But so impressed was she with a sense of imminent peril that she refused to leave the poop, and begged Melton earnestly, "for God's sake to take heed, and not thrust himself among the savages on the main deck."

The beachcomber gave her a glance—half rage, half pity; then with his left hand he suddenly dashed her aside, and with a ferocious yell sprang at Melton and thrust a dagger into the throat of the unfortunate man. In an instant his savage followers began their work of slaughter, and Mr. Gibson, the chief mate, the boatswain, and four seamen were soon lying dead upon the bloodstained decks, their heads battered out of all human semblance by the clubs of the islanders.

Two lads, Miss Morey, and her negro servant-woman, were spared, but hurried down below.

The bodies of the murdered men were at once thrown overboard to the sharks by Doyle's orders, and he then directed the natives to clear the decks.

Elizabeth Morey, terrified out of her senses at the dreadful scenes she had witnessed, attempted to spring overboard, but the beachcomber caught her as she came on deck, urged her not to be frightened, and promised her "in the name of the Virgin" that no harm should come to her. As soon as the decks had been ridden of all traces of the bloody work just completed, the half-unconscious girl was lifted over the side, placed in a canoe, taken on shore, and handed over to the care of a chiefs wife.

When she came to her senses she learnt from Doyle that all who were left alive of the ship's company were herself and servant, a Malay seaman, five boys, and an old sailor, who was a dwarf; the latter had evidently been spared, either on account of the natives ranking him as a boy, or from their aversion to inflict injuries upon any one physically or mentally afflicted.

The following three days were spent by the natives in unloading the ship, the work being carried on in the most systematic manner under the command of Doyle, the survivors of the crew being compelled to assist in the task. The cargo, which consisted mainly of bales of cotton, was got on shore in something less than a week; then the islanders began to dismantle the ill-fated ship. By the eighth day all the sails except the fore and main topsails were unbent and taken ashore.

On the afternoon of this day but half a dozen natives were on board; they, with the five "boys" (probably lads under eighteen years of age), and the dwarf sailor before mentioned, were "spelling" for an hour or so before beginning to unbend the topsails, when, noticing that their captors were off their guard, the brave little man determined to retake the ship. In a few minutes he gained over his youthful shipmates to the attempt; they promised to stand by him to the last. Quietly arming themselves with axes, with iron belaying pins, with handspikes, with anything heavy and deadly they could lay their hands upon, they waited for the signal to begin the attack. Doyle, the bloodstained murderer, lay upon the skylight under the awning, half asleep and unsuspecting of danger; his native associates either slept or lounged about the main deck.

A few hurried, whispered words passed between the six whites; then the dwarf, carrying an axe negligently in his hand, ascended to the poop and laid it down on the deck. Then he turned, and his quick seaman's eye took in the surroundings. The trade wind was blowing freshly, the ship (she was a full-rigged ship, though under five hundred tons), was straining at her hempen cable, and the low, palm-clad shore was nearly two miles away. He picked up the axe and running towards Doyle, buried the weapon to the head in his bosom!

In less than five minutes the dreadful work was done, and Doyle and the six Tongans were weltering in their gore upon the very deck which was still stained by the traces of their own crimes. Before the natives on shore could realise what had happened, the cable was cut, the topsails loosed and sheeted home, and the Portland standing out to sea through the dangerous network of reefs which surrounded the harbour. Her recapture was a bloody deed, but the law of self-preservation is inexorable under such circumstances.

Elizabeth Morey, aroused from a troubled slumber by the cries of her captors, came to the doorway of the chiefs house, and stood watching the ship, which, though only under her fore and main topsails, was fast slipping through the water. In two hours the Portland was safe, and the broken-hearted girl sank upon her knees and wept. She was now utterly alone, for her negro servant woman had gone on board the ship with Doyle to get some of her clothing, and had been carried off. The only remaining member of the Portland's crew was a Malay—a man of whom she had an instinctive dread; for, since the massacre of the ship's company he had one day asked her with a mocking grin if she could not "clean his coat." His coat was Melton's white duck jacket, and the ensanguined garment brought all the horror of her lover's death before her again.

Then followed fifteen long, long months of horror, misery, and agony. She was a woman, and her terrible fate evokes the warmest pity. Whatever may have been her past before she met Captain Melton and accompanied him on his fateful voyage, her sufferings during those fifteen dreadful months may be imagined but not written of nor suggested, except by the neurotic "new woman" writer, who loves to dwell upon things vile, degrading, terrifying, and abhorrent to the clean and healthy mind.

In August, 1804, the American whaler Union, of Nantucket, after having refreshed at Sydney Cove, as Port Jackson was then called, sailed on a sperm-whaling cruise among the South Sea Islands. She arrived at Tongatabu on the last day of September. As soon as the anchor was let go a fleet of canoes appeared, and the occupants made the most friendly demonstrations towards Captain Pendleton and his officers. In the leading canoe was a man whom the captain took to be a Malay, and upon being questioned this surmise proved to be correct In broken English he informed Pendleton that the ship would be provided with plenty of fresh food, water, and wood, if the ship's boats were sent ashore. The captain's boat was thereupon swung out and lowered, and manned by six men, the captain and Mr. John Boston, the supercargo, going with them. These people were armed with six muskets and two cutlasses.

As soon as the boat was well clear of the ship the natives became very troublesome, clambering up the chain plates, and forcing themselves on board in great numbers. The chief mate, Daniel Wright, seems to have shown more sense than most of the poor fools who, by their own negligence, brought about—and still bring about even to the present day—these South Sea tragedies. He got his men together and tried to drive off the intruders, but despite his endeavours thirty or forty of them kept to the deck, and their countrymen in the canoes alongside rapidly passed them up a number of war-clubs.

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