A Pacific Storm—A Glimpse of Pauline—Waylao on the Hulk—Her Many
Fathers—Grimes’s Unuttered Proposal—A Serenading Fiasco—Hermionæ
TWO days after I had lost sight of Waylao I was sitting in the shadows
of the banyans near the Broom Road. Grimes was laid up in the hulk with
a sprained ankle, through some wild spree in the grog shanty. I had been
that day to Father O’Leary and told him my experiences. The old priest
was terribly upset, but we were both hoping that Waylao might eventually
turn up.
It had been a wild night. A storm had swept the Pacific Ocean into an
infinite expanse of flaming foam. Earth, air and sea had become, for a
while, a mighty harp for the passions of the elements to play upon,
while the great mountain peaks caught the vast cloud wracks flying
beneath the moon on their pinnacles. Each moment I saw those mists
tossed into glorious silvered waves of multitudinous shapes, as they
broke away and, like raging phantom seas, rolled across the sky.
There was no rain. Only the wild song of the pines and bread-fruits on
the ranges were singing to the storm. Then the distant ocean ceased its
wild tumbling, the passion of the winds died away, the long-drawn
thunder of the seas on the shore reefs decreased, and only after wide
intervals came the moan of those ramping shore chargers. The landscape
of forest and mountain scene appeared like some mystical shadow-land as
the visionary light of the constellations shone again across infinity. I
recall the creeping natives moving along like dusky ghosts after the
storm, only their shaggy heads dripping wet with the heavy, silvered
rains of brilliant moonlight that fell glimpsing through the palms.
Again I fancy I hear them singing their legendary songs, strains of wild
music telling of the dark ages. I see them sitting or dancing by their
huts, embrace and whirl away, vanish in the shadows like the phantoms of
some far-off, forgotten world.
Such are my memories of the night when Pauline came to me out of the
shadows. I had wandered back to the vicinity of the grog shanty. As I
stood smoking, and in deep reflection, I saw two figures pass out of the
shanty’s saloon door; away they went staggering along the same old
track, bound for that lonely habitation by the mountains—it was John L——
and his everlasting dodging pal. Pauline’s father was quite drunk. I
could hear his wailing voice singing some English song till the musical
groans faded right away up in the hills.
Then she came, Pauline, the white girl. Her eyes were shining with fear
as she hovered by the shanty door. Those shellbacks and all the types of
derelicts were singing their wildest songs as she listened for her
father’s voice.
So beautiful did she appear to me as we met each other beneath the palms
that I half fancied she might be some spiritual creation treading the
mossy earth.
I had seen her before, but that did not destroy the impression she made.
I suppose I had a fit of my old insanity upon me. It may have been the
full moon, or hereditary taint, the strain of some mad ancestor. Anyway
everything appeared beautiful to me; even the roughest of men seemed to
have shining eyes from which gleamed a glory of divinity, in strange
disguise, expressing some hidden poetry of the universe.
I was playing my violin when she came, and still played on as she
stepped out of the bamboo thickets. Standing there in the shadows before
me, she seemed as ethereal as the vision of my figurehead.
I trembled from head to foot. She looked up and said: “How beautiful!”
I had once hoped to outrival Paganini and make men stare with wonder as
I played before them. I had hoped to do fine things, but never in all
the glorious fervour of imaginative ambition had I dreamed of such a
tremendous success as the praise of those lips.
I looked into those clear, earnest eyes; they were as blue as the tropic
midnight sky—and as expressive.
For a moment I could not speak. Then she said: “What is the name of the
piece you have just played?”
I felt embarrassed. Even as she spoke I heard in the distance the
rollicking songs and the shanty oaths to which I had become so
accustomed.
As I looked up into the eyes of that girl, her wind-blown hair
fluttering into thick tresses that fell about her shoulders, I recovered
my mental faculties and responded:
“The piece that I have just played is called—_Pauline_!”
For a moment she stared at me. I was brave enough at times and I gazed
back defiantly. I knew I had a right to call my improvisations by any
name that I chose.
At first she responded with a smile that thrilled me. Then her pretty
mouth rippled into laughter.
“That is _my_ name,” she said.
“I know it is,” I replied.
I began to tremble. I cursed my shabby suit; only the brass buttons told
of better days. My soul cried within me. I yearned to be attired in such
a material as God has fashioned for his angels. I felt that I was some
earthy, soddened being, one not even fitted to play a violin to so
ethereal a creature.
And what happened then—well, that which usually happens when all that we
yearn for seems to be within our grasp—she flitted away into the
shadows, away back to her enchanted castle in the mountains. I did not
see Pauline for many a weary day after that. In the ordinary course of
things that happen on man’s inky ways, she should from this point keep
slipping into my pages with delightful continuity. But, alas! I am only
telling the facts of the case.
* * * * *
About two days after the foregoing events Uncle Sam, Grimes and a few
more impecunious gentlemen were walking along the beach near the Broom
Road when suddenly the old American said: “Hello! What’s that?” There in
the shade of the bamboos, right in front of their eyes, stood Waylao.
“Hello, girlie,” said Uncle Sam. “Waal, I reckon you’ve run across the
right sort.”
The old Yankee’s voice was thick with emotion as he stared at the
trembling girl.
“Come here, gal; you look ill. What ’ave they been doing to you? Not
’elping yer in trouble, I knows, eh?”
The concerned gaze on the rough face before her and the note of kindness
in the voice was too much for Waylao—she burst into tears.
“Oh, take me away, hide me,” she wailed.
Uncle Sam took the girl by the hand and led her away.
“I’ll be ’sponsible for yer,” said the old American.
Grimes chewed the end of his clay pipe right off; it fell at his feet as
he lifted his eyes to the sky and murmured: “My gawd! ain’t she
bewtifool! Fancy the loikes of ’er a-wandering about wifout frens!”
That same night Waylao sat hidden in the old hulk by the promontory, the
crowd of beachcombers around her. That hulk in the moonlight, with its
rotting figurehead appealing to the sky-line, might have appeared to a
stranger the most isolated spot in the South Seas. But a pathetic human
drama was being enacted in the bowels of that derelict.
I wish I had had a camera in those days. A photograph of those
shellbacks sitting on their barrels round that forlorn girl would have
been worth its weight in gold.
She looked like some trapped faery creature as she sat there dimly
outlined in the gloom, with glimpses of moonlight, through the broken
deck roof, flitting about the folds of her mass of glorious hair. One
would hardly believe the way those rough men looked after that girl, or
the tenderness of their private comments. One went off to the stores of
the township and purchased, on tick, the most delicate articles of food.
Uncle Sam made her swallow a tiny drop of whisky. “It won’t ’urt yer,
gal—that’s it, that’s it,” he said when Waylao at last sipped it. The
spirit pulled her together; she even smiled when the old shellback made
his antiquated jokes for her special benefit.
That night the crew prepared a bed for her at the far end of the
derelict’s hold. Each hand was eager to add to her comfort. They piled
up the tubs and rubbish till a wall divided her chamber from the rest of
them.
“Here’s my coat,” said one. Another lent a faithful ragged overcoat of
many years, so green that it looked as though it were growing moss; some
even gave their clean shirts. Bill Grimes rushed ashore and gathered a
heap of soft, sweet-scented seaweed. This made an excellent mattress.
When at length the bed was ready, it was quite a sumptuous pile; not a
man but eyed it with approval, and felt that he had done his bit, and
when eventually she lay down, one by one leaned over the improvised bed
and tucked her in. They looked so proud and pleased that one would have
thought each man was her father. The night was terrifically hot, so
their efforts to add to her comfort only succeeded in making Waylao
perspire. But nevertheless such was her gratitude that she smiled
through her misery when the jovial, generous Irishman placed two more
overcoats on her and, still half worried, said: “There you are, missy;
begorra, you won’t be cold _now_, will you?”
They all crept away to the far end of the hold, and instead of sitting
and yarning and using their wonderful oaths as usual, they sat smoking,
deep in thought. I say _wonderful_ oaths, because they were connoisseurs
in such matters. As a dog’s wagging tail expresses more truth and
gratitude than all human language, so those oaths expressed the true
depth of their feelings.
Next morning Ranjo missed his rough customers: they were hidden from the
blazing sun, all down in the hulk’s gloomy depth. There they sat on
their old barrels, holding a solemn council as to what was best to be
done about the girl who had sought their protection.
Uncle Sam pulled his whiskers. The rays of sunlight streaming through
the port-hole just above his head revealed his worried face and the
grizzled physiognomies of the sunburnt men grouped about him.
“I vote that we make her our valet de chambre,” said the Dude, who had
arrived at Nuka Hiva six months before with a bullet-hole in his
coat-tails.
“What!” ejaculated twenty deep bass voices.
“I reckon you wants to send the lot of us to hell,” said another, who
spat through the port-hole with wonderful precision and disgust as he
continued: “What would old Benbow say if he heard we’d had his daughter
down here, with coves like us?”
“Why, bless me soul,” said another, as he swiftly spat and crossed his
comrade’s last stream of tobacco juice on its way through the port-hole,
“Benbow would say that one of us” (here he lowered his voice and looked
in the direction of Waylao’s chamber) “was the father of the kid.
Where’d be the sprees when Benbow returned from his next voyage? No more
rum, I’ll bet, eh?”
“You’re about right, I reckon,” murmured the young sailors who were busy
in the corner making tobacco-pouches out of the tough skin of an
albatross’s feet.
The Dude from the London Stock Exchange said: “What a fuss to make over
a girl being in the family way.” Then he went on carefully cutting out a
new pair of paper cuffs, which he always wore to impress the skippers of
the outgoing schooners, who might give him a passage to the
“no-extradition” colonies of South America—on tick.
Bill Grimes put his spoke in and capped the lot. Looking up at the rows
of grim faces, he gave a little embarrassed cough, then said: “It’s my
way of finking that the gal oughter git married to some ’onourable cove
who would look after ’er, make ’er ’appy.” Rubbing his scrubby chin
fiercely, he continued: “Gawd! ain’t she ’andsome!”
As he hitched his checked trousers up, Uncle Sam and all the other rough
scoundrels turned their heads and stared at him in perfect silence for
about three minutes—a silence that spoke more than a thousand words.
Grimes met the steadfast gaze with a glance of defiance. Chinese Billy
(a bilious-looking Scotsman) said: “Weel, I didna ken to live to sae
this day, Bill Grames; here’s sax-pence, get ye ashore, ha’e a whuskey.
Ye’ll ne’er earyn the price o’ a shave for that ugly mug, let alane
enough to keep a bonny lass like her!”
At this moment Uncle Sam nudged the man who was just clearing his
throat, with delight, to make a speech, for he had once been a stump
socialistic lecturer. God knows what he was about to say; but I don’t
think much golden wisdom was lost through that interruption.
Waylao was awake; she stood at the far end of the hold staring at us
all.
It was a real treat to see the politeness of those scallawags; some even
reddened slightly as she appeared before them. The Dude made his cuffs
conspicuous, pulled them down half-an-inch, put his hand to his mouth
and gave the old, artful, conventional cough to the girl.
With the appearance of Waylao the men all rose and, one by one ascending
the iron ladder that led to the deck, went ashore.
Uncle Sam stayed behind for a while with Waylao. He did his level best
to persuade her to go home. The old shellback spoke like a grandfather
to her. I think she promised to go home that night, but asked to be left
to herself that day, on the hulk. Whatever she promised was not
fulfilled, for no one saw her on that hulk again excepting Grimes. Even
Grimes wouldn’t have seen her, but for the fact that he returned to the
hulk in the daytime. He lingered about for some time ere he went aboard
and faced Waylao. This he told me with his own lips when I returned that
night from a visit that I had been compelled to pay to those whom I had
disappointed on the night of my violin engagement.
It appeared that Grimes heard the girl singing to herself as he
approached the derelict. He had contemplated going straight aboard to
make Waylao an offer of marriage.
As near as I can recall, the following is what he had intended saying:—
“I’m Bill Grimes, a nonnest man; I knows just ’ow fings is wif yer; so
I’ve come to awsk yer if yer’ll marry the loikes of me.”
Grimes nearly sobbed as I pressed his hand that night. We both felt
wretched enough by that time, for Waylao had disappeared ere sunset, and
when old Lydia came rushing down to the hulk to see her daughter, she
was too late.
It was only after several whiskies that Grimes confided in me that he
had gone on to the hulk and interviewed Waylao; but when he faced the
girl his heart failed him, and instead of rattling off the choice bits
that he had inwardly rehearsed, God knows how earnestly, he only had the
pluck to offer her all the wages that he had saved.
“Did she take it, Grimes?” said I.
“Not at first; but I made her take it, you bet,” said that sinful
worthy.
I could sympathise with old Grimes, for, to tell the truth, he was not
the only one in love. I myself was haunted by the memory of Pauline. As
I lay in slumber in that old hulk’s depth, she crept down into silent
gloom and scanned each grizzled face till she came to my bunk. I felt
her shadow arms about me. I clasped her and kissed her lips in the
glorious ecstasy of dream possession. Those dreams haunted me through
the day. I felt that I could not seek a berth on the ships.
I even went so far as to go to that hamlet by the mountains, hoping that
I should come across her, and became so romantic that I even tried to
emulate the amorous programme of old-time Spanish hidalgos, and crept
away from my comrades one night with my violin to serenade Pauline by
moonlight.
I put my whole soul into my playing as I stood beneath the palms outside
that little white-walled bungalow and watched her window. I had but a
vague notion of what I expected: perhaps I imagined that a visionary
creature would open that little lattice and gaze upon me with ecstatic
rapture. It might have come off, too, but for the curse of reality.
Alas! that the world is so commonplace nowadays. And I shall never
forget the sudden chill that crushed my hopes when old John L—— rushed
out of that little door in his night attire.
We almost came to blows as he expostulated about the d——d row I was
making while he tried to sleep after a bad spell of two weeks’ insomnia.
And when I told him I had the same right to play the violin as he had to
get drunk, he struck out.
Well, anyway, such was the result of my South Sea serenading adventure.
And the cruel disillusionment of it made me decide to accept a berth on
an outgoing boat. It so happened that the _Sea Swallow_ was off in a few
days, bound for Fiji. I knew the skipper well—we had sailed together
before. He was a fiddle-player also, and had taken a liking to me. I
went on board, signed on for the trip, and felt easier in my mind once
the decision was made. In the few days that remained before the _Sea
Swallow_ sailed I wandered about a good deal. Grimes stuck to me like a
leech. He, too, tried to get a berth on the boat, but they were full up.
We walked miles in search of Waylao, but in vain. I even began to wonder
if she might not have followed the poor ex-convict girl’s example.
Grimes was very despondent about my leaving him. We seemed to be full up
with sorrow, for we had just heard that Hermionæ, our Marquesan chum,
was dead.
I see by my log-book that Hermionæ died on 4th September, the day after
my birthday, and that I shipped on the _Sea Swallow_ on the 5th.
But I must tell you about Hermionæ. He was about eighteen years of age,
straight as a coco-palm, and as graceful as a young god. I never saw
such fine eyes as he had, full of fire and yet tender as a girl’s.
A few days before Grimes and I had dressed him up in European clothes,
for it was his ambition to wear a white collar and trousers. I fastened
an old india-rubber collar round his full throat with much difficulty.
“Keep still, will you!” I had to keep yelling as he tried to stop
dancing with delight at having that white ring round his terra-cotta
throat. When he was finally dressed up and I added an old silver watch
and a brass chain to his equipment, his handsome face was flushed with
joy and excitement.
“Joranna! me love you!” he shouted as he gambolled like a puppy on the
slope.
“You great white man now, Hermionæ,” said I. He rushed off and looked
into the clear water of the lagoon, and nearly swooned with joy as he
sighted his checked trousers!
“Me marry nice white womans?” was his first ambitious comment.
“Well, yes,” said I dubiously.
“But you no got money, Hermionæ,” I continued, looking at his handsome
face. But he was so infinitely more attractive than some of the pimply,
dough-faced beings that women have to marry that I added: “Hermionæ, you
go England, great English _whyniees_ [ladies] fall at your feet.”
“Ah, but all white papalagi married, eh?”
“Yes, most of them, Hermionæ; but you never mind, you be ‘Don Juan.’”
“What Don Joo-an?” he responded, opening his fine eyes wide.
Then I explained: “You be great Marquesan chief, all ladies look at you
and say: ‘O handsome Hermionæ, we love you, we love you! How beautiful
you are!’ Then you fall into their arms, kiss them like this.”
Here Grimes and I embraced, and showed him exactly how to do it.
He screamed with delight, like a big child. Grimes and I nearly burst
with laughter as he mimicked the scenes he pictured. Like all
Marquesans, he was alert, and swift of comprehension, and extremely
imaginative.
“Love me? Fall at my feet? Hubbie jealous? White womans love me? Me love
wife when white man no look?”
I nodded my head rapidly to each vivacious interrogation.
Then he continued: “Me kiss beautiful white womans, and great white
chiefs all come running after me like this.” Here he imitated all that
he saw in his imagination, as fat white men ran after him, while he
bolted with their wives and daughters up the great English Broom
Road.[4]
Footnote 4:
The coast roads in Nuka Hiva and in Papeete, Tahiti, are called the
Broom Road.
I could write several chapters about Hermionæ, his faithfulness, his
quaint ways and fascinating sins.
The last I saw of him was two days after I had dressed him up in our old
clothes, and he had swaggered about in that incongruous attire. Then he
did as he had promised—brought all the clothes back. I felt sorry for
him as, with his head hanging in sorrow, he walked majestically away,
leaving his late greatness behind him.
Ere he was out of sight I missed something. “Hermionæ,” I yelled. But he
was fleet of foot. It was too late.
Next day I met him. “Hermionæ,” said I, “you believe in great white
God?”
“Master, I believes in great Gods of white mans. I no tell story, or
steals anything that no belonga me. Me heathen, but allee samee good
Marquesan boy.”
“Hermionæ,” I said sternly, “I have not yet said that you have stolen
anything; but, anyhow, where’s that watch of mine? I missed it out of
the pocket of the checked trousers, though you swore that you had placed
it there.” I put on my most ferocious look as I proceeded: “Is this the
way that you would thank a white man who has lent you his suit?”
He hung his head with shame, avoiding my steadfast gaze.
“I no see watch, master. Someone steal your watch and you blame poor
Hermionæ.”
As he stood there in tears before me, I looked at his magnificent form.
His tawny figure was shining as with the wonderful varnish of a
thousand-guinea Stradivarius violin. About his loins was swathed the
decorated, silken tappa sash tied into a fascinating bow at the right
hip. I could not be angry with him, so I said softly and sorrowfully:
“Hermionæ, what is that bright object that I perceive distinctly
peeping, hidden just under that pretty sash bow at your hip?”
He looked at me for a moment with an interrogating, appealing glance,
then slowly withdrew the watch from beneath the silken knot.
“Hermionæ,” I said, “it’s no wish of mine that you should fall dead and
go to the white man’s hell; neither is it godly for you to have such a
wish. True enough, you have sinned in a most perfidious way; but others
have sinned as you have sinned. It has even been recorded in the history
of the white races that a watch leads many into grievous temptation.”
It was no use. Hermionæ was inconsolable. He still moaned on and beat
his bronzed chest as the tears fell upon it. Nothing that I could say
could alter his opinion but that to have rewarded my kindness to him by
such perfidy merited no less punishment than death.
For a moment, as he wailed on, I gazed steadfastly upon him. Then I
said: “Hermionæ, here’s the watch, I give it you—live on.”
For a moment he held the watch in his hand as though stupefied, still
sobbing mechanically as his head hung with shame. Then, as he lifted it
and heard the tick, tick, it seemed too much for him: still weeping, he
turned a somersault and commenced to dance with delight.
Three days after that Grimes and I went to his funeral, and it may be
imagined how upset we were. His canoe had upset in the bay and poor
Hermionæ had been killed by a shark.
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