Willis the Pilot

CHAPTER XVII.

WHERE THERE'S A WILL THERE'S A WAY--MU­CIUS SCÆVOLA--WHAT'S TO BE DONE?--BRU­TUS TORQUA­TUS AND PE­TER THE GREAT--AUS­TRALIA, BOTANY BAY, AND THE FLY­ING DUTCH­MAN--NEW GUINEA AND THE BUC­CA­NEER--VAN­COU­VER'S IS­LAND--WHITE SKINS--DAN­GER OF LAND­ING ON A WAVE--HANGED OR DROWNED--ROUTE TO HAP­PI­NESS--OMENS.

The old saw, _Where there's a will there's a way_, means--if it means any­thing--that a great deal may be ef­fect­ed by en­er­gy. A man with­out en­er­gy is a help­less char­ac­ter, and in­vari­ably lags be­hind his fel­low mor­tals in the stream of life; like a cork in an ed­dy, he is re­buffed here and jos­tled there, and goes on trav­el­ling in a cir­cle to the end of the chap­ter. Not so the man of ac­tion; no jostling thwarts him, no re­buffs re­tard him; he breaks through all sorts of ob­sta­cles, and floats along with the cur­rent.

Such a man was Beck­er. Though sur­round­ed with dan­gers, and ha­rassed by the el­ements, al­most alone he had con­vert­ed a wilder­ness in­to fer­tile fields; he pur­sued the track that his judg­ment sug­gest­ed, and fol­lowed it up with in­vin­ci­ble res­olu­tion; he man­ful­ly re­sist­ed the sever­est tri­als, and cheer­ful­ly bore the heav­iest bur­dens; his re­liance on Truth or Virtue and on God were un­fal­ter­ing; but had he pro­vid­ed for ev­ery emer­gen­cy? Is mor­tal pow­er ca­pa­ble of over­com­ing ev­ery dif­fi­cul­ty? We shall see.

A day or two af­ter the en­ter­tain­ment at Rock­house, Beck­er whis­pered to the Pi­lot--

“Willis, take a ri­fle, and come along with me; I have some­thing to say to you.”

They walked a quar­ter of an hour or so with­out ut­ter­ing a word, when Willis broke the si­lence.

“You seem sad, Mr. Beck­er.”

“Yes, Willis, I am al­most dis­tract­ed.”

“Still, you seem well enough; you are as hale and hearty as if you had just been keel-​hauled and got a new rig.”

“It is not my body that is suf­fer­ing, Willis; it is my mind.”

“What­ev­er is the mat­ter?”

“Willis, _my wife is dy­ing_.”

And so it was. For a long pe­ri­od Beck­er's wife had been a prey to rack­ing pains, which, so to speak, she hid from her­self, the bet­ter to con­ceal them from oth­ers, just as if suf­fer­ing had been a crime. Af­ter hav­ing re­sist­ed for four­teen years the af­flic­tions of ex­ile, long and per­ilous ex­pe­di­tions, nights passed un­der tents, hu­mid win­ters and fierce burn­ing sum­mers, her health had, at length, suc­cumbed, not all at once, like fab­rics sapped by gun­pow­der, but lit­tle by lit­tle, like those that are de­mol­ished piece­meal with the pick­axe of the work­man. Day by day she grew more and more fee­ble, with­out those who were con­stant­ly by her side ob­serv­ing the in­sid­ious work­ings of dis­ease. Like Mu­cius Scævola, who held his hands in a burn­ing bra­zier with­out ut­ter­ing a word, she so ef­fec­tu­al­ly hid her griefs with­in the re­cess­es of her own bo­som, that no one even sus­pect­ed her ill­ness.

“But, Mr. Beck­er,” said Willis, “I saw your wife this morn­ing, and she seemed as well as usu­al.”

“Yes, _seemed_, Willis, that is true enough; not to give us pain, she has con­cealed her ill­ness from us all. It is on­ly with­in the last twelve hours that I ac­ci­den­tal­ly dis­cov­ered that she has been long la­bor­ing un­der some fear­ful mal­ady.”

“Do you know the na­ture of the dis­ease?”

“No, that I have no means of as­cer­tain­ing; it may be a dis­tinct form of dis­ease, or it may be a com­pli­ca­tion of dis­or­ders, which I know not.”

“It would not sig­ni­fy about the name if we on­ly knew a rem­edy.”

“True; but I dread some mal­ady of a can­cer­ous type, which could not be erad­icat­ed with­out sur­gi­cal skill.”

“I wish I had been born a doc­tor in­stead of a pi­lot,” sighed Willis.

“I can­not see her per­ish be­fore my eyes.”

“Cer­tain­ly not, Mr. Beck­er; it would nev­er do to al­low a ship to sink if she can be saved.”

“Well, what is to be done?”

“There lies the dif­fi­cul­ty; had it been a ques­tion of any­thing that floats on the wa­ter, I might have sug­gest­ed a rem­edy; but, in this case, I am fair­ly run aground.”

“I know too well what must be done, Willis. In cas­es of or­di­nary mal­adies, with care and due pre­cau­tion, prop­er nour­ish­ment and time, Na­ture will gen­er­al­ly ef­fect a cure.”

“Na­ture has no diplo­ma, but she ac­com­plish­es more cures than those that have.”

“Un­for­tu­nate­ly this is not a mal­ady that can be cured by such means; and, un­less its progress be checked in time, it may ul­ti­mate­ly as­sume a form that will ren­der a cure im­pos­si­ble.”

“Is death, then, in­evitable?”

“A pa­tient may re­tain a lan­guish­ing life un­der such cir­cum­stances for some time; but if the dis­ease be can­cer, a cure is hope­less with­out in­stru­ments and sci­en­tif­ic skill.”

“I thought I was the on­ly wretched be­ing in the colony,” said Willis, sigh­ing, “but I find I am not alone.”

“There are no hopes of the _Nel­son_, are there?” in­quired Beck­er.

“None now; for some time Mr. Wol­ston and your­self al­most per­suad­ed me that she had es­caped; but had she reached the Cape, we should have heard of her ere now.”

“The prob­abil­ities of an­oth­er ves­sel touch­ing here are small, are they not?”

“We are not in the di­rect track to any­where; there­fore, un­less a ship has been driv­en out of her course by a gale, there is not a chance.”

“Un­for­tu­nate that I am!” ex­claimed Beck­er, cov­er­ing his face with his hands. “Bru­tus, Man­lius Torqua­tus, and Pe­ter the Great, con­demned their sons to death, but they were guilty; still the sac­ri­fice must be made.”

Here Willis stared aghast, and be­gan to fear Beck­er's in­tel­lect had been af­fect­ed by his trou­bles.

“I do not ex­act­ly un­der­stand you, Mr. Beck­er.”

“Two of my sons have gone on be­fore us; they were to em­bark in the ca­noe for Shark's Is­land, and wait for us there. I must have courage, and you al­so, Willis.”

This ex­ordi­um did not tend to al­ter the Pi­lot's im­pres­sion. They walked on for some time in si­lence to­wards the coast.

“Do you know the lat­itude and lon­gi­tude of this coast, Willis?”

“Good!” thought the Pi­lot, “he has changed the sub­ject.”

“Yes; we are in the South Sea, and no great dis­tance from the line.”

“What con­ti­nent is near­est us?”

“We can­not be very far off the south coast of New Hol­land, or, as it is named in some charts, Aus­tralia. You know that the _Nel­son_ hailed from Botany Bay, or Syd­ney, as the con­vict colony which the En­glish Gov­ern­ment has just found­ed there is called.”

“How far do you sup­pose we are from Syd­ney?”

“Well, I should say, with a fair wind and a smart craft, Syd­ney is not above two months' sail, if so much.”

“Is the coast in­hab­it­ed?”

“Yes.”

“What char­ac­ter do the in­hab­itants bear?”

“Ac­cord­ing to the Dutch sailors, who have been on the coast, they are the most plun­der­ing and lub­ber­ly set of ras­cals to be met with any­where.”

“They are not ac­quaint­ed with the use of fire-​arms, are they?”

“No not of fire-​arms; but they have a ma­chine of their own that they call a wad­dy, or some­thing of that sort, which they throw like a har­poon; but the thing takes a twist in the air, and strikes be­hind them.”

“Is the coast ac­ces­si­ble?”

“No; it is fringed with reefs, and, in some places, the surf runs for miles out to sea.”

“The nav­iga­tion along shore, then, is ex­treme­ly per­ilous?”

“What­ev­er can he be driv­ing at?” thought Willis.

“Yes; such a lee shore in a gale would ter­ri­fy the Fly­ing Dutch­man him­self.”

Here Beck­er shook his head dole­ful­ly, and they walked on a lit­tle fur­ther in si­lence.

“What is­lands do you sup­pose are near­est us, Willis?”

“I should say we are in or near the group marked in the chart Papua­sia; be­yond them is the ter­ri­to­ry of New Guinea, and a point to nor'ard are a whole nest of is­lands dis­cov­ered by the cel­ebrat­ed buc­ca­neer, Dampière.”

“And their in­hab­itants?”

“Oh, some of them are pret­ty fair; but, tak­ing them in the lump, they are a bad lot.”

“The is­lands to the west are those dis­cov­ered by Cook, Van­cou­ver, and Bougainville, are they not?”

“They are marked Poly­ne­sia in the charts.”

“Do you know of any Eu­ro­pean set­tle­ments on these is­lands?”

“Well, there is a fort of the Hud­son's Bay Com­pa­ny on Van­cou­ver's Is­land, but that is a long way north; and, I be­lieve, a fac­to­ry has re­cent­ly been an­chored in New Zealand, but that is a long way south.”

“And what are the prin­ci­pal is­lands be­tween?”

“There is New Cale­do­nia, the New He­brides, the Friend­ly Is­lands, the So­ci­eties' Is­lands, the Mar­que­sas, Tahite, and the Pelew Is­lands; but each nav­iga­tor gives them a new name, so that it is hard to say which is which; all you can do is to say that there is an is­land in lat­itude so and so and lon­gi­tude so and so, but the name is al­most out of the ques­tion.”

“And the na­tives?”

“Some of them are re­mark­ably tame, and trade freely with strangers; but oth­ers have strong­ly marked can­ni­bal propen­si­ties, and dote up­on a white-​skin feast when they can get one.”

Here Beck­er shud­dered, and ut­tered an ex­cla­ma­tion of hor­ror.

“That would be a ter­ri­ble fate, Willis.”

“What­ev­er can he mean?” thought the Pi­lot.

“Willis, to reach Eu­rope from here, what course do you think would be best?”

“Now I think I shall fix him at last,” said the Pi­lot, lev­el­ling his ri­fle at an imag­inary bird.

“You will on­ly waste gun­pow­der,” said Beck­er; “I see noth­ing.”

“You asked me just now what course I should steer for Eu­rope, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Well, the most di­rect course would be to make the Straits of Macas­sar, and then steer for Ja­va.”

“And when there?”

“You would then be fif­teen or six­teen hun­dred leagues from the Cape.”

“So much?”

“Yes, that is about the dis­tance in a straight line across the In­di­an Ocean. When at the Cape, an­oth­er fif­teen days' sail will bring you to the line; five or six weeks af­ter that St. He­le­na will heave in sight; then you fall in with the Is­land of As­cen­sion; leav­ing which a week or two will bring you to the Straits of Gibral­tar, where you get the first glimpse of Eu­rope. But if you are bound for Eng­land, your daugh­ter may com­mence work­ing a pair of slip­pers for you; they will be ready by the time you get there.”

They had now ar­rived at the point of the Jack­al Riv­er where the pin­nace was moored.

“What do you think of this boat?” in­quired Beck­er.

“The pin­nace is well enough for fair weath­er; but it is not the sort of craft I should like to com­mand in a storm at sea.”

“So that to ven­ture to sea in it would be to in­cur im­mi­nent dan­ger?”

“There is no deny­ing that, Mr. Beck­er; if she shipped a mod­er­ate­ly heavy sea, down she must go to the bot­tom, like a four and twen­ty pound shot; and if she should spring a leak, you can­not land to put her to rights; the waves are by no means sol­id.”

“Just as I thought!” ex­claimed Beck­er; “I was right in judg­ing that it would be a sac­ri­fice. It is al­most cer­tain death; but they must go.”

“Where?” in­quired Willis.

“To Eu­rope if need be, if God in his mer­cy spares the pin­nace.”

“What for?”

“I have the means of pur­chas­ing sur­gi­cal skill, and I must use all the sac­ri­fices at my com­mand to ob­tain it.”

“Avast heav­ing, Mr. Beck­er,” cried Willis; “now I un­der­stand; the thing is as clear as the tack­le of the best bow­er, and when a res­olu­tion is once formed, noth­ing like pay­ing it out at the word of com­mand. When shall we start?”

“I am not talk­ing of ei­ther you or my­self, Willis.”

“Of whom then, may I ask?”

“Fritz and Jack. Fritz knows some­thing of nav­iga­tion; and if they suc­ceed, they will have saved their moth­er; if they per­ish, they will have died to save her.”

“Fritz, as you say, does know some­thing of nav­iga­tion, par­tic­ular­ly as re­gards coast­ing; but here you have a pi­lot, ac­cus­tomed to salt wa­ter, quite handy, why not en­gage him al­so?”

“Willis, you have your­self said that the un­der­tak­ing is per­ilous in the ex­treme, and your life is not bound up like theirs in that of their moth­er.”

“True; but do you not see that I am sick of dry land, and that I am get­ting rusty for the want of a lit­tle sea air?”

“I felt ashamed to ask you to share in so des­per­ate an en­ter­prise, oth­er­wise I would have pro­posed it to you, Willis.”

“But you might have seen that I was grow­ing thin, ab­so­lute­ly pin­ing away, and dry­ing up on land. There are ducks that can live with­out wa­ter, but I am not one of them.”

“Am I, then, to un­der­stand that you of­fer to risk your life in this for­lorn hope?”

“Cer­tain­ly, Mr. Beck­er; a man con­demned to be hanged, run­ning the risk of be­ing drowned is no great sac­ri­fice.”

“Willis, I ac­cept your of­fer, to share in the dan­gers of this en­ter­prise, most grate­ful­ly. I thank you in the name of my sons and of their moth­er, and trust that God may en­able me to rec­om­pense you for your de­vo­tion to them and to my­self.”

[Il­lus­tra­tion]

“You for­get,” added Willis, wip­ing a tear from the cor­ner of his eye, that he as­cribed to a grain of dust, “you for­get that I was on the point of ven­tur­ing out to sea in the ca­noe, had you your­self and Mr. Wol­ston not pre­vent­ed me. There is work to be done, I ad­mit; and it is not im­pos­si­ble to cross even the In­di­an Ocean in the pin­nace. But we may find a doc­tor, per­haps, at some of the set­tle­ments--for in­stance, at Manil­la, in the Philip­pines.”

“That is not to be hoped for, Willis; there is, prob­ably, on­ly one skil­ful med­ical man in each colony, and he will be pre­vent­ed leav­ing by Gov­ern­ment en­gage­ments.”

“True; then we had bet­ter hoist sail for Eu­rope di­rect, and trust to falling in with a ship now and then.”

“Alas!” sighed Beck­er, “in a path so wide as the ocean, it would be un­wise to trust to such chances; you will have to re­ly, I fear, en­tire­ly up­on the re­sources of the pin­nace alone.”

“Well, I dare say, though we may have to put up with half ra­tions, we shall not starve on the voy­age, at all events.”

They had un­moored the pin­nace, and were on their way to Shark's Is­land.

“You are about to an­nounce to your sons their de­par­ture?” said Willis, in­quir­ing­ly.

“Yes; but my heart al­most fails me.”

“The iron must be struck while it is hot. Will you com­mis­sion me to whis­per a few words in their ear?”

“Thanks, Willis; but what right have I to ex­pect courage from them, if I ex­hib­it weak­ness my­self? No, my friend, I may shed tears in your pres­ence, but not be­fore them.”

“A man ought nev­er to al­low his feel­ings to get the bet­ter of his courage,” said Willis, in whose eyes, how­ev­er, the dust was ev­ident­ly play­ing sad hav­oc.

“These boys have al­most nev­er been ab­sent from me. I have watched them grow up from in­fan­cy to ado­les­cence, and from ado­les­cence to man­hood; they have al­ways been du­ti­ful and obe­di­ent, and with grat­itude I have blessed them ev­ery night of their lives. But stern are the de­crees of Fate; I must com­mand them to de­part from me--per­haps for ev­er!”

“There are evils that lead to good,” said Willis, “even though these evils be the Straits of Mag­el­lan or the storms of the In­di­an Ocean.”

Here the pin­nace reached the off­ing of Shark's Is­land, where Fritz and Jack, lean­ing on the bat­tery, watched the progress of the boat.

“Do you ob­serve how down­cast my fa­ther looks?” said Fritz.

“Willis does not look much gay­er,” re­marked Jack.

“Do you be­lieve in omens, Jack?”

“Now and then.”

“Well, mark me, there is a screw loose some­where, or I am no or­acle.”