CHAPTER III—THE RETURN TO THE KERMADEC
As they rowed making for the schooner with the light of the westering sun in their eyes, they could see the head of the swimmer as he made back for the shore, and away on the beach near the trees they could see the great gulls congregated around the forms of the four dead men, a boiling of wings above the reef line and against the evening blue of the sky.
Predatory gulls when feeding on a carcase do not sit and gorge, they are always in motion more or less, especially when they are in great numbers as now. Far at sea and maybe from a hundred miles away guests were still arriving for the banquet spread by death—late comers whose voices went before them sharp on the evening wind, or came up against it weak, remote and filled with suggestions of hunger and melancholy.
“God’s truth,” said the beachcomber, spitting as he rowed.
They were coming on towards the ship and it was the first word spoken.
They had defeat behind them, and even if it were only momentary defeat, ahead of them lay explanations. How would the remainder of the crew take the killing of Sru and his companions? There was also the fact that they had lost four divers.
The Kermadec was close to them now but not a soul showed on her deck, not even Le Moan, who on sighting the returning boat had slipped into the galley where she sat crouched in a corner by the copper with eyes closed as if asleep.
She had told the fellows below that she would warn them on the return of the boat. She had forgotten her promise, her mind was far away, travelling, circling in a nebulous world like a bird lost in a fog, questing for a point to rest on. She knew well that though the boat was returning, this was not the end of things. To-morrow it would all begin again, the destroyed canoes, the implacable firing from the boat; the face of Rantan as he pushed off all told her this. Crouching, with closed eyes, she heard the oars, the slight grinding of the boat as it came alongside and the thud of bare feet as Carlin came over the side on to the deck. No voices.
The beachcomber had taken in the situation at a glance, the crew were down below, smoking or sleeping, leaving the schooner to look after herself. It was just as well—down there they would have heard nothing of the distant firing, seen nothing of the killing. He knew kanakas, knew as well as though he had been told that as soon as he and Rantan had pushed off, the crew had taken charge of the foc’sle.
Leaving Rantan to tie up, he went below to the cabin for some food, where, a moment later, the mate joined him.
In a few minutes, their hunger satisfied, they began to speak and almost at once they were wrangling.
“Shooting up the lagoon—well, you’ve shot it up and much good it has done us,” said Carlin. “I’m not against killing, but seems to me the killing has been most on their side. What’s the use of talking? It will take a year at this game to do any good and how are you to manage it from the boat?”
“To-morrow,” said Rantan, “I’ll move the ship up, anchor her off that village and then we’ll see. Chaps won’t come swimming out to attack a ship, and we can pot them from the deck till they put their hands up. We’ve no time to wipe them all off, but I reckon a few days of the business will break them up and once a kanaka is broken, he’s broken.”
Carlin without replying got into his bunk and stretching at full length, lit his pipe; as he flung the Swedish match box to Rantan, a sound from the deck above like the snap of a broken stick, made him raise his eyes towards the skylight. Rantan, the box in his hand paused for a moment, then the sound not being repeated, he lit his pipe.
Throwing the box back to the other he came on deck.
The deck was still empty, but the spear that had been leaning against the rail was gone. Rantan did not notice this, he came forward passing the galley without looking in and stopped at the foc’sle hatch to listen.
One of the strange things about sea-going kanakas is their instinct to get together in any old hole or corner out of sight of the deck, the sea, the land and the sky, and in an atmosphere that would choke a European, frowst.
The fellows below were just waking up after a catnap and the fume of Blue Bird, the old tobacco of the old Pacific days sold at two cents a stick, was rising from the hatch mixed with the sound of voices engaged in talk; they had heard nothing of the firing, if they had they would not have bothered; they had no idea of the fate of Sru and his companions, if they had they would not have much cared. Time was, for these men, the moment; unspeculative as birds they took life with a terrible light-heartedness scarcely human in its acceptance of all things: blows or bananas, the righteousness or the rascality of the white man.
Rantan rapped on the hatch and called on them to tumble up. Then when he had them all on deck, the sunset on their faces and fear of what he might say to them for leaving the schooner to take charge of herself in their hearts, he began to talk to them as only he knew how.
Not a word of abuse. The natives of this island were bad men who had treacherously killed Sru and his companions who had landed to talk with them. In return, he, Rantan, had killed many of them and destroyed their canoes. To-morrow he intended to bring the ship further up towards the village, and with the speak-sticks kill more of them. Meanwhile the crew could go below and enjoy themselves as they liked, leaving one on deck to keep watch on the weather. There was no danger from the beach as all the canoes had been destroyed. Then he dismissed them and went aft.