The Lonely Island: The Refuge of the Mutineers by R. M. Ballantyne (best books to read for women txt) 📕

One morning John Adams, instead of going to work in his garden, as was his wont, took down his musket from its accustomed pegs above the door, and sallied forth into the woods behind the village. He had not gone far when he heard a rustling of the leaves, and looking back, beheld the graceful form of Sally bounding towards him.

“Are you going to shoot, father?” she said, on coming up.

The young people of the village had by this time got into the habit of calling Adams “father,” and regarded him as the head of the community; not because of his age, for at this time he was only between thirty and forty years, but because of his sedate, quiet character, and a certain air of elderly wisdom which distinguished him. Even Edward Young, who was about the same age, but more juvenile both in feeling and appearance, felt the influence of his solid, unpretending temperament, and laughingly acknowledged him King of Pitcairn.

“No, dear, I’m not goin’ to shoot,” said Adams, in reply, “I’m only going up to Christian’s outlook to try if I can find somethin’ there, an’ I always like to have the old blunderbuss with me. It feels sort of company, you know, an’ minds me of old times; but you’ll not understand what I mean, Sall.”

“No, because I’ve no old times to mind about,” said Sally, with a peculiar smile. “May I go with you, father?”

“Of course you may. Come along, lass.”

Adams held out his strong hand. Sally put her peculiarly small one into it, and the two went slowly up the mountain-track together.

On reaching the top of a little knoll or plateau, they stopped, and turned to look back. They could see over the tops of the palm-groves from that place. The track by which they had ascended was visible here and there, winding among the flowering shrubs and trees. The village lay far below, like a gem in a setting of bright green, which contrasted pleasantly with the warm clouds and the blue sea beyond. The sun was bright and the air was calm—so calm that the voices of the children at play came up to them distinctly in silvery ripples.

“How comes it, Sall, that you’ve deserted your post to-day?”

“Because the guard has been relieved; same as you say they do on board a man-of-war. I left the sprawlers in charge of Bessy Mills, and the staggerers are shut into the green. You see, I’m feeling a little tired to-day, and thought I would like to have a quiet walk in the woods.”

She finished this explanation with a little sigh.

“Dear, dear me!” exclaimed Adams, with a look of amused surprise, “you’re not becomin’ sentimental are you, Sally?”

“What is sentimental, father!”

“Why, it’s a—it’s a sort of a feelin’—a sensation, you know, a kind of all-overishness, that—d’ye see—”

He stopped short and stared with a perplexed air at the girl, who burst into a merry laugh.

“That’s one of your puzzlers, I think,” she said, looking up slyly from the corners of her eyes.

“Well, Sall, that is a puzzler,” returned Adams, with a self-condemning shake of the head. “I never before felt so powerfully the want o’ dictionary knowledge. I’ll be shot if I can tell you what sentimental is, though I know what it is as well as I know what six-water grog or plum-duff is. We must ask Mr Young to explain it. He’s bin to school, you know, an’ that’s more than I have—more’s the pity.”

“Well,” said Sally, as they proceeded on their way, “whatever senti—senti—”

“Mental,” said Adams.

“Whatever sentimental is, I’m not that, because I’m just the same as ever I was, for I often want to be quiet and alone, and I often am quiet and alone in the bush.”

“And what do you think about, Sall, when you’re alone in the bush?” said the seaman, looking down with more interest than usual at the innocent face beside him.

“Oh, about heaps and heaps of things. I couldn’t tell you in a month all I think about; but one thing I think most about is a man-of-war.”

“A man-of-war, Sall?”

“Yes; I would give anything to see a man-of-war, what you’ve so often told us about, with all its masts and sails, and bunks and guns and anchors, and officers and men. I often wonder so much what new faces would be like. You see I’m so used to the faces of yourself and Mr Young, and Mainmast and Susannah, and Toc and Matt and Dan and—”

“Just say the rest o’ the youngsters, dear,” interrupted Adams. “There’s no use in goin’ over ’em all by name.”

“Well, I’m so used to them that I can’t fancy how any other faces can be different, and yet I heard Mr Young say the other day that there’s no two faces in the world exactly alike, and you know there must be hundreds and hundreds of faces in the world.”

“Ay, there’s thousands and thousands—for the matter o’ that, there’s millions and millions of ’em—an it’s quite true that you can’t ever pick out two that would fit into the same mould. Of course,” continued Adams, in an argumentative tone, “I’m not goin’ for to say but that you could find a dozen men any day with hook noses an’ black eyes an’ lanky hair, just as you can find another dozen with turn-up noses an’ grey eyes an’ carroty hair; but what I mean to say is, that you won’t find no two of ’em that han’t got a difference of some sort somewheres. It’s very odd, but it’s a fact.”

“Another puzzler,” said Sally, with a laugh.

“Just so. But what else do you think about, Sall?”

“Sometimes I think about those fine ladies you’ve told us of, who drive about in grand carriages with horses. Oh, these horses; what I would give to see horses! Have they got tails, father?”

“Tails!” cried Adams, with a laugh, “of course they have; long hairy ones, and manes too; that’s hair down the back o’ their necks, dear. See here, fetch me that bit of red stone and I’ll draw you a horse.”

Sally brought the piece of red stone, and her companion, sitting down beside a smooth rock, from which he wiped the dust with the sleeve of his shirt, began, slowly and with compressed lips, frowning eyebrows, and many a hard-drawn sigh, to draw the portrait of a horse.

Adams was not an artist. The drawing might have served almost equally well for an ass, or even for a cow, but Sally watched it with intense interest.

“You see, dear,” said the artist, commenting as the work proceeded, “this is his head, with a turn-up—there—like that, for his nose. A little too bluff, no doubt, but no matter. Then comes the ears, two of ’em, somewhat longish—so, not exactly fore an’ aft, as I’ve made ’em, but ath’ort ships, so to speak, only I never could understand how painters manage to make one thing look as if it was behind another. I can’t get behind the one ear to put on the other one nohow.”

“A puzzler!” ejaculated Sally.

“Just so. Well, you have them both, anyhow, only fore an’ aft, as I said before. Well, then comes his back with a hollow—so, for people to sit in when they go cruisin’ about on shore; then here’s his legs—somethin’ like that, the fore ones straight an’ the aft ones crooked.”

“Has he only two legs,” asked Sally, in surprise, “one before an’ one behind?”

“No, dear, he’s got four, but I’ve the same difficulty wi’ them that I had wi’ the ears—one behind the other, you know. However, there you have ’em—so, in the fore-an’-aft style. Then he’s got hoofs at the end o’ the legs, like the goats, you know, only not split up the middle, though why they’re not split is more than I can tell; an’ there’s a sort o’ curl behind, a little above it—the fetlock I think they call it, but that’s far beyond my powers o’ drawin’.”

“But you’ve forgot the tail,” said Sally.

“So I have; think o’ that now, to forget his tail! He’d never do that himself if he was alive. It sticks out from hereabouts. There you have it, flowin’ quite graceful down a’most to his heels. Now, Sally, that’s a horse, an’ not much to boast of after all in the way of a likeness, though I say it that shouldn’t.”

“How I should like to see a real one!” said the girl, gazing intently at the wild caricature, while her instructor looked on with a benignant smile.

“Then I often think of the poor people Mr Young is so fond of telling us stories about,” continued Sally, as they resumed their upward path, “though I’m much puzzled about them. Why are they poor? Why are they not rich like other people?”

“There’s a many reasons why, dear,” continued Adams, whose knowledge of political economy was limited; “some of ’em don’t work, an’ some of ’em won’t work, and some of ’em can’t work, an’ what between one thing an’ another, there’s a powerful lot of ’em everywhere.”

Sally, whose thirst for knowledge was great, continued to ply poor John Adams with questions regarding the poor, until he became so involved in “puzzlers” that he was fain to change the subject, and for a time they talked pleasantly on many themes. Then they came to the steep parts of the mountains, and relapsed into silence. On reaching another plateau or flat knoll, where they turned to survey the magnificent panorama spread out before them, Sally said, slowly—

“Sometimes when I’m alone in the bush I think of God. Mr Young has been talking to me about Him lately, and I am wondering and wanting to know more about Him. Do you know anything about Him, father?”

John Adams had looked at his simple interrogator with surprise and not a little perplexity.

“Well, to tell you the honest truth,” said he, “I can’t say that I do know much about Him, more shame to me; an’ some talks I’ve had lately with Mr Young have made me see that I know even less than I thought I did. But we’ll ask Mr Young to explain these matters to us when we return home. As it happens. I’ve come up here to search for the very book that tells us about God—His own book, the Bible. Mr Christian used to read it, an’ kept it in his cave.”

Soon afterwards the man and child reached the cave referred to. On entering, they were surprised to find Young himself there before them. He was reading the Bible, and Adams could not help recalling his previous visit, when he had found poor Fletcher Christian similarly occupied.

“I didn’t know you was here, Mr Young, else I wouldn’t have disturbed you,” said Adams. “I just came up to see if I could find the book, for it seems to me that if you agree to carry out your notion of turnin’ schoolmaster, it would be as well to have the school-book down