Part 13

Before I left the Islands I went off on a schooner to Ellice Islands and then on to Santa Cruz and called at the Islands of the Solomon Group. In a typhoon that struck us fifty miles north of Rotuma we lost the chief mate, Herberts, and a Chinaman who was a deck hand. I was asleep on deck at the time right aft, snug by the stern sheets. Before I went to sleep the night was calm and clear, the stars shining brilliantly all around, and we were just drifting to a lazy breeze at about four knots an hour. Suddenly I was awakened by a terrible crash and an awful typhoon was on; the seas were rising rapidly and it seemed that hail and rain were falling in a deluge, but the sky was quite clear overhead, for it was the rifts of the waves all around being whipped off by the wind. I scrambled along the deck, the skipper was calling me. “Hi, hi, sir,” I shouted, and in a trice we got the sails in, and then, as I stood by the skipper holding on to some cordage for dear life as she lay over, the seas lifted their heads to windward and as their tops hissed and foamed a tremendous sea came over. I distinctly felt the boat sink under the weight of that ocean of water. The skipper grabbed hold of me and I grabbed hold of him; the sailors forward by the fo’c’sle saved themselves by rushing in the fo’c’sle alley-way. We heard a cry above the thundering of the waves and then the vessel righted; the skipper was overboard head and shoulders, half through poop bulwark bars and cordage! I had hold of his leg! I was holding on to save myself, and so saved my life and his too! Two sailors came to our assistance; we were both half insensible but scrambled to our feet as Alf, the bos’n, shouted “Sir, the mate and the Chinese hand have gone overboard.” I shall never forget those words, and the sudden realisation of what it meant, as we all stood and gazed out across the black waters as the mountainous seas arose slowly and grandly, blazing with phosphorous foams, and as they travelled onward the typhoon blew with such terrific force that our clothes were ripped up! It was impossible to attempt to save them, our boats were all washed away; once we all thought we heard a faint cry across the waters, and that was the last of John Herberts, chief mate, and Ching the deck hand.

I stuck to that skipper and eventually arrived back at Vanua Levu, and went over on a cutter to Samoa again, and for a long time I was despondent and had sleepless nights, as I would lay awake and remember.

Before I left Samoa I went over to Savage Island with Castle, who seemed at that time mighty pleased with himself over some contract he had got to take a cargo of copra and other stuff to Tonga. It was at Savage Island that I stayed with an Englishman who had married a native woman. He had several children and they seemed very happy. I stayed with him for two weeks before returning to Apia with Castle. He would often talk to me about England in a sentimental way and knock the ash out of his pipe and sigh, and yet he seemed, as I have said, happy in his free life, for he had a beautiful plantation and grew all kinds of tropic fruit, and his wife was a most pleasant woman; indeed I think he was much happier than thousands of English people in old England who live in the London suburbs and toil their lives away to bring up their children,

And for their sakes eternally Ride up to London Town, Each morning pulled up in the train And each night pulled back down!

XIX

Father Damien and the Leper Girl, as told to me by Raeltoa the Samoan

I WILL now tell you of one of those missionaries who were sincere in their faith, unselfish in their ambition and moreover suffered in sympathy over the sorrows of the sick. In a village home about eight miles inland from Apia, I had the good fortune to come across a pure-blooded Polynesian who was a poet and musician. I think I stayed with him for about five or six weeks, but in that little time we became the best of friends. I well remember his intelligent brown eyes gazing delightedly around as I played the violin to him and his pretty daughter, a child of eight years, as she sat on a mat by the door and clapped her little brown hands with hysterical pleasure at the sweet noise of the “piddle,” as she called my fiddle. I would extemporise a chanting accompaniment to his native compositions as he sat beside me, and his wife sang away in the shadows of the homestead, like a wild bird. She, too, had a beautiful face; her eyes were very earnest-looking. They had four children altogether, and as I sat by night in their snug little room, I could see the four little brown heads lying fast asleep in a row in the next room, all stretched out on one large sleeping mat.

Raeltoa, for that was his name, was a Catholic and had known Father Damien, who lived and died just about that time on Molokai, the leper island of the Hawaiian Group. As a boy he had lived with Damien in Honolulu, and had been a servant to him, and so I heard first hand from Raeltoa little incidents of Damien’s life and character, the man who has since those days become famous the world over for his devotion to the lepers and who sacrificed his own life so that he could minister to their needs and brighten their lives of living death with the hope of another life beyond their own loathsome existence. All lepers were searched for and caught as though they were escaped convicts, and then exiled for ever to Molokai, a bare lonely isle of the Pacific, whereon they lived in wretched huts, wailing their days away as the dreadful scourge ate deeper into their wasting bodies. One by one as the months and years crept by they died and were buried by the solitary missionary Damien, who lived alone with them and buried thousands with his own hands. Eventually he contracted the dreadful scourge himself and died, but not till he had caught the ear of civilisation afar and had vastly improved the conditions of the leper isle and built better huts and made the lepers more contented with their lot.

Well, as I was saying, Raeltoa knew him well, and told me that, though Damien was very morose and would get at times into a terrible rage with him, he was a good master and would treat him and all the natives who were under his care as though they were his own children, “and he most true to God,” said Raeltoa, as the tears crept into his eyes over old memories. Then he told me how Damien would sit up all night long “talking to great God playing and playing” (meaning praying). It appeared that Raeltoa had a relative who had signs of leprosy. She was a Samoan girl of about twenty years of age, and when the Government announced that all the lepers were to be exiled to Molokai she was broken-hearted, for she was “nice happy and much love my brother,” said Raeltoa. One night, about three months after the search parties had been in force, she came to Raeltoa’s home, and flinging her arms about him, wailed and appealed to him to save her. The tears were in the Samoan’s eyes as he told me all this. It appeared that a jealous woman, who was also in love with the man that the poor leper girl loved, had told the missionaries or the authorities that Loloa, for that was her name, had signs of the leprosy patch on her shoulders, and so they were after her. For several weeks she had been hiding in the forest, trembling and frightened out of her life, till at last, hungry and nearly dead with grief, she suddenly appeared at Raeltoa’s home. He had hidden her for several days, and then she agreed to go with him to Damien and ask for his protection. One night, with Raeltoa, she came out into the forest, almost resigned to her fate—for it had come to her ears that her lover was paying attention to the woman who had put the leper-hunters on her track, and now she felt that she had nothing much to live for—and the poor forsaken leper girl took the risk and appeared in the doorway of Damien’s room at midnight with her one true friend by her side. In her childish native language, she told Damien the truth as he sat in his hut, gazing steadily in front of him, for it was his duty to give her up to the authorities. As she knelt before him with uplifted hands, her eyes made more beautiful through the earnestness of despair, Damien still gazed upon her as though fascinated by her sorrow and helpless loveliness, and then he bade her rise, and told Raeltoa to take her home again, and hide her before he was tempted to do that which he ought to do. So Raeltoa took her away again and Damien and he built her a little hut by the forest, where she could be isolated and cared for, “and she was there for many many moons,” said Raeltoa to me, as I listened.

“And what happened then?” I asked Raeltoa, and he bowed his head and said: “Loloa was happy, and she loved the white missionary, ‘Father Damien,’ more than she loved the man whom her rival had stolen from her, and so she was happy,” and as he said this he sighed and dropped his eyes, and I knew that he had also loved the beautiful leper girl Loloa. “And what became of Loloa?” I asked again.

“They came one night when all was silent, excepting the sighing of the coco-palms by the voice of the sea. I was alone at my home dreaming, when I heard the scream far off in the forest, and I knew then that they had found her, and they took her away, and I never saw her again, and Father Damien prayed for many days and many nights and did eat of no food, and I saw the white missionary cry, and cry, to himself many times, and a long time after he too went to Molokai and one year after Loloa died and Damien buried her,” and saying this the Samoan placed his arm gently round his wife, who had sat listening in a wondering way. She could not understand all the language which we were speaking in, but she nestled closer to him as he spoke, for his manner was earnest, and his eyes had tears in them. I also was touched, for I knew I had heard the sad truth of a terrible drama of life, and I saw it all in vivid mental flashes as Raeltoa eagerly told me the secret of his heart and the truth that he had known, and I read the affection and compassion in his eyes for the woman he had loved and the splendid friendship for the man who had befriended her in her terrible sorrow, and who afterwards shared her fate, and lies buried near her on the lonely leper Isle of Molokai. I am glad that now, years after, I am able to tell to the world through my book that which I heard from the lips of Raeltoa the Samoan.[7]

Footnote 7:

Raeltoa lived at Honolulu for eight years before he returned to Samoa with his parents.

I made his little daughter “Damien,” for he had called her after the leper missionary, a small violin and bow. I sat all day over the job, and made it from a cigar-box, and fixed two wire strings on it. It was not much of a success, but the child and parents were delighted, and as the tiny brown girl toddled about with nothing on, grinding away mimicking me, as she pulled the stick to and fro over the strings, I was very much amused and pleased that I had done it, but I was extremely sorry after, for the poor mite became fond of me and followed me into the forest, and as I lifted her up to carry her over a fallen tree, my foot slipped and, falling with her in my arms, I broke her leg. I was in a terrible state as I carried her home to Raeltoa. As tenderly as I could I held her, and when I took her into the hut I told them what had happened. Instead of them both flying at me in a rage, as I thought they would surely do, they both quickly reassured me, and Raeltoa went to Apia, got a German doctor, and in a fortnight she was rapidly recovering, and I would often sit by her and pick at the fiddle-strings and amuse her. I taught her to say several English words which she soon picked up and laughed delightedly as she repeated them over and over again.

Raeltoa would take me away to the coco-nut plantations where he worked, and the natives collected and dried the heaps of copra which was bought by the traders and taken away to Australia. The scenery round his home was very beautiful. The slopes by Vaea Mountain ran down to his homestead, thickly covered with jungle, mangroves, guavas and bananas, banyan and many other tropical trees, the names of which I did not know. There were at that time several other bungalows hard by, wherein lived married native couples and some of the white traders with Samoan wives. They were the real old beachcombers and “black-birders” who had made and were still making good incomes by stealing natives, and selling them to the stealthy slavers that called in Apia harbours presumably for cargoes of copra, but really for natives, whom they enticed on board by splendid promises of a glorious sea-trip. They baited their promises with spoonfuls of condensed milk and cabin-biscuits, and while the natives stood on deck smacking their lips with delight, up went the anchor, and before the wretched natives realised what it was to really leave their native land, they were powerless and far at sea. I’ve seen many a Samoan mother rocking herself to and fro wailing and lamenting the loss of her bonny son and very often lamenting the loss of a daughter too.

Raeltoa and I went to the top of Vaea Mountain once; when you are half-way up you can look right across Apia and see the beautiful bay and farther across the sea. The jungle at some parts was so thick that we had to cut our way through it. I found some pretty tropical bird-nests, and as we climbed up the frigate birds flew over our heads. We eventually got to the top of the seaward side, right up against the sky. It was very silent and beautiful, almost noiseless, excepting for a bird singing now and again in the big-leafed dark green scrub that grew thickly just below. I did not dream as I stood up there that I was standing on the spot which was to be the silent and beautiful tomb of the man who was living miles away down by the river that ran seaward, for that is where R.L.S. lived in his secluded home, “Vailima.” I am sure that no poet who ever lived has found such a grand silent spot for his long rest as R.L.S. found on the top of that mountain that stands for ever staring seaward. I often look up at the moon on stormy nights under other skies, and fancy I see it shining over Vailima Mountain, dropping its silver tide over that lonely tomb, and on the jungle and forest trees of the slopes all around, and over the highways of the sea where now thunder the mail steamers bound for South America.

It was about that time that I made the acquaintance of a gentleman named Joyce, who had been a chemist in Sydney. He was a remarkable-looking old fellow and was touring for his health. He had small grey quick eyes, and a monstrous beard, and having no hair on his head he had managed in a most clever way to lift his heavy grey side whiskers up over his eyes and on to his bald head, so that when his hat was on the whiskers protruded and looked as though they were genuine locks in large quantity under his hat.

XX

Mr Joyce and Mythologies—Numea and the Convicts—I play Violin to Native King and get a Knighthood!!—I lead a Native Orchestra of Barbarian Instruments

JOYCE took a great fancy to me and I to him, and I was eventually engaged as his travelling secretary. He was very fond of music and would get me to play his favourite melodies, and as I entertained him he would sit by his bungalow with his hands on his knees, and often would give me a gracious smile as he gazed through his big-rimmed spectacles. He took a passage on the schooner _Barcoo_, bound for Rarotonga, and I went with him. We had some terrible weather on the voyage and poor old Joyce was sea-sick the whole time, and as we skimmed along with all sails set heaving to a broadside swell he looked the picture of woe as he spewed in the schooner’s scuppers. In his sorrow he forgot his hat, and his whiskers pulled up and tied in a knot on top of his head doing duty as hair gave him a woeful look and I felt very tenderly for him; for he could not help being old and bald—could he?

Rarotonga was a lovely Island. As they loosed the anchor ready to drop I gazed shoreward and saw the grand mountainous country brilliant under the tropical sun and covered with vegetation. Close to the shore stood the coco-palms, and by the sheds on the beach under the shelter of the palms stood the natives, fine-looking men and women they were, some half-dressed and some only in their lava-lavas. As soon as we dropped the anchor they swarmed round the schooner in their catamarans, bringing us corals and other curios of the South Seas. That night we enjoyed ourselves ashore, and were specially entertained by the King and Queen. They were both dressed in old dressing-gowns, and as they sat on the throne I played them a selection on the violin and the King knighted me on the spot.

Joyce was delighted with all that he saw and kept saying that his health was improving rapidly, and to tell the truth he got badly smitten with love over a Rarotongan girl, and under very suspicious circumstances disappeared for twenty-four hours. Next day he took me inland and up in the hills he visited the natives in their primeval homes. There were a lot of missionaries about and they all looked happy and prosperous. Joyce was deeply interested in the mythologies and genealogies of the Island races, and would go inland for miles so as to investigate native manners and characteristics. I remember well how he would see a fine specimen of the Polynesian fair sex walk out from her forest home, and rush up to her, take his rule from his waistcoat pocket, start to measure her from head to foot, open her mouth wide and examine her teeth, all the time taking notes down in his pocket-book, while the astounded native stood like a machine, obedient as a statue, knowing that a good tip would end the examination. “Of decided Maori origin,” he would mutter to himself as he lifted the limbs up and examined the soles of the patient’s feet.

I must say I enjoyed Joyce’s society, for he was immensely amusing and so serious in all that he did. Sometimes he would run across a native with a face that suggested the palæolithic period, or a terrible Mongolian-nigger mixture, and then out came his camera and he would snapshot them with delight. He would measure their limbs and turning to me point at the hideous nose, or extraordinary pot-belly, and say, “My boy, this is a fine specimen of the neolithic age.” Then he would start to give me a lecture as to the reasons of certain abnormal conditions, while the grinning native showed his big teeth and did the right about turn and stooped to show to Joyce the different parts of his anatomy.

The next day Joyce made me tramp right up to the forest that lay at the ridge of the inland mountains and that night we slept in a native bungalow with two old Rarotongan men who had promised to take Joyce into the hills and show him an Island South Sea god. It was a beautiful moonlight night. Joyce lay on the bed of leaves beside me asleep, his beard tied in a knot over his head so as to keep it well trained, and as I lay sleepless, watching and thinking, a shadow fell across the tiny room. “Look out, Mr Joyce,” I shouted and not a moment too soon either, for there stood one of the Rarotongan old men with a war-club upraised. I sprang to my feet and gave him a tremendous shove. He was a strong fellow, and as I fell he got hold of me with a firm grip, but I was desperate and strong too, and I made a great effort and got him under me, and then he fixed his teeth in a fleshy part of my shoulder as I gripped him by the throat with all my might. In the meantime Joyce had rubbed his eyes and was hastily searching around for something to strike the native with and then down came his camera, crash on the old man’s head! His teeth at once relaxed their grip from my flesh and up he jumped and ran off out into the moonlit night, running fast with Joyce’s camera in his hand, for that no doubt was what he was after.

We never saw him again, and poor old Joyce was so nervous, and so was I, over the night’s experience that we gave up searching for old idols and left the inland solitudes and went back to the bay and, knocking about for a week or so, finally sailed for Numea, where Joyce spent days among the “libres” (time-expired convicts). He also took me into the prisons, where we saw the most wretched men and women in existence, suffering transportation for life, the map of despair seared on their faces as they gazed through the bars of their small whitewashed cells as Joyce and I were taken down the hushed corridors of the gaol wherein men were incarcerated and brooded till they died. We also saw the guillotine whereon the refractory convicts often met their end and man’s inhumanity to man finished in sudden deep sleep.

I do not know what Numea is like now, but it was a kind of mortal hell in those days, and I was sorry that Joyce had taken me there as I lost a good deal of respect for human beings and all my faith in a fatherly overwatching Providence. Joyce for a while gloated over all that he saw and heard, but in a week he too sickened of Numea and ended the trip by taking a passage and paying mine also to Suva. There was a schooner just about to leave, so off we went, and after staying at Suva for a fortnight proceeded by another boat to Tonga and finally went across to Apia, where Joyce intended shipping for Sydney.

Once more I fell in with traders, and stayed at and around Samoa for another three months, during which time I went off roving and stumbled across the village where lived King Mataafa. I was introduced to him by one of the chiefs, a fine-looking Samoan of six feet, who turned out a good friend to me. Mataafa honoured me with his friendship, and I gave him great pleasure by my violin playing as I sat on a mat in the royal native house, and he sat in front of me drinking “kava,” while his retinue, following the laws of Samoan etiquette, imitated the royal gestures. I stayed in the village for several days and I saw the chiefs and other Samoan royalty go through many weird court dances, dressed up in picturesque fashion, robed in stitched palm leaves, flowers and tappu-cloth lava-lavas. At all those functions I played the violin, and indeed I was the court musician and conductor of the primitive orchestra of South Sea bone-clappers, with instruments of jingling shells and weird bamboo flutes and barbarian war-drums. All these were played, screamed and banged at full speed as I too fired away on my violin, doing my best to keep the _tempo_ going, as the dancers did high-step kicks and flings that would have sent any European to the hospital with dislocated joints, but which did not even make those strange dancers perspire, with such ease and elegance did they perform the original dances of those climes. One old native woman with a big red blossom in her dark shaggy hair kept bowing to the ground and with pride revealed the tattooed descriptions of fighting warriors brandishing war-clubs, and other strange inscriptions which were deeply engraved from her shoulders to the lower part of her broad bare back!