Part 2

We sailed into port together, simultaneously fired our royal salute, and cast anchor among several scores of ships of war of all nationalities, with whom visits of naval etiquette were exchanged for several days, keeping our poor gunners busy from daylight till dark. As I often thought at the time, if our chronometers could not withstand 21 guns on the Saint Philippe’s day two months before, their condition after our firing at Rio must have been sadly affected. But I suppose, like myself, they had by this time got their “sea-legs,” and consequently did not mind a slight jerking.

The captain did me the honour of taking me with him when he made a call on board the Gloire—to my great delight I found that the admiral was a friend of my father’s. I was kept on board to dine with the “great man,” and from that day got my “promotion” amongst my messmates and the gun-room officers of our own ship. Ahem! the friend of the admiral! The sequel was, that wherever our captain went this individual followed—aye, even to that most lovely of all royal palaces, the Emperor’s country house at San Cristopho, where the despatches of the King of the French were delivered to H.I. Majesty Don Pedro—then a fat boy of twenty odd years—who received “Us” most graciously, and introduced us to his two lovely sisters—one the Duchesse de Joinville _in prospective_. From that day until our departure from that charming country, every hour of the day—even very, very late at night—was taken up by parties, balls, pic-nics, excursions, visiting—a perfect and endless carnival of gaieties, on shore or on board the ships of the station.

I must not omit two incidents which even now I recall with a certain amount of amusement. It seems but yesterday that in order to seal for ever the truce my friends the middies had granted on my return from the first visit to the admiral, I invited our mess—nine young, hairbrained, jolly fellows—to dine with me on shore at Faroux’s hotel, the crack place in Rio in those days. I had still in my bag a few hundred francs left from the small store of pocket money given to me at the start. This—the largest amount of cash I had ever been blessed with—gave me sufficient _aplomb_ to order a first-rate dinner, a variety of choice wines—even that forbidden luxury to our mess, champagne—liqueurs, coffee, and cigars!

This grand feast was a decided success—until the head waiter placed before me “the Bill,” with a total showing FIVE figures in its first column! If ever a poor boy’s digestion after a good dinner received a disturbing shock, it did on that occasion. I sat in a perfect state of amazement! As the dinner progressed I had gradually risen in the estimation of my guests, until I had with the “pop” of the last bottle of “fizz,” reached the apogee of glory. What could be done? Appeal to my guests to pay for the feast?—there was no other alternative. I put on as bold a front as I could, and went through with it. My appeal _in forma pauperis_ was received with apparent good grace. It was proposed, seconded and carried that I should order a bedroom to be prepared and a breakfast for say five next morning, when four of the middies would attend, bringing with them the necessary funds to pay _all_ expenses.

Relieved of my first monetary embarrassment, I retired to my solitary chamber to meditate on the extravagance of a fast life. After a long night of mature cogitations—and many grateful mental thanks to my generously-disposed messmates—the four young rascals made their appearance to share the delicate breakfast prepared at their instigation. When coffee was served, the youngest, E. Dubois (now a hoary-headed old professor of mathematics at the Naval School at Toulon) rose, and in—to them—a most amusing speech, gave me to understand that _mil reis_ represented only 2f. 75c. (£0 2s. 3d.), so that the dinner, the bed, and the breakfast we had just despatched with true midshipman’s appetite, only absorbed a portion of my pocket-money (£6)! But, as he said in conclusion, “Dear boy, you can still face the world boldly. Though ignorant of the value of foreign coins—which proves that your mathematical education has been sadly neglected—you can pay all your creditors twenty shillings in the pound; and you have the satisfaction to think that you have treated your mess royally.” This, and the amount of “chaff” I was met with on board, had to be got over. It was soon done in the turmoil of festivities I have already mentioned.

My young madcap friends, however, having once tasted of the forbidden fruit—a dinner at a swell hotel—decided upon calling a meeting of all the middies in harbour to get up an “International Farewell Dinner.” Alas! my last coin had to be parted with. But had I not to keep up an appearance? If you can imagine a large banquet hall—between sixty-five and seventy young scapegraces, ranging from 14 to 17 years of age, promiscuously sitting around a handsomely decorated table—English, French, Germans, Americans, Dutch, Italians, Spaniards, Greeks, Egyptians—all mixed up together, not two out of the lot able to understand a word of his neighbour’s language on either side of him. For the first half hour it was very much like a Quaker’s meeting. Nothing was heard beyond the clatter of knives and forks, broken by occasional calls from one to another across the board. But what a strange power champagne has on the human intellect! We sat down at 7 sharp; at 8.30 we were all talking to one another; at 11 I was strolling down the Rua del Ovidor arm-in-arm with a Russian on the right and a Dutchman on the left, exchanging ideas on the most knotty points of international naval legislation; and next morning woke up in the swing cot of a Dutch frigate, whilst my Russian friend had somehow got into my hammock on board the Heroine.

We all suffered from intense headaches—owing, no doubt, to the great pressure on the brain caused by the “polyglot” experiment of the previous night.

The two incidents have, however, had a beneficial effect. I have learned the comparative value of the various foreign coins, and have never since attempted to understand more than _one_ foreign language at one time, even with the assistance of Moet’s champagne.

Our stay in this lovely Brazilian capital at last came to and end. A few days after our international “spree” we were coursing for the Cape of Good Hope, where we made a stay of only three days—just enough to visit the Table Mountain and spend a night at Mr. Cloetê’s celebrated vineyard. From Cape Town to Madagascar we had it about as rough as they make it. I often thought the poor old Heroine would be swallowed up in the trough of the mountainous seas we met with, but the good old boat made pretty good weather of it on the whole.

Madagascar, being the first real “nigger” country I had seen, was a source of great interest to me; and I have often regretted that time did not admit of visiting the interior or hilly portion of that magnificent island. Unfortunately, a man-of-war’s route is mapped out in the offices of the _Ministre de la Marine_, and when the hour sounded for us to weigh anchor and up with the “jib” there was no “jibbing” against it; and a few days later we sighted the twin islands—Mauritius and Bourbon—and visited both.

Strange to say it struck me even then, and more so on the several visits I have paid to the two countries, the former, which has been a British possession for nearly half-a-century, is to this day more French at heart than the latter. Both charming islands, for scenery and the free-handed hospitality of their inhabitants. I doubt if they can possibly be out-done in any part of the globe.

V.

_ROBINSON CRUSOE REALISED._

One of the principal articles of food for the black and mulatto population of these islands being salt fish, which has to be imported at great expense from Europe and Newfoundland—principally the latter—Mons. Jules de Rontaunay, a wealthy planter and shipowner in Bourbon, originated the idea of establishing on two small islands in the Indian Ocean (St. Paul and Amsterdam) a fishing and curing station; and at his instigation the Governor of Bourbon requested our captain to make a thorough hydrographic survey of those islands. We accordingly sailed straight for this small group. My friends, the doctor and purser of the Heroine, and I, being of course of no service whatever for the scientific work, applied for leave to land with a view to explore the island of St. Paul, which, besides being the most accessible of the two, was reputed to abound in wild goats and sea birds, not to mention hot springs and curious volcanic formations.

Duly equipped and provided for a few days’ stay, we landed in a small basin on the lee side, where a rough cabin was in a few hours cleaned and made habitable by the doctor’s man-servant—an able seaman, expert at such work. Having made the place snug and comfortable, we started for a voyage of discovery, which in my eyes savoured much of that most enticing story of Robinson Crusoe I had so often gloated upon. Like most youngsters, I had become imbued with an ardent wish to experience the delightfully romantic notion of a life on a desert island.

Here, then, was the long-wished-for realisation of my dream. Our first day’s excursion proved most interesting. Whilst Dr. Roland botanised, cracked rocks with his geologist’s hammer, studied to his heart’s content the floral and mineral productions of that unknown spot in mid-ocean, the purser exercised his skill on the wild goats and sea birds; my boyish propensities, assisted by the more mature knowledge of Jean, the doctor’s servant, led me to bird’s-nesting. In a few hours we made such a raid among the crags on the lee shore that we gathered as many eggs as would have fed the ship’s company. At Jean’s suggestion we turned our attention to fishing. There also we had a marked success—Monsr. de Rontaunay’s scheme was evidently based on undeniably correct information. The place abounds with fish of all descriptions and the small bay we had settled on was swarming with them. A spring of warm water trickles into this miniature harbour, which at low tide is closed by a sand-bar. At that particular time the swarms of fish it is filled with rush to the outer bank to escape the palpable change of temperature of the water. It then becomes comparatively an easy matter to haul out as much as one wishes to capture, with even the rudest appliances.

When we all met for dinner we had a stock of provisions which might have afforded a meal for the whole of our ship’s company. Being also supplied with an ample store of “medical comforts,” and having enjoyed the tough yarns so admirably told by Dr. Roland, we rolled ourselves in our blankets near the fire and slept soundly till daylight. After a bath in the tepid waters of the bay, a hearty breakfast, and a peep at the good old ship laying quietly at anchor a mile or so from the shore, we all started on our varied avocations for the day. The weather in that locality is, however, given to sudden changes. Although everything appeared calm and bright at daybreak, clouds began to rise, and before noon a strong breeze sprang up, heavy rollers broke with a roaring noise on the weather side of the island; pelting rain followed, which drove us back to our quarters. We found our faithful “tar” in a great state of excitement. He informed us that a couple of hours after our departure a gun had been fired from the frigate, a signal hoisted which he could not make out (the doctor having taken with him the spy-glass), and that shortly after the hoisting of the signal the ship had weighed anchor, and was now completely out of sight!

In spite of the encouraging words of my companions, I confess that I did not feel quite happy in my mind—the romance of the desert island seemed to assume too much reality. I would then with great pleasure have exchanged our well-filled larder for the hard biscuit, the mess of beans, and piece of salt junk of the Heroine. The idea which haunted me—that we were left deserted on the island of St. Paul—deprived me of both sleep and appetite. I was up before daylight scanning the cloudy horizon. Neither the cheering words nor the chaffing of my companions prevailed. They went their way as if nothing had happened—the only thing which seemed to prey on their minds was the short stock of biscuit and small supply of rum left in the bottle. The same climatic influence which had caused the change for the worse in the state of the weather, brought back calm and sunshine.

At about 8 p.m. we heard the distant boom of a thirty-two pounder! Never in this world did a sound produce sweeter music in my ears. Had I been alone I would certainly have left all my belongings to rush to the shore where the pinnace came to rescue us from our solitary picnic grounds—I would have embraced in one fond, grateful “hug,” the midshipman and the twelve brave fellows who came to fetch us back to the dear old ship. It appears that owing to a sudden fall in the barometer, and the threatening aspect of both wind and sea, it had been deemed prudent to stand off and on, rather than ride out the gale at anchor; this was conveyed to us by the signal we had failed to see.

Of course, the qualm I had experienced remained buried in that most sensitive portion of my body, whence it arose. I entertained my messmates with wonderful tales of sport—stretched to the uttermost. When any doubts were evinced as to the veracity of my statements, they were at once dispelled by an appeal to dear old Jean, whom I shall always declare to have been the very best “affidavit Jack” I ever met. Having, ever since Dr. Roland gave me the free run of his surgery, surrendered to Jean my daily allowance of grog, the dear old fellow would have endorsed on oath that the sun rose in the west and set regularly in the east on the island we had just left behind us in the mist of an October night, if I had ventured upon such an assertion.

VI.

_MAORILAND._

Leaving these two solitary islands, we had to settle down to the more protracted part of our journey, and I may also add, the most uncomfortable one. We were bound for New Zealand, therefore had to go south of Van Dieman’s Land. A merchant-man would naturally have shaped her course for the latitude of Cape Lewin. Not so, however, a man-of-war, whose sailing directions are based on “bureaucratic” prudence, so that we had to go well into the S.W. wind, and heavy seas of the low south. These instructions we followed most religiously. The poor old frigate had a rough time of it; for seven or eight weeks she rolled most unmercifully under close-reefed courses, until the long-wished-for day came, when we began to steer north, and gradually got into warmer and finer weather.

“Land ho!” That most welcome shout from the fore-gallant-top brought us all to the fore-castle—a speck to leeward gradually emerging from the blue waters—the long-looked-for mountain ranges on the New Zealand coast.

A few days’ coasting brought us safely in to the Bay of Islands. We dropped anchor opposite the small unpretending residence of the Catholic Mission, a short distance from the Flag-staff Hill, since rendered famous by the outbreak of Kawiti and Honi Heke. The whale boat, which brought on board the Maori pilot, was manned by Natives, all more or less tattooed—my first insight into real savage life. I had heard and read of the Maori race. Now, I, for the first time, had an opportunity to study it from life. Monseigneur Pompallier, the head of the Mission, was well acquainted with my brother in Sydney, who was acting agent and purveyor for the Catholic missionary stations in the Pacific. At his request I became a guest at the Mission, where the Native chiefs—Rewa, Kawiti, and Pomare—were daily visitors, so that I soon became a fast friend of the two former. Pomare, though friendly, was always looked upon as an unreliable neighbour, and tolerated rather than welcomed at the Mission. His pah was situated on the summit of a sugar loaf hill at the bottom of the Bay of Islands, some miles from Kororareka, being a fortified pah, accessible only by a ladder, which, when removed, rendered the stronghold impregnable.

We made up a party to visit the warrior in his fortress. Having sailed up the bay, we ascended the rough approach, and were courteously ushered by Pomare into his residence—a large bee-hive-shaped structure, with only a small, low opening to admit visitors. A huge fire, even at that time of the year, burning in the centre, filled the place with smoke, and rendered the temperature almost tropical. The Chief, his warriors, and wives appeared quite as much taken up with our appearance as we were with theirs. The conversation, as one may well imagine, was not over lively, considering our utter ignorance of each other’s language. Art, however, came to the rescue of science; one of our officers pulled out of his game bag an album, some pencils, and other drawing materials. He made Pomare understand that he would like to sketch him and his wife as a remembrance of our visit. The Chief, evidently flattered, brought to the centre of the whare a keg upon which he sat in state, holding a carved paddle in one hand, whilst the other rested on the shoulder of a handsome Native female—wife or daughter, I never knew which. The other Natives, following the Chief’s example, formed a group round the fire, each one on a keg of his own.

The sketch was proceeding most satisfactorily, so were our attempts at conversation, until, prompted by curiosity, I endeavoured to elicit from Pomare, who did understand a few words of English, what were the contents of the barrels they were sitting upon.

“Rum?” said I.

“Kahori rum,” said he.

“Water?”

“No.”

“Pork?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“Boom! Boom!” retorted the Chief.

When he perceived that I failed to understand him, he quietly pulled out the wooden plug which closed the bung-hole; a stream of black, shiny powder ran out, falling within a few inches of the burning embers. Without ever exchanging a word, or a wink even, officers, midshipmen, and sailors made a bold rush on all fours through the aperture of the whare, down the ladder, helter-skelter to the ground below, much to the amazement of our Native hosts, whose portrait remains unfinished to this day. Had one grain of powder reached the burning coals, I doubt much if Pomare and his pah would have troubled Colonel Despard, or the 99th Regiment, in 1845.

I have had many dealings with Natives of the South Seas, as well as New Zealand, since then, and have often marvelled how they escape gun-powder explosions, considering how careless they are in the handling or storing of that dangerous compound.

Amongst the sealed orders given to the Commander of the Heroine, one was, as I said before, to bring to the French Mission in New Zealand, Church ornaments and ecclesiastical vestments. Here, also, he was to open a sealed despatch, giving him further instructions—which were to proceed to China, and there take orders from the admiral in command. Having been sent for, I was asked whether I would stay on board, and trust to finding in China an Australian bound vessel to reach Sydney. I had heard at the Mission-house that an Australian schooner—the Deborah—was at Hokianga, trading with the Natives for spars. Looking at the map, the distance across did not seem to me to be very great; I therefore decided upon crossing the Island to seek a passage on board the Deborah. The Captain and Bishop Pompallier made vain efforts to dissuade me from undertaking what they considered a most dangerous trip. My friend Rewa—the next door neighbour of the bishop, and senior chief of the locality—offered to place one of his children on board our ship as hostage until a messenger from Hokianga came back to Kororareka with the news of my safe arrival at Hokianga.

This settled the matter. I started, bag and baggage, never for one moment reflecting that I was trusting my life in the hands of uncivilised cannibals, who were carrying on their shoulders valises full of articles which, in their eyes, were treasures—the appropriation of the fowling-piece I had on my shoulder, or the powder flask slung round my neck, a sufficient inducement to wring that neck, and make a meal of the small mite I then was. The idea of danger never for a minute entered my head. I had spent a couple of weeks amongst them, and had implicit faith in their hospitality and kindness.

To this day I believe firmly that with very, very few exceptions, Natives of this or any other island in the Pacific are to be trusted by those who deal fairly and kindly with them.

At all events, I must speak of the Maoris as I found them, and say that had I been in the hands of my own countrymen, I could not have been treated more kindly. When I became wearied and footsore, they carried me as if I had been an infant, as I really was when compared to those copper-coloured giants, most of them over six feet high.

We usually managed to make for some well-known Native villages at night time. When we got to the Hokianga river, I noticed an animated conversation between my escort and the Natives in whose whare we camped; at almost every alternate word they pointed at me, and often repeating the words “Oui Oui,” which I knew meant “Frenchman.” At last I was given to understand that there was in the neighborhood a “Rangatira Oui Oui”—a great French chief—and that I certainly should go and pay my respects to him. Accordingly, after our evening meal, and by a glorious moonlight, I started with a numerous escort to interview this great countryman of mine, Baron de Thierry—whose name is, I daresay, still remembered amongst the old residents of the North Island of New Zealand—as true a specimen of the _Vieille Noblesse_ of France as one could find in the aristocratic Faubourg St. Germain. Like many other scions of noble lineage, poor de Thierry had to flee from his beloved country to save his head from the implacable guillotine. I spent the whole night with the Baron, who told me that he was going to be recognised shortly as Sovereign of New Zealand. He strongly advised me to remain with him, when he would, on his ascension to the throne, confer an office of trust upon me.

Poor, dear old gentleman, he was perfectly guileless; he thoroughly believed in all he said, and I am quite sure was quite happy in his demented notions of coming grandeur. I often heard from him since that night, but never again met with him.

On my arrival at Hokianga, I met with a sad disappointment. The Deborah had left for the Bay of Islands, so that I was compelled to turn back. The journey, however, had lost all its novelty, and certainly was anything but a treat. I brought back to the Bay the news of my own safety, and released the hostage, who had enjoyed his stay on board much more than I did my second trip across New Zealand.

A small brig from Sydney—the Martha—having called at the Bay, I embarked on board after a most affectionate parting from my old messmates, and the dear friends I had made on board the Heroine.