Chapter VII: She Sailed Away in the Middle Watch

So complete was the rout of the blackbirders, and so terrible a tale would the survivors have to tell when they returned to Australian waters, that many a long year, no doubt, would elapse before that blood-stained though beautiful island would be visited again.

I fear that a great carnival commenced on this very night, and that it lasted for days. Our people were glad to be out of it, and they had much to do. But as many of the bodies as could be recovered were taken out, by Stransom’s orders, and buried at sea. The cannibals might do what they pleased with their own dead. They would no doubt afford them decent interment after their own fashion.

The cannibals did, but over their orgies we must draw a curtain.

Only five of the blackbirders had escaped intact, and to these Stransom offered life and liberty if they would help to work the ship to the nearest British port.

They were only too glad to do so. As far as regards their share of blackbirding, they could hardly be called free agents. Allison himself was the only man who could have been brought to account. And he was gone.

Stransom and Fitzroy spent the next few weeks in determining the latitude and longitude, and studying the topography of the island, taking soundings, and surveying generally.

Very pleasant indeed were these little picnics, as the young people called them. They were made in the barque’s own boats. Stransom was an old sailor, and knew well the tricks and manners of the blackbirders. He knew that they would not hesitate to get up anchor and sail away with the ship if he gave them but half a chance. But he kept his weather eye lifting, and while cruising round the island he only left one hand on board.

Is it strange that Peggy felt really sorry when the time drew near when she would have to part for ever with the cannibal king? But she really was so.

This curious being, however, was offered his passage to England, if he chose to accept it.

“No,” he replied, in his broken English; “no goodee fo’ me. Plap Eenglan’ moochee too small place! Den ebery man haf on’y one wife. King Karoo stop ’long his people. When King Karoo too old, his people knockee on de head and truly bury him, plenty.”

“Bury him in the usual way, I suppose,” said Fitzroy, smiling.

“Plaps,” said the king, laconically.

Feeling perfectly safe now, the girl with Johnnie and their friend the dog made many excursions into the far interior of this beautiful island.

There were hills here of rare beauty, green wooded, almost to their summits, between which glimpses could be caught on every side of a sea more blue and lovely than any other in all this wide world--a sea in which many a little island was afloat apparently ’twixt ocean and sky, islands with white and silvery sands along the beach, but bedecked with many a waving tree-fern and feathery palm, among which fairies and elves must play in the starlight if any such there be in this world of ours.

No doubt those seas are wild and stormy enough at certain times and seasons. Indeed I myself have found them so, but placid and peaceful enough were they all the time our heroes were there.

The birds were numerous enough and beautiful, yet all but songless. Everywhere the flowers were gorgeous. And butterflies as large as fans, but far more radiant in their rainbow beauty, flitted from bush to bush revelling in the warm sunshine.

Being somewhat of a naturalist, Johnnie determined to make a collection of these. It is a delightful fancy, this of butterfly hunting, for although it is against my own principles to take life, or deprive a summer’s day of anything that is beautiful, still these creatures are numerous enough, and hardly suffer pain when caught and killed by pinching the thorax, or with chloroform.

Anyhow, with their nets, Peggy and Johnnie, sometimes Willie being with them, and always Ralph, spent many a happy hour.

But one day they wandered farther a-field than usual, and presently found themselves nearing a wood, where the trees were higher than any they had yet seen, and where there was but little undergrowth, the stems rising tall and pillar-like straight into the air, and mingling their palm-like leaves to form a canopy of green.

Had they taken the faithful hound’s advice they would have turned back at once, for he stopped at the entrance of the forest, and sniffed the air suspiciously, and it was with something like terror in his eyes, and with evident reluctance, that he followed his little master and mistress into the gloomy depths.

Nor was it long before the two became conscious of a sickly, death-like odour that went straight round their hearts.

Then all at once they found themselves in one of the most awful places that pen can describe, a temple built of human bones. They felt a kind of terrible fascination steal over them as they gazed with fear and terror at the walls around them.

Ghastly designs with long bones and spines and ribs, a fearful species of rude architecture; the walls of the avenue that led to the oval interior, the walls of the temple itself, and even a raised platform--no need to say for what dread purpose this had been built--all were built of human bones. Climbing wild flowers trailed here and there over the walls, little lizards crept in and out of eyeless sockets, and bright-winged birds perched innocently on rain-bleached skulls!

No wonder Peggy clutched Johnnie’s hand.

“Oh, lead me on, lead me out of this,” she cried.

It was a sight she would never forget, a sight she would dream of many a night in after life when on a bed of sickness. Ugh!

* * * * *

That very night Peggy McQueen formed a resolution. Some may call it a childish one. Perhaps it was, yet even from the mouths of babes and sucklings wisdom at times may come.

She would try to convert that blood-stained cannibal king.

She now spent an hour or two each day with him at his palace of huts, and surely no preacher ever expounded the doctrines of Christianity in language more simple and beautiful, yet forcible, than did our little heroine. Its loveliness, its truths, and its terrors, she told him all.

Did she succeed? Ah, that I cannot tell, but the king’s soul, it must be remembered, was like that of a little child. The souls of all savages are, and if the guileless prattle of child Peggy did not appeal to it and touch a chord, the sterner, though more learned logic of no missionary may hope to succeed.

The Wandering Minstrels gave one more performance the night before they left, and every one of Fitzroy’s troupe excelled himself and broke all former record.

Johnnie never felt in better form; Willie had never been so funny before; Peggy never sang nor played more sweetly; the giant’s great brass bassoon made echoes ring from tree to tree; then good-byes were spoken.

Fireflies were flitting from bush to bush, and moon and stars shone softly on the sea when the boats took all hands back to the barque.

When poor King Karoo looked seaward at sunrise next morning, never a sign of ship was there, nor on the distant horizon.

She had sailed away in the middle watch.

* * * * *

The owners of the blackbirding barque, which had been so cleverly captured off the cannibal island, served their own interests, I think, by denying all knowledge of her, when written to on the subject. She was a splendid clipper, and must have cost a deal to build. But she now became the property of her captors, and when paid off in Southampton waters, the black-bearded mate and his men were very glad to get off scot-free. They had not expected such leniency.

The vessel herself was sold at a good figure, and Stransom had his share, which was a good and a solid one. He disappears from our story, and so, too, does the barque.

Fitzroy and his people had their shares also, and Johnnie’s father was now able to set up as a music publisher in London.

He is there now, in winter that is. If you want to know where he is in summer, reader, you must read on.

* * * * *

Dr. Annandale was sitting in his easy-chair one summer evening, when his servant entered with a silver salver in his hand, on which lay a card with the simple inscription--

“REGINALD FITZROY.”

“Show him in, James.”

Next minute Fitzroy himself and Peggy, now a beautiful, ladylike girl of thirteen, entered.

The white-haired old physician rose, and bowing, prayed them to be seated.

“Is this to be my little patient?” he said. “She does not look ill.”

“No,” answered Fitzroy; “she is not ill, but we have a strange story to tell, which will interest you; at least I believe so.”

The doctor touched the bell.

“James,” he said, when the man re-entered, “I am not to be disturbed until I ring. Let callers wait. Now, Mr. Fitzroy, I am at your service.”

“You have been physician, I believe, for many years to Mrs. Wycliffe of Wycliffe Park here, in your neighbourhood?”

The doctor folded his thin white hands and leaned back complacently in his chair.

“For over twenty years,” he said.

“It is of her we would speak, doctor. And I must be brief. She had one child, sir?”

“Alas! yes, a dear, sweet little girl, who disappeared mysteriously, and was found many weeks afterwards at the bottom of a well.”

“Did--did you make a post-mortem, doctor?”

“I did.”

“Was there any evidence of foul-play?”

“Nothing that we could hinge a case upon. The poor little tot had wandered away and fallen into this terrible place. So we believe, at least.”

“Was there any birth-mark?”

“There was, or rather, had been before death, a curiously-shaped mark on the right arm above the elbow.”

“Did you find this mark on the little body which had fallen into or been thrown into a pit?”

“The body, sir, had lain too long to distinguish this. The identification was simple. The clothes and even trinkets were those the child had worn on the very morning of her disappearance.”

“Doctor, look at my adopted child here. Can you say that you have never clapped eyes on her before?”

The physician scrutinised Peggy for a short time.

“The same hair and eyes,” he said, slowly.

“Was the child found in the well auburn-haired?” asked Fitzroy.

“Ye--es, or brown-auburn, I _think_.”

“Bare your right arm, Peggy.”

The child did so, and the doctor started as if he had seen a ghost.

“Why--God have mercy on us, Mr. Fitzroy, this is Maggie Wycliffe back from the grave!”

“Now,” said Fitzroy, “will you listen patiently to my story and hers?”

And he told the doctor all.

The doctor, after hearing it, took several strides up and down the floor.

“We must be cautious,” he said at last, “how we break the news to--to Maggie’s mother. A shock might kill her. Even a shock of joy.”

“All this I leave to you, my dear sir. But you are convinced yourself now, that here stands Maggie Wycliffe, and convinced, too, of the terrible wrong that has been done her.”

“I see it all very, very clearly now.”

“Then I have nothing further to say at present, doctor, and shall take my leave. I have my part to play; you have yours. Good-night, sir.”

“Good-night, Mr. Fitzroy. Good-night, little Maggie.”

The meeting between Peggy, for I must continue to call her by this sweet name, and her mother, the gentle-faced old lady with the snow-white hair, whom the child had met in the park, was a very tender one.

There were tears in Mrs. Wycliffe’s eyes as she pressed the child to her heart, and tears in Peggy’s too.

“I’m going to live for your sake. I am going to try to make you happy, child.”

“And I will make you happy, mother.”

The word “mother” was a new one to Peggy, but it seemed a very, very fond one.

Fitzroy was so pleased when asked to take up his residence at the Park till things were settled. He lost no time about this settlement, notwithstanding, but placed the matter at once in his lawyer’s hands.

There was like to be some little trouble at first. The evil brother had held the estates of Creve for eight long years now, and he felt it hard to give them up. But so terrible was the evidence of his guilt that even his own solicitor advised him not to fight the case.

On the very next day after this advice had been vouchsafed, the unhappy man was found dead in his bed. It matters but little now what the verdict of the coroner was. He is gone, and we must hope that he is forgiven.

* * * * *

The estates of Creve in Devonshire, under the guardianship of her mother, are worth many thousands annually, and Peggy Wycliffe is the beautiful little mistress thereof, but somehow neither she nor her mother care to reside there, and so they are let.

* * * * *

My story is told--my “ower true” tale. And so the curtain drops.

Yet it seems but right that we should raise it again for a few moments to have one last look at our heroes and heroines.

Little Peggy McQueen or Wycliffe is very happy in her new home, and her mother is really renewing her youth. Sad it is that she is almost blind. She and her daughter are never parted. They may often be seen walking together in the beautiful park when the weather is fine, and always followed by that noble blood-hound, Ralph.

And there is one seat among the trees on which they very often rest. It is the rustic daïs on which Peggy was sitting with her dog that day, when quietly up behind her came the gentle lady with the snow-white hair.

Willie Randolph, Peggy’s old favourite, she is going to see frequently, also poor little Gourmie.

As for Molly. Oh, bless my soul, my dear young reader, I wouldn’t forget her for the world. She is a resident at Wycliffe now, and looks after the plate and the linen, and is just as happy as the twenty-first of June is long.

Molly says she is getting old. “_Getting_” you know, and Peggy smiles kindly on her when she says so. “And my poor back, Miss Peggy,” she says, “it do ache unkimmon sometimes, with that plaguey rheumatiz. But what can I expect, dear Missie. I be’s six-and-forty years o’ age. Ay, be I.”

I think myself that if Molly had said sixty-four instead of forty-six she would have been nearer the mark. The same figures, four and six, but the dear old lady had put the cart before the horse.

What matters it? Old Molly is happy.

Both Fitzroy and Johnnie are frequently down at Wycliffe enjoying a few days’ sport, for game abounds on the estate.

And right happy days these are. Johnnie is going into the Army. I am curious to know what sort of a soldier he will make. I shall keep my weather eye lifting, but I feel sure that if Johnnie doesn’t win the Victoria Cross it will be through no fault of Johnnie’s.

But the dear old life in wayside camp and caravan is not going to be altogether given up. No, because with her mother’s sanction Peggy is preparing for a grand tour right away from the beautiful New Forest in Hampshire to the wild grandeur of the Sutherland Highlands, far beyond the Caledonian Alps. Peggy’s caravan will be no longer the little one over the half-door of which she was leaning when we first made her acquaintance. It is to be the most spacious and the handsomest travelling car on the road, saloon-cabin and after-cabin. But Peggy’s mother will go also, and old Molly and Ralph as well.

Peggy has told me that she does not mean to do things by halves, and that not only shall Gourmie be one of the crew, but little Willie the violinist, and Fitzroy himself.

Will Johnnie be there? Was that what you asked? What a question, to be sure! If you asked Peggy herself, she would look at you in sweet surprise and say, “Why, of course. Caravan life would not be caravan life, nor a camp a camp, without Johnnie!”

I end by wishing them a happy cruise.

And you, my young reader, boy or girl, a happy Christmas, with a right merry and jolly New Year to follow!

Ta, ta!

LONDON AND GLASGOW, COLLINS’ CLEAR-TYPE PRESS

The “Forward” Series.

The Original Series, with Coloured Pictures. New Attractive Bindings, in Art Colours.

This Series of Books for Boys and Girls has been Edited by Herbert Hayens, author of “Under the Lone Star” and numerous other Books for Boys; and care has been taken to publish only what can be confidently placed in the hands of youth.

Each Book is printed from a new font of Clear Type.

54 Stepping Heavenward. Mrs. Prentiss
53 A Mystery of the Sea. Herbert Hayens
52 Old Jack. W. H. G. Kingston
51 Gisli, the Outlaw. Sir George Dasent
50 The Water-Babies. Charles Kingsley
49 Manor Pool Island. Harold Avery
47 Alice in Wonderland. Lewis Carroll
46 Will of the Mill. G. Manville Fenn
45 The Old Lieutenant and His Son. Norman MacLeod
44 Ungava. R. M. Ballantyne
43 What Katy Did. Susan Coolidge
42 What Katy Did at School. Susan Coolidge
41 Ned Myers. J. Fenimore Cooper
40 Tales from Shakespeare. Charles Lamb
39 Favourite Tales from Grimm.
38 Cousin Christine. Florence Dugdale
37 The Basket of Flowers.
36 Little Susie. Mrs. Prentiss
35 Fairy Tales from Andersen.
34 Fairy Tales from Grimm.
33 The Flower of the Family. Mrs. Prentiss
32 The Young Pilgrim. A.L.O.E.
31 The Three Midshipmen. W. H. G. Kingston
30 Audrey Marsh. E. Everett-Green
29 Young Peggy M’Queen. Dr. Gordon Stables
28 Delmayne’s Adventures. Bessie Marchant
27 Jack Fraser’s Adventures. Herbert Hayens
26 Stories from Grimm.
25 Stories from Andersen.
24 The Lost Jewel. A.L.O.E.
23 The Kopje Farm. William Johnson
22 The Captives of the Kaid. Bessie Marchant
21 The Quest of the Luck. Lewis Ramsden
20 The Lamplighter. M. S. Cummins
19 Gorilla Hunters. R. M. Ballantyne
18 Home Sunshine. C. D. Bell
17 Two Years before the Mast. R. H. Dana
16 Good Wives. L. M. Alcott
15 Little Women. L. M. Alcott
14 Manco, the Peruvian Chief. W. H. G. Kingston
13 Masterman Ready. Captain Marryat
12 The Scalp-Hunters. Captain Mayne Reid
11 Tom Brown’s School Days. Thomas Hughes
10 Feats on the Fiord. Harriet Martineau
9 Prince of the House of David. Rev. J. H. Ingraham
8 The Last of the Mohicans. J. Fenimore Cooper
7 Martin Rattler. R. M. Ballantyne
6 The Settlers in Canada. Captain Marryat
5 Danesbury House. Mrs. Henry Wood
4 The Rifle Rangers. Captain Mayne Reid
3 Peter the Whaler. W. H. G. Kingston
2 The Cruise of the Midge. Michael Scott
1 The Coral Island. R. M. Ballantyne

Additional Titles in Preparation.

London and Glasgow: Collins’ Clear-Type Press.