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_ DURING the morning of the day which dawned upon the events just
recounted, we remained a little to leeward of the harbour, waiting
the appearance of the consul, who had promised the mate to come off
in a shore boat for the purpose of seeing him.
By this time the men had forced his secret from the cooper, and the
consequence was that they kept him continually coming and going from
the after-hold. The mate must have known this; but he said nothing,
notwithstanding all the dancing and singing, and occasional fighting
which announced the flow of the Pisco.
The peaceable influence which the doctor and myself had heretofore
been exerting, was now very nearly at an end.
Confident, from the aspect of matters, that the ship, after all, would
be obliged to go in; and learning, moreover, that the mate had said
so, the sailors, for the present, seemed in no hurry about it;
especially as the bucket of Bungs gave such generous cheer.
As for Bembo, we were told that, after putting him in double irons,
the mate had locked him up in the captain's state-room, taking the
additional precaution of keeping the cabin scuttle secured. From this
time forward we never saw the Mowree again, a circumstance which will
explain itself as the narrative proceeds.
Noon came, and no consul; and as the afternoon advanced without any
word even from the shore, the mate was justly incensed; more
especially as he had taken great pains to keep perfectly sober
against Wilson's arrival.
Two or three hours before sundown, a small schooner came out of the
harbour, and headed over for the adjoining island of Imeeo, or
Moreea, in plain sight, about fifteen miles distant. The wind
failing, the current swept her down under our bows, where we had a
fair glimpse of the natives on her decks.
There were a score of them, perhaps, lounging upon spread mats, and
smoking their pipes. On floating so near, and hearing the maudlin
cries of our crew, and beholding their antics, they must have taken
us for a pirate; at any rate, they got out their sweeps, and pulled
away as fast as they could; the sight of our two six-pounders, which,
by way of a joke, were now run out of the side-ports, giving a fresh
impetus to their efforts. But they had not gone far, when a white
man, with a red sash about his waist, made his appearance on deck,
the natives immediately desisting.
Hailing us loudly, he said he was coming aboard; and after some
confusion on the schooner's decks, a small canoe was launched
over-hoard, and, in a minute or two, he was with us. He turned out to
be an old shipmate of Jermin's, one Viner, long supposed dead, but
now resident on the island.
The meeting of these men, under the circumstances, is one of a
thousand occurrences appearing exaggerated in fiction; but,
nevertheless, frequently realized in actual lives of adventure.
Some fifteen years previous, they had sailed together as officers of
the barque Jane, of London, a South Seaman. Somewhere near the New
Hebrides, they struck one night upon an unknown reef; and, in a few
hours, the Jane went to pieces. The boats, however, were saved; some
provisions also, a quadrant, and a few other articles. But several of
the men were lost before they got clear of the wreck.
The three boats, commanded respectively by the captain, Jermin, and
the third mate, then set sail for a small English settlement at the
Bay of Islands in New Zealand. Of course they kept together as much
as possible. After being at sea about a week, a Lascar in the
captain's boat went crazy; and, it being dangerous to keep him, they
tried to throw him overboard. In the confusion that ensued the boat
capsized from the sail's "jibing"; and a considerable sea running at
the time, and the other boats being separated more than usual, only
one man was picked up. The very next night it blew a heavy gale; and
the remaining boats taking in all sail, made bundles of their oars,
flung them overboard, and rode to them with plenty of line. When
morning broke, Jermin and his men were alone upon the ocean: the
third mate's boat, in all probability, having gone down.
After great hardships, the survivors caught sight of a brig, which
took them on board, and eventually landed them at Sydney.
Ever since then our mate had sailed from that port, never once hearing
of his lost shipmates, whom, by this time, of course, he had long
given up. Judge, then, his feelings when Viner, the lost third mate,
the instant he touched the deck, rushed up and wrung him by the hand.
During the gale his line had parted; so that the boat, drifting fast
to leeward, was out of sight by morning. Reduced, after this, to
great extremities, the boat touched, for fruit, at an island of which
they knew nothing. The natives, at first, received them kindly; but
one of the men getting into a quarrel on account of a woman, and the
rest taking his part, they were all massacred but Viner, who, at the
time, was in an adjoining village. After staying on the island more
than two years, he finally escaped in the boat of an American whaler,
which landed him at Valparaiso. From this period he had continued to
follow the seas, as a man before the mast, until about eighteen
months previous, when he went ashore at Tahiti, where he now owned the
schooner we saw, in which he traded among the neighbouring islands.
The breeze springing up again just after nightfall, Viner left us,
promising his old shipmate to see him again, three days hence, in
Papeetee harbour. _
Read next: PART I: CHAPTER XXVI. WE ENTER THE HARBOUR--JIM THE PILOT
Read previous: PART I: CHAPTER XXIV. OUTBREAK OF THE CREW
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