I

Of his many schooners, ketches and cutters that nosed about among the coral isles of the South Seas, David Grief loved most the Rattler ­a yacht-like schooner of ninety tons with so swift a pair of heels that she had made herself famous, in the old days, opium-smuggling from San Diego to Puget Sound, raiding the seal-rookeries of Bering Sea, and running arms in the Far East.  A stench and an abomination to government officials, she had been the joy of all sailormen, and the pride of the shipwrights who built her.  Even now, after forty years of driving, she was still the same old Rattler, fore-reaching in the same marvellous manner that compelled sailors to see in order to believe and that punctuated many an angry discussion with words and blows on the beaches of all the ports from Valparaiso to Manila Bay.

On this night, close-hauled, her big mainsail preposterously flattened down, her luffs pulsing emptily on the lift of each smooth swell, she was sliding an easy four knots through the water on the veriest whisper of a breeze.  For an hour David Grief had been leaning on the rail at the lee fore-rigging, gazing overside at the steady phosphorescence of her gait.  The faint back-draught from the headsails fanned his cheek and chest with a wine of coolness, and he was in an ecstasy of appreciation of the schooner’s qualities.

“Eh! ­She’s a beauty, Taute, a beauty,” he said to the Kanaka lookout, at the same time stroking the teak of the rail with an affectionate hand.

“Ay, skipper,” the Kanaka answered in the rich, big-chested tones of Polynesia.  “Thirty years I know ships, but never like ’this.  On Raiatea we call her Fanauao.”

“The Dayborn,” Grief translated the love-phrase.  “Who named her so?”

About to answer, Taute peered ahead with sudden intensity.  Grief joined him in the gaze.

“Land,” said Taute.

“Yes; Fuatino,” Grief agreed, his eyes still fixed on the spot where the star-luminous horizon was gouged by a blot of blackness.  “It’s all right.  I’ll tell the captain.”

The Rattler slid along until the loom of the island could be seen as well as sensed, until the sleepy roar of breakers and the blatting of goats could be heard, until the wind, off the land, was flower-drenched with perfume.

“If it wasn’t a crevice, she could run the passage a night like this,” Captain Glass remarked regretfully, as he watched the wheel lashed hard down by the steersman.

The Rattler, run off shore a mile, had been hove to to wait until daylight ere she attempted the perilous entrance to Fuatino.  It was a perfect tropic night, with no hint of rain or squall.  For’ard, wherever their tasks left them, the Raiatea sailors sank down to sleep on deck.  Aft, the captain and mate and Grief spread their beds with similar languid unconcern.  They lay on their blankets, smoking and murmuring sleepy conjectures about Mataara, the Queen of Fuatino, and about the love affair between her daughter, Naumoo, and Motuaro.

“They’re certainly a romantic lot,” Brown, the mate, said.  “As romantic as we whites.”

“As romantic as Pilsach,” Grief laughed, “and that is going some.  How long ago was it, Captain, that he jumped you?”

“Eleven years,” Captain Glass grunted resentfully.

“Tell me about it,” Brown pleaded.  “They say he’s never left Fuatino since.  Is that right?”

“Right O,” the captain rumbled.  “He’s in love with his wife ­the little hussy!  Stole him from me, and as good a sailorman as the trade has ever seen ­if he is a Dutchman.”

“German,” Grief corrected.

“It’s all the same,” was the retort.  “The sea was robbed of a good man that night he went ashore and Notutu took one look at him.  I reckon they looked good to each other.  Before you could say skat, she’d put a wreath of some kind of white flowers on his head, and in five minutes they were off down the beach, like a couple of kids, holding hands and laughing.  I hope he’s blown that big coral patch out of the channel.  I always start a sheet or two of copper warping past.”

“Go on with the story,” Brown urged.

“That’s all.  He was finished right there.  Got married that night.  Never came on board again.  I looked him up next day.  Found him in a straw house in the bush, barelegged, a white savage, all mixed up with flowers and things and playing a guitar.  Looked like a bally ass.  Told me to send his things ashore.  I told him I’d see him damned first.  And that’s all.  You’ll see her to-morrow.  They’ve got three kiddies now ­wonderful little rascals.  I’ve a phonograph down below for him, and about a million records.”

“And then you made him trader?” the mate inquired of Grief.

“What else could I do?  Fuatino is a love island, and Filsach is a lover.  He knows the native, too ­one of the best traders I’ve got, or ever had.  He’s responsible.  You’ll see him to-morrow.”

“Look here, young man,” Captain Glass rumbled threateningly at his mate.  “Are you romantic?  Because if you are, on board you stay.  Fuatino’s the island of romantic insanity.  Everybody’s in love with somebody.  They live on love.  It’s in the milk of the cocoa-nuts, or the air, or the sea.  The history of the island for the last ten thousand years is nothing but love affairs.  I know.  I’ve talked with the old men.  And if I catch you starting down the beach hand in hand ­”

His sudden cessation caused both the other men to look at him.  They followed his gaze, which passed across them to the main rigging, and saw what he saw, a brown hand and arm, muscular and wet, being joined from overside by a second brown hand and arm.  A head followed, thatched with long elfin locks, and then a face, with roguish black eyes, lined with the marks of wildwood’s laughter.

“My God!” Brown breathed.  “It’s a faun ­a sea-faun.”

“It’s the Goat Man,” said Glass.

“It is Mauriri,” said Grief.  “He is my own blood brother by sacred plight of native custom.  His name is mine, and mine is his.”

Broad brown shoulders and a magnificent chest rose above the rail, and, with what seemed effortless ease, the whole grand body followed over the rail and noiselessly trod the deck.  Brown, who might have been other things than the mate of an island schooner, was enchanted.  All that he had ever gleaned from the books proclaimed indubitably the faun-likeness of this visitant of the deep.  “But a sad faun,” was the young man’s judgment, as the golden-brown woods god strode forward to where David Grief sat up with outstretched hand.

“David,” said David Grief.

“Mauriri, Big Brother,” said Mauriri.

And thereafter, in the custom of men who have pledged blood brotherhood, each called the other, not by the other’s name, but by his own.  Also, they talked in the Polynesian tongue of Fuatino, and Brown could only sit and guess.

“A long swim to say talofa,” Grief said, as the other sat and streamed water on the deck.

“Many days and nights have I watched for your coming, Big Brother,” Mauriri replied.  “I have sat on the Big Rock, where the dynamite is kept, of which I have been made keeper.  I saw you come up to the entrance and run back into darkness.  I knew you waited till morning, and I followed.  Great trouble has come upon us.  Mataara has cried these many days for your coming.  She is an old woman, and Motauri is dead, and she is sad.”

“Did he marry Naumoo?” Grief asked, after he had shaken his head and sighed by the custom.

“Yes.  In the end they ran to live with the goats, till Mataara forgave, when they returned to live with her in the Big House.  But he is now dead, and Naumoo soon will die.  Great is our trouble, Big Brother.  Tori is dead, and Tati-Tori, and Petoo, and Nari, and Pilsach, and others.”

“Pilsach, too!” Grief exclaimed.  “Has there been a sickness?”

“There has been much killing.  Listen, Big Brother, Three weeks ago a strange schooner came.  From the Big Rock I saw her topsails above the sea.  She towed in with her boats, but they did not warp by the big patch, and she pounded many times.  She is now on the beach, where they are strengthening the broken timbers.  There are eight white men on board.  They have women from some island far to the east.  The women talk a language in many ways like ours, only different.  But we can understand.  They say they were stolen by the men on the schooner.  We do not know, but they sing and dance and are happy.”

“And the men?” Grief interrupted.

“They talk French.  I know, for there was a mate on your schooner who talked French long ago.  There are two chief men, and they do not look like the others.  They have blue eyes like you, and they are devils.  One is a bigger devil than the other.  The other six are also devils.  They do not pay us for our yams, and taro, and breadfruit.  They take everything from us, and if we complain they kill us.  Thus was killed Tori, and Tati-Tori, and Petoo, and others.  We cannot fight, for we have no guns ­only two or three old guns.

“They ill-treat our women.  Thus was killed Motuaro, who made defence of Naumoo, whom they have now taken on board their schooner.  It was because of this that Pilsach was killed.  Him the chief of the two chief men, the Big Devil, shot once in his whaleboat, and twice when he tried to crawl up the sand of the beach.  Pilsach was a brave man, and Notutu now sits in the house and cries without end.  Many of the people are afraid, and have run to live with the goats.  But there is not food for all in the high mountains.  And the men will not go out and fish, and they work no more in the gardens because of the devils who take all they have.  And we are ready to fight.

“Big Brother, we need guns, and much ammunition.  I sent word before I swam out to you, and the men are waiting.  The strange white men do not know you are come.  Give me a boat, and the guns, and I will go back before the sun.  And when you come to-morrow we will be ready for the word from you to kill the strange white men.  They must be killed.  Big Brother, you have ever been of the blood with us, and the men and women have prayed to many gods for your coming.  And you are come.”

“I will go in the boat with you,” Grief said.

“No, Big Brother,” was Mauriri’s reply.  “You must be with the schooner.  The strange white men will fear the schooner, not us.  We will have the guns, and they will not know.  It is only when they see your schooner come that they will be alarmed.  Send the young man there with the boat.”

So it was that Brown, thrilling with all the romance and adventure he had read and guessed and never lived, took his place in the sternsheets of a whaleboat, loaded with rifles and cartridges, rowed by four Baiatea sailors, steered by a golden-brown, sea-swimming faun, and directed through the warm tropic darkness toward the half-mythical love island of Fuatino, which had been invaded by twentieth century pirates.

II

If a line be drawn between Jaluit, in the Marshall Group, and Bougainville, in the Solomons, and if this line be bisected at two degrees south of the equator by a line drawn from Ukuor, in the Carolines, the high island of Fuatino will be raised in that sun-washed stretch of lonely sea.  Inhabited by a stock kindred to the Hawaiian, the Samoan, the Tahitian, and the Maori, Fuatino becomes the apex of the wedge driven by Polynesia far to the west and in between Melanesia and Micronesia.  And it was Fuatino that David Grief raised next morning, two miles to the east and in direct line with the rising sun.  The same whisper of a breeze held, and the Rattler slid through the smooth sea at a rate that would have been eminently proper for an island schooner had the breeze been thrice as strong.

Fuatino was nothing else than an ancient crater, thrust upward from the sea-bottom by some primordial cataclysm.  The western portion, broken and crumbled to sea level, was the entrance to the crater itself, which constituted the harbour.  Thus, Fuatino was like a rugged horseshoe, the heel pointing to the west.  And into the opening at the heel the Rattler steered.  Captain Glass, binoculars in hand and peering at the chart made by himself, which was spread on top the cabin, straightened up with an expression on his face that was half alarm, half resignation.

“It’s coming,” he said.  “Fever.  It wasn’t due till to-morrow.  It always hits me hard, Mr. Grief.  In five minutes I’ll be off my head.  You’ll have to con the schooner in.  Boy!  Get my bunk ready!  Plenty of blankets!  Fill that hot-water bottle!  It’s so calm, Mr. Grief, that I think you can pass the big patch without warping.  Take the leading wind and shoot her.  She’s the only craft in the South Pacific that can do it, and I know you know the trick.  You can scrape the Big Rock by just watching out for the main boom.”

He had talked rapidly, almost like a drunken man, as his reeling brain battled with the rising shock of the malarial stroke.  When he stumbled toward the companionway, his face was purpling and mottling as if attacked by some monstrous inflammation or decay.  His eyes were setting in a glassy bulge, his hands shaking, his teeth clicking in the spasms of chill.

“Two hours to get the sweat,” he chattered with a ghastly grin.  “And a couple more and I’ll be all right.  I know the damned thing to the last minute it runs its course.  Y-y-you t-t-take ch-ch-ch-ch ­”

His voice faded away in a weak stutter as he collapsed down into the cabin and his employer took charge.  The Rattler was just entering the passage.  The heels of the horseshoe island were two huge mountains of rock a thousand feet high, each almost broken off from the mainland and connected with it by a low and narrow peninsula.  Between the heels was a half-mile stretch, all but blocked by a reef of coral extending across from the south heel.  The passage, which Captain Glass had called a crevice, twisted into this reef, curved directly to the north heel, and ran along the base of the perpendicular rock.  At this point, with the main-boom almost grazing the rock on the port side, Grief, peering down on the starboard side, could see bottom less than two fathoms beneath and shoaling steeply.  With a whaleboat towing for steerage and as a precaution against back-draughts from the cliff, and taking advantage of a fan of breeze, he shook the Rattler full into it and glided by the big coral patch without warping.  As it was, he just scraped, but so softly as not to start the copper.

The harbour of Fuatino opened before him.  It was a circular sheet of water, five miles in diameter, rimmed with white coral beaches, from which the verdure-clad slopes rose swiftly to the frowning crater walls.  The crests of the walls were saw-toothed, volcanic peaks, capped and halo’d with captive trade-wind clouds.  Every nook and crevice of the disintegrating lava gave foothold to creeping, climbing vines and trees ­a green foam of vegetation.  Thin streams of water, that were mere films of mist, swayed and undulated downward in sheer descents of hundreds of feet.  And to complete the magic of the place, the warm, moist air was heavy with the perfume of the yellow-blossomed cassi.

Fanning along against light, vagrant airs, the Rattler worked in.  Calling the whale-boat on board, Grief searched out the shore with his binoculars.  There was no life.  In the hot blaze of tropic sun the place slept.  There was no sign of welcome.  Up the beach, on the north shore, where the fringe of cocoanut palms concealed the village, he could see the black bows of the canoes in the canoe-houses.  On the beach, on even keel, rested the strange schooner.  Nothing moved on board of her or around her.  Not until the beach lay fifty yards away did Grief let go the anchor in forty fathoms.  Out in the middle, long years before, he had sounded three hundred fathoms without reaching bottom, which was to be expected of a healthy crater-pit like Fuatino.  As the chain roared and surged through the hawse-pipe he noticed a number of native women, lusciously large as only those of Polynesia are, in flowing ahu’s, flower-crowned, stream out on the deck of the schooner on the beach.  Also, and what they did not see, he saw from the galley the squat figure of a man steal for’ard, drop to the sand, and dive into the green screen of bush.

While the sails were furled and gasketed, awnings stretched, and sheets and tackles coiled harbour fashion, David Grief paced the deck and looked vainly for a flutter of life elsewhere than on the strange schooner.  Once, beyond any doubt, he heard the distant crack of a rifle in the direction of the Big Rock.  There were no further shots, and he thought of it as some hunter shooting a wild goat.

At the end of another hour Captain Glass, under a mountain of blankets, had ceased shivering and was in the inferno of a profound sweat.

“I’ll be all right in half an hour,” he said weakly.

“Very well,” Grief answered.  “The place is dead, and I’m going ashore to see Mataara and find out the situation.”

“It’s a tough bunch; keep your eyes open,” the captain warned him.  “If you’re not back in an hour, send word off.”

Grief took the steering-sweep, and four of his Raiatea men bent to the oars.  As they landed on the beach he looked curiously at the women under the schooner’s awning.  He waved his hand tentatively, and they, after giggling, waved back.

“Talofa!” he called.

They understood the greeting, but replied, “Iorana,” and he knew they came from the Society Group.

“Huahine,” one of his sailors unhesitatingly named their island.  Grief asked them whence they came, and with giggles and laughter they replied, “Huahine.”

“It looks like old Dupuy’s schooner,” Grief said, in Tahitian, speaking in a low voice.  “Don’t look too hard.  What do you think, eh?  Isn’t it the Valetta?”

As the men climbed out and lifted the whale-boat slightly up the beach they stole careless glances at the vessel.

“It is the Valetta,” Taute said.  “She carried her topmast away seven years ago.  At Papeete they rigged a new one.  It was ten feet shorter.  That is the one.”

“Go over and talk with the women, you boys.  You can almost see Huahine from Raiatea, and you’ll be sure to know some of them.  Find out all you can.  And if any of the white men show up, don’t start a row.”

An army of hermit crabs scuttled and rustled away before him as he advanced up the beach, but under the palms no pigs rooted and grunted.  The cocoanuts lay where they had fallen, and at the copra-sheds there were no signs of curing.  Industry and tidiness had vanished.  Grass house after grass house he found deserted.  Once he came upon an old man, blind, toothless, prodigiously wrinkled, who sat in the shade and babbled with fear when he spoke to him.  It was as if the place had been struck with the plague, was Grief’s thought, as he finally approached the Big House.  All was desolation and disarray.  There were no flower-crowned men and maidens, no brown babies rolling in the shade of the avocado trees.  In the doorway, crouched and rocking back and forth, sat Mataara, the old queen.  She wept afresh at sight of him, divided between the tale of her woe and regret that no follower was left to dispense to him her hospitality.

“And so they have taken Naumoo,” she finished.  “Motauri is dead.  My people have fled and are starving with the goats.  And there is no one to open for you even a drinking cocoa-nut.  O Brother, your white brothers be devils.”

“They are no brothers of mine, Mataara,” Grief consoled.  “They are robbers and pigs, and I shall clean the island of them ­”

He broke off to whirl half around, his hand flashing to his waist and back again, the big Colt’s levelled at the figure of a man, bent double, that rushed at him from out of the trees.  He did not pull the trigger, nor did the man pause till he had flung himself headlong at Grief’s feet and begun to pour forth a stream of uncouth and awful noises.  He recognized the creature as the one he had seen steal from the Valetta and dive into the bush; but not until he raised him up and watched the contortions of the hare-lipped mouth could he understand what he uttered.

“Save me, master, save me!” the man yammered, in English, though he was unmistakably a South Sea native.  “I know you!  Save me!”

And thereat he broke into a wild outpour of incoherence that did not cease until Grief seized him by the shoulders and shook him into silence.

“I know you,” Grief said.  “You were cook in the French Hotel at Papeete two years ago.  Everybody called you ‘Hare-Lip.’”

The man nodded violently.

“I am now cook of the Valetta,” he spat and spluttered, his mouth writhing in a fearful struggle with its defect.  “I know you.  I saw you at the hotel.  I saw you at Lavina’s.  I saw you on the Kittiwake.  I saw you at the Mariposa wharf.  You are Captain Grief, and you will save me.  Those men are devils.  They killed Captain Dupuy.  Me they made kill half the crew.  Two they shot from the cross-trees.  The rest they shot in the water.  I knew them all.  They stole the girls from Huahine.  They added to their strength with jail-men from Nouméa.  They robbed the traders in the New Hebrides.  They killed the trader at Vanikori, and stole two women there.  They ­”

But Grief no longer heard.  Through the trees, from the direction of the harbour, came a rattle of rifles, and he started on the run for the beach.  Pirates from Tahiti and convicts from New Caledonia!  A pretty bunch of desperadoes that even now was attacking his schooner.  Hare-Lip followed, still spluttering and spitting his tale of the white devils’ doings.

The rifle-firing ceased as abruptly as it had begun, but Grief ran on, perplexed by ominous conjectures, until, in a turn of the path, he encountered Mauriri running toward him from the beach.

“Big Brother,” the Goat Man panted, “I was too late.  They have taken your schooner.  Come!  For now they will seek for you.”

He started back up the path away from the beach.

“Where is Brown?” Grief demanded.

“On the Big Rock.  I will tell you afterward.  Come now!”

“But my men in the whaleboat?”

Mauriri was in an agony of apprehension.

“They are with the women on the strange schooner.  They will not be killed.  I tell you true.  The devils want sailors.  But you they will kill.  Listen!” From the water, in a cracked tenor voice, came a French hunting song.  “They are landing on the beach.  They have taken your schooner ­that I saw.  Come!”

III

Careless of his own life and skin, nevertheless David Grief was possessed of no false hardihood.  He knew when to fight and when to run, and that this was the time for running he had no doubt.  Up the path, past the old men sitting in the shade, past Mataara crouched in the doorway of the Big House, he followed at the heels of Mauriri.  At his own heels, doglike, plodded Hare-Lip.  From behind came the cries of the hunters, but the pace Mauriri led them was heartbreaking.  The broad path narrowed, swung to the right, and pitched upward.  The last grass house was left, and through high thickets of cassi and swarms of great golden wasps the way rose steeply until it became a goat-track.  Pointing upward to a bare shoulder of volcanic rock, Mauriri indicated the trail across its face.

“Past that we are safe, Big Brother,” he said.  “The white devils never dare it, for there are rocks we roll down on their heads, and there is no other path.  Always do they stop here and shoot when we cross the rock.  Come!”

A quarter of an hour later they paused where the trail went naked on the face of the rock.

“Wait, and when you come, come quickly,” Mauriri cautioned.

He sprang into the blaze of sunlight, and from below several rifles pumped rapidly.  Bullets smacked about him, and puffs of stone-dust flew out, but he won safely across.  Grief followed, and so near did one bullet come that the dust of its impact stung his cheek.  Nor was Hare-Lip struck, though he essayed the passage more slowly.

For the rest of the day, on the greater heights, they lay in a lava glen where terraced taro and papaia grew.  And here Grief made his plans and learned the fulness of the situation.

“It was ill luck,” Mauriri said.  “Of all nights this one night was selected by the white devils to go fishing.  It was dark as we came through the passage.  They were in boats and canoes.  Always do they have their rifles with them.  One Raiatea man they shot.  Brown was very brave.  We tried to get by to the top of the bay, but they headed us off, and we were driven in between the Big Rock and the village.  We saved the guns and all the ammunition, but they got the boat.  Thus they learned of your coming.  Brown is now on this side of the Big Rock with the guns and the ammunition.”

“But why didn’t he go over the top of the Big Rock and give me warning as I came in from the sea?” Grief criticised.

“They knew not the way.  Only the goats and I know the way.  And this I forgot, for I crept through the bush to gain the water and swim to you.  But the devils were in the bush shooting at Brown and the Raiatea men; and me they hunted till daylight, and through the morning they hunted me there in the low-lying land.  Then you came in your schooner, and they watched till you went ashore, and I got away through the bush, but you were already ashore.”

“You fired that shot?”

“Yes; to warn you.  But they were wise and would not shoot back, and it was my last cartridge.”

“Now you, Hare-Lip?” Grief said to the Valetta’s cook.

His tale was long and painfully detailed.  For a year he had been sailing out of Tahiti and through the Paumotus on the Valetta.  Old Dupuy was owner and captain.  On his last cruise he had shipped two strangers in Tahiti as mate and supercargo.  Also, another stranger he carried to be his agent on Fanriki.  Raoul Van Asveld and Carl Lepsius were the names of the mate and supercargo.

“They are brothers, I know, for I have heard them talk in the dark, on deck, when they thought no one listened,” Hare-Lip explained.

The Valetta cruised through the Low Islands, picking up shell and pearls at Dupuy’s stations.  Frans Amundson, the third stranger, relieved Pierre Gollard at Fanriki.  Pierre Gollard came on board to go back to Tahiti.  The natives of Fanriki said he had a quart of pearls to turn over to Dupuy.  The first night out from Fanriki there was shooting in the cabin.  Then the bodies of Dupuy and Pierre Gollard were thrown overboard.  The Tahitian sailors fled to the forecastle.  For two days, with nothing to eat and the Valetta hove to, they remained below.  Then Raoul Van Asveld put poison in the meal he made Hare-Lip cook and carry for’ard.  Half the sailors died.

“He had a rifle pointed at me, master; what could I do?” Hare-Lip whimpered.  “Of the rest, two went up the rigging and were shot.  Fanriki was ten miles away.  The others went overboard to swim.  They were shot as they swam.  I, only, lived, and the two devils; for me they wanted to cook for them.  That day, with the breeze, they went back to Fanrika and took on Frans Amundson, for he was one of them.”

Then followed Hare-Lip’s nightmare experiences as the schooner wandered on the long reaches to the westward.  He was the one living witness and knew they would have killed him had he not been the cook.  At Nouméa five convicts had joined them.  Hare-Lip was never permitted ashore at any of the islands, and Grief was the first outsider to whom he had spoken.

“And now they will kill me,” Hare-Lip spluttered, “for they will know I have told you.  Yet am I not all a coward, and I will stay with you, master, and die with you.”

The Goat Man shook his head and stood up.

“Lie here and rest,” he said to Grief.  “It will be a long swim to-night.  As for this cook-man, I will take him now to the higher places where my brothers live with the goats.”

IV

“It is well that you swim as a man should, Big Brother,” Mauriri whispered.

From the lava glen they had descended to the head of the bay and taken to the water.  They swam softly, without splash, Mauriri in the lead.  The black walls of the crater rose about them till it seemed they swam on the bottom of a great bowl.  Above was the sky of faintly luminous star-dust.  Ahead they could see the light which marked the Rattler, and from her deck, softened by distance, came a gospel hymn played on the phonograph intended for Pilsach.

The two swimmers bore to the left, away from the captured schooner.  Laughter and song followed on board after the hymn, then the phonograph started again.  Grief grinned to himself at the appositeness of it as “Lead, Kindly Light,” floated out over the dark water.

“We must take the passage and land on the Big Rock,” Mauriri whispered.  “The devils are holding the low land.  Listen!”

Half a dozen rifle shots, at irregular intervals, attested that Brown still held the Rock and that the pirates had invested the narrow peninsula.

At the end of another hour they swam under the frowning loom of the Big Rock.  Mauriri, feeling his way, led the landing in a crevice, up which for a hundred feet they climbed to a narrow ledge.

“Stay here,” said Mauriri.  “I go to Brown.  In the morning I shall return.”

“I will go with you, Brother,” Grief said.

Mauriri laughed in the darkness.

“Even you, Big Brother, cannot do this thing.  I am the Goat Man, and I only, of all Fuatino, can go over the Big Rock in the night.  Furthermore, it will be the first time that even I have done it.  Put out your hand.  You feel it?  That is where Pilsach’s dynamite is kept.  Lie close beside the wall and you may sleep without falling.  I go now.”

And high above the sounding surf, on a narrow shelf beside a ton of dynamite, David Grief planned his campaign, then rested his cheek on his arm and slept.

In the morning, when Mauriri led him over the summit of the Big Rock, David Grief understood why he could not have done it in the night.  Despite the accustomed nerve of a sailor for height and precarious clinging, he marvelled that he was able to do it in the broad light of day.  There were places, always under minute direction of Mauriri, that he leaned forward, falling, across hundred-foot-deep crevices, until his outstretched hands struck a grip on the opposing wall and his legs could then be drawn across after.  Once, there was a ten-foot leap, above half a thousand feet of yawning emptiness and down a fathom’s length to a meagre foothold.  And he, despite his cool head, lost it another time on a shelf, a scant twelve inches wide, where all hand-holds seemed to fail him.  And Mauriri, seeing him sway, swung his own body far out and over the gulf and passed him, at the same time striking him sharply on the back to brace his reeling brain.  Then it was, and forever after, that he fully knew why Mauriri had been named the Goat Man.

V

The defence of the Big Rock had its good points and its defects.  Impregnable to assault, two men could hold it against ten thousand.  Also, it guarded the passage to open sea.  The two schooners, Raoul Van Asveld, and his cutthroat following were bottled up.  Grief, with the ton of dynamite, which he had removed higher up the rock, was master.  This he demonstrated, one morning, when the schooners attempted to put to sea.  The Valetta led, the whaleboat towing her manned by captured Fuatino men.  Grief and the Goat Man peered straight down from a safe rock-shelter, three hundred feet above.  Their rifles were beside them, also a glowing fire-stick and a big bundle of dynamite sticks with fuses and decanators attached.  As the whaleboat came beneath, Mauriri shook his head.

“They are our brothers.  We cannot shoot.”

For’ard, on the Valetta, were several of Grief’s own Raiatea sailors.  Aft stood another at the wheel.  The pirates were below, or on the other schooner, with the exception of one who stood, rifle in hand, amidships.  For protection he held Naumoo, the Queen’s daughter, close to him.

“That is the chief devil,” Mauriri whispered, “and his eyes are blue like yours.  He is a terrible man.  See!  He holds Naumoo that we may not shoot him.”

A light air and a slight tide were making into the passage, and the schooner’s progress was slow.

“Do you speak English?” Grief called down.

The man startled, half lifted his rifle to the perpendicular, and looked up.  There was something quick and catlike in his movements, and in his burned blond face a fighting eagerness.  It was the face of a killer.

“Yes,” he answered.  “What do you want?”

“Turn back, or I’ll blow your schooner up,” Grief warned.  He blew on the fire-stick and whispered, “Tell Naumoo to break away from him and run aft.”

From the Rattler, close astern, rifles cracked, and bullets spatted against the rock.  Van Asveld laughed defiantly, and Mauriri called down in the native tongue to the woman.  When directly beneath, Grief, watching, saw her jerk away from the man.  On the instant Grief touched the fire-stick to the match-head in the split end of the short fuse, sprang into view on the face of the rock, and dropped the dynamite.  Van Asveld had managed to catch the girl and was struggling with her.  The Goat Man held a rifle on him and waited a chance.  The dynamite struck the deck in a compact package, bounded, and rolled into the port scupper.  Van Asveld saw it and hesitated, then he and the girl ran aft for their lives.  The Goat Man fired, but splintered the corner of the galley.  The spattering of bullets from the Rattler increased, and the two on the rock crouched low for shelter and waited.  Mauriri tried to see what was happening below, but Grief held him back.

“The fuse was too long,” he said.  “I’ll know better next time.”

It was half a minute before the explosion came.  What happened afterward, for some little time, they could not tell, for the Rattler’s marksmen had got the range and were maintaining a steady fire.  Once, fanned by a couple of bullets, Grief risked a peep.  The Valetta, her port deck and rail torn away, was listing and sinking as she drifted back into the harbour.  Climbing on board the Rattler were the men and the Huahine women who had been hidden in the Valetta’s cabin and who had swum for it under the protecting fire.  The Fuatino men who had been towing in the whaleboat had cast off the line, dashed back through the passage, and were rowing wildly for the south shore.

From the shore of the peninsula the discharges of four rifles announced that Brown and his men had worked through the jungle to the beach and were taking a hand.  The bullets ceased coming, and Grief and Mauriri joined in with their rifles.  But they could do no damage, for the men of the Rattler were firing from the shelter of the deck-houses, while the wind and tide carried the schooner farther in.

There was no sign of the Valetta, which had sunk in the deep water of the crater.

Two things Raoul Van Asveld did that showed his keenness and coolness and that elicited Grief’s admiration.  Under the Rattler’s rifle fire Raoul compelled the fleeing Fuatino men to come in and surrender.  And at the same time, dispatching half his cutthroats in the Rattler’s boat, he threw them ashore and across the peninsula, preventing Brown from getting away to the main part of the island.  And for the rest of the morning the intermittent shooting told to Grief how Brown was being driven in to the other side of the Big Rock.  The situation was unchanged, with the exception of the loss of the Valetta.

VI

The defects of the position on the Big Rock were vital.  There was neither food nor water.  For several nights, accompanied by one of the Raiatea men, Mauriri swam to the head of the bay for supplies.  Then came the night when lights flared on the water and shots were fired.  After that the water-side of the Big Rock was invested as well.

“It’s a funny situation,” Brown remarked, who was getting all the adventure he had been led to believe resided in the South Seas.  “We’ve got hold and can’t let go, and Raoul has hold and can’t let go.  He can’t get away, and we’re liable to starve to death holding him.”

“If the rain came, the rock-basins would fill,” said Mauriri.  It was their first twenty-four hours without water.  “Big Brother, to-night you and I will get water.  It is the work of strong men.”

That night, with cocoanut calabashes, each of quart capacity and tightly stoppered, he led Grief down to the water from the peninsula side of the Big Rock.  They swam out not more than a hundred feet.  Beyond, they could hear the occasional click of an oar or the knock of a paddle against a canoe, and sometimes they saw the flare of matches as the men in the guarding boats lighted cigarettes or pipes.

“Wait here,” whispered Mauriri, “and hold the calabashes.”

Turning over, he swam down.  Grief, face downward, watched his phosphorescent track glimmer, and dim, and vanish.  A long minute afterward Mauriri broke surface noiselessly at Grief’s side.

“Here!  Drink!”

The calabash was full, and Grief drank sweet fresh water which had come up from the depths of the salt.

“It flows out from the land,” said Mauriri.

“On the bottom?”

“No.  The bottom is as far below as the mountains are above.  Fifty feet down it flows.  Swim down until you feel its coolness.”

Several times filling and emptying his lungs in diver fashion, Grief turned over and went down through the water.  Salt it was to his lips, and warm to his flesh; but at last, deep down, it perceptibly chilled and tasted brackish.  Then, suddenly, his body entered the cold, subterranean stream.  He removed the small stopper from the calabash, and, as the sweet water gurgled into it, he saw the phosphorescent glimmer of a big fish, like a sea ghost, drift sluggishly by.

Thereafter, holding the growing weight of the calabashes, he remained on the surface, while Mauriri took them down, one by one, and filled them.

“There are sharks,” Grief said, as they swam back to shore.

“Pooh!” was the answer.  “They are fish sharks.  We of Fuatino are brothers to the fish sharks.”

“But the tiger sharks?  I have seen them here.”

“When they come, Big Brother, we will have no more water to drink ­unless it rains.”

VII

A week later Mauriri and a Raiatea man swam back with empty calabashes.  The tiger sharks had arrived in the harbour.  The next day they thirsted on the Big Rock.

“We must take our chance,” said Grief.  “Tonight I shall go after water with Mautau.  Tomorrow night, Brother, you will go with Tehaa.”

Three quarts only did Grief get, when the tiger sharks appeared and drove them in.  There were six of them on the Rock, and a pint a day, in the sweltering heat of the mid-tropics, is not sufficient moisture for a man’s body.  The next night Mauriri and Tehaa returned with no water.  And the day following Brown learned the full connotation of thirst, when the lips crack to bleeding, the mouth is coated with granular slime, and the swollen tongue finds the mouth too small for residence.

Grief swam out in the darkness with Mautau.  Turn by turn, they went down through the salt, to the cool sweet stream, drinking their fill while the calabashes were filling.  It was Mau-tau’s turn to descend with the last calabash, and Grief, peering down from the surface, saw the glimmer of sea-ghosts and all the phosphorescent display of the struggle.  He swam back alone, but without relinquishing the precious burden of full calabashes.

Of food they had little.  Nothing grew on the Rock, and its sides, covered with shellfish at sea level where the surf thundered in, were too precipitous for access.  Here and there, where crevices permitted, a few rank shellfish and sea urchins were gleaned.  Sometimes frigate birds and other sea birds were snared.  Once, with a piece of frigate bird, they succeeded in hooking a shark.  After that, with jealously guarded shark-meat for bait, they managed on occasion to catch more sharks.

But water remained their direst need.  Mauriri prayed to the Goat God for rain.  Taute prayed to the Missionary God, and his two fellow islanders, backsliding, invoked the deities of their old heathen days.  Grief grinned and considered.  But Brown, wild-eyed, with protruding blackened tongue, cursed.  Especially he cursed the phonograph that in the cool twilights ground out gospel hymns from the deck of the Rattler.  One hymn in particular, “Beyond the Smiling and the Weeping,” drove him to madness.  It seemed a favourite on board the schooner, for it was played most of all.  Brown, hungry and thirsty, half out of his head from weakness and suffering, could lie among the rocks with equanimity and listen to the tinkling of ukuleles and guitars, and the hulas and himines of the Huahine women.  But when the voices of the Trinity Choir floated over the water he was beside himself.  One evening the cracked tenor took up the song with the machine: 

     “Beyond the smiling and the weeping,
        I shall be soon. 
     Beyond the waking and the sleeping,
     Beyond the sowing and the reaping,
        I shall be soon,
        I shall be soon.”

Then it was that Brown rose up.  Again and again, blindly, he emptied his rifle at the schooner.  Laughter floated up from the men and women, and from the peninsula came a splattering of return bullets; but the cracked tenor sang on, and Brown continued to fire, until the hymn was played out.

It was that night that Grief and Mauriri came back with but one calabash of water.  A patch of skin six inches long was missing from Grief’s shoulder in token of the scrape of the sandpaper hide of a shark whose dash he had eluded.

VIII

In the early morning of another day, before the sun-blaze had gained its full strength, came an offer of a parley from Raoul Van Asveld.

Brown brought the word in from the outpost among the rocks a hundred yards away.  Grief was squatted over a small fire, broiling a strip of shark-flesh.  The last twenty-four hours had been lucky.  Seaweed and sea urchins had been gathered.  Tehaa had caught a shark, and Mauriri had captured a fair-sized octopus at the base of the crevice where the dynamite was stored.  Then, too, in the darkness they had made two successful swims for water before the tiger sharks had nosed them out.

“Said he’d like to come in and talk with you,” Brown said.  “But I know what the brute is after.  Wants to see how near starved to death we are.”

“Bring him in,” Grief said.

“And then we will kill him,” the Goat Man cried joyously.

Grief shook his head.

“But he is a killer of men, Big Brother, a beast and a devil,” the Goat Man protested.

“He must not be killed, Brother.  It is our way not to break our word.”

“It is a foolish way.”

“Still it is our way,” Grief answered gravely, turning the strip of shark-meat over on the coals and noting the hungry sniff and look of Tehaa.  “Don’t do that, Tehaa, when the Big Devil comes.  Look as if you and hunger were strangers.  Here, cook those sea urchins, you, and you, Big Brother, cook the squid.  We will have the Big Devil to feast with us.  Spare nothing.  Cook all.”

And, still broiling meat, Grief arose as Raoul Van Asveld, followed by a large Irish terrier, strode into camp.  Raoul did not make the mistake of holding out his hand.

“Hello!” he said.  “I’ve heard of you.”

“I wish I’d never heard of you,” Grief answered.

“Same here,” was the response.  “At first, before I knew who it was, I thought I had to deal with an ordinary trading captain.  That’s why you’ve got me bottled up.”

“And I am ashamed to say that I underrated you,” Grief smiled.  “I took you for a thieving beachcomber, and not for a really intelligent pirate and murderer.  Hence, the loss of my schooner.  Honours are even, I fancy, on that score.”

Raoul flushed angrily under his sunburn, but he contained himself.  His eyes roved over the supply of food and the full water-calabashes, though he concealed the incredulous surprise he felt.  His was a tall, slender, well-knit figure, and Grief, studying him, estimated his character from his face.  The eyes were keen and strong, but a bit too close together ­not pinched, however, but just a trifle near to balance the broad forehead, the strong chin and jaw, and the cheekbones wide apart.  Strength!  His face was filled with it, and yet Grief sensed in it the intangible something the man lacked.

“We are both strong men,” Raoul said, with a bow.  “We might have been fighting for empires a hundred years ago.”

It was Grief’s turn to bow.

“As it is, we are squalidly scrapping over the enforcement of the colonial laws of those empires whose destinies we might possibly have determined a hundred years ago.”

“It all comes to dust,” Raoul remarked sen-tentiously, sitting down.  “Go ahead with your meal.  Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Won’t you join us?” was Grief’s invitation.

The other looked at him with sharp steadiness, then accepted.

“I’m sticky with sweat,” he said.  “Can I wash?”

Grief nodded and ordered Mauriri to bring a calabash.  Raoul looked into the Goat Man’s eyes, but saw nothing save languid uninterest as the precious quart of water was wasted on the ground.

“The dog is thirsty,” Raoul said.

Grief nodded, and another calabash was presented to the animal.

Again Raoul searched the eyes of the natives and learned nothing.

“Sorry we have no coffee,” Grief apologized.  “You’ll have to drink plain water.  A calabash, Tehaa.  Try some of this shark.  There is squid to follow, and sea urchins and a seaweed salad.  I’m sorry we haven’t any frigate bird.  The boys were lazy yesterday, and did not try to catch any.”

With an appetite that would not have stopped at wire nails dipped in lard, Grief ate perfunctorily, and tossed the scraps to the dog.

“I’m afraid I haven’t got down to the primitive diet yet,” he sighed, as he sat back.  “The tinned goods on the Rattler, now I could make a hearty meal off of them, but this muck ­” He took a half-pound strip of broiled shark and flung it to the dog.  “I suppose I’ll come to it if you don’t surrender pretty soon.”

Raoul laughed unpleasantly.

“I came to offer terms,” he said pointedly.

Grief shook his head.

“There aren’t any terms.  I’ve got you where the hair is short, and I’m not going to let go.”

“You think you can hold me in this hole!” Raoul cried.

“You’ll never leave it alive, except in double irons.”  Grief surveyed his guest with an air of consideration.  “I’ve handled your kind before.  We’ve pretty well cleaned it out of the South Seas.  But you are a ­how shall I say? ­a sort of an anachronism.  You’re a throwback, and we’ve got to get rid of you.  Personally, I would advise you to go back to the schooner and blow your brains out.  It is the only way to escape what you’ve got coming to you.”

The parley, so far as Raoul was concerned, proved fruitless, and he went back into his own lines convinced that the men on the Big Rock could hold out for years, though he would have been swiftly unconvinced could he have observed Tehaa and the Raiateans, the moment his back was turned and he was out of sight, crawling over the rocks and sucking and crunching the scraps his dog had left uneaten.

IX

“We hunger now, Brother,” Grief said, “but it is better than to hunger for many days to come.  The Big Devil, after feasting and drinking good water with us in plenty, will not stay long in Fuatino.  Even to-morrow may he try to leave.  To-night you and I sleep over the top of the Rock, and Tehaa, who shoots well, will sleep with us if he can dare the Rock.”

Tehaa, alone among the Raiateans, was cragsman enough to venture the perilous way, and dawn found him in a rock-barricaded nook, a hundred yards to the right of Grief and Mauriri.

The first warning was the firing of rifles from the peninsula, where Brown and his two Raiateans signalled the retreat and followed the besiegers through the jungle to the beach.  From the eyrie on the face of the rock Grief could see nothing for another hour, when the Rattler appeared, making for the passage.  As before, the captive Fuatino men towed in the whaleboat.  Mauriri, under direction of Grief, called down instructions to them as they passed slowly beneath.  By Grief’s side lay several bundles of dynamite sticks, well-lashed together and with extremely short fuses.

The deck of the Rattler was populous.  For’ard, rifle in hand, among the Raiatean sailors, stood a desperado whom Mauriri announced was Raoul’s brother.  Aft, by the helmsman, stood another.  Attached to him, tied waist to waist, with slack, was Mataara, the old Queen.  On the other side of the helmsman, his arm in a sling, was Captain Glass.  Amidships, as before, was Raoul, and with him, lashed waist to waist, was Naumoo.

“Good morning, Mister David Grief,” Raoul called up.

“And yet I warned you that only in double irons would you leave the island,” Grief murmured down with a sad inflection.

“You can’t kill all your people I have on board,” was the answer.

The schooner, moving slowly, jerk by jerk, as the men pulled in the whaleboat, was almost directly beneath.  The rowers, without ceasing, slacked on their oars, and were immediately threatened with the rifle of the man who stood for’ard.

“Throw, Big Brother!” Naumoo called up in the Fuatino tongue.  “I am filled with sorrow and am willed to die.  His knife is ready with which to cut the rope, but I shall hold him tight.  Be not afraid, Big Brother.  Throw, and throw straight, and good-bye.”

Grief hesitated, then lowered the fire-stick which he had been blowing bright.

“Throw!” the Goat Man urged.

Still Grief hesitated.

“If they get to sea, Big Brother, Naumoo dies just the same.  And there are all the others.  What is her life against the many?”

“If you drop any dynamite, or fire a single shot, we’ll kill all on board,” Raoul cried up to them.  “I’ve got you, David Grief.  You can’t kill these people, and I can.  Shut up, you!”

This last was addressed to Naumoo, who was calling up in her native tongue and whom Raoul seized by the neck with one hand to choke to silence.  In turn, she locked both arms about him and looked up beseechingly to Grief.

“Throw it, Mr. Grief, and be damned to them,” Captain Glass rumbled in his deep voice.  “They’re bloody murderers, and the cabin’s full of them.”

The desperado who was fastened to the old Queen swung half about to menace Captain Glass with his rifle, when Tehaa, from his position farther along the Rock, pulled trigger on him.  The rifle dropped from the man’s hand, and on his face was an expression of intense surprise as his legs crumpled under him and he sank down on deck, dragging the Queen with him.

“Port!  Hard a port!” Grief cried.

Captain Glass and the Kanaka whirled the wheel over, and the bow of the Rattler headed in for the Rock.  Amidships Raoul still struggled with Naumoo.  His brother ran from for’ard to his aid, being missed by the fusillade of quick shots from Tehaa and the Goat Man.  As Raoul’s brother placed the muzzle of his rifle to Naumoo’s side Grief touched the fire-stick to the match-head in the split end of the fuse.  Even as with both hands he tossed the big bundle of dynamite, the rifle went off, and Naumoo’s fall to the deck was simultaneous with the fall of the dynamite.  This time the fuse was short enough.  The explosion occurred at the instant the deck was reached, and that portion of the Rattler, along with Raoul, his brother, and Naumoo, forever disappeared.

The schooner’s side was shattered, and she began immediately to settle.  For’ard, every Raiatean sailor dived overboard.  Captain Glass met the first man springing up the com-panionway from the cabin, with a kick full in the face, but was overborne and trampled on by the rush.  Following the desperadoes came the Huahine women, and as they went overboard, the Rattler sank on an even keel close to the base of the Rock.  Her cross-trees still stuck out when she reached bottom.

Looking down, Grief could see all that occurred beneath the surface.  He saw Mataara, a fathom deep, unfasten herself from the dead pirate and swim upward.  As her head emerged she saw Captain Glass, who could not swim, sinking several yards away.  The Queen, old woman that she was, but an islander, turned over, swam down to him, and held him up as she struck out for the unsubmerged cross-trees.

Five heads, blond and brown, were mingled with the dark heads of Polynesia that dotted the surface.  Grief, rifle in hand, watched for a chance to shoot.  The Goat Man, after a minute, was successful, and they saw the body of one man sink sluggishly.  But to the Raiatean sailors, big and brawny, half fish, was the vengeance given.  Swimming swiftly, they singled out the blond heads and the brown.  Those from above watched the four surviving desperadoes, clutched and locked, dragged far down beneath and drowned like curs.

In ten minutes everything was over.  The Huahine women, laughing and giggling, were holding on to the sides of the whaleboat which had done the towing.  The Raiatean sailors, waiting for orders, were about the cross-tree to which Captain Glass and Mataara clung.

“The poor old Rattler,” Captain Glass lamented.

“Nothing of the sort,” Grief answered.  “In a week we’ll have her raised, new timbers amidships, and we’ll be on our way.”  And to the Queen, “How is it with you, Sister?”

“Naumoo is gone, and Motauri, Brother, but Fuatino is ours again.  The day is young.  Word shall be sent to all my people in the high places with the goats.  And to-night, once again, and as never before, we shall feast and rejoice in the Big House.”

“She’s been needing new timbers abaft the beam there for years,” quoth Captain Glass.  “But the chronometers will be out of commission for the rest of the cruise.”