between his boys and the bowmen, had not shipped the rudder, so
he held it up, as the boat shot ahead of the canoes, to shield off
arrows.

Turning round to see whither his now rudderless boat was being pulled,
he saw that they were heading for a little bay in the reef, which
would have wrecked their hopes of safety.

"Pull, port oars, pull on steadily," shouted Patteson; and they made
for _The Southern Cross_.

As he called to them he saw Pearce, the young British sailor, lying
between the thwarts with the long shaft of an arrow in his chest, and
a young Norfolk Islander with an arrow under his left eye. The
arrows flew around them in clouds, and suddenly Fisher Young--the
nineteen-year-old Polynesian whom he loved as a son--who was pulling
stroke, gave a faint scream. He was shot through the left wrist.

"Look out, sir! close to you," cried one of his crew. But the arrows
were all around him. All the way to the schooner the canoes skimmed
over the water chasing the boat. The four youths, including the
wounded, pulled on bravely and steadily. At last they reached the ship
and climbed on board, while the canoes--fearing vengeance from the men
on the schooner--turned and fled.

Once aboard, Bishop Patteson knelt by the side of Pearce, drew out
the arrow which had run more than five inches deep into his chest,
and bound up his wound. Turning to Fisher, he found that the arrow had
gone through the wrist and had broken off in the wound. Taking hold
of the point of the arrow where it stood out on the lower side of the