"Solitude profound," said Christian, in a low voice, breaking the silence which had fallen on the party as they gazed slowly round them.

Just then a loud and hideous yell issued from, apparently; the bowels of the earth, and rudely put to flight the feeling of profound solitude. The cry, although very loud, had a strangely muffled sound, and was repeated as if by an echo.

The explorers looked in each other's faces inquiringly, and not without an expression of awe.

"Strange," said Adams; "an' it sounded very like some one in distress."

It was observed suddenly that Isaac Martin was absent.

"But the voice was not like his," said Brown.

The mysterious cry was repeated at the moment, and Christian ran quickly in the direction whence it seemed to come. As they neared a rugged mass of rocks which lay close to the peak on which they had been standing, the cry lost much of its mystery, and finally assumed the tones of Martin's voice.

"Hallo! hi! murder! help! O my leg! Mr Christian, Adams, Brown, this way. Help! ho! hi!"

What between the muffled sound and the echo, Martin created a noise that would have set his friends into fits of laughter if they had not been greatly alarmed.

In a few seconds the party reached what seemed to be a dark hole, out of which the poor man's left leg was seen protruding. Christian and Adams grasped it. Brown and one of the Otaheitans lent a hand, and Martin was quickly dragged out of danger and set on his legs.

"I say, Martin," said Brown, anxiously, "sit down or you'll bu'st. Every drop o' blood in your body has gone to your head."

"No wonder," gasped Isaac, "if you'd bin hangin' by one fut half as long, your blood would have blowed your head off altogether."

"There now, sit down a minute, and you'll be all right," said Christian. "How did it happen?"

To this Martin replied that it was simple enough. He had fallen a few yards behind, and, taking a wrong turn, had come on a hole, into which he looked. Seeing something like a light at the bottom of it, he stooped down to look further, slipped on the rocks, and went in head foremost, but was arrested by his foot catching between two rocks and getting jammed.

In this position he would soon have perished had not his comrades come to the rescue.

With some curiosity they now proceeded to examine the hole. It turned out to be the entrance to a cave which opened towards the northern side of the island, and from which a splendid sweep of the sea could be seen, while in the immediate neighbourhood, far down the precipices, innumerable sea-birds were seen like flakes of snow circling round the cliffs. A few of the inquisitive among these mounted to the giddy height of the cave's seaward-mouth, and seemed to gaze in surprise at the unwonted sight of man.

"A most suitable cavern for a hermit or a monk," said Brown.

"More fit for a monkey," said Martin.

"Not a bad place of refuge in case our retreat should be discovered," observed Christian.

"H'm! the Mutineers' Retreat," muttered John Adams, in a slightly bitter tone.

"A few resolute men," continued Christian, taking no notice of the last remark, "could hold out here against a hundred—at least while their ammunition lasted."

He returned as he spoke to the cave's landward entrance, and clambered out with some difficulty, followed by his companions. Proceeding with their investigations, they found that, while a large part of the island was covered with rich soil, bearing fruit-trees and shrubs in abundance, the remainder of it was mountainous, rugged, and barren. They also ascertained that, although the place had been inhabited in times long past, there seemed to be no inhabitants at that time to dispute their taking possession. Satisfied with the result of their investigations, they descended to their encampment on the table-land close to the heights above Bounty Bay.

On drawing near to the clearing they heard the sound of voices raised as if in anger.

"It's Quintal and McCoy," said Adams; "I know the sound o' their ill-natured voices."

Presently the two men could be seen through the trees. Quintal was sitting on a felled tree, looking fiercely at McCoy, who stood beside him.

"I tell you the baccy is mine," said Quintal.

"It's nothin' o' the sort, it's mine," answered McCoy, snatching the coveted weed out of the other's hand.

Quintal jumped up, hit McCoy on the forehead, and knocked him down.

McCoy instantly rose, hit Quintal on the nose, and tumbled him over the log on which he had been sitting.

Not much the worse, Quintal sprang to his feet, and a furious set-to would have immediately followed if the arrival of Christian and his party had not prevented it. It was no easy matter to calm the ruffled spirits of the men who had treated each other so unceremoniously, and there is no doubt the bad feeling would have been kept up about the tobacco in dispute if Christian had not intervened. McCoy reiterated stoutly that the tobacco was his.

"You are wrong," said Christian, quietly; "it belongs to Quintal. I gave it to him this morning."

As there was no getting over this, McCoy returned the tobacco with a bad grace, and Christian was about to give the assembled party some good advice about not quarrelling, when the mother of little Sally appeared suddenly, wringing her hands, and exclaiming in her native tongue, "My child is lost! my child is lost!"

As every one of the party, even the roughest, was fond of Sally, there was an eager and anxious chorus of questioning.

"Where away did 'ee lose her?" asked McCoy; but the poor mother could only wring her hands and cry, "Lost! lost!"

"Has she gone over the cliffs?" asked Edward Young, who came up at the moment; but the woman would say nothing but "Lost! lost!" amid floods of tears.

Fortunately some of the other women, who had been away collecting cocoa-nuts, arrived just then, and somewhat relieved the men by prevailing on the mother to explain that, although she could not say positively her child had fallen over the cliffs, or come by any other mishap, Sally had nevertheless disappeared early in the forenoon, and that she had been searching for her ever since without success.

The process of interrogation was conducted chiefly by Isabella, alias Mainmast, the wife of Fletcher Christian, and Susannah, the wife of Edward Young; and it was interesting to note how anxious were the native men, Talaloo, Timoa, Ohoo, Nehow, Tetaheite, and Menalee. They were evidently as concerned about the safety of the child as were the white men.

"Now, lads," said Christian, after it was ascertained that the poor woman could give no information whatever, "we must search at once, but we must go about it according to a fixed plan. I remember once reading of a General having got lost in a great swamp one evening with his staff. It was near the sea, I think, and the tide was making. He collected his officers and bade them radiate out from him in all directions, each one in a straight line, so as to make sure of at least one of them finding the right road out of the danger. We will do likewise."

Following out this plan, the entire party scattered themselves into the bush, each keeping in a straight line, searching as he went, and widening the field of search as his distance from the centre increased. There was no time to lose, for the shades of night had already begun to fall.

Anxiously did the poor mother and one or two of the other women sit in the clearing, listening for the expected shout which should indicate success. For a long time no shout of any kind was heard, though there was considerable noise when the searching party came upon the lairs of members of the livestock that had taken up their quarters in the bush.

We will follow only the line of search which ended in success. It was pursued by Christian himself. At first he came on spots where domestic fowls had taken up their abode. Then, while tramping through a mass of luxuriant ferns, he trod on the toes of a slumbering hog, which immediately set up a shriek comparable only to the brake of an ill-used locomotive. This uncalled-for disturbance roused and routed a considerable number of the same family which had taken refuge in the same locality. After that he came on a bevy of cats, seated at respectful distances from each other, in glaring and armed neutrality. His sudden and evidently unexpected appearance scattered these to the four points of the compass.

Presently he came upon a pretty open spot of small size, which was surrounded by shrubs and trees, through the leafy branches of which the setting sun streamed in a thousand rays. One of these rays dazzled the eyes, and another kissed the lips of a Nanny-goat. It was Sally's pet, lying down and dozing. Beside it lay Sally herself, sound asleep, with her pretty little face resting on its side, and one of her little fat hands holding on to a lock of its white hair.

With a loud shout Christian proclaimed his success to the Pitcairn world, and, picking up the still slumbering child, carried her home in triumph to her mother.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

ROASTING, FORAGING, AND FABRICATING.

One morning John Adams awoke from a pleasant dream and lay for some time on his back, in that lazy, half-conscious fashion in which some men love to lie on first awaking. The canopy above him was a leafy structure through which he could see the deep azure of the sky with its few clouds of fleecy white. Around him were the rude huts of leaves and boughs which his comrades had constructed for themselves more or less tastefully, and the lairs under bush and tree with which the Otaheitan natives were content. Just in front of his own hut was that of Fletcher Christian. It was more thoroughly built than the others, being partly formed of planks and other woodwork saved from the Bounty, and was well thatched with the broad leaves of tropical plants.

In front of the hut Christian's wife, Isabella, was busily engaged digging a hole in the ground. She was the only member of the party astir that morning.

"I wonder why Mainmast is up so early," murmured Adams, rousing himself and using his elbow as a prop while he observed her.

Mainmast, who was better known by that sobriquet than by the name which Christian had given to her on his wedding-day at Otaheite, was a very comely and naturally amiable creature, graceful in form, and although a so-called savage, possessing an air of simple dignity and refinement which might almost be termed lady-like. Indeed, several of the other native wives of the mutineers were similar to Mrs Christian in these respects, and, despite their brown complexions, were remarkably good-looking. One or two, however, were commonplace enough, especially the wives of the three married Otaheitan men, who seemed to be, as no doubt they were, of a lower social class than the others who had mingled with the best Otaheitan society, Edward Young's wife, for instance, being a sort of native princess—at least she was the daughter of a great chief.

The dress of these women was simple, like themselves, and not ungraceful. It consisted of a short petticoat of tapa, or native cloth, reaching below the knees, and a loose shawl or scarf of the same material thrown over the shoulders.

After gazing a short time, Adams perceived what Mainmast was about. She was preparing breakfast, which consisted of a hog. It had been shot by Christian the night before, partly because it annoyed him with pertinacious grunting in the neighbourhood of his hut, and partly because several families of hoglets having been born soon after their arrival on the island, he could not be charged with extravagance in giving the people a treat of flesh once in a way.

The process of cooking the hog was slow, hence the early move. It was also peculiar, therefore we shall describe it in detail, in order that the enterprising housewives of England may try the plan if convenient.

Mainmast's first act was to kindle a large fire, into which she put a number of goodly-sized and rounded stones. While these were heating, she dug a large hole in the ground with a broken shovel, which was the only implement of husbandry possessed at that time by the community. This hole was the oven. The bottom of it she covered with fresh plantain leaves. The stones having been heated, were spread over the bottom of the hole and then covered with leaves. On this hotbed the carcass of the pig was placed, and another layer of leaves spread over it. Some more hot stones were placed above that, over which green leaves were strewn in bunches, and, finally, the whole was covered up with earth and rubbish piled up so as to keep in the heat.

Just as she had accomplished this, Mainmast was joined by Mrs Young (Susannah) and Mrs McCoy.

"Good-morning," said Mrs Christian, using the words of salutation which she had learned from the Europeans. "The hog will not be ready for a long time; will you help me with the cakes?"

The women at once assented, and set to work. They spoke to each other in the Otaheitan tongue. To their husbands they spoke in a jumble of that tongue and English. For convenience we shall, throughout our tale, give their conversations in ordinary English.

While Mrs McCoy prepared some yams and sweet potatoes for baking, Mrs Young compounded a cake of yams and plantains, beaten up, to be baked in leaves. Mainmast also roasted some breadfruit.

This celebrated fruit—but for which the Bounty, would never have been sent forth, and the mutiny with its wonderful consequences would never have occurred—grows on a tree the size of a large apple-tree, the leaves of which are of a very deep green. The fruit, larger than an orange, has a thick rind, and if gathered before becoming ripe, and baked in an oven, the inside resembles the crumb of wheaten bread, and is very palatable. It lasts in season about eight months of the year.

While the culinary operations were going on, the precocious Sally, awaking from her slumbers, rose and staggered forth to survey the face of the newborn day. Her little body was clothed in an admirably fitting garment of light-brown skin, the gift of Nature. Having yawned and rubbed her eyes, she strayed towards the fire. Mrs Christian received her with an affable smile, and presented her with a pannikin of cocoa-nut milk to keep her quiet. Quaffing this beverage with evident delight, she dropped the pannikin, smacked her rosy lips, and toddled off to seek adventures. Her first act was to stand in front of Isaac Martin's hut, and gaze with a look not unmixed with awe at the long nose pointing to the sky, from which sonorous sounds were issuing.

It is said that familiarity breeds contempt. It was obvious that the awesome feeling passed from the infant's mind as she gazed. Under the impulse of a sudden inspiration she entered the hut, went up to the nose, and tweaked it.

"Hallo!" shouted Martin, springing up and tumbling Sally head over heels in the act. "Oh, poor thing, I haven't hurt you, have I?"

He caught the child in his arms and kissed her; but Sally seemed to care neither for the tumble nor the kisses. Having been released, she sallied from the hut in search of more adventures.

Martin, meanwhile, having been thoroughly aroused, got up and went towards the fire.

"You're bright and early, Mainmast," he said, slowly filling his pipe.

"Yes, hog takes time to cook."

"Hog is it, eh? That'll be first-rate. Got sauce for it?"

"Hog needs no sauce," said Mrs Christian, with a laugh. To say truth, it required very little to arouse her merriment, or that of her amiable sisterhood.

When Martin had lighted his pipe, he stood gazing at the fire profoundly, as if absorbed in meditation. Presently he seized a frying-pan which lay on the ground, and descended therewith by way of the steep cliffs to the sea.

While he was gone, one and another of the party came to the fire and began to chat or smoke, or both, according to fancy. Ere long Martin was seen slowly ascending the cliffs, holding the frying-pan with great care.

"What have you got there?" asked one.

"Oysters, eh?" said another, scrutinising the pan.

"More like jelly-fish," said Young.

"What in all the world is it?" asked Adams, as the pan was put on the fire.

"You'll see when it boils," said Martin.

"There's nothin' in it at all but water," said Quintal, somewhat contemptuously.

"Well, I've heerd of many a thing, but never fried water," remarked McCoy.

"I should think it indigestible," said Christian, coming up at the moment.

Whether the natives understood the jest or not we cannot say, but certain it is that all of them, men and women, burst into a fit of laughter at this, in which they were joined by Otaheitan Sally from mere sympathy.

"Well, what is to be the order of the day?" asked Christian, turning to Young. "Shall we proceed with our dwellings, or divide the island into locations?"

"I think," answered the midshipman, "that some of us at least should set up the forge. I know that Williams's fingers are tingling to grasp the sledge-hammer, and the sooner he goes at it, too, the better, for we're badly off for tools."

"If you don't require my services," said Brown, "I'll go plant some breadfruits and other things at that sheltered spot we fell upon yesterday."

"I intend to finish the thatching of my hut," said Quintal, in that off-hand tone of independence and disregard of the wishes of others which was one of his characteristics.

"Well, there are plenty of us to do all the work," said Christian. "Let every man do what pleases himself. I would only ask for one or two volunteers to cut the water-tanks I spoke of yesterday. The water we have discovered, although a plentiful supply for present needs, may run short or cease altogether if drought comes. So we must provide against a dry instead of a rainy day, by cutting a tank or two in the solid rock to hold a reserve."

Adams and Mills at once volunteered for this duty. Other arrangements were soon made, and they sat down to breakfast, some using plates saved from the Bounty, others flat stones as substitutes, while empty cocoa-nut shells served for drinking-cups.

"Your water pancake should be done brown by this time," said Young, as he sat down on the turf tailor-wise.

"Not quite, but nearly," returned Martin, as he stirred the furiously-boiling contents of the frying-pan.

In a few minutes more the sea water had boiled quite away, leaving a white residuum, which Martin scraped carefully off into a cocoa-nut cup.

"You see, boys," he said, setting down the salt thus procured, "I never could abide fresh meat without a pick o' salt to give it a relish. It may be weakness perhaps, but—"

"Being the weakness of an old salt," interrupted Christian, "it's excusable. Now, boys, fall-to with a will. We've got plenty of work before us, an' can't afford to waste time."

This exhortation was needless. The savoury smell of the roast pig, when it had been carefully disentombed, might have given appetite to a seasick man. They ate heartily, and for some time in silence.

The women, however, did not join in the feast at that time. It was the custom among the Otaheitans that the men should eat first, the women afterwards; and the mutineers, having become habituated to the custom, did not see fit to change it. When the men had finished and discussed the day's proceedings, the remainder of the pig, fruits, and vegetables, were consumed by the females, among whom, we are bound to state, Sally was the greatest gourmand.

When pipes were finished, and the digestion of healthy young men had been thus impaired as far as was possible in the circumstances, the party went off in several groups about their various avocations.

Among other things removed from the Bounty were a smith's anvil and bellows, with various hammers, files, etcetera, and a large quantity of iron-work and copper. One party, therefore, under Young and Williams the armourer, busied themselves in setting up a forge near their settlement, and preparing charcoal for the forge fire.

Another party, under Christian, proceeded to some neighbouring rocks, and there, with sledge-hammer and crowbars, which they used as jumpers, began the laborious task of boring the solid rock, intending afterwards to blast, and partly to cut it, into large water-tanks. Quintal continued the thatching of his hut, in which work his humble wife aided him effectively. Brown proceeded with the planting operations which he had begun almost immediately after landing; and the women busied themselves variously, some in preparing the mid-day meal, some in gathering fruits and roots for future use, and others in improving the internal arrangements of their various huts, or in clearing away the debris of the late feast. As for little Sally, she superintended generally the work of the home department, and when she tired of that, went further afield in search of adventures.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

DIVISION OF THE ISLAND—MORALISINGS, MISGIVINGS, AND A GREAT EVENT.

There was no difficulty in apportioning the new possessions to which the mutineers had served themselves heirs. In that free-and-easy mode in which men in power sometimes arrange matters for their own special behoof, they divided the island into nine equal parts, of which each appropriated one part. The six native men were not only ignored in this arrangement, but they were soon given to understand, by at least several of their captors, that they were to be regarded as slaves and treated as such.

It is, however, but just to Edward Young to say that he invariably treated the natives well and was much liked by them, from which it is to be supposed that he did not quite fall in with the views of his associates, although he made no objection to the unjust distribution of the land. John Adams, being an amiable and kindly man, also treated the natives well, and so did Fletcher Christian; but the others were more or less tyrannical, and those kindred spirits, Matthew Quintal and William McCoy, treated them with great severity, sometimes with excessive cruelty.

At first, however, things went well. The novelty and romance of their situation kept them all in good spirits. The necessity for constant activity in laying out their gardens, clearing the land around the place of settlement, and erecting good log-houses,—all this, with fresh air and abundance of good food, kept them in excellent health and spirits, so that even the worst among them were for a time amiably disposed; and it seemed as if those nine men had, by their act of mutiny, really introduced themselves into a terrestrial paradise.

And so they had, as far as nature was concerned, but the seeds of evil in themselves began ere long to grow and bear fruit.

The fear of the avenger in the form of a man-of-war was constantly before their minds. We have said that the Bounty had been burnt, and her charred remnants sunk to remove all traces of their presence on the island. For the same end a fringe of trees was left standing on the seaward side of their clearing, and no erection of any kind was allowed upon the seaward cliffs or inland heights.

One afternoon, Christian, who had been labouring in his garden, threw down his tools, and taking up the musket which he seldom left far from his hand, betook himself to the hills. He was fond of going there, and often spent many hours in solitary watching in the cave near the precipitous mountain-peak.

On his way up he had to pass the hut of William McCoy. The others, conforming to the natural tendency of mankind to congregate together, had built their houses round the cleared space on the table-land above Bounty Bay, from which central point they were wont to sally forth each morning to their farms or gardens, which were scattered wide apart in separate valleys. McCoy, however, aspired to higher heights and grander solitudes. His dwelling, a substantial log-hut, was perched upon a knoll overlooking the particular valley which he cultivated with the aid of his Otaheitan wife and one of the native men.

"You are getting on well," said Christian to McCoy, who was felling a tree when he came up to him.

"Ay, slowly, but I'd get on a deal faster if that lazy brown-skin Ohoo would work harder. Just look at him. He digs up that bit o' ground as if he was paid by the number o' minutes he took to do it. I had to give him a taste of a rope's end this morning, but it don't seem to have done him much good."

"It didn't seem to do much good to you when you got it on board the Bounty," said Christian, gravely.

"P'r'aps not; but we're not on board the Bounty, now," returned McCoy, somewhat angrily.

"Depend on it, McCoy," said Christian, softening his tone, "that the cat never made any man work well. It can only force a scoundrel to obedience, nothing more."

"H'm, I b'lieve you're not far wrong, sir," returned the other, resuming his work.

Giving a friendly nod to Ohoo as he passed, and a cheerful "good-morning" to Mrs McCoy, who was busy inside the hut, Christian passed slowly on through the luxuriant herbage with which that part of the hillside was covered.

At first he walked in the shade of many-stemmed banyans and feathery-topped palms, while the leaves of tall and graceful ferns brushed his cheeks, and numerous luxuriant flowering plants perfumed the air. Then he came to a clump of bushes, into which darted one of the goats that had by this time become almost wild. The goat's rush disturbed a huge sow with a litter of quite new pigs, the gruntings and squeakings of which gave liveliness to an otherwise quiet and peaceful scene.

Coming out on the shoulder of the mountain just above the woods, he turned round to look back. It was a splendid panorama of tropical vegetation, rounded knolls, picturesque mounds, green patches, and rugged cliffs, extending downwards to Bounty Bay with its fringe of surf, and beyond—all round—the sleeping sea.

Two or three little brown, sparrow-like birds twittered in the bushes near, and looked askance, as if they would question the man's right to walk there. One or two active lizards ran across his path, pausing now and then, and glancing upwards as if in great surprise.

Christian smiled sadly as he looked at them, then turned to breast the hill.

It was a rugged climb. Towards the top, where he diverged to the cave, every step became more difficult.

Reaching the hole where Isaac Martin had come by his misadventure, Christian descended by means of a rude ladder which he had constructed and let down into it. Entering the cave, he rested his musket against the wall of rock, and sat down on a ledge near the opening towards the sea. It was a giddy height. As he sat there with hands clasped over one knee and eyes fixed wistfully on the horizon, his right foot, thrust a little beyond the edge of the rock, overhung a tremendous precipice, many hundred feet deep.

For a long time he gazed so steadfastly and remained so motionless as to seem a portion of the rock itself. Then he heaved a sigh that relieved the pent-up feelings of an overburdened soul.

"So early!" he muttered, in a scarcely audible voice. "At the very beginning of life, just when hope, health, manhood, and opportunity were at the flood."

He stopped, and again remained motionless for a long time. Then, continuing in the same low, sad tone, but without altering his position or his wistful gaze.

"And now, an outlaw, an outcast, doomed, if taken, to a felon's death! Comrades seduced to their ruin! The brand of Cain not more terrible than mine! Self-exiled for life! Never, never more to see friends, country, kindred, sisters—mother! God help me!"

He laid his face in his hands and groaned aloud. Again he was silent, and remained without motion for nearly an hour.

"Can it be true?" he cried in a voice of suppressed agony, looking up as if expecting an answer from heaven. "Shall I never, never, never awake from this hideous dream!"

The conscience-smitten young man laid strong constraint upon himself and became calmer. When the sun began to approach the horizon he rose, and with an air of stern resolution, set about making various arrangements in the cave.

From the first Fletcher Christian had fixed on this cavern as a retreat, in case his place of refuge should be discovered. His hope was that, if a man-of-war should come at last and search the island, he and his comrades might escape detection in such a sequestered and well-concealed cavern. If not, they could hold out to the last and sell their lives dearly. Already he had conveyed to it, by degrees, a considerable supply of ammunition, some of the arms and a quantity of such provisions as would not readily spoil with time. Among other things, he carried to that elevated outlook Carteret's book of voyages and some other works, which had formed the very small library of the Bounty, including a Bible and a Church of England Prayer-book.

When not gazing on the horizon, expecting yet fearing the appearance of a sail, he passed much of his time in reading.

On the evening of which we write he had beguiled some time with Carteret, when a slight sound was heard outside the cavern.

Starting up with the nervous susceptibility induced by a guilty conscience, he seized his musket and cocked it. As quickly he set it down again, and smiled at his weakness. Next moment he heard a voice shouting. It drew nearer.

"Hallo, sir! Mr Christian!" cried John Adams, stooping down at the entrance.

"Come down, Adams, come down; there's no occasion to keep shouting up there."

"True, sir; but do you come up. You're wanted immediately."

There was something in the man's voice which alarmed Christian. Grasping his musket, he sprang up the ladder and stood beside his comrade.

"Well?"

"It's—it's all right, sir," said Adams, panting with his exertions in climbing the hill; "it's—it's a boy!"

Without a word of reply Christian shouldered his weapon, and hurried down the mountain-side in the direction of home.



CHAPTER NINE.

SALLY'S CHIEF JOYS—DARK CLOUDS OVERSPREAD THE PITCAIRN SKY, AND DARKER DEEDS ARE DONE.

Just before John Adams left the settlement for the purpose of calling Christian, whose retreat at the mountain-top was by that time well-known to every one, little Sally had gone, as was her wont, to enjoy herself in her favourite playground. This was a spot close to the house of Edward Young, where the debris of material saved from the Bounty had been deposited. It formed a bristling pile of masts, spars, planks, cross-trees, oars, anchors, nails, copper-bolts, sails, and cordage.

No material compound could have been more dangerous to childhood, and nothing conceivable more attractive to Sally. The way in which that pretty little nude infant disported herself on that pile was absolutely tremendous. She sprang over things as if she had been made expressly to fly. She tumbled off things as if she had been created to fall. She insinuated herself among anchor-flukes and chains as if she had been born an eel. She rolled out from among the folds of sails as if she were a live dumpling. She seemed to dance upon upturned nails, and to spike herself on bristling bolts; but she never hurt herself,—at least if she did she never cried, except in exuberant glee.

Now, it was while thus engaged one day that Sally became suddenly conscious of a new sound. Young as she was, she was fully alive to the influence of a new sensation. She paused in an attitude of eager attention. The strange sound came from Christian's hut. Sally waddled thither and looked in. The first thing that met her gaze was her own mother with a live creature in her hands, which she was carefully wrapping up in a piece of cloth. It was a pitifully thin whitey-brown creature, with a puckered face, resembling that of a monkey; but Sally had never seen a monkey, and probably did not think of the comparison. Presently the creature opened its mouth, shut its eyes, and uttered a painfully weak squall.

Cause and effect are not infrequently involved in mystery. We cannot tell why Sally, who never cried, either when hurt or scolded, should, on beholding this sight, set up a tremendous howl; but she did, and she kept up the howl with such vigour that John Adams was attracted to the spot in some alarm.

Stopping only long enough to look at the infant and see that the mother was all right, Adams ran off at full speed to the mountain-top, as we have seen, to be the first to announce the joyful news to the father.

Thus came into the world the first "descendant" of the mutineers of the Bounty.

It was with unwonted animation that the men sat down to supper that evening, each having congratulated Christian and inquired at the hut for the baby and mother, as he came in from work.

"What will you call him?" inquired Young, after pledging the new arrival in a cup of cocoa-nut milk.

"What day is it?" asked Christian.

"Thursday," answered Martin.

"Then I'll call him Thursday," said Christian; "it will commemorate the day."

"You'd better add 'October,' and commemorate the month," said Adams.

"So I will," said Christian.

"An' stick on 'Seventeen-ninety' to commemorate the year," suggested Mills.

"No, there are limits to everything," returned Christian; "three names are enough. Come, fill up your cups, lads, and drink to Thursday October Christian!"

With enthusiasm and a shout of laughter, the toast was pledged in cocoa-nut milk, and once again Christian's hand was shaken by his comrades all round.

The advent of TOC, as Adams called him, (or Toc, as he afterwards came to be styled), was, as it were, the breaking of the ice. It was followed ere long by quite a crop of babies. In a few months more a Matthew Quintal was added to the roll. Then a Daniel McCoy furnished another voice in the chorus, and Sally ceased to disquiet herself because of that which had ceased to be a novelty. This all occurred in 1791. After that there was a pause for a brief period; then, in 1792, Elizabeth Mills burst upon the astonished gaze of her father, and was followed immediately by another Christian, whom Fletcher, discarding his eccentric taste for days and months, named Charles.

By this time Sally had developed such a degree of matronly solicitude, that she was absolutely intrusted at times with the care of the other children. In a special manner she devoted herself to little Charlie Christian, who was a particularly sedate infant. Indeed, solemnity was stamped upon that child's visage from his birth. This seemed to harmonise intensely with Sally's sense of fun. She was wont to take Charlie away from his mother, and set him up on a log, or the rusty shank of the Bounty's "best bower," prop him up with sticks or bushes—any rubbish that came to hand—and sit down in front of him to gaze. Charlie, after the first few months of precarious infancy, became extremely fat. He used to open his solemn eyes as wide as was possible in the circumstances, and return the gaze with interest. Unable to restrain herself, Sally would then open her pretty mouth, shut her gorgeous eyes, and give vent to the richest peals of laughter.

"Oh, you's so good, Charlie!"

She had learned by that time to speak broken English in an infantine fashion, and her assertion was absolutely true, for Charlie Christian was preternaturally good.

The same cannot be said of all the members of this little community. Ere long, a period approached when the harmony which had hitherto prevailed was about to be broken. Increasing life had marked their course hitherto. Death now stepped in to claim his share.

The wife of John Williams went out one day to gather gulls' eggs among the cliffs. The women were all in the habit of doing this at times, and they had become expert climbers, as were also the men, both white and brown.

When day began to close, they wondered why Mrs Williams was so late of returning. Soon her husband became uneasy; then, taking alarm, he went off to search for her, accompanied by all the men. The unfortunate woman was found dead at the base of the cliffs. She had missed her footing and fallen while searching for eggs.

This accident had at first a deeply solemnising effect on the whole community. Accustomed though these men were to the sight of death in some of its worst forms in war, they were awed by this sudden and unexpected assault of the great enemy. The poor mangled body lying so quietly among the rocks at the foot of the awful precipice, the sight of the husband's grief, the sad and silent procession with the ghastly burden in the deepening gloom of evening, the wailing of the women, and the awestruck gaze of such of the children as were old enough to know that something terrible had occurred, though unable to understand it,— all conspired to deepen the impression, even on those among the men who were least easily impressed; and it was with softened feelings of pity that Quintal and McCoy, volunteering their services on the occasion, dug the first grave at Pitcairn.

Time, however, soon wore away these feelings. Williams not only got over his bereavement easily, but soon began to wish for another wife. It was, of course, impossible to obtain one righteously in the circumstances; he therefore resolved to take the wife of Talaloo the Otaheitan.

It must not be supposed that all Williams', comrades supported him in this wicked design. Christian, Young, and Adams remonstrated with him strongly; but he was obstinate, and threatened to take the boat and leave the island if they interfered with him. As he was an expert blacksmith, his comrades could not afford to lose him, and ceased remonstrating. Eventually he carried out his intention.

This was, as might have been expected, the beginning of trouble. The coloured men made common cause of it, and from that time forward began to plot the destruction of their white masters. What made matters worse was that Talaloo's wife was not averse to the change, and from that time became a bitter enemy of her Otaheitan husband. It was owing to this wicked woman's preference for Williams that the plot was afterwards revealed.

One evening, while sitting in Christian's house, Talaloo's wife began to sing a sort of extempore song, the chorus to which was:—

"Why does black man sharpen axe? To kill white man."

Hearing this, Christian, who was close at hand, entered the hut and demanded an explanation. On being informed of the plot of the Otaheitan men to murder all the whites, a dark frown overspread his face. Hastily seizing his musket, he loaded it, but it was observed that he put no bullet in.

The Otaheitans were assembled at the time in a neighbouring house. Christian went straight to the house, charged the men with their guilty intentions, pointed his gun at them, and pulled the trigger. The piece missed fire. Before he could re-cock, Talaloo leaped through the doorway, followed by his friend Timoa, and took shelter in the woods.

The other four men begged for mercy, said that the two who had just left were the instigators as well as ringleaders in the plot, and promised to hunt them down and murder them if their own lives should be spared. As Christian had probably no fixed intention to kill any of the men, and his sudden anger soon abated, he accepted their excuses and left them. It was impossible, however, for the mutineers to feel confidence in the natives after that. The two men who had fled for refuge to the bush did not return to the settlement, but remained in hiding.

One day Talaloo's wife went, with some of the other women, to the southern side of the island to fish from the rocks. They were soon busily at work. The lines used had been made by themselves from the fibrous husk of the cocoa-nut. The hooks had been brought on shore from the Bounty. Chattering and laughing with the free-and-easy gaiety of savages, they plied their work—it seemed more like play—with varying success.

Suddenly the wife of Talaloo heard a faint hiss behind her. Turning her head, she saw her former husband in the bushes. He beckoned to her, and disappeared. None of the other women appeared to have heard or observed the man. Presently, Talaloo's wife rose, and going into the woods, joined her husband. She found him in company with Timoa.

"Is Talaloo become a dog that he should be driven to live in the bush?" demanded the man, with a stern air.

"The white men are strong," answered his wife, with a subdued look; "the women can do nothing."

"You can stay with me here in the bush if you will," said Talaloo. "The white men are strong, but we are stronger. We will kill the white men."

He turned with an air of offended dignity, and strode away. His wife meekly followed, and Timoa went with them.

Now, there was one woman among the fishers whose eyes were sharp and her hearing was keen.

This was Susannah, the wife of the midshipman Edward Young. She had followed Talaloo's wife, saw what occurred, and carried back a report to the settlement. A council of war was at once held.

"If we leave these men at liberty," said Williams, "we shall never again be able to go to rest in security."

"Something must be done," said Christian, with the air of a man whose mind wanders far away from the subject in hand.

"Kill them," suggested McCoy.

"Yes," said Quintal; "I vote that we get up a grand hunt, run them to earth, and shoot them like dogs, as they are."

"Not so easy as you think to hunt down such men among these wild and wooded hills," said Young. "Besides, it is only Talaloo who has threatened us; Timoa is guiltless, I think."

"I'll tell you what we'll do, lads; we'll poison 'em," said Williams. "I've heard of such a thing bein' done at Otaheite by one of the women. She knows how to get the poison from some sort of plant, I believe, and I'm pretty sure that Menalee will help us."

The plan thus suggested was finally adopted. One of the women made three puddings, two of which were good, the third was poisoned. Menalee at once agreed to go to the fugitives, say he had stolen the puddings, and would be willing to share them. The two good puddings were to be given to Talaloo's wife and Timoa, the poisoned one to Talaloo himself. For further security Menalee was to carry a pistol with him, and use it if necessary.

The assassin was not long in tracking out his countrymen.

"You bring us food?" said Talaloo.

"Yes, I have stolen it. Will you have some?"

They all accepted the puddings, and Timoa and the woman began to eat; but Talaloo was quick witted. He observed something unusual in Menalee's manner, suspected poison, and would not eat his pudding. Laying it aside, he ate that of his wife along with her.

Menalee pretended not to notice this. After the others had done eating, he proposed that they should all go a little farther up into the bushes, where, he said, he had left his own wife among some breadfruit trees.

Talaloo agreeing to this, they rose and walked away. The footpath being narrow, they were obliged to go in single file. Menalee walked behind Talaloo. After having gone a few paces, the former drew his pistol, pointed it at the back of his countryman's head, and pulled the trigger, but it missed fire. Talaloo hearing the click, turned round, saw the pistol, and immediately fled; but his enemy was swift of foot, soon overtook him, and the two grappled. A severe struggle ensued, Timoa and the woman standing by and looking on, but rendering help to neither party.

The two combatants were pretty well matched. The pistol had fallen at the first onset, and for a few minutes it seemed doubtful which should prove the victor, as they swayed to and fro, straining their dark and sinewy forms in deadly conflict. At last the strength of Talaloo seemed to give way, but still he retained a vice-like grasp of his antagonist's right wrist.

"Won't you help me?" gasped Talaloo, turning an appealing glance on his wife.

"No," cried Menalee, "but she will help me to kill Talaloo."

The hardened woman picked up the pistol, and going towards her husband struck him on the head. Menalee quickly finished with his knife what the murderess had begun.

For a few minutes the three stood looking at the murdered man in silence, when they returned to the settlement and told what they had done. But the assassin's work was not yet over. Another of the natives, named Ohoo, had fled to the woods, threatening vengeance against the white men. It was deemed necessary that he too should be killed, and Menalee was again found to be a willing instrument. Timoa, who had exhibited such callous indifference at the murder of Talaloo, was his fitting companion. They soon found Ohoo, and succeeded in killing him.

Strange to say, the mutineers, after these foul deeds, dwelt for a long time in comparative peace and harmony. It seemed as if their worst feelings had found full vent and been expended in the double murder. No doubt this state of hollow peace was partly owing to the fact that the native men, now being reduced to four in number, felt themselves to be unable to cope with their masters, and quietly submitted to the inevitable.

But by degrees the evil spirits in some of the party began to reassert their power. McCoy and Quintal in particular became very savage and cruel. They never hesitated to flog or knock down a native on the slightest pretext, insomuch that these unhappy men were again driven to plot the destruction of their masters. Adams, Christian, and Young were free from the stain of wanton cruelty. Young in particular was kind to the natives, and a favourite both with men and women.



CHAPTER TEN.

DANGERS, JOYS, TRIALS, AND MULTIPLICATION.

"I'm going to the cliffs to-day, Williams," said Young one morning. "Will you come?"

Williams was busy at the forge under the pleasant shade of the great banyan-tree. Resting his hammer on the anvil, he looked up.

"No," he answered. "I can't go till I've finished this spade. It's the last bit of iron we have left that'll serve for such a purpose."

"That's no reason why you should not let it lie till the afternoon or to-morrow."

"True, but I've got another reason for pushing through with it. Isaac Martin says the want of a spade keeps him idle, and you know it's a pity to encourage idleness in a lazy fellow."

"You are right. What is Martin about just now?"

"Working at the big water-tank. It suits him, a heavy quiet sort of job with the pick, requiring no energy or thought,—only a sleepy sort o' perseverance, of which long-legged Isaac has plenty."

"Come, now," returned Young, with a laugh. "I see you are getting jealous of Martin's superior intellect. But where are Quintal and McCoy?"

"Diggin' in their gardens, I suppose. Leastwise, I heerd Mr Christian say to Mainmast he'd seen 'em go off in that direction. Mr Christian himself has gone to his old outlook aloft on the mountains. If he don't see a sail at last it won't be for want o' keepin' a bright look-out."

The armourer smiled grimly as he thrust the edge of the half-formed spade into the fire, and began to blow his bellows.

"You've got them to work again," said Young, referring to the bellows which had belonged to the Bounty.

"Ay, patched 'em up after a fashion, though there's a good deal o' windage somewheres. If them rats git hold of 'em again, the blacksmith's occupation'll be gone. Here comes Bill Brown; p'r'aps he won't object to go bird-nestin' with 'ee."

The armourer drew the glowing metal from the fire as he spoke, and sent the bright sparks flying up into the leaves of the banyan-tree while the botanist approached.

"I'll go, with all my heart," said Brown, on being invited by Young to accompany him. "We'd better take Nehow with us. He is the best cliff-man among the natives."

"That's just what I thought of doing," said Young, "and—ah! here comes some one else who will be glad to go."

The midshipman's tone and manner changed suddenly as he held out both hands by way of invitation to Sally, who came skipping forward, and ran gleefully towards him.

Sally was no longer the nude cherub which had landed on the island. She had not only attained to maturer years, but was precocious both in body and mind,—had, as we have shown, become matronly in her ideas and actions, and was clothed in a short petticoat of native cloth, and a little scarf of the same, her pretty little head being decorated with a wreath of flowers culled and constructed by herself.

"No, I can't go," answered Sally to Young's invitation, with a solemn shake of her head.

"Why not?"

"'Cause I's got to look arter babby."

Up to this period Sally had shown a decided preference for the ungrammatical language of the seamen, though she associated freely with Young and Christian. Perhaps her particular fondness for John Adams may have had something to do with this.

"Which baby, Sall? You know your family is a pretty large one."

"Yes, there's a stunnin' lot of 'em—a'most too many for me; but I said the babby."

"Oh, I suppose you mean Charlie Christian?"

"In coorse I means Challie," replied the child, with a smile that displayed a dazzling set of teeth, the sparkle of which was only equalled by that of her eyes.

"Well, but you can bring Charlie along with you," said Young, "and I'll engage to carry him and you too if you get tired. There, run away; find him, and fetch him quick."

Little Sall went off like the wind, and soon returned with the redoubtable Charles in her arms. It was all she could do to stagger under the load; but Charlie Christian had not yet attained to facility in walking. He was still in the nude stage of childhood, and his faithful nurse, being afraid lest he should get badly scratched if dragged at a rapid pace through the bushes, had carried him.

Submitting, according to custom, in solemn and resigned surprise, Charlie was soon seated on the shoulders of our midshipman, who led the way to the cliffs. William Brown followed, leading Sally by the hand, for she refused to be carried, and Nehow brought up the rear.

The cliffs to which their steps were directed were not more than an hour's walk from the settlement at Bounty Bay, though, for Sally's sake, the time occupied in going was about half-an-hour longer. It was a wild spot which had been selected. The towering walls of rock were rugged with ledges, spurs, and indentations, where sea-birds in myriads gave life to the scene, and awakened millions of echoes to their plaintive cries. There was a pleasant appearance of sociability about the birds which was powerfully attractive. Even Nehow, accustomed as he was to such scenes, appeared to be impressed. The middy and the botanist were excited. As for Sally, she was in ecstasies, and the baby seemed lost in the profoundest fit of wonder he had experienced since the day of his birth.

"Oh, Challie," exclaimed his nurse in a burst of laughter, "what a face you's got! Jis' like de fig'r'ead o' the Bounty." (Sall quoted here!) "Ain't they bootiful birds?"

She effectually prevented reply, even if such had been intended, by suddenly seizing her little charge round the neck and kissing his right eye passionately. Master Charlie cared nothing for that. He gazed past her at the gulls with the unobliterated eye. When she kissed him on the left cheek, he gazed past her at the gulls with the other eye. When she let him go, he continued to gaze at the gulls with both eyes. He had often seen the same gulls at a distance, from the lower level of Bounty Bay, but he had never before stood on their own giddy cliffs, and watched them from their own favourite bird's-eye-view point; for there were thousands of them sloping, diving, and wheeling in the airy abyss, pictured against the dark blue sea below, as well as thousands more circling upwards, floating and gyrating in the bright blue sky above. It seemed as if giant snowflakes were trembling in the air in all directions. Some of the gulls came so near to those who watched them that their black inquiring eyes became distinctly visible; others swept towards them with rustling wings, as if intending to strike, and then glanced sharply off, or upwards, with wild cries.

"Wouldn't it be fun to have wings?" asked Brown of Sally, as she stood there open-mouthed and eyed.

"Oh, wouldn't it?"

"If I had wings," said Young, with a touch of sadness in his tone, "I'd steer a straight course through the air for Old England."

"I didn't know you had such a strong desire to be hanged," said Brown.

"They'd never hang me," returned Young. "I'm innocent of the crime of mutiny, and Captain Bligh knows it."

"Bligh would be but a broken reed to lean on," rejoined Brown, with a shrug of contempt. "If he liked you, he'd favour you; if he didn't, he'd go dead against you. I wouldn't trust myself in his hands whether innocent or guilty. Depend upon it, Mr Young, Fletcher Christian would have been an honour to the service if he had not been driven all but mad by Bligh. I don't justify Mr Christian's act—it cannot be defended,—but I have great sympathy with him. The only man who deserves to be hanged for the mutiny of the Bounty, in my opinion, is Mr Bligh himself; but men seldom get their due in this world, either one way or another."

"That's a powerfully radical sentiment," said Young, laughing; "it's to be hoped that men will at all events get their due in the next world, and it is well for you that Pitcairn is a free republic. But come, we must go to work if we would have a kettle of fresh eggs. I see a ledge which seems accessible, and where there must be plenty of eggs, to judge from the row the gulls are making round it. I'll try. See, now, that you don't get yourself into a fix that you can't get out of. You know that the heads of you landsmen are not so steady as those of seamen."

"I know that the heads of landsmen are not stuffed with such conceit as the heads of you sailors," retorted Brown, as he went off to gather eggs.

"Now, Sally, do you stop here and take care of Charlie," said Young, leading the little girl to a soft grassy mound, as far back from the edge of the cliff as possible. "Mind that you don't leave this spot till I return. I know I can trust you, and as for Charlie—"

"Oh, he never moves a'most, 'xcept w'en I lifts 'im. He's so good!" interrupted Sally.

"Well, just keep a sharp eye on him, and we'll soon be back with lots of eggs."

While Edward Young was thus cautioning the child, William Brown was busy making his way down the cliffs to some promising ledges below, and Nehow, the Otaheitan, clambered up the almost perpendicular face of the part that rose above them. [See frontispiece.]

It was interesting to watch the movements of the three men. Each was, in his own way, venturesome, fearless, and more or less practised in cliff climbing. The midshipman ascended the perpendicular face with something of a nautical swagger, but inasmuch as the ledges, crevices, and projections were neither so well adapted to the hands nor so sure as ratlines and ropes, there was a wholesome degree of caution mingled with his confidence. When the wished-for ledge was gained, he gave relief to his feelings in a hearty British cheer that reverberated from cliff to cliff, causing the startled sea-gulls to drive the very echoes mad with their clangour.

The botanist, on the other hand, proceeded with the extreme care of a man who knew that a false step or uncertain grip might send him into the seething mass of foam and rocks below. But he did not hesitate or betray want of courage in attempting any difficulty which he had made up his mind to face.

The proceedings of Nehow, however, seemed little short of miraculous. He appeared to run up perpendicular places like a cat; to leap where the others crept, to scramble where his companions did not dare to venture, and, loosely speaking, to hang on occasionally to nothing by the point of his nose, his eyelids, or his finger-nails! We say that he appeared to do all this, but the gulls who watched and followed him in noisy indignation could have told you, if they had chosen, that his eye was quick, that his feet and hands were sure, and that he never trusted foot or hand for one moment on a doubtful projection or crevice.

For some time all went well. The three men soon returned, each with a few eggs which they laid on the grass in three little heaps, to be watched and guarded by Sally, and to be stared at in grave surprise by Charlie. They carried their eggs in three round baskets without lids, and with handles which folded over on one side, so that the baskets could be fitted into each other when not in use, or slung round the necks of the egg-collectors while they were climbing.

The last to return to the children was William Brown. He brought his basket nearly half full of fine eggs, and set it down beside the two heaps already brought in.

"Ain't they lovely, Sall?" asked Brown, wiping the perspiration from his brow with the sleeve of his coat. That same coat, by the way, was very disreputable—threadbare and worn,—being four years old on the lowest calculation, and having seen much rough service, for Brown had an objection to the tapa cloth, and said he would stick to the old coat as long as it would stick to him. The truth is he felt it, with his worn canvas trousers and Guernsey shirt, to be in some sense a last link to "home," and he was loath to part with them.

"Lovely!" exclaimed Sally, "they's jus' bootiful." Nothing could exceed "bootiful" in Sally's mind—she had paid the eggs the highest possible compliment.

Charlie did them, at the same moment, the greatest possible damage, by sitting down in the basket, unintentionally, with an awful crash.

From the gaze of horror that he cast upwards, it was evident that he was impressed with a strong belief that he had done something wrong, though the result did not seem to him unpleasant. The gaze of horror quickly changed into one of alarm when he observed the shocked countenance of Sally, and he burst into uncontrollable tears.

"Poor thing," said Brown, lifting him out of the mess and setting him on his legs. "Never mind, old man, I'll fetch you a better basketful soon. You clean him up, Sall, and I'll be back in a jiffy."

So saying, Brown took up his basket, emptied out the mess, wiped it with a bunch of grass, and descended the short slope to the cliff edge, laughing as he went.

Poor Sally's shocked expression had not yet passed off when Charlie came to a sudden stop, shut his mouth tightly and opened his eyes, as though to say, "Well, how do you take it now?"

"Oh, Challie, but you is bad to-day."

This was enough. The shades of darkest night settled down on Charlie's miserable soul. Re-shutting his eyes and reopening his mouth, he poured forth the woe of his inconsolable heart in prolonged and passionate howling.

"No, no; O don't!" cried the repentant Sally, her arms round his neck and fondling him. "I didn't mean it. I'm so sorry. It's me that's bad—badder than you ever was."

But Charlie refused to be comforted. He flung himself on the grass in agony of spirit, to the alarm and grief of his poor nurse.

"Me's dood?" he cried, pausing suddenly, with a blaze of inquiry in his wet visage.

"Yes, yes, good as gold—gooder, far gooder!"

Sally did not possess an enlightened conscience at that time. She would have said anything to quiet him, but he would not be quieted.

"Me's dood—O dood! ah-o-ee-aw-ee!"

The noise was bad enough, but the way he flung himself about was worse. There was no occasion for Sally to clean him up. Rolling thus on the green turf made him as pure, if not bright, as a new pin; but it had another effect, which gave Sally a fright such as she had never up to that time conceived of, and never afterwards forgot.

In his rollings Charlie came to the edge of the knoll where a thick but soft bush concealed a ledge, or drop, of about two feet. Through this bush he passed in a moment. Sally leaped up and sprang to the spot, just in time to see her charge rolling helplessly down the slope to what appeared to be certain death.

There was but a short slope between the bush and the cliff. Rotund little Charlie "fetched way" as he advanced, despite one or two feeble clutches at the rocks.

If Sally had been a few years older she would have bounded after him like a goat, but she had only reached that period of life which rendered petrifaction possible. She stood ridged for a few moments with heart, head, and eyes apparently about to burst. At last her voice found vent in a shriek so awful that it made the heart of Young, high on the cliffs above, stand still. It had quite the contrary effect on the legs of Brown. That cautious man chanced to be climbing the cliff slowly with a fresh basketful of eggs. Hearing the shriek, and knowing full well that it meant imminent danger, he leaped up the last few steps of the precipice with a degree of heedless agility that equalled that of Nehow himself. He was just in time to see Charlie coming straight at him like a cannon shot. It was really an awful situation. To have received the shock while his footing was still precarious would have insured his own destruction as well as that of the child. Feeling this, he made a kangaroo-like bound over the edge of the cliff, and succeeded in planting both feet and knees firmly on a grassy foundation, just in time. Letting go his burden, he spread out both arms. Charlie came into his bosom with extreme violence, but he remained firm, while the basket of eggs went wildly downward to destruction.

Meanwhile, Sally stood there with clasped hands and glazed eyes, sending up shriek after shriek, which sent successive stabs to the heart of Edward Young, as he scurried and tumbled, rather than ran, down from the upper cliffs towards her.

In a few minutes he came in pale and panting. A minute later and Nehow ran round a neighbouring point like a greyhound.

"All right?" gasped Young.

"All right," replied Brown.

"Wheeaow-ho!" exclaimed Nehow, expanding his cavernous mouth with a grin of satisfaction.

It is worthy of record that little Sally did not revisit these particular cliffs for several years after that exciting and eventful day, and that she returned to the settlement with a beating and grateful heart.

It must not be supposed that Charlie Christian remained for any great length of time "the babby" of that infant colony. By no means. In a short time after the event which we have just described, there came to Pitcairn a little sister to Charlie. She was named Mary, despite the earnest suggestion of Isaac Martin, that as she was "born of a Wednesday," she ought to be called by that name.

Of course Otaheitan Sally at once devoted herself to the newcomer, but she did not on that account forsake her first love. No; her little brown heart remained true to Charlie, though she necessarily gave him less of her society than before.

Then Mrs Quintal gave her husband the additional burden, as he styled it, of a daughter, whom he named Sarah, for no other reason, that any one could make out, than the fact that his wife did not like it, and his friend McCoy had advised him on no account to adopt it. Thus was little Matthew Quintal also provided with a sister.

Shortly after that, John Adams became a moderately happy father, and called the child Dinah, because he had never had a female relation of that name; indeed, he had never possessed a relation of any kind whatever that he knew of, having been a London street-boy, a mere waif, when he first became aware, so to speak, of his own existence.

About the same time that little Dinah was born, John Mills rushed one day into the yam-field of Edward Young, where the midshipman was at work, seized his hand, and exclaimed—"I wish you joy, sir, it's a girl!"

Not to be out-done in civility, Young carefully watched his opportunity, and, only four days later, rushed into the yam-garden of John Mills, where he was smoking, seized his hand, and exclaimed—"I congratulate you, Mills, it's a boy!" So, Young called his daughter Folly, because he had an old aunt of that name who had been kind to him; and Mills called his son John, after himself, who, he said, was the kindest friend he ever had.

By this time poor Otaheitan Sally became overburdened with care. It became evident that she could not manage to look after so large a family of helpless infants, even though her services should only be required when the mothers were busy in the gardens. Mrs Isabella Christian, alias Mainmast, was therefore relieved of part of her field duties, and set apart for infantry drill.

Thus the rising generation multiplied and grew apace; and merry innocent laughter and gleeful childlike shouts began to resound among the cliffs and groves of the lonely refuge of the mutineers.



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.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

CONVERSE IN THE CAVE—CRUELTY, PUNISHMENT, AND REVELRY.

It was Fletcher Christian's voice,—there could be no doubt about that; but it was raised in very unfamiliar tones, and it went on steadily, with inflections, as if in pathos and entreaty.

"Can he be praying?" thought Adams, in surprise, for the tones, though audible, were not articulate. Suddenly they waxed louder, and "God be merciful to me, a sinner!" broke on the listener's ear. "Oh bless and deliver the men whom I have led astray—poor Edward Young, John Adams, Isaac Martin—"

The tones here sank and again became inarticulate, but Adams could not doubt that Christian was praying, by name, for the rest of his companions. Presently the name of Jesus was heard distinctly, and then the voice ceased.

Ashamed to have been thus unintentionally led into eavesdropping, Adams coughed, and made as much noise as possible while stooping to pass under the low entrance to the cave. There was no door of any kind, but a turn in the short passage concealed the cave itself from view. Before entering, Adams stopped.

"May I come in, sir?" he called out.

"Is that you, Adams? By all means come in."

Christian was seated, partly in the shadow, partly in the light that streamed in from the seaward opening. A quiet smile was on his lips, and his hand rested on an open book. It was the old Bible of the Bounty.

"Beg pardon, sir," said Adams, touching his hat. "Hope I don't intrude. I heard you was—was—"

"Praying," said Christian. "Yes, Adams, I have been praying."

"Well, sir," said Adams, feeling rather awkward, but assuming an air of encouragement, "you've got no reason to be ashamed of that."

"Quite true, Adams, and I'm not ashamed of it. I've not only got no reason to be ashamed of praying, but I have strong reason to be thankful that I'm inclined to pray. Sit down, Adams, on the ledge opposite. You've got something on your mind, I see, that you want to get rid of. Come, let's have it."

There was nothing but good-natured encouragement in Christian's look and tone; nevertheless, John Adams felt it extremely difficult to speak, and wished with all his heart that he had not come to the cave. But he was too bold and outspoken a man to be long oppressed with such feelings. Clearing his voice, he said, "Well, Mr Christian, here's what I've got to say. I've bin thinkin' for a long time past that it's of no manner of use your comin' up here day after day an' mopin' away about what can't be mended, an' goin' into the blues. You'll excuse me, sir, for bein' so free, but you shouldn't do it, sir. You can't alter what's bin done by cryin' over spilt milk, an' it comes heavy on the rest of us, like. Indeed it do. So I've made so bold as to come an' say you'd better drop it and come along with me for a day's shootin' of the cats an' pigs, and then we'll go home an' have a royal supper an' a song or two, or maybe a game at blind-man's-buff with the child'n. That's what'll do you good, sir, an' make you forget what's past, take my word for it, Mister Christian."

While Adams was speaking, Christian's expression varied, passing from the kindly smile with which he had received his friend to a look of profound gravity.

"You are both right and wrong, Adams, like the rest of us," he said, grasping the sailor's extended hand; "thank you all the same for your advice and good feeling. You are wrong in supposing that anything short of death can make me forget the past or lessen my feeling of self-condemnation; but you are right in urging me to cease moping here in solitude. I have been told that already much more strongly than you have put it."

"Have you, sir?" said Adams, with a look of surprise.

"Yes," said Christian, touching the open Bible, "God's book has told me. It has told me more than that. It has told me there is forgiveness for the chief of sinners."

"You say the truth, sir," returned Adams, with an approving nod. "Repenting as you do, sir, an' as I may say we all do, of what is past and can't be helped, a merciful God will no doubt forgive us all."

"That's not it, that's not it," said Christian, quickly. "Repentance is not enough. Why, man, do you think if I went to England just now, and said ever so earnestly or so truly, 'I repent,' that I'd escape swinging at the yard-arm?"

"Well, I can't say you would," replied the sailor, somewhat puzzled; "but then man's ways ain't the same as God's ways; are they, sir?"

"That's true, Adams; but justice is always the same, whether with God or man. Besides, if repentance alone would do, where is the need of a Saviour?"

Adams's puzzled look increased, and finally settled on the horizon. The matter had evidently never occurred to him before in that light. After a short silence he turned again to Christian.

"Well, sir, to be frank with you, I must say that I don't rightly understand it."

"But I do," said Christian, again laying his hand on the Bible, "at least I think I do. God has forgiven me for Jesus Christ's sake, and His Spirit has made me repent and accept the forgiveness, and now I feel that there is work, serious work, for me to do. I have just been praying that God would help me to do it. I'll explain more about this hereafter. Meanwhile, I will go with you to the settlement, and try at least some parts of your plan. Come."

There was a quiet yet cheerful air of alacrity about Fletcher Christian that day, so strongly in contrast with his previous sad and even moody deportment, that John Adams could only note it in silent surprise.

"Have you been readin' much o' that book up here, sir?" he asked, as they began to descend the hill.

"Do you mean God's book?"

"Yes."

"Well, yes, I've been reading it, off and on, for a considerable time past; but I didn't quite see the way of salvation until recently."

"Ha! that's it; that's what must have turned your head."

"What!" exclaimed Christian, with a smiling glance at his perplexed comrade. "Do you mean turned in the right or the wrong direction?"

"Well, whether right or wrong, it's not for me to say but for you to prove, Mr Christian."

This reply seemed to set the mind of the other wandering, for he continued to lead his companion down the hill in silence after that. At last he said—

"John Adams, whatever turn my head may have got, I shall have reason to thank God for it all the days of my life—ay, and afterwards throughout eternity."

The silence which ensued after this remark was broken soon after by a series of yells, which came from the direction of Matthew Quintal's house, and caused both Christian and Adams to frown as they hastened forward.

"There's one man that needs forgiveness," said Adams, sternly. "Whether he'll get it or not is a question."

Christian made no reply. He knew full well that both McCoy and Quintal were in the habit of flogging their slaves, Nehow and Timoa, and otherwise treating them with great cruelty. Indeed, there had reached him a report of treatment so shocking that he could scarcely credit it, and thought it best at the time to take no notice of the rumour; but afterwards he was told of a repetition of the cruelty, and now he seemed about to witness it with his own eyes. Burning indignation at first fired his soul, and he resolved to punish Quintal. Then came the thought, "Who was it that tempted Quintal to mutiny, and placed him in his present circumstances?" The continued cries of agony, however, drove all connected thought from his brain as he ran with Adams towards the house.

They found poor Nehow tied to a cocoa-nut tree, and Quintal beside him. He had just finished giving him a cruel flogging, and was now engaged in rubbing salt into the wounds on his lacerated back.

With a furious shout Christian rushed forward. Quintal faced round quickly. He was livid with passion, and raised a heavy stick to strike the intruders; but Christian guarded the blow with his left arm, and with his right fist knocked the monster down. At the same time Adams cut the lashings that fastened Nehow, who instantly fled to the bush.

Quintal, although partially stunned, rose at once and faced his adversary, but although possessed of bulldog courage, he could not withstand the towering wrath of Christian. He shrank backward a step, with a growl like a cowed but not conquered tiger.

"The slave is mine!" he hissed between his teeth.

"He is not; he belongs to God," said Christian. "And hark 'ee, Matthew Quintal, if ever again you do such a dastardly, cowardly, brutal act, I'll take on myself the office of your executioner, and will beat out your brains. You know me, Quintal; I never threaten twice."

Christian's tone was calm, though firm, but there was something so deadly in the glare of his clear blue eyes, that Quintal retreated another step. In doing so he tripped over a root and fell prone upon the ground.

"Ha!" exclaimed Adams, with a bitter laugh, "you'd better lie still. It's your suitable position, you blackguard."

Without another word he and Christian turned on their heels and walked away.

"This is a bad beginning to my new resolves," said Christian, with a sigh, as they descended the hill.

"A bad beginning," echoed Adams, "to give a well-deserved blow to as great a rascal as ever walked?"

"No, not exactly that; but—Well, no matter, we'll dismiss the subject, and go have a lark with the children."

Christian said this with something like a return to his previous good-humour. A few minutes later they passed under the banyan-tree at the side of Adams's house, and entered the square of the village, where children, kittens, fowls, and pigs were disporting themselves in joyous revelry.