Chapter IX: A Fleet of the Dead

Men had been left in the boats in charge of the war-rocket apparatus, and as the invaders dashed onwards along the beach, rocket after rocket tore through their midst.

I do not know anything more disconcerting to savage warriors, who nearly always charge in a compact body, than these terrible rockets.

Meanwhile the native defenders, acting on the advice of Captain Antonio, had betaken themselves to the bush, as if in headlong flight.

Concealed by the trees, however, they ran on, and actually passed the invaders.

Then a halt was called.

Antonio had formed his men, about thirty in number, into a rallying square, and when still at a distance of four hundred yards, they opened fire upon the savages with deadly precision.

Many a black-skin fell on the coral sands, never to move again, and very many more were wounded.

But nothing could stem their wild rush. Once, indeed, they paused for a minute or two to fire a volley.

Antonio’s men, seeing their intention, threw themselves flat on the ground just as they took aim, and the bullets from those Brummagem rifles went harmlessly whistling through the air.

The savages now threw down their guns, apparently determined to end the fight with club and spear and sword.

Again their wild slogans rent the air; once more a telling volley was fired; once more two rockets tore through their ranks. Then Antonio, knowing the futility of standing up with so small a force against six hundred demons incarnate, quickly gave the order, and he and his men disappeared in the bush.

Here, protected from the spears that might be hurled against them, they could fire from behind every tree.

They had only time, however, to fire one good volley, when the chief of the invading savages seemed to give orders for his wild warriors to take the bush, even in face of Antonio’s deadly, though desultory fire.

But, see, a dark cloud has suddenly appeared in the rear of the enemy. It is the king and his men, who have emerged from the bush.

Indecision marks the conduct of the invading savages now.

Another war-rocket comes roaring from the boats, another, and still another follows.

One more withering volley is fired from the bush.

Then Antonio, waving his sword aloft, shouts--

“Now, brave boys! Now is our time. Fix bayonets. At them with the steel. Charge!”

They did charge with a true British cheer, and with true British vim.

Those bayonets made terrible havoc in the enemy’s ranks, so did Antonio’s sword, and the revolvers of our young heroes.

Hard would it have gone, however, with Antonio’s men, had not at the most critical moment--for Antonio himself had tripped and fallen, and a hulking savage was kneeling on his breast, shortening his assegai to stab him--the king’s men rushed on to the combat.

The savage kneeling on Antonio, Davie Drake complacently shot.

He leapt up, and falling back against another, brought him to the ground. Before he could recover, a ball from Barclay’s six-shooter relieved him of the trouble of ever getting up again.

The fighting between the king’s men and the invaders now became desperate--terrible.

The sickening thuds of the death-dealing clubs, the cracking of revolvers, the shouts and screams and cries of agony, are all too difficult to describe graphically.

The foe was beaten at last, not without loss on the side of the king, while Antonio had three men slain and ten wounded, more or less severely.

Among the latter was Barclay himself, who had received a spear wound through the shoulder.

As in all savage warfare, the enemy was completely wiped out--not a man of the invading force was left alive.

Antonio was to all intents and purposes a skilled surgeon, if not physician, and he now had not only his own wounded, but those of the king, carefully conveyed to the village huts, after their wounds had been temporarily seen to.

Barclay was carefully attended by his friend Davie Drake. The boy refused to go on board for the present. The pain of his wound, however, was so intense that he seemed to writhe in agony. No one had fought more bravely than Davie; but now as he beheld the sufferings of his dearest friend, the tears rolled over his face, and he made no attempt to check them either.

But Antonio was nothing unless original in his ideas.

Fearing, then, that the king’s people would be tempted to renew their cannibalism, he requested him to withdraw his men entirely, and encamp them around his own palace, leaving him, Antonio, a free hand to deal with the enemy’s dead.

He despatched a boat and twenty men to bring round the ship.

This they speedily did, and there was still three hours of daylight to complete the operations he had in hand.

It was a strange idea.

He might have buried the invaders’ dead in the bush; but cannibals will dig men out of their graves, to feast on their flesh.

He explained his intentions to the two mates.

“Capital,” said Webber, smiling.

“Bedad,” said the second mate, “it’s the foinest plan ever I heard tell of for many’s the day.”

There was a good breeze blowing from the east and south, and a strong current running north towards the very islands whence the invaders had come in their little boats. As speedily as possible these were now laden up with the dead, and fastened together by ropes. Then sail was set, and a quarter of this dead-laden flotilla was towed out, and cast off in the current. Antonio was delighted to see this awesome fleet move slowly northwards.

Back they came again and again; and just as the sun was rapidly westering, the last of the boats, with the mangled remains of the enemy, were cast adrift in the ocean currents.

They had left in health and glee, to destroy, as they thought they would, an old enemy, and capture his island, his chattels, his goods, his wives and children. But--terrible retribution--canoe after canoe would strike their islands, and bear to their very doors their sadly mangled corpses.

The dead of the king’s men were next buried.

“They buried them darkly at dead of night,
The sods with their bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.”

This is not quite correct. There were no lanterns, but a full moon, that one could have seen to read the smallest type by.

The graves were dug deeply, near the edge of the sea, during a receding tide, and there they were laid to rest for ever and for aye.

Miss Leona was there, and while around the open graves Antonio and his men stood with bared heads, she read the beautiful service of the English Church for the dead.

Nay, nay, not dead, we trust, but gone before. For Christians, though of the simplest kind, were these poor fellows--just children grown up. That was all. But Christ our risen Lord loved children, and He loves all who are innocent, even should ignorance be combined with that innocence.

And now the graves are speedily covered in. When the tide returns it will efface all tell-tale marks, and the last resting-place of those brave fellows, who died in defence of their native island, will never be known.

* * * * *

“Why, sir,” said Davie Drake suddenly to Captain Antonio, “I----”

“Well, dearie?”

“Do you know what we’ve done?”

“We’ve done so much that I hardly know what you refer to.”

“We have in our excitement forgotten all about poor Johnnie Smart!”

“Dear! dear!” said Antonio; and a search-party was instantly organised.

They found him at last under a banana tree, and at first they believed him dead.

He was still tied fast to the bamboo, but was only sleeping the sleep of exhaustion.

They undid the cords from his cut and swollen limbs, and some of the men wrapped their jackets round him, and quickly bore him to the beach.

It was not until some time after he had been taken on board, and placed in a warm bunk, that Johnnie recovered consciousness.

He sat partially up, supported by Antonio himself. Evidently he was only half awake.

“I say, you know--why--which I--what, _you_, Captain Antonio? Ha, ha, ha.

“Why, captain, I did have the drollest dream. I thought"--then his big mouth expanded in a broad smile, his eyes as usual sunk out of sight behind his fat cheeks, he bent back his head and exploded in a hearty laugh.

Antonio held a glass to his mouth, and he drank feverishly.

“Which I’ll tell you the dream to-morrow, captain,” he said; and sinking back on the pillow, he was soon fast asleep once more.

He was better and almost well when he awoke next forenoon; and scarcely could he be convinced for a time that his terrible adventure of the day before was not all a dream. But the reality came home to him at last, and he shuddered to think of the narrow escape he had had; then quickly recovering himself, laughed in the same old way, for nothing could alter Johnnie.

“Which there may be some nice pickin’s on me,” he told Davie Drake, “’cause I’m exstronar’ plump and beefy, ye know. But, lo! I don’t want to be trussed and eaten by they devils, you bet. ’Sides,” he added solemnly, “I’ve got a mother, and a granny, and a little sister; and, lo! Mr. Drake, if they were to hear o’ my bein’ cooked like a Christmas goose, widn’t they just--

“‘Let the tears doonfa’
For Jock o’ Hazeldean.’”

* * * * *

The wounded, including Barclay, did well. They were all on board ship. Awnings were spread for them fore and aft, and under these hammocks were hung; and no doubt it was the delightful and ozonic breath of the blue sea that helped to restore them and heal their wounds.

Antonio was the surgeon, but Leona was dresser and nurse; and poor little Teenie was busy enough also as a helper.

But every minute she could spare she spent by the couch-side of Barclay Stuart. His wound was more severe than had at first been dreamt of, for the spear appeared to have been poisoned.

Convalescence came at last, however--dreamy, sleepy, but happy convalescence.

Teenie, while nursing Barclay, seemed to be a changed being--child no longer, but an earnest, sympathising, loving wee woman. He wanted for nothing. Sometimes he would stretch out a hand to her, and she would hold it, and nurse it till he dropped gently off to sleep. She even had a muslin veil to throw over his cot and face, to guard him from the venomous mosquitoes.

When awake, Teenie would sit by his cot and read to him just the stories that she herself delighted in--sea tales such as “Tom Cringle’s Log,” and others from the writings of Russell, and Captain Marryat. For a whole month she never left the ship; but she waxed neither white nor ill. The monkeys were her constant companions. As for poor pussy, she never left her master’s cot, except to take food and a little run on deck.

Teenie was filled with joy when Barclay Stuart was at last able to get up and take exercise on the quarter-deck. He leant on the arm of his friend--his brother, I might almost say--Davie Drake. Teenie took his other arm; and pussy, looking very demure, brought up the rear.

In six weeks’ time all was well; every wounded man had recovered afloat and ashore, and everything was quiet in this lovely island paradise.

One month more and the _Zingara_ would set sail once again, and steer westward through the Pacific isles, visiting many of them, round the Cape of Good Hope, and so northward along the west coast of Africa, back to Merrie England--that was their intention.

I must here repeat, however, that there is nothing certain at sea--except the unexpected.