I fall from Space—Court Violinist—Arrive in Fiji—With
the Great Missing.
I wonder why men o’er the buried weep,
When ’tis the wandering dead who cannot sleep?
I WAS hanging by one foot from a mystical cloud, lesiurely travelling
across the tropic sky, then I lost my grip and fell! I distinctly recall
the awful sensation of that noiseless dive through space, ere I arrived
with a crash! I had apparently fallen through the roof of a grog-shanty
on a Pacific Isle. Many may doubt the aforesaid assertion of mine, and
say that such a mishap was a physical impossibility. But I would say
that it is only the impossible that _does_ occur. I felt the spasm of
that sudden headlong contact of my skull against some hard object very
acutely. Opening my eyes I saw astonished traders standing around me,
still holding their rum mugs between the bar and their lips as they
stared, open-mouthed, down on my recumbent form. I looked through the
doorway and saw feathery palms, and moonlit seas softly beating over the
coral reefs of a strange shore.
“It looks as though I’ve fallen on another world,” thought I. But no
such luck for me! The fact of the case is this. Our ship, from Honolulu,
had arrived off the Fiji Islands that evening. I was with O’Hara, whom I
had re-met in Hawaii. And, in my hurry to get ashore, I had hired a
canoe, and whilst I was being paddled ashore, the canoe had turned
turtle! It appeared that I had sunk twice beneath the water before
O’Hara and the native boatmen rescued me. They thought I was done for
when they dragged me up the shore and carried me into the grog-shanty.
The native bar-keeper had gone off immediately to fetch a well-known
Fijian medicine-man who dwelt in Tumba-Tumba village. What on earth the
medicine-man did before he succeeded in restoring my heart-beats, I
don’t know. O’Hara swore that he delivered mighty blows on my hips with
a flat war-club, lifted me repeatedly up to the shanty’s roof by one leg
and let me drop with a crash! The native doctor was evidently cruel to
be kind, for his strange acts saved my life, and were the direct cause
of the strange sensations and my experience as above recorded.
As the reader knows, O’Hara was an old pal of mine, and, being an
Irishman, was impulsive and entertaining. When I was down in the mouth
he proved a medicine-man of the spirits, for he made me laugh insanely
when I was sane, and dosed me with romantic Irish songs and rum when
credit was scarce. As I have stated, it was after leaving New Guinea
that I had the good fortune to come across my old comrade again in
Honolulu. Though I had a good musical engagement, and was getting on in
the world, so far as the world’s opinion goes, I let everything go to
the winds through not keeping a square chin when O’Hara asked me to go
a-roving with him. As usual, he nearly succeeded in getting us both
hanged when we arrived at Apamama and I became Court violinist to King
Tembinok. It is _one_ thing to be loyal to a chum in adversity, but to
be expected to do the things that O’Hara wished me to do when Tembinok’s
tawny wife fell in love with him was quite another matter. I remembered
the Fae Fae excursion and our flight from Tahiti.
“No, thank you!” I said, when he had the cheek to come and ask me——
But, there, it’s not my wish to deal with that business here. I am out
to tell of quite a different adventure that befell us after we arrived
in Fiji. Financially speaking, I had done very well in Honolulu. I had
secured a good engagement as violinist to King Laukauhammer, as well as
my salary as conductor of the royal bodyguard band. In all I managed to
save a thousand dollars. Though I am not a man who can see anything in
this world to get a swelled head about, my vanity was considerable when
the King presented me with the Court shield of the Kalakaua dynasty—an
equivalent to the Cross of the Chevalier of Honour—thus making my
seventh South Sea knighthood in less than twelve months, not counting,
mind you, the proffered kingship at Temelako, New Guinea, where, on
playing my violin under a palm tree, outside a heathen seraglio, I was
embraced by a widowed queen and compelled to enter the tribal palace
palavana by royal command. Also I had, to the King’s delight, composed
special marches, and scored them for the strange, primitive
instrumentation of the King’s private military band. For a while I had
lived sumptuously at the best hotel in Beratania Street. Then I had
decided to start off in search of any adventure that was opposed to the
orthodox route as mapped out in the twelve commandments of civilized
life.
I recall that O’Hara and I sailed as first-class passengers on the S.S.
“Alameda,” which was bound for N.S.W., via Suva, Fiji. The voyage was
momentous for its monotony, not one storm or passionate incident. O’Hara
and I cursed everything, wished the sea yellow, the sun blue, and that
the crew might mutiny and pitch the skipper overboard or cast us adrift
on endless waters. Night after night we unbuttoned our clothes and
thankfully “turned in” to rehearse a death-like existence in our small,
coffin-shaped bunks. After arriving in Fiji and those things happening
already narrated, we put up at the best hotel in Suva, scorning Smith’s
bar and the old fan-tan shanty at Buta. For a while we enjoyed the
company of the élite—well-to-do traders, ships’ mates and derelict
skippers, stranded runaway apprentices, and strange men of better days
who appeared to have lost their memory and their reason for being in
Fiji at all.
It was while we were stopping at this hotel that O’Hara and I discovered
that our improvidence necessitated our looking for cheaper diggings. An
old shellback, seeing how things were with us, took us into his
confidence, recommended us to a good lodging-house, a sort of Sailors’
Home, on the Rewa river. First, one must know that this Sailors’ Home
was primarily the “Charity Organization of the Southern Seas!” For,
beneath its kind roof, sheltered by giant breadfruit trees, men hid from
the Suva police—men who were mostly fugitives from across the world, and
who had flown from the cities in haste to save their necks or their
liberty. But this fact did not deter O’Hara and myself from wishing to
go there. Personally, I have always thought that one has a perfect right
to save one’s neck. Man has only one neck, one life, and not always one
chance whilst alive of doing better for himself.
The idea that there was really a lonely wooden establishment hidden in
the deep seclusion of a certain forest, where hunted men found refuge
from the law, was most fascinating to me, and this fascination was the
main incentive that took O’Hara and me there.
When that old shellback stood on the Suva parade, put his finger
secretively up to the side of his corrugated nasal organ, and gave us a
significant wink of magnificent import as to all that he could tell
about that Charity Organization, O’Hara’s heart seemed to fairly burst
with glorious anticipation. His curly hair seemed to bristle forth the
possibilities before us; his face flushed till his bright blue eyes
seemed to breathe forth the poetry of romance. Nor was I myself far
behind in my eagerness to get to that mysterious residence of secretive
men of past crime. Besides, I was out in the world to take notes, and
was determined to take them.
We lost no time. We packed up our goods and trekked. By noon of the next
day we had been paddled in canoes across wide lagoons and up a mighty
river by friendly natives. Then we plunged into the bush-land.
The very silence of that South Sea forest and the gleam of the sea
horizon—just visible through the woods of mighty breadfruits—gave one’s
imagination the atmosphere of heathenland mystery. We could hear the
mountain drums beating the sunset down somewhere up in the native
villages. To the N.N.W. were the wild, tribal, haunted mountains of
_Vuni-cunu_, running in a westerly direction, finally meeting the ranges
of _Muanivatu_. Around us stood huge tropical trees—banyans,
breadfruits, big bamboos, limes, and the ndrala laden with scarlet
blossoms. The airs of the deep glooms, heavy with the wild perfumes of
dying hibiscus and many strange, exotic forest flowers, sent pungent
odours to our nostrils. Not so far away tumbled the cool, swirling
waters of the river, hurrying on their homeward journey from the
mountains that formed a grand, wildly picturesque background to the
district where the large, shed-like building of the Charity Organization
of the South Seas was situated.
Sheltered by feathery palms and one or two mighty buttressed banyans,
that dark, vine-overgrown building looked like some peaceful hermitage,
some primitive monastery that sheltered aged missionaries. True enough,
missionaries dwelt therein; but what missionaries they were!—men who
relieved unhappy men who had shaved their beards off and arrived in
haste overburdened with cash! Yes, they rested there in security till
the hot scent had blown over, and once again they could continue on
their way across the wine-dark seas, outbound for the enchanted realms
of No-Extradition Ports, where dwell the Great Missing!
Could one have put one’s ear to that Organization’s low-roofed door, one
would have distinctly heard a chorus of muffled oaths and snatches of
wild song droning from the lips of the mysterious inmates of that
Arabian Nights-like establishment. Could one have opened that door on
the sly and peeped in, one would have seen a sight worth seeing if only
for its anthropological interest. All types were there, from the genuine
“hard up” honest sailorman down to the reformed native from Timbuctoo.
There they sat: sun-tanned men from the seas, ex-convicts, _libérés_
from New Caledonia; handsome faces, bleared and serious-looking;
hideous, sallow faces with pugnacious pug noses—Chinese, half-caste
Malays, and one or two runaway ships’ apprentices. Most of them were
leaning over the large bench-like table, shuffling cards and drinking
fiery rum, as ever and anon they glanced beneath the rims of their
wide-brimmed sombreros, and stared with hunted-looking eyes toward the
shanty’s door. They were ever on the alert! O’Hara and I had been in
that place only two days when two runaways arrived from Suva—one of whom
hailed from London Town, the other from Noumea. They usually arrived
without portmanteaux, under the cover of night, tapped at the door, paid
the bribe demanded, and so came under the flag of brotherhood and the
protection of that Charity Organization’s kindness.
O’Hara was tremendously excited about it all, and so was I. We got to
love exciting cases. One day, as O’Hara and I were watching the antics
of a covey of native children romping like puppies in the forest ferns,
we heard the sound of voices.
“What’s that?” said O’Hara.
“Sounds like the paddles of a canoe and voices on the beach,” I replied.
We listened again, and distinctly heard sounds as of a woman weeping.
Going up the little slope, we peeped through the banyan trunks; sure
enough, there were new arrivals seeking the Organization’s shelter. They
were two in all, the third person, who was leading them across the dense
fern scrub, was Bill Bode, the second in command of the shanty. One of
the fugitives was a tall, aristocratic-looking man; the other a young
and pretty girl. It was very evident that the latter felt depressed as
she looked in wonder at the sombre forest surrounding us.
The shadows of night were falling when we crept softly down the tracks
and once more entered that mysterious shanty’s door.
That building consisted of several large, low-roofed rooms and two small
compartments that were strictly private. One was arranged with much
taste, even decorated with flower-pots and provided with the essentials
for a fragile guest; and when the fugitive arrived, bringing with him
the sad cause of his downfall, it was in that small compartment that she
slept!
As O’Hara and I arrived in the rooms of that Sailors’ Boarding
Establishment, for such it was to us, the new arrival walked quietly
into the primitive saloon bar, gave a friendly nod to the members of the
motley throng, and sat down amongst the guests, who were mostly belated
sailors awaiting a ship. For, as I have intimated before, not all who
dwelt beneath that roof were hiding from the long arm of the law. If
anyone had doubts as to the respectability of that place, they would
have been quickly dispelled had he seen the look on the faces of those
rough men when someone tapped loudly at the door. That same evening
Ko-Ko, the half-caste native maid, was dancing on the large bench at the
far end of the room. Everything seemed rosy and peaceful. As the rough
men cheered and repeatedly encored the girl’s dances, and one played the
banjo and step-danced an incongruous _obligato_ to the girl’s song, the
hilarity was suddenly turned off like a gas-jet! Crash! someone had
knocked violently at the shanty’s front door!
Every “man-jack” breathed an oath, put his hand to his sheath-knife, and
glared his anticipation of the arrival of the police from Suva. The new
arrival trembled visibly, and turned ashy-white as once more it
came—crash! crash! on the door.
Just by the door was a huge tub which was a kind of emergency barrel.
The whole scene, there in the shadows, seemed like some terribly
realistic moving-picture show enacting before our eyes. Bones had rushed
from the next room, lifted the vast lid from the barrel, while four
stalwart men lifted the new arrival bodily—crash! bang! the stranger had
gone!
Only a muffled swear-word told the way of his going as the lid went
down.
Bones, who was the head of that Organization, and pocketed the bribes,
gave his holiest smile, his half-humorous-looking face betraying no sign
of the intense excitement of the moment when the new-comer had
disappeared from life’s wildest drama beneath the lid of that huge
barrel.
As the door opened, a giant of a fellow stood framed by the opening. It
appeared that he was a half-caste official from the Suva police force.
When he had told Bones that a canoe had been found on the beach, and
that they had received information that a fugitive from the N.S.W. mail
steamer had landed at Suva, Bones simulated a terrible passion.
“What the b—— h—— yer come ’ere for? What’s that to do with me?”
“Keep yer wig on,” said the official, standing just behind the first
man, who by this time had given Bones a significant wink. It required
very little thought to enable one to discern that Bones was well in with
those officials. And one’s suspicions would have soon been confirmed had
one seen the official in question sit down on the emergency barrel, and
grin from ear to ear as a muffled sneeze came from beneath the lid!
In a few moments the friendly man-hunters had passed away, happy enough
with their bribe—bribery being the staple trade of that establishment.
Next day a shot was heard in the forest. When the Organization members
rushed out beneath the palms, they only discovered the quivering body of
yesterday’s arrival—the new-comer had blown the top of his head off!
They hid the body beneath the scrub. Next day they buried him on the
quiet, miles away, near the old-time sugar plantations.
Bones and three or four others were the chief mourners. No coffin,
simply a bit of old tarpaulin tied tightly at the feet and again round
the neck, the canvas so short that the poor fugitive’s hair stuck out in
a pathetic bunch. It was like burying a man at sea as they dropped him
down into that hastily-dug hollow. O’Hara crossed himself. Bones said
something that sounded kind. As for the girl, she wept bitterly,
trembling like a leaf as she knelt by the grave-side. It made me wonder
if I dreamed that sight—a grave in a South Sea forest, that silent,
canvas-wrapt figure, and that innocent-looking girl with a world of
sorrow, utter misery on her face. She wasn’t his daughter; there was
something too passionately poetical in the things she said as she knelt
there, caring not at all for the men who stared down at her with a misty
look in their eyes.
Two days after that, she had sufficiently recovered so that she could
venture to travel. The kindness of Bones and the shady characters was
something that revealed in an indisputable manner that a woman’s
presence and sorrow have more religious influence on sinful hearts than
all the Psalms.
No one knew the exact way of that girl’s going. But the favoured theory
was that Bones and the Organization members had made a collection and so
paid her fare in the next steamer that was bound for London.
Next day a clergyman arrived. “Ecclesiastical profession” was writ in
sombre lines across his lean physiognomy.
“Who’s coming here next?” breathed O’Hara, as we looked up from the
pages of our novels, making sure that he too was fleeing from the
righteous arm of justice. But we were mistaken. He was simply a
kind-hearted religious crank who spent his days in wandering from isle
to isle seeking to reform fallen men. His woe-begone, melancholy aspect
cast a deep gloom over the establishment as he moaned out sad quotations
from his Bible, a gloom that pervaded the forest and darkened the sea
horizon. Bones shook him heartily by the hand when he first arrived and
said pious things. Bones had a face like cast-iron, but was soft-hearted
and the finest hypocrite extant. Some of the honest sailormen, yielding
to that sad ecclesiastic’s soft persuasion, listened to long passages
from the Psalms and Solomon’s Song. Then he took O’Hara and me down to
the tribal villages and introduced us to some of the old-time chiefs.
Shaggy old women prostrated themselves at his feet as he prayed for
their souls.
It was very evident that he had been that way before. Everyone seemed to
know him. I got to like him immensely during the two days that he
stopped with Bones. His madness was interesting and original, and made
an agreeable change after consorting with mortals who were quite sane.
Then he, too, passed away on his melancholy wanderings.
After he went, there arrived a troupe of troubadours, who came from
Melbourne as deck-passengers on a schooner. Among their number were
three American girls who turned that shanty into a kind of _opéra
bouffe_, as they sang and step-danced in a wonderful way. The scene
inside when the girls danced and the fat man played his guitar, looked
like some living-picture representation of Madame Tussaud’s, as though
all the lifeless criminals had been mysteriously awakened and were
applauding the visitors, waving big hats in wild ecstasy at being
serenaded so sweetly while in their degraded state. For, as they
listened to the troubadours, about twenty of us stood by, looking on the
shadowy scene lit up by the tallow candles that swung to and fro on
wires suspended from the roof of the wide bar-room.
I believe the wandering troupe made a splendid collection that night. I
know the fat man, with a big stomach, got very drunk, sang several
songs, and then fell down. And the girls giggled all night long as they
slept in the private compartment, wherein the unhappy fugitive girl had
rested the night before.
Next day the troupe bade us all farewell, for they were bound for
’Frisco, and the boat was leaving at noon.
I think O’Hara and I had been at the establishment for two weeks then.
It wasn’t a long time, but I had seen more strange sides of life in that
short time than one could well see under normal circumstances in twenty
years. But it must be admitted that my immediate experiences seemed very
vapid compared with the exciting adventures of the peculiar men who
arrived at the Charity Hermitage and seemed never weary of telling their
reminiscences and hairbreadth escapes to the new-comers. Even O’Hara
opened his mouth in astonishment at all he heard from the lips of those
who yearned to tell yarns, as over and over again some strange old
derelict would pull his whiskers while dropping into deep meditation as
to “what happened next.” That Hermitage of the South Seas was a kind of
Old Inn on life’s highway wherein sad men entered from the unknown, sat
and drank, sang a song, and then departed out into the unknown,
sometimes in a great hurry. Three extraordinary-looking beings arrived
at the Hermitage one night. One resembled Don Quixote _in extremis_,
another had a huge crooked nose that was swathed by a vast reddish
beard, and the third had a huge, domed bald head that looked like a
mighty billiard ball with flapping ears. They were attired in loose,
dilapidated pantaloons, heavy belts, coloured shirts, and firearms, and
might have been South Sea freebooters, blackbirders, or anything that is
wild and lawless, if appearances are to be relied upon. They hadn’t been
in the Organization Hermitage twelve hours before the half-caste
surveillants arrived at the door. The three new-comers at once made a
bolt out under the palms that led down to the seashore, a quarter of a
mile off. And, if anyone had happened to pass along the sands that
afternoon, they would assuredly have seen three weird-looking objects
with twinkling eyes sticking up out of the calm blue waters by the
shore’s coral reefs. To an imaginative observer those objects would
certainly have resembled the figureheads of three sunken Chinese junks,
wooden faces protruding, just visible at low-tide, the eyes glassy,
staring at the sky, lips tightly compressed, the nostrils level with the
ocean’s surface. But then again, the vast polished bald head of one was
unaccountable, and the bristly hair of another toned down the weird
unreality of the scene. For who ever saw a hideous Chinese junk’s
figure-head with thick hair on its crown, and tobacco smoke issuing from
its mouth? In short, those three objects were the heads of the three
new-comers, their bodies hidden beneath the sea’s surface, their heads
and nostrils exposed just sufficient so that they might inhale the
breeze, as they hid from the surveillants! Next day the natives missed a
twelve-seater outrigger canoe. And had high chief Makaroa looked
seaward, instead of kneeling and weeping before his old idol, he would
have seen a small object fading away on the ocean horizon far to the
S.W. It was none other than Makaroa’s missing canoe, with the three
fugitives, out on the wide world of waters, bound for Nowhere! But all
this is only a detail.
Perhaps it will not be out of place to tell one of the yarns that we
heard at the Hermitage,—not a swash-buckling story, but a tale that had
the indisputable ring of truth in it. The teller of the story was a
weird-looking fellow of about fifty years of age. He had lived in the
Solomons and Fiji for years. I think he was a trader. Anyway, he had
travelled the South Seas in the old heathen times, had lived in Fiji
when cannibalism was in vogue, and King Thakombau reigned supreme over
his dominions from the old capital of Bau. In these pages I will call
him G——. I cannot reproduce his exquisite manner in telling a story. I
had never heard anything like it before. He had lived in the isles to
the east when Bully Hayes roamed the seas, when King Tembinok of Apamama
was in his cannibal youthful prime, and Queen Vaekehu of Tai-o-hae
welcomed many a dusky potentate into her impassioned arms.
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