The Adventures of Don Lavington

"The Adventures of Don Lavington" (continued 8)

Reading edition

“I wish I had been sooner; but it’s rough work travelling through the bush, and we should not have come, only we heard the shouting, and saw the glow of your burning house.”

No time was lost in trying to extinguish the fire after a guard had been set over the prisoners, the men under the officers’ orders working hard with the few buckets at command; but the place was built of inflammable pine, which flared up fiercely, and after about a quarter of an hour’s effort Gordon protested against further toil.

“It’s of no use, sir,” he said. “All labour in vain. I’ve not lost much, for my furniture was only home made.”

“I’m sorry to give up, but it is useless,” said the officer.

Jem crept close up to his companion.

“I say, Mas’ Don, I thought it was some of our chaps from the sloop at first, but they’re from the Vixen frigate. Think they’ll find us out?”

“I hope not, Jem,” replied Don; “surely they will not press us again.”

“Let’s be off into the bush till they’re gone.”

“No,” said Don; “I’m sorry I left the ship as I did. We will not run away again.”

Meanwhile preparations were made for bivouacking, the officer determining to rest where they were that night; and after seeing his men stored in two of the barns, and sentries placed over the prisoners in another, at one of the settlers’ places, one log-house being given up to the wounded, he joined the little English gathering, where the settlers’ wives, as soon as the danger was past, had prepared a comfortable meal.

After an uneventful night, the morning broke cheerily over the tiny settlement, where the only trace of the attack was at Gordon’s, whose rough log-house was now a heap of smoking ashes.

The sailors had breakfasted well, thanks to the settlers’ wives, and were now drawn up, all but the prisoners’ guard, while the officer stood talking to Gordon and his neighbours with Don and Jem standing close by; for in spite of Jem’s reiterated appeals, his companion refused to take to the bush.

“No, Jem,” Don said stubbornly; “it would be cowardly, and we’re cowards enough.”

“But s’pose they find us out? That there officer’s sure to smell as we’re salts.”

“Smell? Nonsense!”

“He will, Mas’ Don. I’m that soaked with Stockholm tar that I can smell myself like a tub.”

“Nonsense!”

“But if they find out as we deserted, they’ll hang us.”

“I don’t believe it, Jem.”

“Well, you’ll see, Mas’ Don; so if they hang you, don’t you blame me.”

“Well, Mr Gordon, we must be off,” said the officer. “Thank you once more for all your hospitality.”

“God bless you, sir, and all your men, for saving our lives,” said the settler warmly; and there was a chorus of thanks from the other settlers and their wives.

“Nonsense, my dear sir; only our duty!” said the officer heartily. “And now about our prisoners. I don’t know what to do about the Maoris. I don’t want to shoot them, and I certainly don’t want to march them with us down to where the ship lies. What would you do, Mr Gordon?”

“I should give them a knife apiece, shake hands with them, and let them go.”

“What, to come back with the said knives, and kill you all when we’re gone!”

“They will not come back if you take away the scoundrels who led them on,” said Don sharply.

“How do you know?” said the officer good-humouredly.

“Because,” said Don, colouring, “I have been living a good deal with them, both with a friendly tribe and as a prisoner.”

“And they did not eat you?” said the officer laughing.

“There, Mas’ Don,” whispered Jem, “hear that?”

“I think you are right, youngster,” continued the officer, “and I shall do so. Mr Dillon, bring up the prisoners.”

This was to a master’s mate, who led off a guard, and returned with the captives bound hands behind, and the Maoris looking sullen and haughty, while the three whites appeared at their very worst—a trio of the most vile, unkempt scoundrels possible to see.

They were led to the front, scowling at every one in turn, and halted in front of the officer, who, after whispering to the master’s mate, gave orders to one of the seamen. This man pulled out his great jack knife, opened it, and being a bit of a joker, advanced toward the Maoris, grinding his teeth and rolling his eyes.

The savages saw his every act, and there was a slight tremor that seemed to run through them all; but the next instant they had drawn themselves up stern and defiant, ready to meet their fate at the seaman’s knife.

“No, no. No, pakeha. No kill,” said a deep angry voice; and as every one turned, Ngati stalked forward as if to defend his enemies.

But at the same moment the man had cut the first Maori’s bands, and then went on behind the rank, cutting the line that bound seven, who stood staring wildly.

The next minute a seaman came along bearing a sheaf of spears, which he handed, one by one, to the astonished savages, while their wonder reached its height, as the master’s mate presented to each a knife, such as were brought for presents to the natives.

“Now,” said the officer, addressing them, “I don’t understand you, and I don’t suppose you understand my words; but you do my deeds. Then, in the king’s name, you are free; and if you ever take any English prisoners, I hope you will behave as well to them as we have behaved to you. There, go.”

He finished by pointing away to the north; but instead of going they stood staring till Ngati came forward, and said a few words in their own tongue.

The effect was electric; they all shouted, brandished their spears, danced wildly, and ended by throwing down their weapons before the officer, seizing him by the arms, and rubbing noses with him.

He submitted laughingly till the Maoris picked up their spears, and stood looking on, apparently quite satisfied that they were safe.

“Here, hi, Jack!” cried a hoarse brutal voice. “Look sharp, we want to get rid of these cords; where’s your knife?”

“Wait a little while, my friends,” said the officer sarcastically; “as soon as we get to the ship, you shall have them changed for irons.”

“Whorrt!” cried Mike.

“We were out in search of three convicts who murdered a couple of the guard, and escaped from Norfolk Island in a boat. I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe.”

“Norfolk Island! Where’s Norfolk Island, mate?” said Mike coolly.

“Never heard o’ no such place,” said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly.

“Memory’s short, perhaps,” said the officer.

“But convicts; we’re not convicts,” growled Mike.

“Gentlemen, p’r’aps, on your travels?”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Mike with effrontery.

“Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty’s ship Vixen, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!”

“Here stop!” roared Mike with a savage grin.

“What for?” said the officer sternly.

“Arn’t you going to take them, too?”

“Take whom—the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!”

“No, no; I mean them two,” said Mike savagely, as he pointed—“them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble.”

“Halt!” cried the officer. “Do you know these men?” he said suspiciously.

“There, I told you so, Mas’ Don,” whispered Jem. “I know that man,” said Don firmly. “I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush.”

“Where did you know him?” said the officer—“Norfolk Island?”

“No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle’s yard.”

“That’s right enough,” said Mike; “and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea.”

“Ay, ay!” said the officer quickly.

“And they deserted, and took to the bush.”

“Hah!” ejaculated the officer. “From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted.”

“Hor—hor—hor!” laughed Mike maliciously; “and now you’ve got ’em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble.”

“If your hands warn’t tied,” cried Jem fiercely, “I’d punch your ugly head!”

“Is this true, young man?” said the officer sternly. “Did you desert from His Majesty’s sloop?”

Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly.

“Yes!” he said.

“Ah, Mas’ Don, you’ve done it now,” whispered Jem.

“I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I’m not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship.”

“Yes, and so did I!” said Jem stoutly.

“Humph! Then I’m afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!” said the officer.

“Hor—hor—hor! Here’s a game! Prisoners! Cat-o’-nine tails, or hanging.”

“Silence, you scoundrel!” roared the officer. “Forward with these prisoners.”

Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke.

“It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?”

“I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship,” said Don firmly.

“Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue.”

“Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?” cried Gordon warmly—“as brave, true fellows as ever stepped.”

“I can believe that,” said the officer; “but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?”

“What is it, sir?”

“Throw yourself on our captain’s mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?”

“The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can’t bear to be forced.”

“Well said!” cried the officer, smiling at Don’s bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts.

Chapter Fifty Four.

Home.

It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed.

Don was panting to get back into his mother’s arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble.

“No, no; don’t go by, Mas’ Don. I dursen’t go alone.”

“What, not to meet your own wife?”

“No, Mas’ Don; ’tarn’t that. I’m feared she’s gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas’ Don.”

“No, no, Jem. I must get home.”

“We’ve stood by one another, Mas’ Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don’t forsake your mate now.”

“I’ll stay, Jem,” said Don.

“Mas’ Don, you are a good one!” cried Jem. “Would you mind pulling the bell—werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise.”

Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,—

“What d’you mean by ringing like—”

“Sally!”

“Jem!”

Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle’s house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door.

There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother’s arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.

The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him.

When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, “at loggerheads again,” and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say—how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand.

“Don, my lad,” he said quietly, “I’ve felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back.”

“I ought to tell you, sir—”

“Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,” said the old man. “I know that you can’t have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You’ve been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were.”

“I hope so, uncle.”

“And you don’t believe that I ever was your enemy?”

“I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and—and—”

“That’s enough. P’r’aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven’t got to go again?”

“No, uncle.”

“Then God bless you, my boy! I’m glad to have you back.”

Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.

It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt’s suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don’s conduct when he was at sea.

“But I ought not to have deserted uncle?” said Don, interrogatively.

“Well, my boy,” said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, “I hardly know what to say about that, so we’ll let it rest.”

“Confound all press-gangs!” said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. “But I don’t know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise.”

“Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?”

“Your bundle, my dear?”

“The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away.”

“My dear Don, no.”

They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.

“Don, my darling!”

“But I had repented, mother, and—”

“Hush! No more,” said Uncle Josiah firmly; “the past is gone. Here’s to a happy future, my boy. Good-night.”

The End.