Two Or Three Hours Before Sundown, A Small Schooner Came Out Of The
Harbour, And Headed Over For The Adjoining Island Of Imeeo, Or
Moreea, In Plain Sight, About Fifteen Miles Distant.
The wind
failing, the current swept her down under our bows, where we had a
fair glimpse of the natives on her decks.
There were a score of them, perhaps, lounging upon spread mats, and
smoking their pipes. On floating so near, and hearing the maudlin
cries of our crew, and beholding their antics, they must have taken
us for a pirate; at any rate, they got out their sweeps, and pulled
away as fast as they could; the sight of our two six-pounders, which,
by way of a joke, were now run out of the side-ports, giving a fresh
impetus to their efforts. But they had not gone far, when a white
man, with a red sash about his waist, made his appearance on deck,
the natives immediately desisting.
Hailing us loudly, he said he was coming aboard; and after some
confusion on the schooner's decks, a small canoe was launched
over-hoard, and, in a minute or two, he was with us. He turned out to
be an old shipmate of Jermin's, one Viner, long supposed dead, but
now resident on the island.
The meeting of these men, under the circumstances, is one of a
thousand occurrences appearing exaggerated in fiction; but,
nevertheless, frequently realized in actual lives of adventure.
Some fifteen years previous, they had sailed together as officers of
the barque Jane, of London, a South Seaman.
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