The ninth aligned, a sign defined by the cresting foam,
Where July ran dry and the sky unrolled into jagged peaks.
They left the deck to check the trek of the island\'s spine,
Where Greene had seen a deeper green sweeping down the ridge.
The bay lay grey, a way away from the captain’s iron rule,
So Toby rose, and Melville chose to slip the anchored hull.
In Nukahiva\'s shade, they waded through the heavy fronds,
To break the wake and take their chances with the valley tribe.
No gale or sail could veil the trail the deserters carved,
They cast the past at last into the dark, forgetting the sea.
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