Willis the Pilot

CHAPTER XXI.

LY­ING TO--HEART AND IN­STINCT--SPAR­ROWS VIEWED AS CON­SUMERS--MI­GRA­TIONS--POST­ING A LET­TER IN THE PA­CIF­IC--CAN­NI­BALS--AD­VEN­TURES OF A LOCK­ET.

The glimpse of moon­shine on­ly last­ed a sec­ond, but it was suf­fi­cient to light up the val­ley of the shad­ow of death. All around was again en­veloped in ob­scu­ri­ty. The moon, like a mod­est bene­fac­tor who hides him­self from those to whose wants he has min­is­tered, con­cealed it­self be­hind its screen of black­ness.

The pin­nace was thrown in­to stays, and they re­solved to lie-​to till day­break. There might be rocks to wind­ward as well as to lee­ward; at all events, they felt that their safest course lay in main­tain­ing, as far as pos­si­ble, their ac­tu­al po­si­tion; and, af­ter hav­ing re­turned thanks for their al­most mirac­ulous es­cape, they made the usu­al ar­range­ments for pass­ing the night.

Next morn­ing they found them­selves in the midst of a labyrinth of rocks, from which, with the help of Prov­idence, they suc­ceed­ed in ex­tri­cat­ing them­selves. The rocks, or rather reefs, amongst which they were en­tan­gled, are very com­mon in these seas. As they are scarce­ly vis­ible at high wa­ter, they are ex­treme­ly dan­ger­ous, and of­ten baf­fle the skill of the most ex­pert nav­iga­tor.

Whilst Willis steered the pin­nace amongst the is­lands and rocks of the Hawa­ian Archipela­go, Fritz kept a look-​out for sav­ages, fresh wa­ter, and el­igi­ble land­ing-​places. And Jack, af­ter hav­ing post­ed up his log, set about in­dit­ing a let­ter for home.

“The voy­age,” said he, “has late­ly been so pro­lif­ic in ad­ven­ture, that I scarce­ly know where to be­gin.”

“Be­gin by salut­ing them all round,” sug­gest­ed Fritz.

“But, broth­er of mine, that is usu­al­ly done at the end of the let­ter,” ob­ject­ed Jack.

“What then? you can re­peat the salu­ta­tions at the end, and you might al­so, for that mat­ter, put them in the mid­dle as well.”

“I have writ­ten lots of let­ters on board ship for my com­rades,” re­marked Willis, “and I in­vari­ably com­menced by say­ing--_I take a pen in my hand to let you know I am well, hop­ing you are the same_.”

“What else could you take in your hand for such a pur­pose, O Rono?” in­quired Jack.

“Some­times, af­ter this pream­ble, I added, '_but I am afraid_.'”

“I thought you old salts were nev­er afraid of any­thing, short of the Fly­ing Dutch­man.”

“Yes; but the let­ters I put that in were for young lub­bers, who, in­stead of send­ing home half their pay, were writ­ing for ex­tra sup­plies, and were nat­ural­ly in great fear that their re­quests would be re­fused.”

“I scarce­ly think I shall adopt that style, Willis, even though it were rec­og­nized by the navy reg­ula­tions.”

“Do you think the pi­geon will find its way with the let­ter from here to New Switzer­land?” in­quired Willis.

“I have no doubt about that,” replied Fritz, “it nat­ural­ly re­turns to its nest and its af­fec­tions. If you had wings, would you not fly straight off in the di­rec­tion of the Bass Rock or Ail­sa Craig, to hunt up your old arm-​chair?”

“Don't speak of it; I feel my heart go pit-​pat when I think of home, sweet home.”

“So do the birds. When they soft­en the grain be­fore they throw it in­to the maw of their fledgelings--when they fly off and re­turn laden with midges to their nests--when they tear the down from their breasts to pro­tect their eggs and their young, do you think their hearts do not beat as well as yours?”

“But all that is said to be in­stinct.”

“Heart or in­stinct, where is the dif­fer­ence? The Ab­bé Spal­lan­zani saw two swal­lows that were car­ried to Mi­lan re­turn to Pavia in fif­teen min­utes, and the dis­tance be­tween the two cities is sev­en leagues.”

“That I can eas­ily be­lieve.”

“When you see a lit­tle, in­signif­icant bird fly­ing back­wards and for­wards, perch­ing on one branch and hop­ping off to an­oth­er, whistling, car­olling, perch­ing here and there, you think that it has no cares, that it does not re­flect, and that it does not love!”

“Well, I have heard in my time a great many won­der­ful sto­ries of robin-​red­breasts and jen­ny-​wrens, but I al­ways un­der­stood that they were in­tend­ed on­ly to amuse lit­tle boys and girls.”

“You con­sid­er, doubt­less, that a field-​spar­row is not a crea­ture of much im­por­tance; but do you know that he con­sumes half a bushel of corn an­nu­al­ly?”

“If that is his on­ly mer­it, the farm­ers, I dare say, would be glad to get rid of him.”

“But it is not his on­ly mer­it. What do you think of his killing three thou­sand in­sects a week.”

“That is more to the pur­pose. But, to re­turn to the pi­geon, sup­pos­ing it is pos­si­ble for it to find its way, how long do you sup­pose it will take to get there?”

“It is es­ti­mat­ed that birds of pas­sage fly over two hun­dred miles a day, if they keep on the wing for six hours.”

“Two hun­dred miles in six hours is fast sail­ing, any­how.”

“Swal­lows have been seen in Sene­gal on the 9th of Oc­to­ber, that is, eight or nine days af­ter they leave Eu­rope; and that jour­ney they re­peat ev­ery year.”

“They must sure­ly make some prepa­ra­tions for such a lengthy ex­cur­sion.”

“When the pe­ri­od of de­par­ture ap­proach­es, they col­lect to­geth­er in troops on the chim­neys or roofs of hous­es, and on the tops of trees. Dur­ing this op­er­ation, they keep up an in­ces­sant cry, which brings fam­ilies of them from all quar­ters. The young ones try the strength of their wings un­der the eyes of the par­ents. Fi­nal­ly, they make some strate­gic dis­po­si­tions, and elect a chief.”

“You talk of the swal­lows as if they were an army prepar­ing for bat­tle, with flags fly­ing, trum­pets sound­ing, and ready to march at the word of com­mand.”

"The re­sem­blance be­tween flocks of birds and ser­ried mass­es of men in mar­tial ar­ray is strik­ing. Wild ducks, swans, and cranes fly in a kind of reg­imen­tal or­der; their bat­tal­ions as­sume the form of a tri­an­gle or wedge, so as to cut through the air with greater fa­cil­ity, and di­min­ish the re­sis­tance it presents to their flight.

“But how do you know it is for that?”

“What else could it be for? The lead­er gives no­tice, by a pe­cu­liar cry, of the route it is about to take. This cry is re­peat­ed by the flock, as if to say that they will fol­low, and keep the di­rec­tion in­di­cat­ed. When they meet with a bird of prey whose at­tacks they may have to re­pulse, the ranks fall in so as to present a sol­id pha­lanx to the en­emy.”

“If they had a com­mis­sari­at in the rear and a few sap­pers in front, the re­sem­blance would be com­plete.”

“If a storm aris­es,” con­tin­ued Fritz, with­out notic­ing Willis's com­men­tary, “they low­er their flight and ap­proach the ground.”

“For­got­ten their um­brel­las, per­haps.”

“When they make a halt, out­posts are es­tab­lished to keep a look out while the troop sleeps.”

“And, in cas­es of alarm, the out­posts fire and fall in as a mat­ter of course.”

“Great Rono,” said Jack, “you are be­come a down­right quiz. I have fin­ished my let­ter whilst you have been dis­cussing the poul­try,” he added, hand­ing the pen to his broth­er, “and it on­ly waits your postscrip­tum.” Fritz hav­ing added a few lines, the epis­tle was sealed, and was then at­tached to one of the pi­geons, which, af­ter hov­er­ing a short time round the pin­nace, took a flight up­wards and dis­ap­peared in the clouds.

They were now in sight of a large is­land, which bore no traces of habi­ta­tion. There was a heavy surf beat­ing on the shore, but the case was ur­gent, so Willis and Jack em­barked in the ca­noe, and, af­ter a hard fight with the waves, land­ed on the beach.

Each of them were armed with a dou­ble-​bar­relled ri­fle, and fur­nished with a boatswain's whis­tle. The whis­tle was to sig­nal the dis­cov­ery of wa­ter, and a ri­fle shot was to bring them to­geth­er in case of dan­ger. These ar­range­ments be­ing made, Jack pro­ceed­ed in the di­rec­tion of a thick­et, which stood at the dis­tance of some hun­dred yards from the shore. He had no soon­er reached the cov­er in the vicin­ity of the trees than he was pounced up­on by two fe­ro­cious-​look­ing sav­ages. They gave him no time to lev­el his ri­fle or to draw a knife. One of his cap­tors held his hands firm­ly be­hind his back, whilst the oth­er dragged him to­wards the wood. At this mo­ment the Pi­lot's whis­tle rang sharply through the air. This put an end to any hopes that Jack might have en­ter­tained of be­ing res­cued through that means. Had he sound­ed the whis­tle, it would on­ly have led Willis to sup­pose that he had heard the sig­nal, and was on his way to join him.

Poor Jack judged, from the as­pect of the men who held him, that they were can­ni­bals, and con­se­quent­ly that his fate was sealed, for if his sur­mis­es were cor­rect, there was lit­tle chance of the wretch­es re­lin­quish­ing their prey. Jack had of­ten amused him­self at the ex­pense of the an­thro­popha­gi, but here he was ac­tu­al­ly with­in their grasp. Though death ter­mi­nates the sor­rows and the suf­fer­ings of man, and though the re­sult is the same in what­ev­er shape it comes, yet there are cir­cum­stances which cause its ap­proach to be re­gard­ed with ter­ror and dis­may. In one's bed, ex­haust­ed by old age or dis­ease, the lips on­ly open to give ut­ter­ance to a sigh of pain; life, then, is a bur­den that is laid down with­out re­luc­tance; we glide im­per­cep­ti­bly and al­most vol­un­tar­ily in­to eter­ni­ty.

At twen­ty years of age, how­ev­er, when we are full of health and ar­dor, the case is very dif­fer­ent. Then we are at the thresh­old of hope and hap­pi­ness; our il­lu­sions have not had time to fade, the fu­ture is a bril­liant me­te­or sparkling in sun­shine. At that age our seas are al­ways calm, and the rocks and shoals are all con­cealed. Our barks glide jaun­ti­ly along, the sailors sing mer­ri­ly, the per­ils are shroud­ed in ro­mance, and the flag flut­ters gai­ly in the breeze. Then life is not aban­doned with­out a tear of re­gret.

To die in the midst of one's friends is not to quit them en­tire­ly. They come to see us through the mar­ble or stone in which we are shroud­ed. It is an­oth­er thing to have no oth­er sepul­chre than the æsoph­agus of a can­ni­bal. How the rec­ol­lec­tions of the past dart­ed in­to Jack's mind! He felt that he loved those whom he was on the point of leav­ing a thou­sand times more than he did be­fore. What would he not have giv­en for the pow­er to bid them one last adieu? The idea of quit­ting life thus was hor­ri­ble.

It was in vain that he tried to shake off his as­sailants; his ado­les­cent strength was as noth­ing in the arms of steel that bound him. He saw that he was pow­er­less in their hands, and at length ceased mak­ing any fur­ther at­tempts to es­cape.

The sav­ages, find­ing that he had re­laxed his strug­gles, com­menced to ri­fle and strip him. They tore off his up­per gar­ments, and dis­cov­ered a small lock­et, con­tain­ing a medal­lion of his moth­er, which the un­for­tu­nate youth wore round his neck. This prize, which the sav­ages no doubt re­gard­ed as a tal­is­man of some sort, they both de­sired to pos­sess. They quar­relled about it, and com­menced fight­ing over it. Jack's hands were left at lib­er­ty. In an in­stant he had seized his ri­fle. He ran a few paces back, turned, took de­lib­er­ate aim at the most pow­er­ful of his ad­ver­saries, who, with a shriek, fell to the ground. The oth­er sav­age, scared by the re­port of the shot and its ef­fects up­on his com­pan­ion, took to flight, but he car­ried off the lock­et with him.

Jack had now re­gained his courage. He felt, like Telemachus in the midst of his bat­tles, that God was with him, and he flew, per­haps im­pru­dent­ly, af­ter the fugi­tive. See­ing, how­ev­er, that he had no chance with him as re­gards speed, he dis­charged his sec­ond ri­fle. The shot did not take ef­fect, but the re­port brought the sav­age to his knees. The fright­ened wretch pressed his hands to­geth­er in an at­ti­tude of sup­pli­ca­tion. Jack stopped at a lit­tle dis­tance, and, by an im­pe­ri­ous ges­ture, gave him to un­der­stand that he want­ed the lock­et. The sign was com­pre­hend­ed, for the sav­age laid the tal­is­man on the ground.

“Now,” said Jack, “in the name of my moth­er I give you your life.”

By an­oth­er sign, he sig­ni­fied to the man that he was at lib­er­ty, which he no soon­er un­der­stood than he van­ished like an ar­row.

Great was the con­ster­na­tion of Fritz when he heard the re­ports; he feared that the whole is­land was in com­mo­tion, and that both his broth­er and the Pi­lot were sur­round­ed by a le­gion of cop­per-​col­ored dev­ils. From the con­for­ma­tion of the coast he could see noth­ing, and, like Sisi­phus on his rock, he was tied by im­pe­ri­ous ne­ces­si­ty to his post.

The Pi­lot, on hear­ing the first shot, ran to the spot, and both he and Jack ar­rived at the same in­stant, where the sav­age lay bleed­ing on the ground.

“You are safe and sound, I hope?” said Willis, anx­ious­ly.

“With the ex­cep­tion of some slight con­tu­sions, and the loss of my clothes, thank God, I am all right, Willis.”

“We are born to bad luck, it seems.”

“Say rather we are the spoilt chil­dren of Prov­idence. I have just passed through the eye of a nee­dle.”

“Is this the on­ly sav­age you have seen?”

“No, there were two of them; and, to judge from their ac­tions, I ver­ily be­lieve the ras­cals in­tend­ed to eat me. As for this one, he is more fright­ened than hurt.”

And so it was, he had es­caped with some slugs in his shoul­ders; but he seemed, by the con­tor­tions of his face, to think that he was dy­ing.

“For­tu­nate­ly,” said Jack, “my ri­fle was not load­ed with ball. I should be sor­ry to have the death of a hu­man be­ing on my con­science.”

“Well,” said Willis, “I am not nat­ural­ly cru­el, but, be­set as you have been, I should have shot both the fel­lows with­out the slight­est com­punc­tion.”

“Still,” said Jack, giv­ing the wound­ed sav­age a mouth­ful of brandy, “we ought to have mer­cy on the van­quished--they are men like our­selves, at all events.”

“Yes, they have flesh and bone, arms, legs, hands, and teeth like us; but I doubt whether they are pos­sessed of souls and hearts.”

“The chances are that they pos­sess both, Willis; on­ly nei­ther the one nor the oth­er has been trained to re­gard the things of this world in a prop­er light. Their no­tions as to di­et, for ex­am­ple, arise from ig­no­rance as to what sub­stances are fit and prop­er for hu­man food.”

“As you like,” said Willis; “but let us be off; there may be more of them lurk­ing about.”

“What! again with­out wa­ter?”

“No, this time I have tak­en care to fill the casks; the ca­noe is laden with fresh wa­ter.”

“Fritz must be very un­easy about us; but this man may die if we leave him so.”

“Very like­ly,” said the Pi­lot; “but that is no busi­ness of ours.”

“Good bye,” said Jack, lift­ing up the wound­ed sav­age, and prop­ping him against a tree; “I may nev­er have the plea­sure of see­ing you again, and am sor­ry to leave you in such a plight; but it will be a les­son for you, and a hint to be a lit­tle more hos­pitable for the fu­ture in your re­cep­tion of strangers.”

The sav­age raised his eyes for an in­stant, as if to thank Jack for his good of­fices, and then re­lapsed in­to his for­mer at­ti­tude of de­jec­tion.

Twen­ty min­utes lat­er the ca­noe was aboard the pin­nace.

“Fritz,” said Jack, throw­ing his arms round his broth­er's neck, “I am de­light­ed to see you again; half an hour ago I had not the shad­ow of a chance of ev­er be­hold­ing you more.”