ran into the bay and Raymond boarded her. He greeted Villari in a friendly manner, and tried to put him at his ease by at once remarking that the ladies would be very glad to see him again when he had time to come up to the house. The schooner was loaded with a general cargo for the various traders and planters on the south side of the island, and that for Raymond consisted principally of about forty tons of yams for the use of the numerous local labourers already employed on the plantations.

The Lupetea was a rather handsome little vessel, well-fitted for the island trade, and carried besides Villari and the mate six hands, all of whom were Europeans, and Raymond at once recognised several of them as old habituée of Apia beach—men whose reputation as loafers and boozers of the first water was pretty well known in Samoa. The mate, too, was one of the same sort. He was an old man named Hutton, and was such an incorrigible drunkard that for two years past he had found it increasingly difficult to get employment. He had in his time been mate of some large ships, but his intemperate habits had caused him to come down to taking a berth as mate or second mate on small coastal schooners whenever he could get the position.

Before he returned to the shore the planter told Villari that he would be glad if he would come to dinner at seven o’clock.

“We are a large party now, Mr. Villari. Besides Mrs. Marston and my wife and myself there are my two partners, Budd and Meredith, and two white overseers. The latter don’t sleep in the house, but they have their meals with us.”

Villari accepted the invitation, and at six o’clock landed in his boat and met Raymond and his partners, who had just finished the day’s work and were on their way to the house. On the verandah they were received by the ladies, and Mrs. Marston was glad to observe that the Italian took her outstretched hand without any trace of embarrassment, asked if her baby was thriving, and then greeted Mrs. Raymond, who said she was glad to see him looking so well, and wished him prosperity with the Lupetea.

The dinner passed off very well. Villari made inquiries as to the whereabouts of the Esmeralda, and Mrs. Marston told him all that she knew, and added that if the ship had arrived in Sydney from Valparaiso about eight weeks before, as Frewen had indicated was likely in the last letter received from him, it was quite possible that he would be at Samatau within another ten or fourteen days, and then, as there was no necessity for concealment, she said it was very probable that the ship’s next voyage would be to the Western Pacific to procure labourers for the new plantation.

“You have no intention, I trust, of making the voyage in her, Mrs. Marston?” queried the Italian; “the natives, I hear, are a very treacherous lot.”

“No, indeed, Mr. Villari. I am staying here with Mrs. Raymond for quite a long time yet, I hope. It is quite likely, though, that before a year has gone she and I will be going to Sydney and our babies will make the trip with us. I have never been to Australia, and am sure I should enjoy being there if Mrs. Raymond were with me. I have two years’ shopping to do.”

Rudd—one of Raymond’s partners—laughed. “Ah, Mrs. Raymond, why go to Sydney when all of the few other white ladies here are satisfied with Dennis Murphy’s ‘Imporium’ at Apia, where, as he says, ‘Yez can get annything ye do be wantin’ from a nadle to an anchor, from babies’ long clothes to pickled cabbage and gunpowder.’”

“Indeed, we are going there this day week,” broke in Mrs. Raymond. “There are a lot of things Mrs. Marston and I want, and we mean to turn the ‘Emporium’ upside down. But we are not entirely selfish, Tom; we are buying new mosquito netting for you, Mr. Rudd, Mr. Meredith, Mr. Young, and Mr. Lorimer.” (The two last-named were the overseers.)

“How are you going, Marie?” asked Raymond with a smile; “we can’t spare the cutter, and you don’t want to be drowned in a taumualua.’

“Ah! we are not the poor, weak women you think we are. We are quite independent—we are going to cross overland; and, more than that, we shall be away eight days.”

“Clever woman!” retorted Raymond. “It is all very well for you, Marie—you have crossed over on many occasions; but Mrs. Marston does not understand our mountain paths.”

“My dear Tom, don’t trouble that wise head of yours. I have azranged everything. Furthermore, the babies are coming with us! Serena, Olivee, and one of Malië’s girls—and I don’t know how many others are to be baby carriers. We go ten miles the first day along the coast, sleep at Falelatai that night; then cross the range to the little bush village at the foot of Tofua Mountain, sleep there, and then go on to Malua in the morning. At Malua we get Harry Bevere’s boat, and he takes us to Apia. Tom, it is a cut-and-dried affair, but now that I’ve told you of it, I may as well tell you that Maliê has aided and abetted us—the dear old fellow. We shall be treated like princesses at every village all along the route, and I doubt very much if we shall do much walking at all—we shall be carried on fata” (cane-work litters).

“All very well, my dear; but you and Malië have been counting your chickens too soon. Harry Revere is now in our employ, and I yesterday sent a runner to him to go off to Savai’i and buy us a hundred tons of yams; and he has left by now.”

“Oh, Tom!” and Mrs. Raymond looked so blankly disappointed that all her guests laughed. “Is there no other way of getting to Apia by water?”

“No, except by toumualua—and a pretty nice time you and Sirs. Marston and the suffering infants would have in a native boat! On the other hand you can walk—you are bent on walking—and by going along the coast you can reach Apia in about four days. Give the idea up, Marie, for a month or so, when Malië and some of his people can take you and Mrs. Marston to Apia in comfort in the cutter.”

Villari turned his dark eyes to Mrs. Raymond—

“Will you do me the honour of allowing me to take you and Mrs. Marston to Apia in the Lupetea? I shall be delighted.”

“It is very kind of you, Captain Villari,” said the planter’s wife with a smile, as she emphasised the word “captain,” “but when will you be sailing?”

The Italian considered a moment.

“I have some cargo for Manono, and some for the German trader at Paulaelae. I shall leave here at daylight to-morrow; be at Manono before noon; run across the straits to Paulaelae the same day, land a few cases of goods for the German, and be back here, if the breeze holds good, the day after to-morrow.”

“It is very kind of you, Mr. Villari,” said Raymond.

“Not at all, Mr. Raymond. It will be far easier for me to come back this way than to beat up to Apia against the trade wind and strong current on the north side.”

“True. I did not think of that. So there you are, Marie—‘fixed up,’ as Frewen would say. The schooner, I believe, is pretty smart, isn’t she, Mr. Villari?”

“Very fair, Mr. Raymond—especially on a wind. We should get to Apia in less than twenty-four hours if there is any kind of a breeze at all. And for such a small vessel her accommodation is really very good, so the ladies and children will be very comfortable, I hope.”

“Yes,” said Meredith, “the Lupetea is the best schooner in the group. I’ve made two or three trips in her to Fiji. She was built by Brander, of Tahiti, for a yacht, and he used to carry his family with him on quite long voyages. Took them to Sydney once.”

“Well, Captain Villari,” said Mrs. Raymond, “we shall be ready for you the day after to-morrow. Be prepared for an infliction,” and holding up her left hand, she began counting on her fingers: “Item, two babies; item, mothers of babies aforesaid; item, Serena, nurse girl; item, Olivee, nurse girl; item, one native boy named Lilo, who is a relative of Malië’s, is Mrs. Marston’s especial protégé and wants to see the great City of Apia; item, baskets and baskets and baskets of roasted fowls, mangoes, pineapples and other things which are for the use of the captain, officers, crew and passengers of the Lupetea.”

Villari laughed. “There will be plenty of room, Mrs. Raymond.”

An hour or so later he bade them all good-night, and went on board.

The old mate was pacing to and fro on the main deck smoking his pipe, and Villari asked him to come below.

He turned up the lamp and told Hutton to sit down.

“Will you have a drink, Hutton?”

“Will I? You ought to know me by now.”

Villari went to his cabin and brought out a bottle of brandy. His dark eyes were flashing with excitement, as he placed it on the table together with two glasses.

“Drink as much as you like to-night,” he said; “but remember we lift anchor at daylight. We must be back here the day after to-morrow. There are passengers coming on board. You remember your promise to me?”

Hutton half-filled his tumbler with brandy, and swallowed it eagerly before answering.

“I do, skipper; I’ll do any blessed thing in the world except cuttin’ throats. I don’t know what your game is, but I’m ready for anythink. If it’s a scuttlin’ job, you needn’t try to show me nothin’. I’m an old hand at the game.”

Villari took a little brandy and sipped it slowly.

“It is not anything like that; I am only taking away a woman whom I want to marry. She may give trouble at first. Will you stand by me?”

The man laughed. “Is that all, skipper? Why, I thought it was somethink serious. You can depend on me,” and he poured out some more liquor.

“Here’s luck to you, Captain. I consider as that fifty pound is in my pocket already.”

CHAPTER XVII

Two days later the schooner came sweeping round the western point of Samatau Bay and then hove-to abreast of the house. Villari at once went on shore, found his passengers ready to embark, and in half an hour they were all on board and the Lupetea was spinning along the southern shore of Upolu at a great rate, for the wind was fresh and the sea very smooth. At midnight she was nearly abreast of a beautiful little harbour called Lotofanga, and Villari, who was on deck, told the mate to haul the head sheets to windward and ta lower the boat. This was done so quietly that the only one of the passengers who knew what had been done was the Samoan, Lilo—a bright, intelligent youth of about fifteen years of age. He was lying on the after-deck, and saw the mate and four hands go over the side into the boat, and then a trunk of clothing which belonged to Mrs. Raymond, and which, as the weather was fine, had been left on deck, was passed down. Wondering at this, he rose, and walking to the side, was looking at the boat, when a sailor roughly seized him by the shoulder and ordered him to go for’ard and stay there till he was called. Very unwillingly he obeyed, and then a second man told him to go below into the foc’sle, and made such a threatening gesture with a belaying-pin, that the boy, now beginning to feel alarmed, at once descended, and immediately the fore scuttle was closed and bolted from the deck. The place was in darkness except for one small slush lamp, and Lilo, taking his seat on a sailor’s chest, looked round at the bunks. They were all unoccupied, and this fact increased his fears. He, however, was a courageous lad, and his first thought was to provide himself with some sort of weapon, and by the aid of the lamp he began searching the bunks. In a few minutes he found a sheath knife and belt, which he at once secured, and then again sat down to wait events.

Meanwhile Villari was speaking to the mate.

“You are quite sure you know the landing-place?” he asked.

“Course I do. Didn’t I tell you I’ve been at Loto-fanga half a dozen times? It’s right abreast of the passage, and no one couldn’t miss it on a clear night like this. But it’s dead low tide. Why can’t I put the woman and girl on the reef, and let ‘em walk to the village? Then we don’t run no risks of any natives a-seein’ us and coming down to the boat.”

“Ha! that’s a good idea. But is it quite safe? I don’t want them to meet with any accident.”

“There ain’t no danger. The reef is quite flat, with no pools in it, and they needn’t even wet their feet. I’ve walked over it myself.”

“Very well then. Now stand by, for I’m going below. As soon as they are in the boat, push off and hurry all you can and get back. We must be out of sight of land by daylight.”

The cabin, which was lighted by a swinging lamp, was very quiet as Villari, first removing his boots, descended softly and bent oyer the sleeping figures of Olivee and Serena, who were lying on mats spread upon the floor outside the two cabins occupied by their mistresses. He touched Olivee on the shoulder, and awakened her.

“Ask Mrs. Raymond to please dress and come on deck for a few minutes,” he said quietly to the girl in English, which she understood. She at once rose, and tapped at her mistress’s door, and the Italian returned on deck.

Wondering what could be the reason for such a request, Mrs. Raymond dressed herself as quickly as possible, and was soon on deck followed by the girl Olivee.

“What is the matter, Mr. Villari?” she inquired, and then, as she looked at the man’s face, something like fear possessed her. His eyes had the same strange expression that she had often noticed when he was looking at Mrs. Marston, and she remembered what the German doctor had said.

“You must not be alarmed, Mrs. Raymond,” he said, “but I am sorry to say that the schooner has begun to leak in an alarming and extraordinary manner, and the pumps are choked. For your own safety I am sending you and Mrs. Marston and your servants on shore. We are now just abreast of Lotofanga, and I am going to try and work the schooner in there and run her ashore on the beach.”

Mrs. Raymond, now quite reassured, was at once practical. “We can be ready in a minute, Mr. Villari. I will get little Loisé, and–”

“Do—as quickly as you can—and I will tell Mrs. Marston. I preferred letting you know first. She is very nervous, and it will allay her alarm when she finds that you are so cool. The boat is already alongside. Have you any valuables in your cabin? If so, get them together.”

“Nothing but a little money. All my other things are on deck in a trunk.”

“That is already in the boat; the mate told me it was yours.”

“Hurry up, please, ladies,” and the mate’s head appeared above the rail.

“Just another minute, Hutton,” said Villari, as he, Mrs. Raymond, and the Samoan girl all returned to the cabin together. The latter at once picked up the sleeping Loisé, and her mother, as she wrapped her in a shawl, heard Villari rouse the girl Serena and tell her to awaken her mistress, and presently she heard his voice speaking to Mrs. Marston telling her not to be alarmed, but he feared the schooner might founder at any moment, and that he was sending her and Mrs. Raymond on shore.

“Very well, Mr. Villari,” she heard her friend say. “Have you told Mrs. Raymond?”

“Yes,” he replied. “She is getting ready now—in fact, she is ready.” Then he returned to Mrs. Raymond’s door, and met her just as she was leaving the cabin with the nurse and child.

“Can I help you, Amy?” asked the planter’s wife as she looked into Mrs. Marston’s cabin.

“No, dear. I did not quite undress, and I’ll be ready in a minute. Baby is fast asleep. Is Loisé awake?”

“No, I’m glad to say. Olivee has her.”

“Please come on, Mrs. Raymond,” said Villari, somewhat impatiently; “go on, Olivee, with the little girl.”

He let them precede him, and almost before she knew it, Mrs. Raymond found herself with the nurse and child in the boat, which was at once pushed off and headed for the shore.

“Stop, stop!” cried the poor lady, clutching the mate by the arm. “Mrs. Marston is coming.”

“Can’t wait,” was the gruff rejoinder, and then, to her horror and indignation, she saw that the boat’s crew were pulling as if their lives depended on their exertions.

“Shame, shame!” she cried wildly. “Are you men, to desert them! Oh, if you have any feelings of humanity, turn back,” and, rising to her feet, she shouted out at the top of her voice, “Captain Villari, Captain Villari, for God’s sake call the boat back!”

But no notice was taken, and a feeling of terror seized her when the brutal Hutton bade her “sit down and take it easy.”

As Villari stood watching the disappearing boat Mrs. Marston, followed by the girl Serena carrying her baby, came on deck.

“What is wrong?” she asked anxiously. “Why has the boat gone? What does it mean?” and Yillari saw that she was trembling.

“Return to your cabin, Mrs. Marston. No harm shall come to you. To-morrow morning I shall tell you why I have done this.”

A glimmering of the truth came to her, and she tried to speak, but no words came to her lips, as in a dazed manner she took the infant from Serena, and pressing it tightly to her bosom stepped back from him with horror, contempt, and blazing anger shining from her beautiful eyes.

“Go below, I beg you,” said Villari huskily. “Here, girl, take this, and give it to your mistress when you go below,” and he placed a loaded Colt’s pistol in the girl’s hand. “No one shall enter the cabin till to-morrow morning. You can shoot the first man who puts his foot on the companion stairs.”

CHAPTER XVIII

A hot, blazing, and windless day, so hot that the branches of the coco-palms, which at early morn had swished and merrily swayed to the trade wind, now hung limp and motionless, as if they had suffered from a long tropical drought instead of merely a few hours’ cessation of the brave, cool breeze, which for nine months out of twelve for ever made symphony in their plumed crests.

On the shady verandah of a small but well-built native house Amy Marston was seated talking to an old, snowy-haired white man, whose bright but wrinkled face was tanned to the colour of dark leather by fifty years of constant exposure to a South Sea sun.

“Don’t you worry, ma’am. A ship is bound to come along here some time or another, an’ you mustn’t repine, but trust to God’s will.”

“Indeed I try hard not to repine, Mr. Manning. When I think of all that has happened since that night, seven months ago, I have much for which to thank God. I am alive and well, my child has been spared to me, and in you, on this lonely island, I have found a good, kind friend, to whom I shall be ever grateful.”

“That’s the right way to look at it, ma’am. Until you came here I had not seen a white woman for nigh on twenty years, and when I did first see you I was all a-trembling—fearing to speak—for you looked to me as if you were an angel, instead of–”

“Instead of being just what I was—a wretched, half-mad creature, whom your kindness and care brought back to life and reason.”

The old man, who even as he sat leant upon a stick, pointed towards the setting sun, whose rays were shedding a golden light upon the sleeping sea.

“Whenever I see a thing like that, Mrs. Marston, I feel in my heart, deep, deep down, that God is with us, and that I, Jim Manning, the old broken-down, poverty-stricken trader of Anouda, has as much share in His goodness and blessed love as the Pope o’ Borne or the Archbishop o’ Canterbury. See how He has preserved you, and directed that schooner to drift here to Anouda, instead of her going ashore on one of the Solomon Islands, where you and all with you would have been killed by savage cannibals and never been heard of again.”

Amy Marston left her seat, came over to the old man, and kneeling beside him, placed her hands on his.

“Mr. Manning, whenever a ship does come, will you and your sons come away with me to Samoa, and live with me and the kind friends of whom I have told you. Ah, you have been so good to me and my baby that I would feel very unhappy if, when a ship comes and I leave Anouda, you were to stay behind. I am what is considered a fairly rich woman–”

“God bless you, my child—for you are only a child, although you are a widow and have a baby—but you must not tempt me. I shall never leave Anouda. I have lived here for five-and-thirty years, and shall die here. I am now past seventy-six years of age, and every evening when the sun is setting, as it is setting now, I sit in front of my little house and watch it as I smoke my pipe, and feel more and more content and nearer to God. Now, Mrs. Marston, I must be going home. Where is Lilo?’’