CHAPTER V
THE “TALOFA” IN UKULA
AFTER dinner all the officers of the “Sitka,” as was the custom, took chairs upon the quarter-deck. Phil and Sydney, having finished their unpacking, had joined the circle. The subject of conversation was the course of local events. All looked forward with ill concealed delight at the prospects of active service.
“These natives are great fighters,” Ensign Patterson exclaimed admiringly, “only they don’t know the rules of the game. A few hundred white men could hold their own against as many thousand.”
“Don’t bank too much on that argument if you are lucky enough to command a company of sailors ashore,” Lieutenant Sargeant returned thoughtfully. “The Herzovinian sailors some years ago were defeated and many killed because their leader underrated the soldierly ability of the Kapuan warrior.”
“It’s certainly a travesty on our civilization.” The doctor joined in the general conversation. “Here are three war-ships, each with a couple of hundred good rifle shots. There are probably all told ten thousand warriors in the islands. As far as I can learn, two of these war-ships are pulling for Panu-Mafili and one for Kataafa. If we all three got together and told the natives to go peaceably to their homes, and then if we proceeded to quietly decide to agree upon something—well, useless spilling of blood could be averted, at any rate.”
“The trouble with your argument is, doctor,” Lieutenant Sargeant replied, “that it’s too far up in the clouds. Remember we’re all human and living on the earth together. All three nations covet these islands. Some day one will get them, so the question is simply which?”
“Why should we be interested?” Phil inquired modestly. “We have no trade here, and but a handful of our countrymen live in the islands.”
“And most of them,” Lieutenant Sargeant replied, “are people one cannot be proud to acknowledge. But our real interest is to get a coaling station here. Tua-Tua is a fine land-locked harbor, and is on the steamer route from both San Francisco and Panama to New Zealand and Australia. Herzovinia may have all the rest if we can hold the island of Kulila with the harbor of Tua-Tua. That’s why we have a war-ship here.”
“What does England want out of it?” Ensign Patterson inquired.
“England,” Lieutenant Sargeant answered, “is interested to see that Herzovinia does not grab too much. Through England’s help we may be able to get Tua-Tua; without it, against the Herzovinian diplomacy, we should get nothing.”
“The natives of Kapua stand to lose in any case,” Sydney remarked. “I for one would like to see the natives remain independent, and hope that this will be the time when all hands ‘bust’ in their calculations.”
The captain of the British cruiser had been paying a visit to Commander Tazewell, and Phil, on duty as junior officer of the watch, was called upon an hour later to see that the English captain’s gig was manned for him at the gangway.
The two commanders stood in the shadow of the poop-deck conversing in low, serious tones. Phil had found that the boat was ready alongside and had advanced to report. The figure of a man, also in the shadow, his body bent forward in a listening attitude, caught his eye. Phil stopped, and at once the man drew back and walked silently away. Phil crossed over to investigate the identity of the evident eavesdropper. Suddenly from the gloom of the deck the captain’s orderly appeared.
“Were you looking for me, sir?” the sailor said respectfully.
Phil hesitated. He was on the point of denouncing him as an eavesdropper.
“I thought I heard you call, sir,” the sailor added apologetically. “I was on a message forward for the captain.”
“Yes, report to the captain that the English gig is at the gangway,” Phil ordered. The midshipman decided he had confronted the wrong man. “Did you pass any one as you came aft?” he asked as an afterthought.
“Yes, sir,” the orderly replied readily. “Just there a man passed going forward. I took him for one of the electrical gang. He came out of the cabin, I think.”
The orderly crossed the deck, saluted stiffly and made his report. The two captains walked slowly toward the gangway. Phil took his place to the left of the regular officer of the deck.
“Good-night,” the Englishman said, his hand to his cap. “You’ll find us ready when you say the word, Tazewell,” he added in a loud aside as he briskly descended the ladder to his boat.
Phil hesitated whether to tell the captain of his suspicions. The man might have been an electrician, as the orderly had said. Phil crossed over to the exact spot where he had seen the man stand and tried to strike the same attitude. An electric globe light fixture was above his head, but it was not lighted. He reached up and turned the switch. The light did not burn. That was why the deck there was in shadow. The man must have been an electrician who was examining the fixture. The thing was so simple that Phil tried to dismiss the incident from his mind.
“What is that orderly’s name?” he asked of the boatswain’s mate of the watch.
“Schultz,” Boatswain’s Mate O’Neil replied. “He’s a ‘sea-lawyer’[12] too, Mr. Perry. Ain’t worth his ration of ‘salt-horse’[13] either.”
“Then why does the captain keep him as his orderly?” Phil asked.
“Search me, sir, except he’s a good parrot for messages,” O’Neil suggested. “An orderly, you know, sir, hasn’t any use for brains. He’s just telegraph wire.”
Phil smiled at O’Neil’s analogy.
“Schultz,” he thought. “I’d feel surer that it wasn’t he if his name had suggested some other nationality. But then there are a lot of such names in our navy.”
Other and more stirring incidents drove Schultz from Phil’s mind.
Phil and the officer of the deck, Lieutenant Morrison, were pacing the quarter-deck scarcely twenty minutes later. The older officer was one to whom the midshipman had immediately taken a great fancy. He was a man of strong character and even temper, and probably ten years the lad’s senior in both age and experience.
“It looks as if the Kapuan volcano were going to erupt again, Mr. Perry,” he said in his quiet, thoughtful way. “There’s been peace among the natives for nearly five years, and they are in prime condition to be stirred into a war. The triple government has succeeded under a strong native king. The dead monarch, Laupepe, was really a highly educated savage. Now there is only one native with sufficient influence to avert a war, and he is too partial to Herzovinia to be acceptable to either our country or England. You know we have our eye on Tua-Tua as a coaling station, and if Kataafa becomes king our opportunity of acquiring that harbor will vanish in smoke.”
“Do you believe there will be a war?” Phil asked eagerly. “Will the sailors be landed to fight against the natives?”
“It’s been done before,” Lieutenant Morrison replied. “It really seems a heartless thing to do, but that is the only means of enforcing your will on a savage. Force is the only argument he understands. Kataafa has established his government at Kulinuu Point, you know, and sent out word to all the islands for his adherents to gather. It’s unlikely that he will give in peaceably if the chief justice’s decision is against him. Of course it is no secret who is supporting him in his attitude. The Kapuan firm under Klinger is his banker.”
“There’s a sailing vessel just beyond the breakers, sir,” the quartermaster on watch reported from the after bridge. “She’s not carrying lights and seems to be heading for the entrance.”
Both officers strained their eyes in an endeavor to make out more plainly a dim shape which the quartermaster’s trained eyes had discovered. Phil’s thoughts went back at once to the schooner seen from Alice’s Mission Hill, far out on the ocean.
“Only a trading schooner,” Lieutenant Morrison pronounced as he focussed his night binoculars upon the ill-defined silhouette of a large schooner under full canvas. “By George, she’s coming through in yachtsman’s style. Not a sheet started, in a stiff breeze too, and not five hundred yards from the reef.
“There! She shortens sail,” he exclaimed admiringly. “Her skipper knows the harbor, that’s certain, or he wouldn’t be taking such chances.”
The sailing vessel was plainly seen to take in all her sails almost at the same time, and the next minute she was in the narrow channel between the barrier reefs upon which the sea was breaking heavily.
“Can it be the ‘Talofa’?” Phil asked excitedly. “Captain ‘Bully’ Scott’s ship?”
Lieutenant Morrison had sent word to the captain of the arrival of a strange sail, and now he waited her nearer approach to “hail” her.
Twice the lieutenant’s hail of inquiry was ignored. The schooner was now abreast, her speed materially decreased, yet still traveling smartly through the water.
“The ‘Talofa’ schooner from Fiji, Captain Scott in command.” The answer was bold and distinct.
“By Jove! How did you guess it?” the lieutenant exclaimed. Then he answered the “Talofa’s” inquiry.
Commander Tazewell had come up from below and stood at the side of the officer of the deck.
“Let Mr. Perry board her,” he ordered quietly, and as the officer of the deck moved away to give the boatswain’s mate the order to call away the running boat, Commander Tazewell gave Phil some instructions as to his conduct to the captain of the merchant ship.
“Scott disclaims American nationality,” he said. “I hear he now flies the Herzovinian flag. You must go on board under the impression that he is an American and therefore under the control of our consul while in the harbor. Ask him of what his cargo consists. I must leave the rest to your good judgment.”
Commander Tazewell waited until he heard the rattle of anchor chain as the schooner anchored, then returned to his cabin, while Phil took command of the boat.
“To the schooner,” he said, turning to the sailor in the coxswain’s box. “Is that you, O’Neil?” he exclaimed in some surprise.
“Yes, sir. I happened to be handy, so Mr. Morrison told me to get in. The regular coxswain wasn’t on deck,” O’Neil replied. “I’ve been hearing of this fellow ‘Bully’ Scott ashore. All the natives say he’s bringing arms for the Kapuan firm, to be sold to Kataafa. These natives are like women; they can’t keep secrets; it ain’t in them.”
“Why does he come into Ukula, then?” Phil asked.
“Oh, that’s like ‘Bully’ Scott. He could have taken them anywhere else, but he enjoys doing something unexpected,” O’Neil answered admiringly.
“He has probably then already landed his guns,” Phil said, disappointedly. “Of course, that’s the explanation. His guilty cargo is no longer on board to convict him.”
O’Neil steered the boat alongside the schooner’s sea ladder, and Phil swung himself over the low rail. Everything was in darkness around him.
“Bring that lantern here, you lazy black rascal,” a big, hearty voice called, and from the darkness Phil saw take shape a figure that he could have avowed to be that of a Puritan father or a missionary bishop. A tall man, elderly, dressed in dark clothes, a flowing gray beard sweeping his expansive chest. The lantern, brought quickly by the “black rascal,” showed a handsome and benevolent countenance.
“I am delighted to see you, sir,” he said courteously and in a voice so refined as to fairly startle Phil.
“Are you the captain?” the lad stammered, as he accepted the proffered hand.
“At your service, sir. Captain ‘Bully’ Scott is the name by which I’m known in these waters.”
Phil took a firmer grip upon himself. How much easier he would have found his task if Captain Scott had been in appearance the pirate he had pictured him.
“My captain, Commander Tazewell, of the cruiser ‘Sitka,’ sends his compliments and wishes a little information. The usual boarding information, you know.”
“Walk aft, sir,” Captain Scott requested politely. “You are welcome to the information,” he continued as he placed the lantern on the deck table between them, “but I take it, Commander Tazewell supposed my ship was sailing under American colors.”
Phil hesitated how to reply. The benevolent eyes were upon him.
“I can’t say as to that,” the lad replied slowly, “but the general impression I got was that you were an American citizen.”
The lantern shed a dim light over the narrow deck space. The native sailors were busily furling the massive sails. Phil heard the rhythmical sound of oars in their rowlocks; other boats were approaching the “Talofa.” He heard the scraping of a boat alongside and the heavy breathing of a man climbing up the ship’s side. Captain Scott had left the midshipman to investigate the new arrivals. He had made as yet no reply to the young officer’s insinuating remark.
“Why on earth did you enter the harbor?” he heard the newcomer exclaim as he swung his leg over the rail. Phil recognized the decidedly foreign accents of Klinger’s voice.
“Aha!” Phil thought. “Not so innocent after all.”
Scott answered the question in a strange tongue, and Phil saw Klinger glance quickly in his direction.
Phil’s eye as he attentively listened had been fixed upon the compass binnacle near him. He noted a bar of iron jammed closely against it and apparently tied in that position.
“Queer manner of correcting a compass,” he thought.
The two men at the gangway continued to talk. Phil recognized the language to be Kapuan, of which he could not understand a word.
“To-morrow morning, then, I shall be ashore,” Captain Scott said finally in English. “When will my cargo be ready?”
“It’s ready now at the plantations,” Klinger answered also in English. “You’ve got to go for it.” Then he lapsed again into Kapuan. After a few more minutes the man again climbed down the schooner’s side and into his boat, then Captain Scott walked aft to join Phil, while Klinger’s boat pulled swiftly toward the shore.
“I’m under contract with the Kapuan firm,” Captain Scott said pleasantly. “That was the manager, Klinger. He is a very disagreeable fellow, and I shall be glad to finish my business with him and be off.”
Phil saw there could be nothing further learned from Captain Scott, yet he was firmly convinced from Klinger’s remark that something had miscarried. There were a number of questions, however, usual in boarding an arriving vessel, which he proceeded to ask the captain.
“Under what flag are you sailing?” Phil inquired.
“Herzovinian,” Captain Scott replied readily.
“You have no contraband on board?” the midshipman asked suddenly, his eyes riveted upon the sea-captain’s face.
Captain Scott’s benign smile returned.
“Young man, there’s no longer any profit in firearms.—Is that why your captain was so prompt to send his officer aboard?” he asked, laughing as if he enjoyed the joke immensely. “And besides, with the entire island available for a vessel of the ‘Talofa’s’ draft, Captain Scott would not be likely to sail into Ukula with a cargo of arms; not while there are three consuls ashore, and as many war-ships at anchor in the harbor. My cargo consists of cotton cloth and canned stuffs for the ‘firm,’ and I return to Fiji with a load of ‘copra.’”
“What is that bar of iron alongside the compass?” Phil asked curiously. He was firmly convinced that Klinger and Captain Scott were partners in some unlawful trade, but for the life of him could not see how he could drag from this benevolent host, albeit pirate and smuggler, information upon which action could be taken.
Captain Scott eyed the bar of steel. Phil thought he discerned a slight start, at least a hesitancy in his manner.
“That,” the captain replied, “is one of my mate’s clever ideas in correcting the compass. I don’t know where he learned it, but it seems very effective.”
Phil called to his boat, thanked Captain Scott, and was soon returning to the “Sitka.”
After he had gone Captain Scott tore the steel bar savagely from the compass. Then he walked forward to the forecastle. His sailors had about finished stowing the sails.
“Stump,” he called. He glanced about the deck. There was no one there. He picked up his mate’s hat from the spot where the man had fallen under the blow from Captain Scott’s fist. He turned toward several natives who were on the point of going below, their work finished.
“Find Mr. Stump,” he ordered anxiously. “Look for him at once.” He himself hurried about the ship, seeking him in every dark corner; but Stump could not be found.
“The ungrateful dog!” he cried in a fearful rage. Captain “Bully” Scott now showed his true colors. He raved and stormed. The natives cowered away from him. The steel bar in his hand was waved above his head menacingly.
“If I ever get him on board here again I’ll smash him into an unrecognizable blot on the deck,” he raved. “He’s gone! He brought the ‘Talofa’ into Ukula with this bar of steel! He’s probably boasting at this minute how he did it.” He shook his fist at the war-ship, whose lights blazed brightly several hundred yards away. “It’s a race with ‘Bully’ Scott,” he exclaimed. “You think you have me cornered. To-morrow, or even to-night, you will have the story from my sneaking mate. Then you will search and discover the arms; but I’ll fool you yet.”
A swiftly propelled boat swung up alongside the schooner. A tall man swung himself with no apparent muscular effort over the rail and stood in the darkness seeking some one on the schooner.
Captain Scott, still beside himself with rage, spied the newcomer. His rage subsided. Again the benevolent expression returned to his face while a native quickly brought forward the lantern and revealed the face of Count Rosen.
“Has the American officer gone?” the count asked hastily, glancing covertly around.
Captain Scott nodded. “Asked if I had contraband and seemed satisfied when I told him if I had I should hardly have brought them into Ukula when there were other ports in the island free and open.”
The count’s face showed perplexity. Was this American merchant captain deceiving him and Klinger? “Why did you come into Ukula?” he asked.
Captain Scott chuckled. “A little stratagem, count. You see, Klinger wrote to go to Saluafata, but the ‘Talofa’ preferred Ukula. We have until daylight to land our cargo. The war-ship will not think we can do anything before morning. I told Klinger to send over his barges quietly at once.”
The count was not satisfied. He did not share the optimism of Captain Scott.
With a curt bow he returned to his boat and swiftly rowed toward the Herzovinian cruiser. As he stepped upon the deck, an officer and several sailors of the watch met him. They saluted with deep respect.
“I wish to see your captain upon important business,” he announced. He was conducted at once to the cabin.
He remained in consultation only a few minutes. When he returned accompanied by the captain, a war-ship’s boat was manned, a young officer in command. Count Rosen bowed graciously to the attentive captain and entered the boat, sending ashore his own after paying the helmsman liberally.
The boat pulled close under the bows of the American cruiser, on its way to the schooner. The count noticed a war-ship’s boat ready manned at the gangway. From the schooner came faint sounds of men laboring. They had already begun to open the hatches.
Half-way to the schooner a noise as of a swimmer caught the count’s attentive ear.
“What is that?” he asked the young officer. At the word of command the men stopped rowing. Scarcely fifty yards away appeared a man’s head; he was making rather feeble progress through the water. The boat was quickly brought alongside the swimmer and the man hauled on board.
A lantern was held up to his face. It was pale and haggard. The man was almost exhausted. The count noticed that the swimmer’s face was much swollen and discolored, as if from a blow. Even in the tropical air his teeth chattered and speech was nearly impossible. The count took off his own cape and wrapped it about the trembling figure. Then the boat pulled for the schooner, several hundred yards away.
The officer and three men scrambled on board. Two small lighters were lying alongside the “Talofa,” and a score of “blacks” were making ready to discharge her cargo.
The count asked a hurried question. The young officer in his party saluted and answered in the affirmative, pointing to a bundle under his arm. The boat waited until a fluttering flag rose slowly to the peak of the main gaff. It was too dark to distinguish the markings, but the count knew that the situation had been saved. The “Talofa” was under the protection of his navy’s flag.
The count had hardly cleared the gangway before the “Sitka’s” boat rounded to under the schooner’s stern and shot alongside.
“If Captain Scott has sold out to his countrymen,” the count exclaimed to himself, “he will find it difficult to deliver the goods.”
At the dock he alighted. The rescued man was supported up to the hotel between two sailors.
Dry clothes were provided him and from his medicine chest the count administered a sleeping draught. Once snugly wrapped in blankets in one of the rooms of the count’s suite, and a native boy sleeping across the only exit, the count felt sure that the stranger would be on hand in the morning to explain the mystery of why a white man was swimming from the “Talofa” toward the “Sitka,” his face bruised and himself half exhausted. It would be worth all the trouble he had taken to know.
The count yawned. It was nearly midnight, and in the tropics one must be an early riser, for the heat of the morning sun does not conduce to refreshing sleep. He dismissed the sailors who had aided him. Then he shut his door and threw himself down on his couch to think.
After several minutes, he rose and penned two notes. Sealing them, he called one of the attendant natives.
“Take this one at once,” he directed; “the other,” he added to himself, “can wait until early to-morrow morning.”
The native bowed and disappeared upon his errand.