A Bounty Boy

CHAPTER III-2

Downward he sped through the clear water, arriving by the side of his father’s quietly undulating body just as a great glare of white showed the belly of a sixteen-foot shark as he turned to bite at this big piece of food. In a moment the boy had snatched his knife from his belt, and with one tremendous spring sideways had plunged it deep into the belly of the monster, and then with a strength that amazed himself sawed it lengthways along the great body. The water grew thick with blood, he groped blindly for the body of his father, felt nothing, swam gropingly about until almost bursting from lack of air, and then with a feeling of utter despair shot upwards to the surface.

One deep painful breath and, clearing his eyes, C. B. stared wildly about him. Then he gave one despairing cry of “Father!” It was answered by a dozen different voices cheerfully crying, “All right, all right,” and in a moment or two he found two stalwart swimmers by his side ready to aid him if he needed help, and keeping up an incessant splashing in the water for the purpose of scaring the sharks. Guided by them he swam to the boat, and just as he snatched at the gunwale to climb inboard two huge sharks rushed towards the little group of three from opposite directions, meeting head on in full career with such a tremendous shock that they both sank quietly down apparently stunned, while the three friends climbed safely into the boat.

And there lay his father, still and pale as his bronzed face would show, but, God be praised, yet alive. C. B.’s first impulse was to fling himself down by his father’s side and burst into an agony of weeping, for he thought that the dear one was dead; but, without a restraining hand being laid upon him, he conquered himself and, trembling violently, said, “Is father much hurt?”

“We don’t know yet,” replied Walter McCoy, “but, thank God, he’s still alive, and I can’t imagine such a man as he is being killed by what he’s just gone through. But we’re getting ashore with all speed, and if you will take an oar it’ll help you a lot: you’ll know you’re doing something for him that must be done and that with all your might: Give way, boys; we want to get home quick.”

C. B. instantly seized an oar and laid to it with a will, as did all the rest, full of anxiety as they were to get their much-loved comrade home. So in a very brief space they made a landing, and were met on the beach by Grace, who with love’s intuition, had felt that something had happened which needed her presence. When she saw the still limp form of her love, she only turned a shade paler and felt her knees tremble. Then quietly, as if inviting a few of them up to supper, said, “Please, friends, bring him gently along to the house where I can attend to him properly.”

Then turning to her boy she kissed him, having noted his working face, saying, “Don’t worry, dear; he’s in our Father’s hands and all will be right.”

But C. B., boy-like, could no longer restrain himself, and bursting into a very tempest of tears, sobbed out, “I tried to save him, mother, indeed I did.”

“Ay, that he did; no man could have done more than this boy, Grace,” said the nearest men in unison. And as they followed the bearers of Philip across the fragrant fields to the house, Grace heard with a swelling heart of the noble deed whereby her first-born had proved his manhood, and managed to find room in her stricken heart for pride that she had been permitted to rear such a noble son. Then dismissing the whole heroic deed from her mind for the time she hastened her steps, intent upon preparing a comfortable bed for her suffering husband. It was an ordeal through which she had never before passed, but she rose to the occasion, and when the bearers arrived she faced them calmly, and directed them where to lay him.

The ablest of the islanders in the matter of simple surgery soon arrived, and after keen examination of the insensible man declared that he was suffering from three broken ribs, a mere trifle in these stalwart men’s eyes. What else there might be internally he could not tell, but he did what he could in bandaging the massive body tightly, and then suggested that they should all kneel and pray for the success of the means used. Which was done in simplest fashion, and as the prayer ended, all were startled to hear a sonorous amen from the hitherto unconscious man. It needed no ordinary restraint to keep them from bursting into cries of joy, but they did refrain, and with murmured thanksgivings all went away except the impromptu surgeon, Grace and her son, the younger children having been taken away by helpful neighbours.

The scene that ensued was a delightful one, Grace and her boy welcoming back the friend and father, who, except for an occasional spasm of pain flitting across his bronzed features, seemed to have entirely recovered from his recent terrible experience, and inclined to blame himself severely for letting “such a trifle upset him,” as he put it. Indeed, except for the pain of his grating ribs, which at each movement reminded him of the mischief done, he was quite impatient of lying there, wanted to be up and doing, although there was nothing to be done.

Suddenly his roving glance fell upon C. B., who, having finished some small task he had been engaged upon for his mother, was standing near gazing upon his father with eyes humid with love. Philip half raised himself, suppressing a groan of pain, and beckoning to his boy said, “Grace, this son of ours is a man. He has done a deed to-day of which any man might be proud and few men would even attempt. More than that he has saved me for you.”

Grace replied, with one of her beautiful smiles shining on her still comely cheeks: “For that, if he had been a bad boy all his life instead of a very crown of rejoicing, he should possess the very core of my heart. But being what he is and has always been, I can only, as I have continually done since he was born, bless God for him humbly as I do for you.”

Then Philip, putting his arm round the boy’s neck, said slowly: “From this out my son, you are my partner as well. I look upon you no longer as a boy but a man, not merely as a son but as a brother, equal in all things. Grace, you must say good-bye to your little boy, who has attained unto the full stature of a man.” At which his brothers and sisters, who had now returned, burst into loud lamentations, not realizing the importance of the occasion, only feeling that they had lost their playmate.

But C. B. drew himself up with an air of native dignity and replied, “I felt like a man, dad, when I dived after you, but now I know I am one, and I hope, like you, I shall never do what a man ought to be ashamed to do.”

There was another cheerful gathering at Philip’s home that evening, and the usual round of prayer and praise which was the keynote of all their festivities, praise especially, floods of melody rising and falling across those peaceful savannahs and making them echo again. In all the pleasant exercises C. B. took his part, being now recognized as no longer a child, but he listened with greater interest than ever to the thousand-times repeated tale of the Lord’s wondrous dealing with this little band of people descended from murderers and savages, yet by the special grace of Providence developing into the most consistently Christian people upon earth. And so, with a final triumphant outburst of the Old Hundredth, the happy meeting terminated, and the revellers dispersed across the scented meadows to their several homes.

One of the most remarkable things about primitive peoples is the way they recover from hurts; wounds, bruises, fractures that would mean long and severe illness to civilized folk being treated by them as of little or no account. This is, of course, to be noted among animals, who recover with surprising rapidity and ease from the most shocking wounds, and with only the most rough and careless methods of surgery if they receive any attention at all. I have a big Labrador dog which was recently kicked in the face by a skittish horse. Owing to my absence from home nothing was done to the poor beast, whose jaw was exposed to a cut three inches long for four days. And the ghastly wound could not heal, because when it irritated him the dog would rub his face against a quickset hedge and tear the wound open again. I took him to a veterinary surgeon, who put three stitches in the gaping gash, drawing the ragged edges as closely together as possible, and confining the poor animal for three days with a shield over his head. The result is that now, two months after the accident, it is impossible to see where the injury was.

And in just the same marvellous way will the human animal recover from the most ghastly wounds, although many savage customs militate directly against health. But when perfectly natural living is allied to purity of mind and body and an absence of every kind of stimulant whatever, we have a condition of things making for perfect health, such health as may only be seen among the people of whom I am writing.

As usual then Philip made so rapid a recovery that within a week he was going about his daily duties as if nothing had happened, and had quite forgotten the episode as far as his injuries were concerned. But his son was now his inseparable companion; they became as it were partners in every enterprise, and the proud father noted with complacent pride the development of his son’s body and mind as being on the way to surpass his own. As far as ordinary school education went they were about equal, as indeed were all the islanders, for the subjects they learned were strictly limited, and they had no craving for higher education, not knowing or feeling any need of it.

But all unconsciously, during their long hours together, Philip was filling the boy with strong desire to see the great world without. Philip’s adventures on his two voyages had been fairly exciting, but hitherto he had said little about them to his fellows, because there were many things connected with them that he did not care to recall. They had filled him with more ardent love than ever for his quiet island home, and he had used such influence as he possessed to dissuade any of his friends from wandering.

Now, however, in reply to constant questioning, he told his son more than ever he had done before, recalling scenes long forgotten, while the boy listened with intensest interest and admiration for the grand father whom he almost worshipped. And so C. B. grew steadily towards manhood in all the best traditions of the community, until at eighteen years of age he had risen to the full stature of a man in all that makes for true manliness, innocent without being ignorant of all that was worth his knowing, brave, modest and strong, and withal, in spite of the uncouth garb in which he was clothed in common with all his fellows, handsome as the statue of a Greek god. And here endeth the sketch of Christmas Bounty’s boyhood.