# Call of the Caribbean/Chapter 3
### III.

WHAT he said was true, more or less. The Polynesian is quick to distrust his white visitor. And as quick to forget his anger. I had intended giving them some presents to smooth over the incident of the war club.
But Stuart insisted on going ashore and having a palaver. Mind you, that was not an easy thing for a newcomer at the trade to do. It was more than risky; it was dangerous. The Vanikorans were grouped on shore, fully armed, a score of the young men flourishing their weapons and leaping about—just out of animal spirits.
“We’ll take our rifles,” I decided.
“We can hunt a bit, you know,” he agreed. “I expect there are pigeons in the woods and we need fresh meat in the Madeleine.”
So the two of us made the Vanikorans understand our purpose. They were delighted at the prospect. Leaving the grumbling Quin in charge of the boats, we struck inshore, among the network of vines and lofty trees that stretched down to the beach. Cockatoos fluttered around us and pigeons, of which we garnered a good bag.
The natives followed us into the bush, exclaiming at our marksmanship. I had a modern rifle, but did not make as good a showing as Stuart with his old one. The boy had a keen eye and a sure trigger finger. He pushed ahead along a pig trail, staring at the verdant mesh of palm and breadfruit trees and the brilliantly colored birds.
“These fellows like flying fox,” he told me. “They would be glad if we bag some for their feast.”
It was true. But when I asked him how he had come to know it, he laughed. Said he had been raised on the island plantations. We brought down a good number of the little beasts, which the natives scrambled for eagerly. Why they like the odorous things, I don’t know. When we came back to the beach the chief invited us to stay for the feast.
“We’ll accept with pleasure,” Stuart smiled at me, and I assented, knowing it would be good policy.
So that night the lad and I lay by the door of the chief’s humpy and watched the ceremonies at the dancing place. Fires were kindled throughout the village and there was the usual roast pig, yams and taro in evidence. Stuart leaned back against the bamboo wall of the hut, listening to the drums that were pounding out their infernal beat somewhere in the village.
It was nothing new to me and I watched the hut itself closer than the dancing—to see that no one stuck a spear into Stuart through the bamboo wall.
As I have said, the boy had a way of letting his mind drift away. Not every man would have been so careless of his surroundings. Especially after the demonstration on the beach. But Stuart never worried about danger.
He told me later that he could tell when the islanders meant trouble—a kind of sixth sense. It served him well, here and at Santo. Quin, on the other hand, was suspicious and quick on the trigger. He was clubbed to death in the massacre on the Amy about two years later.
At the time, Stuart’s conduct puzzled me. The flickering firelight shone in his dark eyes, and brought out the strong lines of brow and chin. Apparently he was enjoying the idleness and gayety of the feast. Yet, I think Jack Stuart was more thoughtful than indolent.
“Mr. Haskins,” he remarked suddenly, “do you know if any missionaries have been in Vanikoro?”
“Never were any, Jack, that I heard of. The Vanikorans say they haven’t been on the island. Why?”
Stuart frowned at the fire. He seemed to have forgotten the native dancers and the interminable tom-toms.
“I thought D’Urville had a missionary and his wife on the Astrolabe. He came to Vanikoro looking for traces of the old Astrolabe which was lost off this island.”
“Then the missionary, whoever he was, thought better of landing,” I laughed. “I don’t exactly blame him.”
“It isn’t like the chaps, is it, Mr. Haskins, to turn back?” Stuart gazed idly up at the sky carpet of stars. “And then no missionary came back with D’Urville to Australia. In fact, the records ay that the Frenchman left a minister of the gospel—name of Burnie—on the islands.”
I paid little attention to him at the time. Later, I had cause to remember what he said. It was true that two vessels of a French explorer, La Perouse, had been lost off Vanikoro. This was late in the seventeenth century. Several attempts had been made to find traces of the missing man and the ships, one being by D’Estrecasteaux.
Owing to some information reported to the East India Company at Calcutta about 1840, the Frenchman D’Urville had sailed to Vanikoro and searched the island without success. A silver sword hilt and a few other articles that might have come from the lost ships were all that he found. A number of years later he made another try, with the same result. After that Vanikoro and its missing ships was listed as one of the unsolved mysteries of these waters. Not an uncommon thing.
Stuart wasted no more words on the past of Vanikoro. He talked more that night to me than he had been doing. I listened to him without saying much. There was an undercurrent of eagerness in the lad’s voice, and I did not smile at his fancies.
It was that night he told me the legend of Don Quiros. It was hardly more than a legend.
“That’s why I’m so keen to get to Santo, Mr. Haskins,” he ended. “The island is the scene of Don Quiros’ expedition in 1606. We know that the Spaniard sailed for Santo, and that he reached it with his vessels and the fellow Christians who came with him, hoping to found a new Jerusalem in the paradise of the South Seas.”
“But,” I objected, “nothing more is known of Don Quiros.”
“Where did the name of the island come from, if not from his christening? Espiritu Santo.”
“Granted. That, however, was nearly three hundred years ago.”
“Then there is the river,” Jack Stuart went on impulsively. “The River Jordan, named after the one in Palestine.”
“Two names,” I grumbled. “Even the natives say they know nothing of the Spanish Christians.”
“Have you ever been in the interior of Santo, Mr. Haskins?”
It was the second time he had asked me that, and, glancing at him, I saw his eyes were alight.
“No,” I said firmly, “and I have no wish to go.”
“The settlement of Don Quiros must have been on the Jordan,” he went on, heedless of what I said. “And the visit of white men must have left some evidence on the island. How did the Spaniards make out? Did they leave the place alive? Isn’t it worth a little trouble to try to find out?”
Now I have no slight eagerness for accumulating and verifying the legends of Polynesia. Yet it seemed to me the story of the Quiros venture was too vague to investigate.
“It is not worth one life,” I told him, “or two.”
“Something might be found at the headwaters of the Jordan. Perhaps the Quiros party founded their city and survived. Possibly for several generations. No attempt has been made to find out.”
This was true; but for good reasons. Santo is one of the largest of the Polynesian islands, and the interior is a mass of mounatins, running parallel to the coast, and some four to five thousand feet high. Add to this the fact that the coast natives dislike going into the bush on account of what they call the “small fellow men” and you have the reason.
I told Jack Stuart this, and more. “Granted,” he said at length. “Yet in the interior of Santo a half hundred white men tried to found a city of their faith, Mr. Haskins. They tried to raise an altar to their God in the hills of Santo. Some trace of them must remain. And it could be found.”
“Probably not,” I objected. “In the islands life is fecund. Vegetation has overgrown any sign of a city—if there ever was one—before you or I saw the light of day.”
“The silver sword hilt was found on Vanikoro, Mr. Haskins. If we could find some evidence of the new Jerusalem, it would be worth the risk.”
I saw that the idea had grown on the lad, and being anxious to keep him from a foolish venture of the kind, I said nothing, hoping that he would forget before we reached Santo.
Furthermore, I asked McShea if we could run by Santo without anchoring. But he had returns to land at Big Bay on the island and would not.
And John Stuart did not forget