“I said she hasn’t, that’s all.”
“But didn’t the Upolu sail? I could have sworn I saw her smoke
last Tuesday afternoon, late, as she passed Savo.”
“The Upolu sailed all right.” Captain Auckland sipped his whisky
with provoking slowness. “Only Miss Lackland wasn’t a passenger.”
“Then where is she?”
“At Guvutu, last I saw of her. She was going to Sydney to buy a
schooner, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, yes.”
“That’s what she said. Well, she’s bought one, though I wouldn’t
give her ten shillings for it if a nor’wester blows up, and it’s
about time we had one. This has been too long a spell of good
weather to last.”
“If you came here to excite my curiosity, old man,” Sheldon said,
“you’ve certainly succeeded. Now go ahead and tell me in a
straightforward way what has happened. What schooner? Where is
it? How did she happen to buy it?”
“First, the schooner Martha,” the skipper answered, checking his
replies off on his fingers. “Second, the Martha is on the outside
reef at Poonga-Poonga, looted clean of everything portable, and
ready to go to pieces with the first bit of lively sea. And third,
Miss Lackland bought her at auction. She was knocked down to her
for fifty-five quid by the third-assistant-resident-commissioner.
I ought to know. I bid fifty myself, for Morgan and Raff. My
word, weren’t they hot! I told them to go to the devil, and that
it was their fault for limiting me to fifty quid when they thought
the chance to salve the Martha was worth more. You see, they
weren’t expecting competition. Fulcrum Brothers had no
representative present, neither had Fires, Philp Company, and the
only man to be afraid of was Nielsen’s agent, Squires, and him they
got drunk and sound asleep over in Guvutu.
“‘Twenty,’ says I, for my bid. ‘Twenty-five,’ says the little
girl. ‘Thirty,’ says I. ‘Forty,’ says she. ‘Fifty,’ says I.
‘Fifty-five,’ says she. And there I was stuck. ‘Hold on,’ says I;
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‘wait till I see my owners.’ ‘No, you don’t,’ says she. ‘It’s
customary,’ says I. ‘Not anywhere in the world,’ says she. ‘Then
it’s courtesy in the Solomons,’ says I.
“And d’ye know, on my faith I think Burnett’d have done it, only
she pipes up, sweet and pert as you please: ‘Mr. Auctioneer, will
you kindly proceed with the sale in the customary manner? I’ve
other business to attend to, and I can’t afford to wait all night
on men who don’t know their own minds.’ And then she smiles at
Burnett, as well–you know, one of those fetching smiles, and damme
if Burnett doesn’t begin singing out: ‘Goin’, goin’, goin’–last
bid–goin’, goin’ for fifty-five sovereigns–goin’, goin’, gone–to
you, Miss–er–what name, please?’
“‘Joan Lackland,’ says she, with a smile to me; and that’s how she
bought the Martha.”
Sheldon experienced a sudden thrill. The Martha!–a finer schooner
than the Malakula, and, for that matter, the finest in the
Solomons. She was just the thing for recruits, and she was right
on the spot. Then he realized that for such a craft to sell at
auction for fifty-five pounds meant that there was small chance for
saving her.
“But how did it happen?” he asked. “Weren’t they rather quick in
selling the Martha?”
“Had to. You know the reef at Poonga-Poonga. She’s not worth
tuppence on it if any kind of a sea kicks up, and it’s ripe for a
nor’wester any moment now. The crowd abandoned her completely.
Didn’t even dream of auctioning her. Morgan and Raff persuaded
them to put her up. They’re a co-operative crowd, you know, an
organized business corporation, fore and aft, all hands and the
cook. They held a meeting and voted to sell.”
“But why didn’t they stand by and try to save her?”
“Stand by! You know Malaita. And you know Poonga-Poonga. That’s
where they cut off the Scottish Chiefs and killed all hands. There
was nothing to do but take to the boats. The Martha missed stays
going in, and inside five minutes she was on the reef and in
possession. The niggers swarmed over her, and they just threw the
crew into the boats. I talked with some of the men. They swear
there were two hundred war canoes around her inside half an hour,
and five thousand bushmen on the beach. Said you couldn’t see
Malaita for the smoke of the signal fires. Anyway, they cleared
out for Tulagi.”
“But why didn’t they fight?” Sheldon asked.
“It was funny they didn’t, but they got separated. You see, two-
thirds of them were in the boats, without weapons, running anchors
and never dreaming the natives would attack. They found out their
mistake too late. The natives had charge. That’s the trouble of
new chums on the coast. It would never have happened with you or
me or any old-timer.”
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“But what is Miss Lackland intending to do?” Captain Auckland
grinned.
“She’s going to try to get the Martha off, I should say. Or else
why did she pay fifty-five quid for her? And if she fails, she’ll
try to get her money back by saving the gear–spars, you know, and
patent steering-gear, and winches, and such things. At least
that’s what I’d do if I was in her place. When I sailed, the
little girl had chartered the Emily–‘I’m going recruiting,’ says
Munster–he’s the skipper and owner now. ‘And how much will you
net on the cruise?’ asks she. ‘Oh, fifty quid,’ says he. ‘Good,’
says she; ‘you bring your Emily along with me and you’ll get
seventy-five.’ You know that big ship’s anchor and chain piled up
behind the coal-sheds? She was just buying that when I left.
She’s certainly a hustler, that little girl of yours.”
“She is my partner,” Sheldon corrected.
“Well, she’s a good one, that’s all, and a cool one. My word! a
white woman on Malaita, and at Poonga-Poonga of all places! Oh, I
forgot to tell you–she palavered Burnett into lending her eight
rifles for her men, and three cases of dynamite. You’d laugh to
see the way she makes that Guvutu gang stand around. And to see
them being polite and trying to give advice! Lord, Lord, man, that
little girl’s a wonder, a marvel, a–a–a catastrophe. That’s what
she is, a catastrophe. She’s gone through Guvutu and Tulagi like a
hurricane; every last swine of them in love with her–except Raff.
He’s sore over the auction, and he sprang his recruiting contract
with Munster on her. And what does she do but thank him, and read
it over, and point out that while Munster was pledged to deliver
all recruits to Morgan and Raff, there was no clause in the
document forbidding him from chartering the Emily.
“‘There’s your contract,’ says she, passing it back. ‘And a very
good contract it is. The next time you draw one up, insert a
clause that will fit emergencies like the present one.’ And, Lord,
Lord, she had him, too.
“But there’s the breeze, and I’m off. Good-bye, old man. Hope the
little girl succeeds. The Martha’s a whacking fine boat, and she’d
take the place of the Jessie.”
CHAPTER XVII–“YOUR” MISS LACKLAND
The next morning Sheldon came in from the plantation to breakfast,
to find the mission ketch, Apostle, at anchor, her crew swimming
two mares and a filly ashore. Sheldon recognized the animals as
belonging to the Resident Commissioner, and he immediately wondered
if Joan had bought them. She was certainly living up to her threat
of rattling the dry bones of the Solomons, and he was prepared for
anything.
“Miss Lackland sent them,” said Welshmere, the missionary doctor,
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stepping ashore and shaking hands with him. “There’s also a box of
saddles on board. And this letter from her. And the skipper of
the Flibberty-Gibbet.”
The next moment, and before he could greet him, Oleson stepped from
the boat and began.
“She’s stolen the Flibberty, Mr. Sheldon. Run clean away with her.
She’s a wild one. She gave me the fever. Brought it on by shock.
And got me drunk, as well–rotten drunk.”
Dr. Welshmere laughed heartily.
“Nevertheless, she is not an unmitigated evil, your Miss Lackland.
She’s sworn three men off their drink, or, to the same purpose,
shut off their whisky. You know them–Brahms, Curtis, and Fowler.
She shipped them on the Flibberty-Gibbet along with her.”
“She’s the skipper of the Flibberty now,” Oleson broke in. “And
she’ll wreck her as sure as God didn’t make the Solomons.”
Dr. Welshmere tried to look shocked, but laughed again.
“She has quite a way with her,” he said. “I tried to back out of
bringing the horses over. Said I couldn’t charge freight, that the
Apostle was under a yacht license, that I was going around by Savo
and the upper end of Guadalcanar. But it was no use. ‘Bother the
charge,’ said she. ‘You take the horses like a good man, and when