The Strange Adventure Of James Shervinton
I slept well on towards four o’clock in the afternoon, and when I awakened I found the house deserted by all but my man Tepi, who was seated cross-legged near me with a cup containing my fever mixture beside him. He held it up to me silently.
Even before I raised myself to drink I felt that I was a stronger man, physically and mentally, than I had been six hours previously, and my veins no longer seemed as if they were filled with liquid fire. I drank the mixture and then looked about me, and saw that every ensanguined trace of the tragedy which had occurred a few hours before had been removed. The coarse and somewhat worn matting which had covered the floor had been taken away and replaced by new squares, and the room presented the usual neat and orderly appearance in which it was always kept by Tepi and my other servant.
“Master,” said Tepi, “art hungry?”
“Aye,” I replied, “I would eat; but first tell me of the dead man. Who hath taken him away?”
The man, instead of answering me in a straightforward manner, bent his head and muttered something I could not hear.
I jumped off my couch and went outside, and the first person I ran against was my cook, an old grizzled fellow of about sixty years of age named Pai. He was carrying a freshly-killed fowl in his hand, looked at me in an unconcerned manner as if nothing had occurred, and asked me would I have it broiled or boiled.
“As you will,” I said impatiently. “Tell me, Pai, whither have they taken the dead white man?”
He made a peculiar and significant gesture—one that is not often used, but when it is it implies that certain matters or things must not be further alluded to, but must be for ever buried in oblivion. I put my hand on his tough, naked, and wrinkled shoulder, and again repeated my question.
“I know of no dead white man,” he replied, looking me steadily in the face, and yet answering me in his usual respectful manner. Then he sat down beside the low stone wall surrounding the house, and began to pluck the fowl, casually remarking that it was fat for its age.
Somewhat puzzled at the reticence of my servants, I walked across my compound towards the native village, which, as I have before mentioned, was some distance from my house, and as I walked I felt at every footstep a renewed bodily vigour, and almost unconsciously I took out my pipe, filled it, and began to smoke with an enjoyment denied to me for many months.
The day was gloriously bright and cool, and the westering sun on my right hand shone on a sea of the deepest blue, whose placid bosom was dotted by a fleet of canoes with their mat sails spread to the now gentle trade wind, cruising to and fro catching flying fish. This seemed strange to me, bearing in mind the events of the past few hours. The death of a white man, even from natural causes, was of itself generally a matter of such importance to the natives of any of the mid-Pacific isles, that their daily avocations were suspended, and the house of the deceased man would not only be surrounded on the outside by a circle of people sitting on their mats and awaiting their turn to enter and express their condolences with his wife or children, but filled inside as well.
The first houses I passed on the outskirts of the village were occupied only by women and children, who all gave me their usual cheerful greeting of Tiakapo, Simi! (“Good-day, Jim”) and one or two of them added a few words of congratulation upon my improved appearance, and then calmly went on with their work, such as mat-making, mending fishing nets, cooking, etc., but no one of them gave the slightest indication of even having heard that anything unusual had occurred.
Crossing the village square—if it could be so called—I directed my steps towards the great open-sided moniep, or council house, from which came the sound of many voices, talking in the vociferous manner common to all natives of the Gilbert and Kingsmill groups. As I drew near I saw that there were about twenty men seated inside, smoking, card playing, or making cinnet for fishing lines by twisting up the strands of coco-nut fibre on their naked thighs. As they heard my footsteps on the gravel, their conversation dropped a little, but they all gave me Tiakapo! as usual, invited me to enter and sit down and smoke, and then went on with either their work or their pastime.
“Now,” I thought, as I sat down on the mat brought to me, “I shall get these fellows to tell me the meaning of all this reticence about the disposal of Krause’s body.”
For some minutes I smoked in silence and took the opportunity of looking at my hosts. They were all either middle-aged or old men, and were all known to me personally, especially one old bald-headed fellow named Kaibuka—“The Ship.”
In his younger days this Kaibuka had acquired an evil reputation for being the instigator and leader of cutting-off attacks on whaleships and trading vessels, and his performances had gained him such kudos and respect from his savage associates that now in his old age he was the most influential of the three principal head men of the whole lagoon. Like all the others present, he wore but the usual airiri, or girdle of grass, round his loins, and his dark reddish-brown body was covered from head to waist with the scars of wounds received in earlier years. Each of his ear-lobes, pierced in infancy, had from long years of continuous distention by means of rolls of pandanus leaf, become so pendulous that they now hung loosely upon his shoulders in two great bights of thin flesh as thick as a lead pencil, though one of them had twisted in it a long stick of tobacco and a spare pipe. He was not, however, a bad-looking old ruffian, and his shining bald head, still perfect teeth, and extremely Jewish cast of features gave him quite a distinctive appearance from the younger men, whose long coarse hair, cut away across the forehead and hanging loosely down on their shoulders and backs, made their fierce, savage faces appear as if they looked at you from a moving frame of black. They certainly were a wild-looking lot, but their appearance somewhat belied their dispositions—at least as far as I was personally concerned. We had always got along very well together both socially and in business, and I was well aware that whilst they disliked and mistrusted Krause they placed implicit confidence in me.
Putting down my pipe on the mat beside me, I told old Kaibnka that I desired to talk to them.
There was a dead silence at once.
“E rai rai” (“Good”), he said.
“Kaibuka,” I said, “hath the dead white man been taken to his wife?”
He looked stolidly at me for an instant, and then answered with an air of intense surprise.
“Dead white man! What dead white man, Simi? I know of none. We saw no dead white man!”
“Aye, we know of none,” echoed the others in unison.
I began to feel both angry and uncomfortable, and showed it: but for the moment I was too puzzled to do more than stare at them each in turn. They looked straight before them as if their faces were so many stone jugs—they had about as much expression.
Again I addressed myself to Kaibnka.
“Why do ye make this pretence? Thou thyself, Kaibnka, and thou, Berau, were, with many others, in my house when his dead body lay on the floor. Why are ye all so silent? And whither have the girl Niâbon and Tematau gone?”
This time I got an answer—to my last question, at any rate.
“Niâbon and Tematau have gone across the lagoon in a canoe. They desired to talk with the white man’s wife. In a little time, as darkness falls, they will return to thee.”
“Did they take the dead man with them, then?” I persisted.
The old fellow met my inquiring glance quite calmly. “I know of no dead man, Simi.”
I glared angrily at them all round, and then for a moment wondered if they were all crazy or I alone was wrong in my head. I was rising to my feet with an exclamation of anger at their obstinacy when the old bald-head motioned me to stay. Then at a sign from him all the others gathered up their impedimenta and quietly went off in Tarions directions, leaving us alone.
“Simi,” he said, coming swiftly over and crouching in front of me, “be wise. Ask no one of the white man who was here yesterday; for no one will tell thee but Niâbon. There is death in store for many, many people, if ye heed not my words. Go back to thy house, and be patient and wait, and ask naught of any one but Niâbon of what is past. Wouldst thou see this land soaked in blood because of one man?”
He spoke in such curious, whispered tones, and kept his keen hawk-like face so close to mine that I saw he was in deadly earnest.
“Promise me, Simi. Promise me to rest in thy house and wait for Niâbon.”
“As you will, I shall wait.”
I walked slowly back to my house and took a stiff glass of grog to steady my nerves, which were beginning to feel a little upset.
“It’s time I got out of this place,” I thought, as, lighting my pipe, I went down to my boat again and busied myself in taking out all her fittings, examining and replacing them again.
When I returned to the house for my supper it was quite dark, and just as my lamp was lit Niâbon entered.
CHAPTER V
Thinking it would be wiser to refrain from asking her any questions until she had at least rested a little—for she seemed to be very weary—I said nothing to her but a few words of welcome, and bade my servants lay the supper, then told her that I was sure she was both hungry and tired. She replied that she certainly was tired, having come on foot from Taritai to save time. The canoe with Tematau was to follow on later in the night when the tide turned, and when there would be more water on the upper sand flats of the lagoon.
“Very well, Niâbon,” I said in English, “now sit down and drink a cup of tea and eat a little. Then we can talk.”
“I have many things of which to tell thee, Simi,” she said, “for I have been speaking long with the wife of the man Krause, and–”
I told her that it would please me better if she first ate something. She at once obeyed, but instead of sitting at the table with me she seated herself on a mat near me, and Pai waited upon her whilst big Tepi attended to me. Only once did she speak during the meal, when she asked me if I had had any recurrence of either fever or ague, and she was undoubtedly pleased when I said that I had not, and that another coarse or two of her medicine would, I believed, care me. She smiled, and told me she would make more of the mixture that evening.
After eating a very slight sapper she made herself a cigarette and sat and smoked until I had finished my pipe. Then she came a little nearer to me, and I felt ashamed of myself for not having asked her if her neck gave her much pain, for I now noticed that the neck and front of her dress were blood-stained. She made light of the wound, however; said it was but skin deep, and would be healed in a few days. But I insisted upon her letting me see for myself. She consented somewhat unwillingly, and I saw that she had had a very narrow escape, the heavy bullet from Krause’s Derringer having scored her neck pretty deeply and made a wound nearly two inches long. She had, however, she told me, had it attended to by Mrs. Krause, who had done the very best thing that could have been done to a superficial injury of the kind—painted it liberally with Friar’s Balsam, which though causing intense pain for a few minutes, had quickly stayed the flow of blood and prevented any inflammation from setting in.
“Is Mrs. Krause well, Niàbon?” I asked as I readjusted the bandage.
“She is well.”
“And she knows how her husband died?”
“She knows how he died, but knows not whose were the hands that dealt the blows. And, Simi, it is well that she does not know, for I am her friend, and it would grieve her did she know all.”
I thought a moment or two before answering—
“How can the truth be kept from her, Niâbon? There are many people who know ‘twas thee and Tematau who slew him.”
“She will never know, Simi,” she asserted earnestly; “there is but one man who could tell her, and him she will not ask.”
“Who is that?” I asked wonderingly.
“Thyself.”
“Why should she not ask me? Her husband met his death in my house. I saw his body lying at my feet. Dost think she will fail to question me if others whom she may ask remain silent?”
“She will ask thee no questions concerning him. His death hath taken away from her a terror by day and bad dreams at night that for two years hath wrung her heart and weakened her body, which is but frail. Have pity on her, Simi, and say nothing to her when thou seest her of her dead husband. He is gone; and yet, although she wept when I told her he was dead, and she knelt and prayed for his spirit which has gone beyond, I know well that now some peace hath come into her heart. And I have given her sleep.”
As she spoke she turned her strangely sombrous and liquid eyes to mine in such an appealing glance that I could not resist her magnetic power, strive as I would.
“I will do as you wish, Niâbon,” I said, falling weakly into English again. “You are a strange girl, but I am sure that you mean well, not alone to me, but to that poor heartbroken woman. But you must tell me the meaning of all this strange silence on the part of the people of this village. Why do they deny the death of Krause? How can they conceal it? It cannot possibly be hidden. There is a German man-of-war coming to this island soon—Mrs. Krause herself told me—and how will these people account to the captain for his death? You and Tematau, who together killed him, cannot escape. And if I am questioned—as I shall be—what can I do? I cannot lie about a murder.”
“It was no murder, Simi,” she said steadily, and I felt that the girl was but right in her assertion; “it is no murder to strike and kill, and kill quickly, he who would slay the innocent and unoffending. That man was a devil.”
“What have you done with him, Niâbon? He might have been the devil you say he was; but he was a white man, and it is my place to see that he is buried as Christians bury the dead. He used me roughly, but–”
She placed her hand on my knee, and her very touch subdued my excitement.
“Simi, the man is dead, and not even a strand of his hair is left on earth. No one can ever question thee, or Tematau, or me, about him. He is gone, and even his name is already vanished from these people among whom he has dwelt. Dost not understand me?”
“No, I do not understand, Niâbon,” I said more gently. “How can his name be vanished when but a few hours ago he was alive and well. Tell me, in plain English, what you mean by saying that no one can question you and Tematau and myself about the manner of his death?”
“Because, Simi, thou and I and others shall be far away from here when the man’s countrymen come in the fighting-ship.”
“I wish to Heaven we were far away at this moment,” I said impatiently. “I am sick to death of the place, and don’t want to find myself a prisoner on board a German man-of-war on suspicion of being concerned in Krause’s death.”
She again repeated her assurance that I should never be questioned.
“Where is Mrs. Krause now?” I asked.
“At Taritai.”
“Niàbon”—and I placed my hand on her head—“you must not keep me in the dark about some things. I want you to answer me truly some questions. And, though I do not know why, I have this moment resolved to leave the island as quickly as possible. Would you come with me?”
“Yes, Mr. Sherry. Of course I am coming with you,” she answered in English. “I told you that you and I and some other people would soon be together upon the sea. And I will answer any question you ask me. I don’t want to deceive you. Why should I try to deceive you?”
As she turned her full, soft eyes up to my face, I saw in them such undoubted sincerity that I felt it was not possible for me again to doubt her.
“No, I am sure you will not deceive me, Niàbon. And I want you to tell me straightforwardly the meaning of all this mystery. First of all, what has been done with the German’s body? where is it buried?”
“In the sea. It was taken far out where the water is very, very deep—three hundred fathoms—and the mats in which it was wrapped were weighted so heavily with stones that it took six men to carry it down to the canoe.”
“Why was this done? Why was he not buried on shore?”
“I will tell you, Mr. Sherry. It was done so that when the German man-of-war comes here, no trace of him will ever be found;” and then she told me frankly the whole story, and the meaning of the strange silence of the natives.
Krause, she said, after his savage attack upon Tematau, had told his terrified wife that he meant to bring back Tematau, and kill Niâbon. After drinking heavily all night, he had started off alone in the morning, armed with a brace of revolvers and a Derringer pistol. He at first tried to get some forty or fifty of the Taritai young men to accompany him, and make a regular marauding expedition upon my village; but though they were eager to go with him and engage in battle with their old enemies, Niâbon, assisted by the more cautious head men, succeeded in dissuading them, and finally Krause went off alone. He travelled along the inner beach of the lagoon, and as soon as he reached my village marched boldly up to my house, boastfully calling out to the natives that he had come to take Tematau out of the Englishman’s house, alive or dead—a few minutes later he himself was dead.
A hurried consultation was at once held by the head men, and it was resolved to dispose of Krause’s body so effectually that no trace of it would ever be found, and every man, woman, and child in the village of Utiroa was sternly warned not only against even alluding to the manner of his death, but even admitting that he had even been seen by any one of them on that particular day. Hastily wrapping the dead man in mats, the body was taken out to sea, and sunk as Niâbon had described.
Then the fleet of canoes from the village began fishing as if nothing unusual had occurred, and after they had been out some hours they were met by eight or ten canoes from Taritai, which were also engaged in fishing. The moment they were within speaking distance the Taritai men inquired whether Krause had fulfilled his threat, and carried Tematau away. The Utiroa people affected great surprise, and said that they had seen nothing of him, but that most probably he had thought better of doing such a foolish and offensive thing, and had returned to Taritai again. The two fleets of canoes remained together for some little time, discussing Krause, and then one of the Taritai men frankly admitted that he (Krause) had tried to induce them to make a raid on Utiroa, but that Niâbon and the head men had set their faces against such a wicked act of aggression.
“It is well for him then that he did not come to Utiroa to-day,” said old Kaibuka’s son gravely. “Such a man as he is not wanted in our town. So keep him at Taritai.”
In the meantime Niâbon and Tematau had set out for Taritai to acquaint Mrs. Krause of the tragedy which had occurred. The moment they entered the village they were surrounded by natives, who eagerly inquired when Krause was returning—had he driven Tematau out of the Englishman’s house? etc., etc. Both Niâbon and her companion expressed surprise—neither they nor any one else in Utiroa had seen Krause, they said, and Tematau had come with her to ask Mrs. Krause to try and induce her husband to let him leave his service. The natives accepted their story without the slightest doubt, and the two went on their way to the white man’s house.
As soon as she and Mrs. Krause were alone Niâbon told her the cause of her visit and the steps which had been taken by the head men of Utiroa to conceal her husband’s death, so that when the German warship arrived and found him missing, the people of Utiroa could not be, even after the most searching investigation, connected with his disappearance. Mrs. Krause quite agreed that a wise course had been taken, for were it proved that her husband had been killed in Utiroa, the man-of-war would certainly inflict a terrible punishment on the village, as was usual with German warships’ procedure in the South Seas.
Then at Niâbon’s suggestion she summoned the head men, and told them that her husband had not reached Utiroa. Something must have happened to him. Would they send out and search for him, and if they found him, urge him to return, as Tematau had come back, and there was now no occasion for him (Krause) to offend the people of Utiroa by entering their village armed.
The head men were only too willing, and at once sent out search parties, and when Niàbon was coming back, she met two of them, who told her that they had been to Utiroa itself, but not one single person had seen anything of the white man, and they were now returning along the weather side of the island to search for him in the thick jungle, where they imagined he might have strayed and lost himself.
“So that is why these people here have acted so strangely, Mr. Sherry,” she concluded. “It would be terrible for them to be all killed, and the village burnt. For the Germans are very cruel. I have seen them do very, very cruel things.”
“I think the Utiroa people have done right. The German brought his death on himself. But I fear that the secret must come out some day. The Taritai people will surely suspect something.”
“No. No one of the Taritai people will ever know. By this time to-morrow they will all say that he has been drowned when crossing one of those narrow channels between the islands on the weather side, for there are many deep pools, and the coral sometimes breaks under the pressure of a man’s foot. And so they will think he has fallen in one of those pools, and his body carried out to sea, or into the lagoon, and eaten by the sharks.”
Her emphatic manner reassured me.
“Well, it is a bad business, Niàbon; but it cannot be helped. But I shall get away from here as soon as possible.”
“I am glad. And Simi, there is yet one other thing of which I have not yet spoken. It is of Lucia.”
She always called Mrs. Krause by her Christian name, as did the natives generally.
“What of her?”
“She desires greatly to come with us in the boat. And I pray thee to be kind to her, else will she die here of loneliness and terror.”
CHAPTER VI
This was a pretty astonishing request, and for a few seconds I gazed blankly at the girl.
“Good Heavens!” I said, “she must be mad to think of such a thing! And I should be as equally mad to even entertain the idea of taking her with me in a small boat on a voyage of more than a thousand miles.”
“Nay, she is not mad, Simi. And she hath set her heart on this. It would be cruel to leave her to die.”
“And to take her away would be still more cruel,” I cried. “Such a long, long voyage is a hard and dangerous venture even for strong men—men who should be both good navigators and good seamen. But a weak, delicate woman—oh, it’s all sheer nonsense, girl.”
She put her hand on mine, and the moment I felt her warm touch, my impatience ceased. I would argue the thing out with her, I thought, and soon convince her that it would be impossible. Impossible—folly, utter folly. I must not think of such a thing for a moment. And yet—and yet—I rose from my seat, walked to the window, and then turned to Niâbon.
“‘Tis a mad idea,” I said, trying to speak angrily, and failing lamentably. “‘Tis you alone, Niâbon, who hath made her ask me to do this.”
“That is not true, Simi,” she replied quietly, “Yet when I spoke to her of our voyage, her heart’s wishes came to her lips, and I knew that she would ask to come with thee, even as I know that thou wilt not leave her here to die.”
I could make no answer for the time. What was coming over me, that I could listen to such a suggestion with patience? What a strange influence did this girl Niâbon possess that I, a sensible man, felt she could and would make me yield to her wishes, and let a sickly, delicate woman like Mrs. Krause accompany me on a voyage that presented nothing but danger. The fever must have weakened my brain, I thought.
But then, on the other hand, Mrs. Krause was a free agent. She had no children. Her husband had just been killed. I, the only other white man on the island to whom she could look to for social intercourse at long intervals, was leaving the island. Her mind had been tortured, and her life made miserable by her brute of a husband. Could I, as a man, leave her among a community of naked savages to fret out her life? She wished to come with me. Well, I should tell her of the dangers—aye, and the horrors—of such a voyage as I was bent upon. I should conceal nothing from her—nothing, absolutely nothing. I should tell her of how the wife of the captain of the ship Octavia, from Sydney to Singapore, had seen her husband die, and the famishing crew of the boat which had left the burnt ship, drag his body from her with savage curses and threats, and–
