A Flattering Send-off—The Ghost of the _Sea Swallow_—The Ghost as
Passenger—The True Romance—Arrival at the Fiji Isles—Great-hearted
Sailormen
REFERRING to my diary notes, I see that the _Sea Swallow_ was due to
sail on the 6th September, but did not sail till the 7th. This gave me
one day more in Nuka Hiva. I remember how delighted Grimes was to see me
appear in the shanty the morning after I was supposed to have sailed. We
spent the day visiting old friends, including Lydia, and did our best to
cheer her up. She kept wailing out: “Benbows kills me when ’e comes ’ome
from sea and find I send Wayee into forest in temper-fit.”
“Don’t you worry, she’ll come back soon,” said I soothingly, though I
must admit that I had my misgivings, which proved only too true.
I went alone to see Father O’Leary. The old priest took my hand and
blessed me, wishing me all kinds of luck, and I felt quite affected by
his fatherly manner. Next day the _Sea Swallow_ sailed. I had a mind to
persuade Grimes to stow away when he bade me good-bye. His big, scrubby
face looked very serious as he said: “You’re a-coming back with the
boat, I s’pose?”
“Yes, Grimes, you’ll see me again, don’t you fret,” I replied.
The impecunious beach fraternity gave me a hearty send-off. Uncle Sam,
the Dude, the jockey, O’Hara, the jovial Scot and the rest came down to
the beach as the anchor went up and gave me one final “Hurrah!”
Though I’d been elevated to the Marquesan peerage more than once, and
crowned with heathen honours, I felt mighty proud as those wild-looking
white men waved their wide-brimmed sombreros and cheered and cheered. I
felt that I had accomplished something in my life, something creditable,
and almost unhoped for in my schoolboy dreams.
I had played their old songs on my violin; recited _The Prisoner of
Chillon_; written love letters to relatives and far-away wives,
Penelopes, faithless damsels and longing daughters, and, notwithstanding
their fascinating persuasions, had only become slightly, jovially,
inebriated twice, and by so doing had earned their undying respect. Ah
me! I well knew that my mother, my sisters and old austere Aunt M——
would have swooned away at the very thought of my mixing with such
terrible men. But what knew they of the great world, of adventure and
all that appealed to the heart of sanguine youth?
But to return to the voyage of the _Sea Swallow_. I stood on deck and
watched the forests dwindle, as the shores of Nuka Hiva receded, and we
cut away out into the Pacific. While the skipper swore, the mountain
peaks became lower and lower, till they looked like big jewels sparkling
on the horizon astern, twinkling softly in the light of the setting sun.
The _Sea Swallow_ was a tramp steamer, carrying sail to steady her, for
she rolled like a ball on a rough sea.
I never met a more jovial skipper than Captain C——. He had his
drawbacks, but could swear well, and thought he was something of a
genius on the violin. When he was half-seas-over he _could_ play—a jig.
I think he managed to snap twenty strings one night as he tried to
imitate my playing of Paganini’s _Carnaval de Venise_.
The weather was gloriously beautiful the first two days out. I remember
I was having a cup of coffee with the fierce old cook in the galley when
the hurricane struck us. It swooped down, as is usual in those parts,
without the slightest warning, blowing great guns ere nightfall, and by
eight bells we were shipping thundering seas. There was something in
that infinite expanse of raging, mountainous waters that appealed to me.
I stood on deck watching the great foaming crests rise and roll away.
The stars were out, marshalled in their millions across those infinite
frontiers—and as we pitched along, the ship slewing first to leeward,
and then over to windward, with the heave of those mighty hills of
ocean, those regiments of starry constellations shifted, right about
turn, to the pendulous sway of the masts’ tips.
Rolling along, the wild poetry of that ramping, shouting, glorious,
frantic Pacific entered my soul and sent my thoughts back through the
past. It almost seemed as though I had imagined that far-away isle, the
grog shanty and all my recent experiences. I thought of Waylao. Where
was she? Had she returned home, or had she followed the fate of the
derelict girl from Noumea? Little did I dream, as we beat across the
storm-beaten Pacific, that down below in the depths of the hold beneath
my feet wept a stowaway—a figure huddled up, hidden amongst the bales of
cargo, moaning in the pangs of fright and misery, imprisoned and
starving in that iron coffin, nailed in, dead, yet alive—and that this
trembling, dying stowaway was Benbow’s daughter, Waylao. Yes, unknown to
me, as that tramp dived her nose into those raging gulfs, Waylao
shrieked for death to come to release her from her misery, just below
deck, under my feet.
She had stowed away about half-an-hour before we left Tai-o-hae. How she
had managed to creep on board without being observed was a mystery.
Still I know by experience that it is possible, for Grimes and I had
done it more than once ourselves.
Waylao told me after how she had crept aboard and slipped down the
fore-peak hatchway, and her terrible despair as she heard the sailors
cry, “Let go!” and crash!—down went the hatchway. As she stared up from
that dark depth she saw the last gleam of the blue tropic day vanish,
and knew she was a prisoner.
Hidden in that inky darkness, she had heard the throb of the engines,
and, reaching the open sea, had become fearfully sick, from the roll of
the steamer and the stifling air of that hold. The rats in hungry droves
came out and attacked her as she crouched on the bales of merchandise,
In her despair she had shrieked; but not a sound had reached the sailors
on deck. She felt the roll of the hurricane-lashed ocean, had heard the
crew singing their wild chanteys in the tempest.
Striving to climb up the iron stanchions to get near the fore-peak deck,
and make herself heard, she had fallen back into the depths of that dark
hold, and, clutching at the cases to save herself, had torn her
finger-nails off. God only knows the intense misery that that wretched
castaway must have suffered down in the bowels of that steamer. It’s bad
enough when two strong men stow away, and have each other’s
companionship, but how terrible for that frail girl down there, quite
alone, accompanied by her memories and her misery.
She was nearly dead when, a week out from Tai-o-hae, they discovered
her, broken, bleeding and starved.
The storm had blown itself out. We were cutting along at about eleven
knots. It was one of those nights when the monotony of the sea was
broken by the glorious expanse of the illimitable heavens.
The vastness of the ocean set in those dim, encircling sky-lines had
stirred my imagination. I was standing on a visionary ship in a rolling
world of illusions. The far-off, pale horizons on every side were not
horizons of reality, but dim, far-off sky-lines of more distant,
wonderful, unknown seas, where sailed the old ships that were loaded
with magical, sweet-scented cargoes of human dreams. I fancied I could
hear the faint moaning of the deep, moving waters, the waves breaking
away from God’s mighty Imagination, an Imagination sparkling the
wonderful foam of Immortal Beauty. I heard the winds of sorrow drifting
across the reefs of starry thought, beating finely, steadfastly, against
Eternity. I was only called back to the realms of Time by the shuffling
of sea-boots coming along the deck.
I took my pipe from my lips, wondering on the sudden, unusual commotion.
As I stared through the gloom, I saw the huddled crew coming aft. It was
a perfect night, hardly a breath of wind to stir the canvas. The sails
bellied out and then—flop!—they went, like grey drums beating out
muffled _réveillés_ to the stars. The skipper was tramping to and fro on
the poop as the crew stood by the gangway whispering together.
“What on earth’s the matter?” was my mental comment, as one of their
number, a sleek-faced Yankee, went on to the poop as spokesman.
As he approached the “Old Man,” I half wondered if a mutiny was on, and
calculated in my mind as to which side I should join, while my heart
leaped with excitement. Then I heard the Yankee say:
“Cap’en, we got a serious matter to speak about.”
“Well, get on with it,” said the skipper, as he stared at the men about
him as though he thought they had gone mad.
“Well, Cap’en,” said the sailor once more, as he expectorated so as to
relieve his feelings. Then, to my astonishment, he blurted out: “This
God-damned ship’s ’aunted!”
The skipper gazed contemptuously on the speaker, then yelled:
“Haunted, you say? Well, get to hell out of it! Or go forward and put up
with it!”
“’Tain’t no good, sir, yer carrying on. Ship’s ’aunted, and I, for one,
ain’t going forrard no more.”
“You moon-struck, superstitious niggers, clear to hell out of it, or, by
God! I’ll put you back,” yelled the now enraged skipper, as he stamped
on the deck.
Then the boatswain quickly stepped forward and said:
“Captain, I reckon this ’ere packet’s ’aunted right enough. You can come
up by the fore-peak and listen for yourself. We ain’t mad.”
Saying this, old Bully-beef—for that was the boatswain’s nickname—spat
on the deck, and then looked the captain steadily in the eyes.
The skipper’s manner immediately changed. He had sailed with Bully-beef
for several years, and knew that he was a level-headed old fellow.
For a moment he returned the boatswain’s stare, then he responded:
“Well, I’ll come forward and see your ghost, but, mind you, I don’t want
any fooling here. Now then, lads, tell me what’s upset you all?”
“Waal, Skipper,” said the first spokesman, “we can’t get no sleep, for,
by God! there’s a spirit down in the hold. We heard it talking last
night to another of its kind, and then it moaned like a mad thing and
started to sing. Ain’t that right, Billy?”
As the Yankee gave this information, he turned to another sailor, who
immediately stepped forward to corroborate the evidence:
“Sir, it’s right enough. I went on deck last night and stamped my foot,
thinking to frighten the thing away, but it only wailed louder and
louder still, and started to speak. So I puts my ear to the deck, by the
hatchway, and listens. Blowed if I didn’t hear it moan and say: ‘Oh,
Christ, protect me. Sink the ship. Mercy! Mercy!’”
“You _did_, did you?” said the skipper emphatically, as he pulled his
cap back from his forehead.
Walking down the poop gangway, he said: “Come on! We’ll soon see about
your ghost.”
In a moment the crew and the huddled Kanakas—for we had several natives
amongst us—followed the Old Man.
As we all stood assembled by the fore-peak, we listened. Only the sound
of the long-drawn roar of the dipping bows and the jiggle of the screw
disturbed the vast silence of the calm sea.
One of the crew stamped his foot on the deck. Then they all listened
again. They heard a noise.
“’Ear that, sir?” said the boatswain.
“Hear what?” said the skipper, as he looked aloft as the rigging rattled
and the smoke from the funnel slewed about and went south-west like a
great bank of cloud beneath the stars. “Why, you damned lot of cowards,
I’m blessed if you are not all frightened of the wind’s whistle in the
rigging!”
“Wait a bit, wait a bit, sir,” said the boatswain, as the bows dipped
and an interval of silence came. Then he too stamped his big foot.
Just as the skipper was about to yell at them again, he suddenly
stopped. A look of interest, that swiftly changed into astonishment,
came on to his face.
There sounded quite distinctly to the ears of the huddled crew a long,
far-away wail.
“Clear the hatch off. Now then, rise and shine. Don’t stand there with
your God-damned mouths wide open! By heaven! get a move on you.”
Some of the native members of the crew hesitated before they started to
do the skipper’s bidding. Then all worked with a will. Off came the
canvas covering—crash! crash!—and the wooden bolts were loosened.
“Fetch me a lantern,” shouted the skipper. Then, beckoning to the
boatswain to follow him, he leaned over the dark depth and went down the
iron ladder into the ship’s hold.
The boatswain looked at the sympathetic faces of the crew, glanced
seaward at the stars on the horizon as though for the last time in his
mortal existence—and also disappeared.
Presently we all heard a tumbling and a mumbling, then a deep moan.
“Good God Almighty!” came a voice from below.
“Hold her legs. That’s it. Gently now!” In a moment we were all bending
over the edge of the hatchway. We saw the skipper climbing up with the
figure in his arms. “It’s a stowaway!” was the cry all round. In a
moment the red-bearded cook and I had grabbed the deck grating. As the
skipper came up we all leaned forward. Good Lord! never, surely, was a
sadder sight. There on the deck, under the stars of that wide Pacific,
they laid her. The huddled crew gazed upon her: they could only stare
with awestruck eyes on that beautiful face.
I rushed to get water. It was I who first bent over that stricken form
as the skipper lifted the unconscious head. It was Waylao who lay there
before me; but so wasted was she that I did not recognise her. As the
cool winds drifted across the deck and the sailors and the black squad
stepped back, the fresh air revived her. We saw her eyelids quiver—they
opened and gazed upon the crew silently.
As I stood among those men and stared at that face through the gloom, I
thought it was some beautiful white girl. There was no semblance to a
half-caste in that thin face before us. I thought that I must be going
mad as I pushed the cook aside and stared again, for in the excitement
of it all I had fancied that the girl that lay before us, pale-faced and
stricken, was Pauline.
It was a mad idea, I know; but I had been thinking more about John L——’s
daughter than I have cared to confess.
As the shadows of the funnel’s smoke passed over us, it seemed that I
was a member of a phantom crew, so silent were those huddled men as they
watched the pale face of that figure lying there, on the hatchway.
The captain ordered us to lift the grating and take her into the cuddy.
When we had placed her tenderly in the spare cabin’s bunk, we saw the
way she was. The light of the swinging lamp lit up her face. Her bosom
was quite bare, her garments being torn to fragments. We had no sooner
placed her in the bunk and laid her head on the pillow than she fell
asleep. There were only four of us, beside the skipper, as we stood in
that cabin. I saw them look solemnly at each other; then each coughed,
as if to say in significant silence: “So _that’s_ the secret of the
stowaway. She’s stowed away because of _That_.”
In a flash I had recognised Waylao. For a moment I was so astounded that
I couldn’t even speak or think. Then my wits came to my assistance. I
decided to keep my own counsel and never reveal by the slightest sign
that I had seen the girl before.
It was three days before Waylao could sit up in her bunk and think
reasonably. But, considering her serious condition when found in the
hold, her improvement was wonderfully rapid. The cook made special
soups, and the skipper seemed always to be examining the small drawers
of his medicine chest. “That’s fine for cuts and bruises,” he’d say, as
he brought out boxes of ointment and went off to give Waylao medical
attention.
I do not think I can do better than refer to my diary and reproduce my
own remarks at this period of my story. Here’s how the entries go:
“_September 19th._—Waylao looks wonderfully well to-day. Her
finger-nails have fallen off, and the new nails are just peeping out of
the quicks. I played the violin to her this afternoon. She’s got a voice
that fairly thrills one. The skipper says she’d make a fortune in
America, on the stage. As we sat on deck last night, Waylao and I
referred to the poor escapee girl form Noumea, and I told her exactly
how I found the convict girl afloat in the lagoon at daybreak. Waylao
cried like a child when I said I had placed a little cross on the girl’s
grave.
“The boatswain’s given Waylao a beautiful silk and tappa dress. She
looks fine in it. He’d bought it from a native at Hivaoa, for his wife,
I suppose. Poor wife, she’ll never see _that_ dress.
“_September 20th._—I’ve been chaffed a good deal by the crew for paying
such a lot of attention to the stowaway. It’s a good job I didn’t let on
that I knew her before I left Tai-o-hae.
“Waylao keeps talking about Father O’Leary and her mother. I’ve promised
to go and see them both when I go back to Nuka Hiva. God knows when that
will be, I don’t.
“The sailors on this boat are fine fellows. Perfect gentlemen, so far as
the opinion of the world doesn’t go. Only one scoundrel on board; he
knocked my bow arm up in the air with his fist as I was playing the
violin in the forecastle. We had a fight. His lip’s swollen, but I’ve
got a lump just over the right eyebrow. The skipper’s put some of his
special ointment on my lump; says he’s ashamed to think of a respectable
fellow like me fighting on board his ship. I do feel a bit ashamed of
the lump, I admit.
“Sighted Tengerewa Isle on the starboard this evening. As we passed by
we could distinguish the coco-palms; they looked like the distant masts
of some old Spanish galleon derelict, ashore on an unknown isle in an
unknown sea—masts that had been there so long that they’d burst into
leaf. As the stars came out we could hear the breakers humming on the
reefs far away. It’s funny, but the noise of those breakers came very
loud once or twice, and made me think of the early workmen’s train that
rushed by my bedroom when I last lodged at Battersea, London Town.
“Waylao and I sat on deck till midnight. Saw vast flocks of strange
birds going south under the stars. They looked like migrating cranes,
had long necks, saw them distinctly fly _down_ the big moon looming on
the horizon.
“Never saw such a calm sea; looked like a mighty mirror that was walled
round by pale crystalline substance, and vaulted by a dome ornamented
with myriads of inexpressibly beautiful stars imaged in the vast mirror
beneath, with phantom ships sailing across it, breaking the brittle
surface into sparkling foams of phosphorescent light.
“It seemed hard lines that so many millions of worlds were wasting their
glory in infinite space, and I so hard up that I had to travel across
that ocean for a pittance of two pounds ten shillings a month.
“_Thursday, September 21st._—Made it up with boatswain’s mate. He seems
to like me since the fight. It’s a fact that it’s only wasting breath to
quote the poets to men in an argument. It’s like throwing pearls to
swine. Nothing like a good smash in the jaw to convince a man that you
are as good as he is.
“The skipper got fearfully drunk last night. I had to play the fiddle
till two o’clock in the morning as he sang a song that had no melody in
it. He said it was composed by his uncle, a Doctor of Music! I and the
cook eventually lifted the Old Man up with due respect and dropped him
in his bunk—dead drunk.
“Waylao’s been telling me what she intends to do when she gets to Suva,
Fiji. I’m worried about her; she talks like a child. It’s a bit of a job
to have a girl like Waylao on one’s hands. I feel that I must look after
her. It seems like a dream to me, this girl on a ship with me, lost, far
away at sea. I feel quite like some Don Juan, out here in the wide
Pacific with a beautiful half-caste girl looking to me for protection.
Those old novels that I read as a child were true after all. There _is_
such a thing as romance on earth, or at least on the seas.
“_Friday, September 22nd._—Been thinking of England to-day. I’d give
something to hear the thrush singing up in the old apple-tree of my
grandfather’s estate.
“It’s wonderful how beautiful another place seems when you are sailing
across Southern Seas, perfectly alone. As I dreamed, I could hear the
ship’s Kanakas singing their native songs in a strange tongue. I like
their melodies; they sound weirdly sweet. The words seem to go like
this: ‘Cheery-o, me-o, O see ka vinka! too-ee-me, loge wailo, mandy-o!
pom! pom!’ As they sang aloft, their shadows dropped down through the
moonlight on to the deck at my feet.
“I thought of my dear mother last night. I’d give something to put my
arms round her to-night. I was her favourite: that’s natural enough, as
I’m the worst boy of the family.
“_Saturday._—Feel a bit worried to-day. I went mad last night. The world
seemed beautiful; I felt like some old poet who’d crept out of the tomb
and found the world reading his poems. Waylao and I sat on deck. It was
a glorious night, perfectly calm. The sky was crowded with stars. I
could just see the outline of Waylao’s face in the gloom beside me. She
was sitting in the skipper’s deckchair. Her face seemed ineffably
beautiful, her eyes seemed to have caught the ethereal gleams of the
stars. She fascinated me. I felt a wild desire enter my heart. Then I
took hold of her hand and whispered:
“‘Waylao, I am worried about you.’
“‘And I about you,’ she responded half absently.
“Again the wild impulse thrilled me, but still I spoke on.
“‘Girl, we are only shadows in this world. In a little while all this
dream of ours will be less than a dream. It is strange that you should
have come into my life like this. I half wish that I had never met you,’
said I. Then, before I could understand what I was doing, I placed my
arms about her; I pulled her gently towards me. Her face was lifted up
to mine; I gazed into the depths of those exquisite eyes, they shone so
brightly. I looked at the mouth: it quivered. Ah! it _was_ a beautiful
mouth; it seemed to be curved so that it might tenderly resemble the
warm, wild, passionate South.
“Alas! though I was born in the far-away cold North-West, I, too, seemed
to feel the spell of the impassioned starlit Isles. I tried to control
myself; but men, let alone romantic youths, are weak, and so I fell—I
clasped her in my arms and pressed my lips to hers. Heaven only knows
what I might not have said to her in my madness if the boatswain had not
called me: ‘Hey, hey, youngster! Where are you? What the hell——’
“I leaped away into the darkness.
“I never had a wink of sleep that night. This morning I could not look
Waylao in the eyes. When no one was looking, she took my hand and smiled
in such a way that I knew that she understood my feelings. Ah me! I
shall never make a good missionary. Waylao’s look and her manner
convinces me that she is better than I am. Confession is good for the
soul. I ought to be better than I was last night, for I have confessed
the truth—had sinful thoughts, and the half-caste girl has made me a
better youth. Wish I wasn’t so passionate a fellow.
“_Sunday, September._—Sang hymns to-day in the cuddy. Skipper’s very
religious on Sunday. I told Waylao all about England to-day, and became
quite sentimental. I told her of the splendour of the woods—how May came
and quickened the fields to green sprouting grass; how the wild
hedgerows budded forth their beauty—like some poetic sorrow of the old
sunsets—bleeding forth pale, anæmic blossoms, flowers that scented the
airs with old memories. I told her of the blackbird singing its overture
to the sunrise. I said: ‘Ah, Waylao, I long to hear the blackbird again,
telling me that God, its Creator, too, has some divine memory of the
voice of a goddess who sang to Him ere His first heaven was shattered
into the chaos of all the stars.’
“While I spoke to Waylao night fell. I could only hear the throb of the
engines as we slid across the sea. As the girl stared up at me in the
dusk, I fancied that we two sailed across strange seas, quite alone, and
there was no one else in the world. A shooting star slid across the sky,
arched and faded like some signal thrown out of a door in heaven. Waylao
trembled like a leaf as she saw that light in the sky; she said that it
was a terrible sign. I tried to cheer her up, saying that she must not
believe the old legends that her mother told her, that a shooting star
did not mean anything awful, that no one was to die through its fall,
that most probably it was a signal to the infinite that some mortal had
just spoken the truth.
“That star, nevertheless, made me wonder as I looked up at the heavens.
I couldn’t help thinking of God. The vastness of creation, the wonder of
the stars seemed so terrific that a thrill went down my backbone. How
vast God must be. He who can hold creation with its myriads of worlds in
the hollow of His hand. Where did God come from? This shows that we lack
several senses. I suppose that the tropic bird that sailed through the
dusk over the ship, and looked at us with its beautiful wild eyes,
wondered where our ship came from. Even if that bird had intellect,
would it ever dream of the primeval forest, the giant pines, how they
fell before the axe; and were shaped into masts; of the shipbuilders; of
mighty furnaces smelting the ores from the old hills; of the toil of
men, and the strikes for higher wages; the happy homes in the villages
kept up by the money that the shipbuilding brought to them; of the
village theatre and the happy sprees as the wives took the children out
full of laughter, to come home again and romp in their cots about it
all; of the brass plate on the coffin telling the man’s name who fell
down the hold of the ship and was killed the day it was launched, and of
the wonders of the voyages? Stop! Good heavens! I could go on like this
for ever. Why, the history of a box of matches would fill all the paper
on earth with all-absorbing wonders. It only shows that the mystery of
God is only wonderful to us because we lack the sense to fathom the
mystery. Anyway, I’ll believe in God till I die. I used to believe in a
creed, but I think it best to believe in God.
“I suppose I’m talking like this because I’ve been thinking of Pauline.
Waylao has been telling me to-day how she and Pauline sat in the forest
by moonlight and sang old heathen songs together, songs that were
supposed to make the man who would love them poke his head out of the
waters of the lagoon that they watched. Waylao hummed the songs to me. I
don’t know why, but the look in her fine eyes made me feel intensely
unhappy. I’m a most passionate fellow at times. I have strange moods,
moods that make me feel very tender towards women and men. I suppose
it’s a kind of insanity. I’ve taken a liking to the funniest old men and
women imaginable. Once my fancy was for an old ex-convict: he was about
eighty years of age, swore fearfully, cursed God, never washed himself,
woke up in the middle of the night and roared forth atheistical songs,
opened his mouth wide and hissed ‘He! He! He!’ like a fiend, as he
mentioned the Deity—and yet when I was down with fever he waited on me
as though I were his child. Not even my dear mother could have outvied
the tenderness of that villainous scoundrel. I recall to mind how I met
a little native girl in Samoa. She was only six years of age,
curly-haired, and had brown, beautiful baby eyes. I never saw such a
pretty rosebud mouth, or _retroussé_ nose. I played the violin, and she
sang like a bird. We even went off busking together. When I went away
she threw her arms about me and looked into my face like a woman of
twenty. That little girl’s face haunted me for days; I even counted up
how old I’d be when she was twenty, thinking that I could come back to
the South Seas and marry her.
“I tell these things to show one that I am no ordinary being. I hope
some day to be able to publish this complete diary of my travels. Who
knows, men may read it and try to diagnose my temperament.”
(Page missing here in my diary.) I _must_ reproduce the next entry:
“_Sunday Night._—Waylao not well; gone to bed early. Played the violin
for two hours; skipper does not like my practice. I must admit it’s not
pleasant, for I’m practising difficult technical studies. I’ve got hopes
of becoming a great violinist; I feel ambitious, and hope to be a kind
of Paganini some day. I often feel that I’m something special in the way
of Man, and dream of my coming greatness. This egotism of mine makes me
supremely happy. Sometimes I see, in my imagination, the great hoarding
bills throughout the cities of the world announcing that ‘I AM COMING!’
I’ve gone so far as to imagine that the Queen commanded my presence at
Buckingham Palace. I’ve been knighted—in dreams. I’ve heard the royal
voice exclaim ‘Arise, Sir—(incognito)—Sir Shadow.’[5] I nearly revealed
my name, my identity then. Phew! Supposing I had done so, what would
haughty old Uncle Jack and prim, aristocratic old Aunt Mally say to hear
that I had published a diary telling of such things—the whole truth out
at last—deliberately published a public record telling how So-and-so’s
youngest son had sailed the Southern Seas with a beautiful half-caste
girl—and a girl LIKE THAT, too? They’d raise their hands with horror,
shocked, disgraced, broken with the thought of ‘What will They say?’ Who
the devil cares for _They_?”
Footnote 5:
The author had intended to publish this book anonymously and has left
the manuscript as originally written.
I see by the next entry in my diary that I gave the skipper several
violin lessons. Here are the entries:
“Skipper gone violin mad. He’s got a good ear, but his technique and
time are rotten. I’m on sick list. Skipper kept me up all night. Though
I hate whisky, I swallowed several glasses through his infernal
persuasion. I can see now that it was deliberate on his part. He says
that I played the violin like a heathen god. I know that I did
_something_, because the violin’s strings were all broken this morning.
“I’ve got some dim recollection of pressing Waylao’s hand when the
skipper wasn’t looking, recall some faint idea that I thought she was a
glorious Madonna, and that I whispered impassioned things into her ears.
I think I danced too. The world seemed to have suddenly righted itself,
everything seemed beautiful and rosy. Death and God walked mercifully
together. I even got over-familiar with the skipper—smacked him on the
back and told him he’d be a good violinist in about a thousand years’
time. No more whisky for me, thank you.
“_Monday._—Passed Curacoa reef this afternoon. Samoan Isles are away to
the north. Been thinking of dear old Grimes; wish he was with me.
“Waylao cried for two hours to-day. I did my level best to cheer her up.
She had been telling me a lot about her childhood. I find that she is
really a most intelligent girl, but rather given to following her
impulses instead of calm reason. Like me in that respect.
“I feel sometimes that I’m half in love with Waylao. She’s romantic; has
got a beautiful golden gleam in the pupils of her eyes. I can easily see
how that devil of a man got her into trouble. She’s been talking a lot
about Eastern men, Indians, etc. Got my suspicions about things. I know
what the world is: read about life in the newspapers, London, England.
Wicked, soulless old bounders some men are.
“I dreamed about Pauline last night. She came to me as I was playing the
violin by the old grog shanty. I threw my arms around her; she kissed me
passionately, saying that she had loved me all the time. She seemed
wondrously beautiful in the dream. I can’t imagine anything so
gloriously divine now that I’m wide awake. Yet I somehow feel the effect
on my heart. It’s strange that the most divine conceptions of beauty are
realised when we are asleep. Perhaps it’s a beautiful premonition, some
prophetic knowledge of what things will be like when we are dead—and
yet, what about nightmares?
“_Tuesday._—Sighted isles off Fiji at sunset last night. Smelt the
odours of decaying, overripe fruits as the wind blew gently from the
land.
“A fleet of canoes passed on the port side. Big, savage, tattooed men
waved paddles to us, friendly-wise. Passed one little isle that was
inhabited by one hut, sheltered by a large, feathery palm-tree. Looked
like the gaudy-coloured picture of a South Sea novel, as the Fijian
chief stood by his hut door with his club, and his deep-bosomed wife
threw the sailors a graceful salutation, kiss-wise, with hand at her
lips. They had two _fainy toatisis_ (girls), who were all the while
running up and down the shore, waving their arms and splashing in the
waves.
“Waylao is very excited at the prospect of going ashore soon. I’ve told
skipper that I intend leaving the ship at Suva. He was angry at first,
but calmed down after, and paid me all that was due to me.
“The boatswain kissed Waylao when she wished the sailors good-bye.
“I felt a bit wild at the way some of the sailors chaffed me about
Waylao. But I don’t care. I’m getting used to chaff and the winks and
ways of this clever world.
“You ought to have heard the skipper giving Waylao advice about stowing
away in the holds of tramp ships. He gave her a little cash, too. Shows
he doesn’t belong to a Charity Organisation, doesn’t it?
“I promised to meet Waylao ashore. Sailors all winking and accusing me
of leaving ship so as to accompany the pretty stowaway. I’ve been to
Suva before, so I know all about the best spots for a girl like Waylao
to get lodgings.”
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