Part 9

In my wattle hut by Maffalo I lie nor can I sleep, Deep waters beat against my heart, thro’ my head the night winds sweep, For the brown one sleeps by the forest track with the banyans overhead, And the white girl sleeps by the channel cliffs where the white men bury their dead. And the tin roofs shine, as the traders rest by the beach and still canoes, Where the shore-line huts in silence stand by the waveless straight bamboos, And when the moonlight whitely falls slantwise across the hill, And the palms and shore lagoons for miles, with the sleeping winds, are still, The brown one from the forest runs, the white girl from the sea— With shining eyes by my hut door in silence gaze on me. And I cannot sleep as the dead eyes meet, fierce eyes of ebon-flame! The grey eyes gleam thro’ shadowy hair, as of old she moans my name. In moonlight struggling silently they glimmer in the gloom, As wails the native dead child far in the forest deep of doom; And the wistful unborn children rise down by the shoreward palms, Peep from the sea with anxious eyes, and toss their small white arms! But deep in my heart the dead one screams—from its grave across the steep, And I know it will with frightened eyes soon out of the forest creep! As I watch the figures, ebon and gold, oft brighten by moonlight, Till the white one wins and the brown one runs back to the forest night; And, in vain, I leap to shadowy arms, as she crying flees from me, Down shoreward runs, in a flash of flame dives back to the moonlit sea. So, I drink and drink as the nights go by and the schooners day by day Taking my heart with the white sails home where the sunsets fade away. Till the sea-winds cease and the trees all sleep, and the hushed waves are all still, And the moonlight slantwise falls across the forest track and hill As I listening wait for the rustling sound with my dreaming eyes—unshut! Till out in the night by the pale moonlight their shadows seek my hut— Out of the forest depth one runs, and the white girl up the shore Till the dead child screams and the unborn watch the shadows by my door.

I stayed in that village all the next day, and at sunset I bade Marmona’s friends good-bye. Also I bade that sad trader farewell, and he held my hand for a long time before he said good-bye.

It seemed like some enchanted village of fairyland as I looked back over the slopes and saw the sun like a large ball of blood sink into the sea and the moon rise over the mountainous country inland, peeping through the heavens of shadow and stars that brightened out in the east. I passed away from the place with a strange feeling in my heart for that lonely man and all that would happen when the sea-shore village lay once more asleep in the moonlight. I have heard many strange tales of spirits and “ju-jus” from men in my travels, but never one so strangely sad and impressive as his, and I have often wondered if all that that old man told me was the outcome of a delirious brain or really some haunting truth that can be seen by the eyes of those hearts that sorrow.

XIV

South Sea Domestic Life—I attend another South Sea Wedding—Meet Men flying from Justice—Bound for Tahiti

AT that time I was about eight miles from Apia, and though I was alone, and a bit depressed, I soon regained my spirits and tramped along whistling. To my right moved the deep blue Pacific waters, as the cooling wind gently stirred them and crept up the shore and fanned my perspiring face. No artist could paint in words or colour the beauty of the romantic scenery that lay all around me. The ocean’s tremendous voice murmured wavy songs as it kissed the shore reef in snatches of whitened wave; the slope trees expressed the silent green utterance of mother earth, beautiful with sunset-coloured flowers in the piled carpet of jungle grass and blossoms of crimson and white wherein settled gorgeous butterflies. A native girl, standing in her brown velvety skin, waist deep in the grass, laughed and revealed her pearly teeth as I tramped by, expressing in her sparkling eyes the joy of the conscious universe. I waved my hand and smiled as her lynx-eyed bush mother watched her from a hut door just under three large coco-trees a little higher up where were several more huts. I saw a white man by one of them, leaning against a tamnu-tree smoking, so I altered my course and went up the rocky slope and introduced myself. He turned out to be a deck-hand on one of the trading schooners that traded from Isle to Isle, and I saw by his face and complexion that he was a half-caste, his wife was a full-blooded Samoan. His name was Adams, he seemed mighty proud of it, as he told me that he was a descendant of one of the old _Bounty_ mutineers and a high chief who had previously reigned in the Solomon Group.

“Come you, Papeteo,” he shouted, and up came his daughter. I do not think I ever saw a more beautiful native girl than she was as she stood in front of me with raised shining eyes and a wealth of waving dark chestnut hair.

“Pappy, go in and get him some grub,” he said, and off she bounded, and his wife, who spoke broken English, welcomed me, saying, “White mans, plenty eat sooner,” and so saying folded her brown hands over her stomach to hide the tear in her tappa-cloth robe which ended at her knees.

Inside their home I sat, talked and ate a splendid meal of grilled chops, cooked over their camp fire, as Papeteo’s tiny brothers and sisters romped around my stool, looked up at me with tiny demon eyes, and tried to feel in my pockets. When I had finished we both sat outside under the tall tropic trees, where high up droves of doves moaned and cooed as the sea-winds swayed the tops.

That half-caste trader was the bravest man and the most fortunate man on earth, for as soon as he had lit his big pipe and crossed his legs comfortably he started off telling me of his narrow escapes in storms and in fights with the natives of the various Isles. I very soon saw that he was a swanker (they mostly are, the half-castes of the South Seas), but to be quite friendly I encouraged him and often looked up with assumed surprise and admiration to hear how he had saved my countrymen from being murdered by the Solomon Islanders, Fijians and other tribes by his own wonderful courage and herculean strength, and just as he was gazing into my face as much as to say “What do you think of a deed like that?” the red-hot ash from his pipe fell on to his wife’s bare knee. Up she jumped with a howl and caught him a terrible crash on the head with a bamboo club, as she started to beat her thin dress with her hands, for it was all on fire. I leapt forward and tore the dress from her, otherwise I am sure she would have been seriously burned. All the husband did was to look horror-struck, and his half-caste skin went greyish-white. She had given him a terrible whack with the club, and I suppose he felt spiteful, for I noticed that his half-caste eyes looked at her with hidden pleasure as she wailed.

Papeteo came running up from the shore sparkling with sea-water, for she had been bathing in a tiny lagoon a few yards inland, and she quickly ran into the homestead den and got a large piece of cloth and wrapped it round her skinny-bosomed parent, and all was soon peace again. I learnt from that half-caste trader that he was in the employ of the missionary society and often went off on lecturing tours to the many Islands, as he could, of course, speak the native language perfectly, as well as being able to talk English and a smattering of German.

My foot was so blistered and sore on the heel that I altered my mind about getting back to Apia and stayed there the night, and old Mother Adams was delighted when she heard I would do so and kept saying “A loo, O swa,” or something that sounded like it, as her eyes gazed amorously at me. When her husband had gone across the slope to one of the other huts, to see some natives who were having a great feast over a wedding, she made violent love to me, jabbering something to Papeteo. She told her to get off, and as soon as she had gone she started stroking my hand and face softly and did many more embarrassing things of Samoan custom, till I was beside myself with worry, and I can tell you that when suddenly the half-caste husband returned, and she sat down quickly, I was extremely pleased.

That night I went with them all over the slope to see the wedding party. A pretty young Samoan girl had just been married to a stalwart fierce-looking native, and when we arrived the “Siva dance” was in full swing. By the rows of huts of the small seaside village the inhabitants stood and squatted, all singing in unison as the chief dancers, dressed in flowers and native muslin, and parakeet wings in their hair, whirled about and around like ghosts in the brilliant moonshine that came glimpsing through the palm leaves. It revealed the faces and shining eyes of native maidens as they lifted their long arms and contorted their bodies, sometimes till their noses touched the forest floor. From time to time the squatting men, enjoying the scene as they stared in a circle around those night-dancers, shouted out the equivalent to an English “Encore!” as one fat native woman succeeded in doing things which seemed impossible, bending slightly forward, giving a sudden bound and for a second standing on her head with one leg pointing one way and the other in the opposite direction. And then she stood on her head in the moonlight till with another bound she regained her feet and started hopping and whirling away once more in full swing with nothing on, as, laughing merrily, revealing pearly teeth and clapping their hands, the chorus girls of that midnight stage kept strict time with their feet and bodies on the forest floor.

It was one of the most weirdly impressive scenes that I have ever seen, more fascinating than any I had seen before with Hornecastle. As I stood there with old Mrs Adams and her daughter Papeteo by my side, just behind the husband smoking, I turned and saw two more white men gazing on the scene. I was astonished to see them, as I had not seen any of my race about during the day, and thought I was there quite alone. They were terribly scrubby-looking and had a hunted look in their eyes, and as they noticed me they quickly said something to the half-caste, and he in turn quickly reassured them. They were two fugitives from justice, who had committed some crime and were wanted by the Commissioners. Probably they had killed someone, and it appeared that my half-caste friend was doing his best to hide them till they could get away from the coast on some outbound schooner. One of them was a very decent fellow to speak to, and I gave him some plug tobacco and hinted to him that he had nothing to fear from me, and neither had he, for I was sorry for them; whatever they had done they had already done, and they were my countrymen. They had at first thought I was a young missionary, and when they found out that I was a wanderer only they were deeply relieved, and when the dance was over I went back with them, and found that they were staying in a hut just by my hosts. They laughed and told me that they had peeped through a crack and seen the whole of the episode when old Mother Adams had caught on fire, and chaffed me about her too. They were both thickly bearded and looked rather haggard and worried, and evidently had done something serious, but as the night wore on, and they drank from the large stone jar which stood in the corner of the hut, they became exceedingly cheerful, and seeing that I had a violin got me to play, and when I struck up a familiar strain actually started to sing loudly. Adams the half-caste came rushing in to us in a fearful rage and called them damned madmen, and everything he could lay his tongue to. I am sure he would have been expelled from the missionary society had they heard the way he swore and used God’s name. He managed to sober the two fugitives and would not leave the hut till they were both lying down. Of course had they been caught while being harboured by Adams he himself would have got into serious trouble.

At daybreak they were both awake and tremulously sober. “Good-bye, matey,” they said to me as I too got quickly to my feet; “Good-bye,” I said, “and God bless you,” and then the taller one turned and put out his hairy sunburnt hand. I quickly clasped it and, saying “Good luck to you youngster,” they both walked quickly down the slope shoreward; evidently there was an outbound schooner lying in the bay and they were taking their best chance.

It was a beautiful morning. Round the bend, sunrise was bathing the sea with crimson and gold, and the parakeets in flocks, screaming off seaward, passed over my head, and the damp scent of the bread-fruit trees and orange groves gave the place the atmosphere of fairyland. I caught sight of those two hunted men hurrying across the white beach far away, and that was the last I ever saw of them. I hope they got safely off and were better men afterwards.

That same day I bade Adams and his wife farewell, and pretty Papeteo gave me a tortoise-shell with a native engraving on it as a memento, and once more I started on my wanderings.

I eventually arrived at Apia, and going on to a trading cutter with a sailor, whom I had got to know in the town, I saw an opportunity of sailing as a deck hand, and so on the _Polly Smith_ I sailed away bound for Tahiti. We had on board several native passengers, two young girls, and several Samoan men with their wives and children who were going off to the other Islands to secure work on plantations. We had a fine time on those moonlight nights, as we crept along the equatorial Pacific Seas with all sails set, and on the decks the sailors danced with the native women while I fiddled away, delighted to be at sea again. The little Samoan children were the life of that boat; one tiny girl would stand on the deck by the galley and go through all the fantastic Samoan dances, throw her little legs about, stand on her head, wave her legs and hands about while upside down with as much ease as though she were on her feet. There was an English passenger with us, I think his name was Wallace. We became very friendly with each other; he was going to Tahiti on some Government business and came from Sydney. For many days we lay becalmed, and then a fine breeze sprang up and we raced away with full sail set for some days. As a rule the wind slackened by day and strengthened by night, and they _were_ nights too, the fine tropic stars shining away overhead, the clear crystal skies imaged in the waters all around us as the small cutter drifted along, far away out on the lonely Pacific track. There were no islands in that part of the ocean, but we were all happy enough. The native passengers would loaf all day long looking over the vessel’s side singing to themselves, and at night we all congregated and had a sing-song. I would play the violin and do my best to keep time to the natives as they danced and rolled about as the boat heeled over. Mr Wallace sang songs and the half-caste cook got drunk on sly grog, did jigs and afforded us great amusement.

XV

Tahitian Morals and Duplicity—I play the Violin at Government Concert—Death of M’Neil—The Black Slave Traffic

ARRIVING at Tahiti our passengers went off to the plantations and I went off also as I wanted to see what kind of a place it was. The capital, Papeite, was a much larger and livelier place than Apia. The population consisted of all kinds of half-castes, Chinese, French, and Tahitian brigands. I went inland and tramped around the sugar plantations whereon worked the natives and Chinese. A good deal of the country was under cultivation. I shall never forget the awful-looking people that I came in contact with or forget the debauchery that I witnessed. The sole occupation of a good many of the natives was to drink as much as they could get down them and the women sold their bodies to the first-comer for the price of a drink. The missionaries were there by hundreds, it seemed; they were a mixture of French and English and had exciting times reforming those native women and men. I went into several of the native homes and found them very hospitable people. Some of the women had Chinese husbands and their half-caste children had tiny almond eyes, jet-black and sparkling. The Chinese of Society Islands impressed me as being much more wholesome in their way of living than the Australian Chinamen, and they did not smell half so disagreeable. A Chinaman got jealous of his native wife whilst I was there and struck her with a knife. The Tahitians went for him and when I saw him you could hardly tell which was his head and which his feet; anyway his brother Chinamen came into the village, rolled him up and gave him a decent burial, and his wife screamed and wailed away till I was glad to clear out, for it was a most painful sight to see her grief. She was a pretty woman, in fact all the young women were handsome, and the men too, but as soon as the women get over twenty they start to fade. A South Sea Island girl of ten years of age is as matured as a European girl of sixteen.

I found human nature was just the same there as everywhere else—everyone wanted as much as they could get out of you, and those who were better clothed than their sisters and brothers were vain-glorious and looked down on the others. Girls and boys made love to each other and eloped into the forest with the missionaries after them at full speed, and the brave old chiefs strolled about and spoke of the old times and smacked their lips and spoke on the sly of the missionaries, saying “they were the children of the devil” but addressing them to their faces with some such jargon as, “Me Christian man now. One God. Good God, who no eat other God,” whereupon they would gravely walk away to sell their soul for a drink. They loved their old customs deep down in their heart and rubbed noses with each other and cherished hopes that some day the gods would help them to drive the white men into the sea. But the older ones were even then fast disappearing, and drink and prostitution were raising the death rate of the native children, and so there, as elsewhere all over the South Seas, the race was fast dying out.

There were many traders there, and they all seemed to make plenty of money. You could always recognise a trader by his big hat smashed on his head and his slouching walk and his very often warty nose, that had started to blossom after drinking some oceans of beer. They were generally married men and often got into awful trouble when they were quite unsober by mistaking their Tahitian wife for their Marquesan wife, and mentioning the wrong name to their bride during the night brought down her wrath on to their wicked heads. I have often seen them with a black eye or a terribly scratched, clawed face, for women in Tahiti are as jealous as the European ladies, and will brook no rival; but of course when their husband is away with his other bride on some far-off Isle they do not let the grass grow under their feet, and often a white trader leaves his home in disgust when his native wife presents him with a half-caste baby with slit-almond eyes and a face showing strong Mongolian origin, or a little fair-skinned mite with pretty violet dark eyes that looks suspiciously like the village missionary.

In Papeite I made the acquaintance of René, a Frenchman, who was a clever violin-player. He was at that time working as a clerk in the Tahitian Commissioner’s offices and played at the Papeite opera house which was something on the lines of a bush town music hall in Australia. He was very kind to me and gave me several good lessons on playing the violin, for he had studied under some of the best French masters. He had some splendid duets for two violins and one night, when they had a ball on at the Papeite Government House, he recommended me and I got the engagement to go with him, and we played the duets together. He was a much better performer than I was, but he gave me the solo part and did all he could to get me the credit of the concert. All went off very well indeed till, when René and I were having supper with all the high folk of Papeite and I was feeling in very high spirits at the turn my luck had taken, for I was nearly on my beam ends when René got me that job, I bent over from my chair and looked out of the door and saw that my violin which I had left by the hat-rack had disappeared! I got up and rushed off like a shot, and as I did so I saw one of the Tahitian servants bolting through the door with the violin. Shouting at the top of my voice I ran after him, cleared the steps with one jump, and there up the moonlit street ran the thief holding my violin in one hand. I had no revolver with me, otherwise I would have fired, for I was desperate. My violin was my all, and the fear of losing it put renewed vigour in my feet and I was gaining on the cursed thief. “Stop or I fire!” I shouted, and as he was leaving the straight track he turned, and I held my hand up, as he thought, to shoot. In the moonlight he saw my white hand upheld, and thinking it held a gun he threw the fiddle down and rushed off into the scrub. My fiddle was none the worse for the adventure, but I was, for the night was close and sweltering hot, and I arrived back to the supper-table bathed in sweat and half dead.

I was at that time lodging in the north of the town with a storekeeper. In the same room where I was also slept a trader; his name was M’Neil, and he had been very ill and was at that time convalescent. He admitted to me that he had been drinking too heavily and had made up his mind to be a teetotaller, and, as he told me what a curse drink was, he kept lifting a bottle of whisky from under his bed and taking a pull at it, saying, “Man, jist a wee snack for the gude time’s sake.” He was really trying to break himself of the habit, and instead of drinking half-a-bottle at a time was just taking it in sips. By midnight he was quite drunk, and started weeping over his past sins, and kept me awake nearly all night saying over and over again—“Ma lad, keep off th’ drink, ’twill be your ruin.” He was not a bad man at all, and when he was sober during the day, and I played him old Scotch songs, for he would not for one moment let me play anything but Scotch melodies, the tears would rise in his eyes. He died two days after and I felt very much cut up, for I saw him die and he gave me an old purse, saying, “Take it, guid lad, and think of me.” His old comrade, a Scotchman, came in from up the street, held his hand and completely broke down, crying like a little child as M’Neil closed his eyes for ever. I still remember how that Scotch friend rose up, looked under poor M’Neil’s bed, and gently pulled the half-full whisky bottle out, put it under his coat and left the room, still sobbing, for M’Neil and he had had many good times together and many a long talk and deep drink in that room as they lived over their old days in Bonny Scotland.