them ain't sailormen," muttered Martin sullenly;
"them's Kanakas!"

Neither was quite right, for the boatmen were Pitcairn Islanders, and
they were soon on deck greeting us in the friendly way of men from
afar. Their leader went aft to the Old Man, and the rest remained to
tell us of the wreck, in exchange for what scant knowledge we had of
affairs.

The island was called Oeno. The ship was the _Bowden_, of Liverpool.
She had gone ashore, six weeks back, in a northerly wind, with all sail
on her: chronometer was twenty miles out: a bad case, the whole bottom
was ripped out of her, and her ruined cargo of grain smelt abominably;
two of their men were already sick. Ugh! ... The crew of the ship had
made for Pitcairn, ninety miles to the southward; they might be there
now. They (the Islanders) had now been three weeks on the reef,
salving what they could. There was not much: they were all pretty sick
of the job, and wanted to get back to Pitcairn. Perhaps the Captain
would give them a passage; it was on the way?

As we stood about, the Old Man and the leader of the Islanders came out
of the cabin, and talked with the others. All wanted to get back to
Pitcairn, and, the Old Man agreeing to give them a passage, we hoisted
the smaller boat on our davits, towed the other astern, and were soon
on our way towards Pitcairn.

When we got the ship in fair sailing trim, we had a rare opportunity of
learning something of the Island and its people. Discipline was, for
the time, relaxed, and but for working ship, in which the Islanders
joined us, we had the time to ourselves. In the shade of the great
sails, we stood or sat about, and our decks showed an unusual animation
in the groups of men colloguing earnestly--strangers met by the way.

In stature the Islanders were perhaps above the average height, lithe
and wiry, and but few were darker-skinned than a Spaniard or Italian.
They spoke excellent English (though, among themselves, they had a few
odd words), and their speech had no unnecessary adjectives. They had a
gentle manner, and no ill language; sometimes our rough ship talk
raised a slight protest; a raised hand, or a mild, "Oh, Sir!" Their
leader, who was Governor of the Island, was a man in the prime of life,
and, though dressed in dungarees and a worn cotton shirt, barefooted
like the rest, had a quiet dignity in his manner and address that
caused even our truculent Old Martin to call him Sir. There was on