Chapter Eleven.

 Sporting, Schooling and Moralising.

 

Time flew by with rapid wing, and the infant colony prospered in many ways, though not in all.

 

One day John Adams took down his gun from the pegs on which it rested above the door of his hut. Saying to his wife that he was going to shoot a few cats and bring home a pig for supper, he sallied forth, and took the footpath that led to one of the darkest recesses of the lonely island.

 

Lest the reader should imagine that Adams was a cruel man, we must explain that, several years having elapsed since the landing of the mutineers on Pitcairn, the cats had by that time multiplied excessively, and instead of killing the rats, which was their duty, had taken to hunting and devouring the chickens. For this crime the race of cats was condemned to death, and the sentence was put in force whenever opportunity offered.

 

Fortunately, the poultry had also multiplied quickly, and the hogs had increased to such a degree that many of them had been allowed to take to a wild life in the woods, where they were hunted and shot when required for food. Sporting, however, was not often practised, because the gunpowder which had been saved from the Bounty had by this time sensibly diminished. Strange to say, it did not seem to occur to any of the men that the bow and arrow might become of use when guns became useless. Probably they looked upon such weapons with contempt, for they only made little bows, as playthings for the children, with harmless, blunt-headed arrows.

 

On turning from the clearing into the bush, Adams came on a sight which amused him not a little. In an open place, partially screened from the sun by the graceful leaves of palms and bananas, through which was obtained a glimpse of the sea, Otaheitan Sally was busily engaged in playing at “school.” Seated on the end of a felled tree was Thursday October Christian, who had become, as Isaac Martin expressed it, a great lout of a boy for his age.

 

Thursday was at the head of the class, not in virtue of his superior knowledge, but his size. He was a strong-made fellow, with a bright, intelligent, good-humoured face, like that of his father. Next to him sat little Matt Quintal, rather heavy and stupid in expression, but quiet and peaceable in temperament, like his mother. Next came Daniel McCoy, whose sharp sparkling countenance seemed the very embodiment of mischief, in which quality he resembled his father. Fortunately for little Dan, his mother was the gentlest and most unselfish of all the native women, and these qualities, transmitted to her son, were the means of neutralising the evil which he inherited from his father. After him came Elizabeth Mills, whose pretty little whitey-brown face was the counterpart of her mother’s in expression. Indeed, all of these little ones inherited in a great degree that sweet pliability of character for which the Otaheitan women were, and we believe still are, famous. Last, but not least, sat Charlie Christian at the bottom of the class.

 

“Now, hol’ up your heads an’ pay ’tention,” said the teacher, with the air of authority suitable to her position.

 

It may be observed here, that Sally’s knowledge of schooling and class-work was derived from Edward Young, who sometimes amused himself and the children by playing at “school,” and even imparted a little instruction in this way.

 

“Don’t wink, Dan’l McCoy,” said Sally, in a voice which was meant to be very stern, but was laughably sweet.

 

“P’ease, Missis, Toc’s vinkin’ too.” Thus had Dan learned to express Thursday’s name by his initials.

 

There was a touch of McCoy senior in this barefaced attempt to divert attention from himself by criminating another.

 

“I know that Toc is winking,” replied Sally, holding up a finger of reproof; “but he winks with both eyes, an’ you does it with only one, which is naughty. An’ when you speaks to me, sir, don’t say vink—say wink.”

 

“Yis, mum,” replied little Dan, casting down his eyes with a look of humility so intense that there was a sudden irruption of dazzling teeth along the whole class.

 

“Now, Toc, how much does two and three make?”

 

“Six,” replied Thursday, without a moment’s hesitation.

 

“Oh, you booby!” said Sally.

 

“P’ease, mum, he ain’t booby, him’s dux,” said Dan.

 

“But he’s a booby for all that, sir. You hold you tongue, Dan’l, an’ tell me what three and two makes.”

 

“P’ease, mum, I can’t,” answered Dan, folding his hands meekly; “but p’r’aps Charlie can; he’s clebber you know. Won’t you ax ’im?”

 

“Yes, I will ask ’im. Challie, what’s three an’ two?”

 

If Charlie had been asked how to square the circle, he could not have looked more innocently blank, but the desire to please Sally was in him a sort of passion. Gazing at her intently with reddening face, he made a desperate guess, and by the merest chance said, “Five.”

 

Sally gave a little shriek of delight, and looked in triumph at Dan. That little creature, who seemed scarce old enough to receive a joke, much less to make one, looked first at Charlie and winked with his left eye, then at Thursday and winked with his right one.

 

“You’re winkin’ again, sir,” cried Sally, sharply.

 

“Yis, mum, but with bof eyes this time, vich isn’t naughty, you know.”

 

“But it is naughty, sir, unless you do it with both eyes at once.”

 

“Oh, with bof at vunce!” exclaimed Dan, who thereupon shut both eyes very tight indeed, and then opened them in the widest possible condition of surprise.

 

This was too much for Sally. She burst into a hearty fit of laughter. Her class, being ever ready to imitate such an example, followed suit. Charlie tumbled forward and rolled on the grass with delight, little Dan kicked up his heels and tumbled back over the log in ecstasy, and Thursday October swayed himself to and fro, while the other two got up and danced with glee.

 

It was while the school was in this disorganised state that John Adams came upon them.

 

“That’s right, Sall,” he said, heartily, as he patted the child’s head. “You keep ’em at it. Nothin’ like havin’ their noses held to the grindstone when they’re young. You didn’t see anybody pass this way, did you?”

 

“No,” replied the child, looking earnestly up into the seaman’s countenance.

 

It was a peculiarity of these children that they could change from gay to grave with wonderful facility. The mere putting of the question had changed the current of their minds as they earnestly and gravely strove to recollect whether any one had been seen to pass during the morning.

 

“No,” repeated Sally, “don’t think nobody have pass this mornin’.”

 

“Yis, there vas vun,” said little Dan, who had become more profoundly thoughtful than the others.

 

“Ay, who was that, my little man?” said Adams.

 

“Isaac Martin’s big sow,” replied Dan, gravely.

 

The shout of laughter that followed this was not in proportion to the depth but the unexpectedness of the joke, and John Adams went on his way, chuckling at the impudence of what he called the precocious snipe.

 

In a short time the seaman found himself in a thicket, so dense that it was with difficulty he could make his way through the luxuriant underwood. On his left hand he could see the sky through the leaves, on his right the steep sides of the mountain ridge that divided the island.

 

Coming to a partially open space, he thought he saw the yellow side of a hog. He raised his gun to fire, when a squeaky grunt told him that this was a mother reposing with her family. He contented himself, therefore, with a look at them, and gave vent to a shout that sent them scampering down the hill.

 

Soon after that he came upon a solitary animal and shot it.

 

The report of the musket and the accompanying yell brought the Otaheitan man Tetaheite to his side.

 

“Well met, Tighty,” (so he styled him); “I want you to carry that pig to Mrs Adams. You didn’t see any cats about, did you?”

 

“No, sar.”

 

“Have you seen Mr Christian at the tanks this morning?”

 

“Yis, sar; but him’s no dere now. Him’s go to de mountain-top.”

 

“Ha! I thought so. Well, take the pig to my wife, Tighty, and say I’ll be back before dark.”

 

The native threw the animal over his broad shoulders, and Adams directed his steps to the well-known cave on the mountain-top, where the chief of the mutineers spent so much of his leisure time.

 

After the murder of the two natives, Talaloo and Ohoo, Fletcher Christian had become very morose. It seemed as if a fit of deep melancholy had taken entire possession of him. His temper had become greatly soured. He would scarcely condescend to hold intercourse with any one, and sought the retirement of his outlook in the cave on the mountain-top, where few of his comrades ventured to disturb him, save when matters of importance claimed his immediate attention.

 

Latterly, however, a change had been observed in his demeanour. He had become gentle, almost amiable, and much more like his former self before the blighting influence of Bligh had fallen on him. Though he seldom laughed, he would chat pleasantly with his companions, as in days gone by, and frequently took pains to amuse the children. In particular, he began to go frequently for long walks in the woods with his own sons—little Charlie on his back, and Thursday October gambolling by his side; also Otaheitan Sally, for that careful nurse refused to acknowledge any claim to the guardianship of Charlie as being superior to her own, not even that of a father.

 

But Fletcher Christian, although thus changed for the better in many respects, did not change in his desire for solitude. His visits to the outlook became not less but rather more frequent and prolonged than before.

 

He took no one into his confidence. The only man of the party who ever ventured to visit him in his “outlook” was Edward Young; but his visits were not frequent, though they were usually protracted when they did take place, and the midshipman always returned from them with an expression of seriousness, which, it was observed, never passed quickly away. But Young was not more disposed to be communicative as to these visits than Christian himself, and his comrades soon ceased to think or care about the matter.

 

With his mind, meditating on these things, John Adams slowly wended his way up the mountain-side, until he drew near to the elevated hermitage of his once superior officer, now his comrade in disgrace and exile.

 

Stout John Adams felt his blunt, straightforward, seafaring spirit slightly abashed as he thus ventured to intrude on the privacy of one for whom, despite his sins and their terrible consequences, he had never lost respect. It felt like going into the captain’s cabin without orders. The seaman’s purpose was to remonstrate with Christian for thus daily giving himself up, as he expressed it, “to such a long spell o’ the blues.”

 

Drawing near to the entrance of the cavern, he was surprised to hear the sound of voices within.

 

“Humph, somebody here before me,” he muttered, coming to an abrupt pause, and turning, as if with the intention of retracing his steps,—but the peculiarity of the sounds that issued from the cave held him as if spellbound.