The Great Taboo

CHAPTER I.

IN MID PA­CIF­IC.

“Man over­board!”

It rang in Fe­lix Thurstan's ears like the sound of a bell. He gazed about him in dis­may, won­der­ing what had hap­pened.

The first in­ti­ma­tion he re­ceived of the ac­ci­dent was that sud­den sharp cry from the bo'sun's mate. Al­most be­fore he had ful­ly tak­en it in, in all its mean­ing, an­oth­er voice, far­ther aft, took up the cry once more in an al­tered form: “A la­dy! a la­dy! Some­body over­board! Great heav­ens, it is _her_! It's Miss El­lis! Miss El­lis!”

Next in­stant Fe­lix found him­self, he knew not how, strug­gling in a wild grap­ple with the dark, black wa­ter. A wom­an was cling­ing to him--cling­ing for dear life. But he couldn't have told you him­self that minute how it all took place. He was too stunned and daz­zled.

He looked around him on the seething sea in a sud­den awak­en­ing, as it were, to life and con­scious­ness. All about, the great wa­ter stretched dark and tu­mul­tuous. White break­ers surged over him. Far ahead the steam­er's lights gleamed red and green in long lines up­on the ocean. At first they ran fast; then they slack­ened some­what. She was sure­ly slow­ing now; they must be re­vers­ing en­gines and try­ing to stop her. They would put out a boat. But what hope, what chance of res­cue by night, in such a wild waste of waves as that? And Muriel El­lis was cling­ing to him for dear life all the while, with the de­spair­ing clutch of a half-​drowned wom­an!

The peo­ple on the Aus­tralasian, for their part, knew bet­ter what had oc­curred. There was bus­tle and con­fu­sion enough on deck and on the cap­tain's bridge, to be sure: “Man over­board!”--three sharp rings at the en­gine bell:--“Stop her short!--re­verse en­gines!--low­er the gig!--look sharp, there, all of you!” Pas­sen­gers hur­ried up breath­less at the first alarm to know what was the mat­ter. Sailors loos­ened and low­ered the boat from the davits with ex­traor­di­nary quick­ness. Of­fi­cers stood by, giv­ing or­ders in mono­syl­la­bles with prac­tised calm. All was hur­ry and tur­moil, yet with a mar­vel­lous sense of or­der and prompt obe­di­ence as well. But, at any rate, the peo­ple on deck hadn't the swift swirl of the bois­ter­ous wa­ter, the ham­per­ing wet clothes, the per­vad­ing con­scious­ness of per­son­al dan­ger, to make their brains reel, like Fe­lix Thurstan's. They could ask one an­oth­er with com­par­ative com­po­sure what had hap­pened on board; they could lis­ten with­out ter­ror to the sto­ry of the ac­ci­dent.

It was the thir­teenth day out from Syd­ney, and the Aus­tralasian was rapid­ly near­ing the equa­tor. To­ward evening the wind had fresh­ened, and the sea was run­ning high against her weath­er side. But it was a fine star­lit night, though the moon had not yet risen; and as the brief trop­ical twi­light fad­ed away by quick de­grees in the west, the fringe of co­coanut palms on the reef that bound­ed the lit­tle is­land of Boupari showed out for a minute or two in dark re­lief, some miles to lee­ward, against the pale pink hori­zon. In spite of the heavy sea, many pas­sen­gers lin­gered late on deck that night to see the last of that coral-​girt shore, which was to be their fi­nal glimpse of land till they reached Hon­olu­lu, _en route_ for San Fran­cis­co.

Bit by bit, how­ev­er, the co­coanut palms, sil­hou­et­ted with their grace­ful wav­ing arms for a few brief min­utes in black against the glow­ing back­ground, merged slow­ly in­to the sky or sank be­low the hori­zon. All grew dark. One by one, as the trees dis­ap­peared, the pas­sen­gers dropped off for whist in the sa­loon, or re­tired to the un­easy soli­tude of their own state-​rooms. At last on­ly two or three men were left smok­ing and chat­ting near the top of the com­pan­ion lad­der; while at the stern of the ship Muriel El­lis looked over to­ward the re­treat­ing is­land, and talked with a cer­tain timid maid­en­ly frank­ness to Fe­lix Thurstan.

There's nowhere on earth for get­ting re­al­ly to know peo­ple in a very short time like the deck of a great At­lantic or Pa­cif­ic lin­er. You're thrown to­geth­er so much, and all day long, that you see more of your fel­low-​pas­sen­gers' in­ner life and na­ture in a few brief weeks than you would ev­er be like­ly to see in a long twelve­month of or­di­nary town or coun­try ac­quain­tance­ship. And Muriel El­lis had seen a great deal in those thir­teen days of Fe­lix Thurstan; enough to make sure in her own heart that she re­al­ly liked him--well--so much that she looked up with a pret­ty blush of self-​con­scious­ness ev­ery time he ap­proached and lift­ed his hat to her. Muriel was an En­glish rec­tor's daugh­ter, from a coun­try vil­lage in Som­er­set­shire; and she was now on her way back from a long year's vis­it, to re­cruit her health, to an aunt in Para­mat­ta. She was trav­el­ling un­der the es­cort of an ami­able old chap­er­on whom the aunt in ques­tion had picked up for her be­fore leav­ing Syd­ney; but, as the ami­able old chap­er­on, be­ing but an in­dif­fer­ent sailor, spent most of her time in her own berth, close­ly at­tend­ed by the oblig­ing stew­ardess, Muriel had found her chap­er­on­age in­ter­fere very lit­tle with op­por­tu­ni­ties of talk with that nice Mr. Thurstan. And now, as the last glow of sun­set died out in the west­ern sky, and the last palm-​tree fad­ed away against the cold­er green dark­ness of the trop­ical night, Muriel was lean­ing over the bul­warks in con­fi­den­tial mood, and watch­ing the big waves ad­vance or re­cede, and talk­ing the sort of talk that such an hour seems to fa­vor with the hand­some young civ­il ser­vant who stood on guard, as it were, be­side her. For Fe­lix Thurstan held a gov­ern­ment ap­point­ment at Le­vu­ka, in Fi­ji, and was now on his way home, on leave of ab­sence af­ter six years' ser­vice in that new-​made colony.

“How de­light­ful it would be to live on an is­land like that!” Muriel mur­mured, half to her­self, as she gazed out wist­ful­ly in the di­rec­tion of the dis­ap­pear­ing coral reef. “With those beau­ti­ful palms wav­ing al­ways over one's head, and that de­li­cious evening air blow­ing cool through their branch­es! It looks such a Par­adise!”

Fe­lix smiled and glanced down at her, as he stead­ied him­self with one hand against the bul­wark, while the ship rolled over in­to the trough of the sea heav­ily. “Well, I don't know about that, Miss El­lis,” he an­swered with a doubt­ful air, ey­ing her close as he spoke with eyes of ev­ident ad­mi­ra­tion. “One might be hap­py any­where, of course--in suit­able so­ci­ety; but if you'd lived as long among co­coanuts in Fi­ji as I have, I dare say the po­et­ry of these calm palm-​grove is­lands would be a lit­tle less re­al to you. Re­mem­ber, though they look so beau­ti­ful and dreamy against the sky like that, at sun­set es­pe­cial­ly (that was a heavy one, that time; I'm re­al­ly afraid we must go down to the cab­in soon; she'll be ship­ping seas be­fore long if we stop on deck much lat­er--and yet, it's so de­light­ful stop­ping up here till the dusk comes on, isn't it?)--well, re­mem­ber, I was say­ing, though they look so beau­ti­ful and dreamy and po­et­ical--'Sum­mer isles of Eden ly­ing in dark pur­ple spheres of sea,' and all that sort of thing--these is­lands are in­hab­it­ed by the fiercest and most blood­thirsty can­ni­bals known to trav­ellers.”

“Can­ni­bals!” Muriel re­peat­ed, look­ing up at him in sur­prise. “You don't mean to say that is­lands like these, stand­ing right in the very track of Eu­ro­pean steam­ers, are still hea­then and can­ni­bal?”

“Oh, dear, yes,” Fe­lix replied, hold­ing his hand out as he spoke to catch his com­pan­ion's arm gen­tly, and steady her against the wave that was just go­ing to strike the stern: “Ex­cuse me; just so; the sea's ris­ing fast, isn't it?--Oh, dear, yes; of course they are; they're all hea­then and can­ni­bals. You couldn't imag­ine to your­self the hor­ri­ble blood­thirsty rites that may this very minute be tak­ing place up­on that idyl­lic-​look­ing is­land, un­der the soft wav­ing branch­es of those whis­per­ing palm-​trees. Why, I knew a man in the Mar­que­sas my­self--a hideous old na­tive, as ug­ly as you can fan­cy him--who was sup­posed to be a god, an in­car­nate god, and was wor­shipped ac­cord­ing­ly with pro­found de­vo­tion by all the oth­er is­landers. You can't pic­ture to your­self how aw­ful their wor­ship was. I daren't even re­peat it to you; it was too, too hor­ri­ble. He lived in a hut by him­self among the deep­est for­est, and hu­man vic­tims used to be brought--well, there, it's too loath­some! Why, see; there's a great light on the is­land now; a big bon­fire or some­thing; don't you make it out? You can tell it by the red glare in the sky over­head.” He paused a mo­ment; then he added more slow­ly, “I shouldn't be sur­prised if at this very mo­ment, while we're stand­ing here in such per­fect se­cu­ri­ty on the deck of a Chris­tian En­glish ves­sel, some un­speak­able and un­think­able hea­then or­gy mayn't be go­ing on over there be­side that sac­ri­fi­cial fire; and if some poor trem­bling na­tive girl isn't be­ing led just now, with blows and curs­es and aw­ful sav­age cer­emonies, her hands bound be­hind her back--Oh, look out, Miss El­lis!”

He was on­ly just in time to ut­ter the warn­ing words. He was on­ly just in time to put one hand on each side of her slen­der waist, and hold her tight so, when the big wave which he saw com­ing struck full tilt against the ves­sel's flank, and broke in one white drench­ing sheet of foam against her stern and quar­ter-​deck.

The sud­den­ness of the as­sault took Fe­lix's breath away. For the first few sec­onds he was on­ly aware that a heavy sea had been shipped, and had wet him through and through with its un­ex­pect­ed del­uge. A mo­ment lat­er, he was dim­ly con­scious that his com­pan­ion had slipped from his grasp, and was nowhere vis­ible. The vi­olence of the shock, and the slimy na­ture of the sea wa­ter, had made him re­lax his hold with­out know­ing it, in the tu­mult of the mo­ment, and had at the same time caused Muriel to glide im­per­cep­ti­bly through his fin­gers, as he had of­ten known an ill-​caught crick­et-​ball do in his school-​days. Then he saw he was on his hands and knees on the deck. The wave had knocked him down, and dashed him against the bul­wark on the lee­ward side. As he picked him­self up, wet, bruised, and shak­en, he looked about for Muriel. A ter­ri­ble dread seized up­on his soul at once. Im­pos­si­ble! Im­pos­si­ble! she couldn't have been washed over­board!

And even as he gazed about, and held his bruised el­bow in his hand, and won­dered to him­self what it could all mean, that sud­den loud cry arose be­side him from the quar­ter-​deck, “Man over­board! Man over­board!” fol­lowed a mo­ment lat­er by the an­swer­ing cry, from the men who were smok­ing un­der the lee of the com­pan­ion, “A la­dy! a la­dy! It's Miss El­lis! Miss El­lis!”

He didn't take it all in. He didn't re­flect. He didn't even know he was ac­tu­al­ly do­ing it. But he did it, all the same, with the sim­ple, straight­for­ward, in­stinc­tive sense of du­ty which makes civ­ilized man act aright, all un­con­scious­ly, in any mo­ment of supreme dan­ger and dif­fi­cul­ty. Leap­ing on to the taffrail with­out one in­stant's de­lay, and steady­ing him­self for an in­di­vis­ible frac­tion of time with his hand on the rope lad­der, he peered out in­to the dark­ness with keen eyes for a glimpse of Muriel El­lis's head above the fierce black wa­ter; and es­py­ing it for one sec­ond, as she came up on a white crest, he plunged in be­fore the ves­sel had time to roll back to wind­ward, and struck bold­ly out in the di­rec­tion where he saw that help­less ob­ject dashed about like a cork on the sur­face of the ocean.

On­ly those who have known such ac­ci­dents at sea can pos­si­bly pic­ture to them­selves the in­stan­ta­neous haste with which all that fol­lowed took place up­on that bustling quar­ter-​deck. Al­most at the first cry of “Man over­board!” the cap­tain's bell rang sharp and quick, as if by mag­ic, with three peremp­to­ry lit­tle calls in the en­gine-​room be­low. The Aus­tralasian was go­ing at full speed, but in a mar­vel­lous­ly short time, as it seemed to all on board, the great ship had slowed down to a per­fect stand­still, and then had re­versed her en­gines, so that she lay, just nose to the wind, await­ing fur­ther or­ders. In the mean­time, al­most as soon as the words were out of the bo'sun's lips, a sailor amid­ships had rushed to the safe­ty belts hung up by the com­pan­ion lad­der, and had flung half a dozen of them, one af­ter an­oth­er, with hasty but well-​aimed throws, far, far astern, in the di­rec­tion where Fe­lix had dis­ap­peared in­to the black wa­ter. The belts were paint­ed white, and they showed for a few sec­onds, as they fell, like bright specks on the sur­face of the dark­ling sea; then they sunk slow­ly be­hind as the big ship, still not quite stopped, ploughed her way ahead with gi­gan­tic force in­to the great abyss of dark­ness in front of her.

It seemed but a minute, too, to the watch­ers on board, be­fore a par­ty of sailors, sum­moned by the whis­tle with that mar­vel­lous readi­ness to meet any emer­gen­cy which long ex­pe­ri­ence of sud­den dan­ger has ren­dered ha­bit­ual among sea­far­ing men, had low­ered the boat, and tak­en their seats on the thwarts, and seized their oars, and were get­ting un­der way on their hope­less quest of search, through the dim black night, for those two be­lat­ed souls alone in the midst of the an­gry Pa­cif­ic.

It seemed but a minute or two, I say, to the watch­ers on board; but oh, what an eter­ni­ty of time to Fe­lix Thurstan, strug­gling there with his live bur­den in the seething wa­ter!

He had dashed in­to the ocean, which was dark, but warm with trop­ical heat, and had suc­ceed­ed, in spite of the heavy seas then run­ning, in reach­ing Muriel, who clung to him now with all the fierce cling­ing of de­spair, and im­ped­ed his move­ment through that swirling wa­ter. More than that, he saw the white life-​belts that the sailors flung to­ward him; they were well and apt­ly flung, in the in­spi­ra­tion of the mo­ment, to al­low for the sea it­self car­ry­ing them on the crest of its waves to­ward the two drown­ing crea­tures. Fe­lix saw them dis­tinct­ly, and mak­ing a great lunge as they passed, in spite of Muriel's strug­gles, which sad­ly ham­pered his move­ments, he man­aged to clutch at no less than three be­fore the great bil­low, rolling on, car­ried them off on its top for­ev­er away from him. Two of these he slipped hasti­ly over Muriel's shoul­ders; the oth­er he put, as best he might, round his own waist; and then, for the first time, still cling­ing close to his com­pan­ion's arm, and buf­fet­ed about wild­ly by that run­ning sea, he was able to look about him in alarm for a mo­ment, and re­al­ize more or less what had ac­tu­al­ly hap­pened.

By this time the Aus­tralasian was a quar­ter of a mile away in front of them, and her lights were be­gin­ning to be­come sta­tion­ary as she slow­ly slowed and re­versed en­gines. Then, from the sum­mit of a great wave, Fe­lix was dim­ly aware of a boat be­ing low­ered--for he saw a sep­arate light gleam­ing across the sea--a search was be­ing made in the black night, alas, how hope­less­ly! The light hov­ered about for many, many min­utes, re­vealed to him now here, now there, search­ing in vain to find him, as wave af­ter wave raised him time and again on its ir­re­sistible sum­mit. The men in the boat were do­ing their best, no doubt; but what chance of find­ing any one on a dark night like that, in an an­gry sea, and with no clue to guide them to­ward the two strug­gling cast­aways? Cur­rent and wind had things all their own way. As a mat­ter of fact, the light nev­er came near the cast­aways at all; and af­ter half an hour's in­ef­fec­tu­al search, which seemed to Fe­lix a whole long life­time, it re­turned slow­ly to­ward the steam­er from which it came--and left those two alone on the dark Pa­cif­ic.

“There wasn't a chance of pick­ing 'em up,” the cap­tain said, with philo­soph­ic calm, as the men clam­bered on board again, and the Aus­tralasian got un­der way once more for the port of Hon­olu­lu. “I knew there wasn't a chance; but in com­mon hu­man­ity one was bound to make some show of try­ing to save 'em. He was a brave fel­low to go af­ter her, though it was no good of course. He couldn't even find her, at night, and with such a sea as that run­ning.”

And even as he spoke, Fe­lix Thurstan, ris­ing once more on the crest of a much small­er bil­low--for some­how the waves were get­ting in­cred­ibly small­er as he drift­ed on to lee­ward--felt his heart sink with­in him as he ob­served to his dis­may that the Aus­tralasian must be steam­ing ahead once more, by the move­ment of her lights, and that they two were in­deed aban­doned to their fate on the open sur­face of that vast and track­less ocean.