Rídan The Devil And Other Stories. Becke Louis
raised his voice in an awful shriek.
‘Quick! Pulu, quick! Some shark hav’ come. Get in, get in first,’ he said in his broken English. And as he spoke he grasped the gunwale with both hands and raised his head and broad shoulders high out of the water, and a bubbling, groan-like sound issued from his lips.
In an instant the big Samoan swung himself into the boat, and Von Hammer called to Rídan to get in also.
‘Nay, oh, white man!’ he answered, in a strange choking voice, ‘let me stay here and hold to the boat. We are not yet safe from the reef. But paddle, paddle… quickly!’
In another minute or two the boat was out of danger, and then Rídan’s voice was heard.
‘Lift me in,’ he said quietly, ‘my strength is spent.’
The two Savage Islanders sprang to his aid, drew him up over the side, and tumbled him into the boat. Then, without a further look, they seized their paddles and plunged them into the water. Rídan lay in a huddled-up heap on the bottom boards.
‘Exhausted, poor devil!’ said Von Hammer to himself, bending down and peering at the motionless figure through the darkness. Then something warm flowed over his naked foot as the boat rolled, and he looked closer at Rídan, and—
‘Oh, my God!’ burst from him—both of Rídan’s legs were gone—bitten off just above the knees.
Twenty minutes later, as the boat came alongside the Mindora, Rídan ‘the devil’ died in the arms of the man who had once given him a drink.
A MEMORY OF ‘THE SYSTEM’
CHAPTER I
The house in which I lived from my birth till I was twelve years of age stood on the green-grassed slopes of a treeless bluff which overlooked the blue waters of the sunlit Pacific. Except for a cluster of five or six little weatherboard cottages perched on the verge of the headland, half a mile away, and occupied by the crew of the Government pilot boat, there were no other dwellings near, for the ‘town,’ as it was called, lay out of sight, on the low, flat banks of a tidal river, whose upper waters were the haunt and breeding places of the black swan, the wild duck and the pelican.
My father was the principal civil official in the place, which was called Bar Harbour, one of the smaller penal settlements in Australia, founded for what were called ‘the better class’ of convicts, many of whom, having received their emancipation papers, had settled in the vicinity, and had become prosperous and, in a measure, respected settlers, though my father, who had a somewhat bitter tongue, said that no ex-convict could ever be respected in the colony until he had lent money to one or other of the many retired military or civil officers who held large Crown grants of land in the district and worked them with convict labour; for, while numbers of the emancipists throve and became almost wealthy, despite the many cruel and harassing restrictions imposed upon them by the unwritten laws of society (which yet academically held them to be purged of their offences), the grand military gentlemen and their huge estates generally went to ruin—mostly through their own improvidence, though such misfortunes, our minister, the Reverend Mr Sampson, said, in the sermons he preached in our hideous, red-brick church, were caused by an ‘inscrutable Providence’—their dwellings and store houses were burnt, their cattle and sheep disappeared, and their ‘assigned’ labourers took to the bush, and either perished of starvation or became bushrangers and went to the gallows in due course.
My mother, who was a gentle, tender-hearted woman, and seemed to live and move and have her being only for the purpose of making happy those around her, was, being English-born (she was of a Devonshire family), a constant church-goer, not for the sake of appearances, for her intelligence was too great for her to be bound by such a shallow reason, but because she was a simple, good and pure-minded woman, and sought by her example to make a protest against the scandalous and degraded lives led by many of the soldier officers and officials with whom she and her children were brought in almost daily contact, for my father, being an all too generous man, kept open house. But although she was always sweet-tempered and sometimes merry with the hard-drinking old Peninsular veterans, and the noisy and swaggering subalterns of the ill-famed 102nd Regiment (or New South Wales Corps), she always shuddered and looked pale and ill at ease when she saw among my father’s guests the coarse, stern face of the minister, and her dislike of the clergyman was shared by all we children, especially by my elder brother Harry (then sixteen years of age), who called him ‘the flogging parson’ and the ‘Reverend Diabolical Howl.’ This latter nickname stuck, and greatly tickled Major Trenton, who repeated it to the other officers, and one day young Mr Moore of the 102nd, who was clever at such things, made a sketch of the cleric as he appeared when preaching, which set them all a-laughing immoderately.
‘God alive!’ cried old Major Trenton, holding the picture in his left hand, and bringing down his right upon the table with a thump that set all the glasses jingling, ‘’tis a perfect likeness of him, and yet, Moore, if ye had but given him a judge’s wig and robes instead of a cassock, he would be the double of damned old hanging Norbury up there,’ pointing to the picture of an Irish judge which hung on the wall. ‘Come,’ he added, ‘Mrs Egerton must see this. I know our hostess loves the gentle parson.’
So three or four of them, still laughing boisterously, left the table to look for my mother, whom they found sitting on the latticed-in verandah, which on hot summer days was used as a drawing-room. She, too, laughed heartily at the sketch, and said ‘twas wonderfully drawn, and then my brother Harry asked Mr Moore to give it to him. This the young lieutenant did, though my mother begged him to destroy it, lest Mr Sampson should hear of the matter and take offence. But my brother promised her not to let it go out of his keeping, and there the thing ended—so we thought.
Yet, in some way, my mother’s convict and free servants came to hear of the picture—they had already bandied about the parson’s nickname—and every one of them, on some cunning excuse, had come to my brother’s room and laughed at the drawing; and very often when they saw the clergyman riding past the house, attended by his convict orderly, they would say, with an added curse, ‘There goes “Diabolical Howl,’” for they all hated the man, because, being a magistrate as well as a minister, he had sentenced many a prisoner to a dreadful flogging and had watched it being administered.
But perhaps it was not altogether on account of the floggings in which he so believed for which he was so detested—for floggings were common enough for even small breaches of the regulations of the System—but for the spiritual admonition with which he dosed them afterwards, while their backs were still black and bloody from the cat. Once, when an old convict named Callaghan was detected stealing some sugar belonging to one of the pilot boat’s crew, my mother went to Dr Parsons, who, with the Reverend Mr Sampson, was to hear the charge against Callaghan on the following morning, and begged him not to have the man flogged; and Tom King, the man from whom the sugar was stolen, went with her and joined his pleadings to hers.
‘Now, come, doctor,’ said my mother, placing her hand on the old officer’s arm and smiling into his face, ‘you must grant me this favour. The man is far too old to be flogged. And then he was a soldier himself once—he was a drummer boy, so he once told me, in the 4th Buffs.’
‘The most rascally regiment in the service, madam. Every one of them deserved hanging. But,’ and here his tone changed from good-humoured banter into sincerity, ‘I honour you, Mrs Egerton, for your humanity. The man is over sixty, and I promise you that he shall not be flogged. Why, he is scarce recovered yet from the punishment inflicted on him for stealing Major Innes’s goose. But yet he is a terrible old rascal.’
‘Never mind that,’ said my mother, laughing. ‘Major Innes should keep his geese from straying about at night-time. And then, doctor, you must remember that poor Callaghan said that he mistook the bird for a pelican—it being dark when he killed it.’
‘Ha, ha,’ laughed the doctor, ‘and no doubt Mr Patrick Callaghan only discovered his mistake when he was cooking his pelican, and noticed its remarkably short bill.’
My mother left, well pleased, but on the following morning, while we were at our mid-day meal, she was much distressed to hear that old