thousand years old; he had arched eye sockets and so deep were his eyes
set that you seldom saw them, excepting now and again when a tiny gleam
of the sunlight struck across his face through the palms as he spoke and
lifted his head and finger skyward, telling of cannibalistic feasts of
long ago. One of his ears was missing; he had once been hideous, but age
had softened the wicked features and expressions down, and his wrinkled
brown parchment-like face expressed only a death-like awfulness, and
made you feel as though you saw life, distorted and wretched, gazing
through a human skull which death had long since claimed but which would
not die. That wretched old chief told me that he could remember quite
well the first white man who had visited his Island, and as he gazed
upon me I saw a gleam sparkle out from his hidden eyes and I
instinctively wondered what might have happened to that white brother of
mine who had fallen into the clutches of that fearful cannibal when he
was lusty, strong, glowing with hunger and lust of blood. I do not think
he was a Samoan. Many of the older inhabitants of those days were chiefs
from other Isles who had fallen through some great tribal battle or had
committed some crime and so sought the refuge of another Island where
they could dwell in safety, away from the hot vengeance of their own
people.
I stayed for two nights with Marmona and his wife; they made me up a
soft bed in one of their spare huts, but I did not sleep very well for
my brain had an annoying knack of starting to think whenever I was left
alone. As it happened it was a good thing that I was sleepless on those
two nights. As I lay the second night turning over and over on my
matting bed, I got so sick of it that I arose and lit a cigarette, and
without standing up I pulled myself towards the hole that served as a
door, and pushing the sacking back I gazed out on to the moonlit
village. The winds were all asleep and the shadows of the tropic trees
and palms thrown by the moonlight on the wattle huts and roofs of the
sleeping village lay perfectly still, and it all seemed as though it
were some tremendous painted picture of a tropic South Sea village done
in glimmering silver oils. As I gazed I felt that I was the only living
creature in that ghost-like sleeping village, and then to my surprise a
shadow moved across the moonlit patch, almost just opposite my hut door.
Turning my head quickly I saw the frizzly head of a Samoan poke up out
of the jungle ferns to the right of me. In a moment I dodged back and
watched with one of my eyes fixed to a crack in my bedroom wall; my
heart began to beat rapidly, for on all-fours he slowly moved along,
stirring the grass aside silently with snake-like stealth as he came
straight towards my hut! Every now and again he stopped and looked
around to see if all was silent and unperceived. I began to feel in a
terrible state of mind, and looking round I swiftly caught hold of an
old club to protect myself with, for I saw that it was my sleeping place
that his eye was on! He looked a great strong fellow and for a moment I
wondered if I should wait and see what it all meant or go to the door
and let him see that I had seen him, but extreme funk sent curiosity to
the devil and I put my head out of the hut door and shouted Hallo! For a
part of a second his eyes stared astonished, and then like a startled
kangaroo he arose on his feet with one hop and ran off with the
swiftness of a race-horse.
Marmona and I talked it over next day and we both agreed that my
midnight visitor was an envious thief, who was after my violin and
thought to steal it from my hut whilst I slept. As I have told you
before, the whole of the Pacific Islanders are born thieves, and I
noticed that as Marmona told me his suspicions and waxed indignant over
that midnight thief his own dark eyes gave one avaricious gleam as he
caught sight of my violin, which he would have stolen in five seconds if
he had thought I should never suspect him. For the brown men are no
better than the whites, and will, in due course, all be virtuous and
honest, valuing their neighbour’s opinion more than the article which
their hearts long to steal. When I look back and think of the native
villages and the peace, with no police patrolling the village road with
truncheons and bull’s-eye lanterns to quell the courage of the
evil-doer, I really believe the South Sea Island heart is not half so
evil as it has been painted, and though I have travelled the South Sea
villages, mixed with the native men and women, drank and laughed with
them, separated them in their childish squabbles, I have never seen
their women creeping about with smashed noses or swollen lips and
blackened eyes, as I have seen the women of the white men on the cold
streets of London Town.
The morning after my night fright I intimated to Marmona that I must
leave the village, and he arranged to go with me with the idea of
showing me the way through the forest to the village of Maffo, as far as
I can remember that was the name, but so many of the village names were
similar and extraordinary that I cannot be certain of my exactness in
pronouncing them now. It was situated near to the sea. Mrs Marmona
almost embraced me as I bade her farewell, and I held up her hand, bowed
and gently kissed it in courtly fashion. I then did likewise to her late
enemy who stood beside her; for I knew that had I not done so trouble
would crop up as soon as Marmona and I were out of sight. Old Marmona’s
daughter, whom I have not mentioned before, but who nevertheless was a
great deal by my side during that visit, came forward and gave me a
beautiful native-made comb from her hair, and by the way she gave it I
should think that it was the greatest compliment that a native girl can
pay a youth. I kissed her hand twice and with sorrow in my heart waved
my hands as I passed away into the forest. Poor old Marmona crept along
in front carrying my portmanteau, which was a large silk handkerchief
that held my violin and bow, a small tooth-comb, brush, and a clean
shirt.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XIII
I tramp through the South Sea Forest alone—Play my Violin to the
Natives—The Trader’s Vision—The Rivals
MARMONA was a faithful friend, and led me through the forest, down the
mountainous steep with the certain instinct of a blood-hound. Once on
the track we called at a tiny South Sea home wherein lived some friends
of Marmona’s and to please him I took the violin out and played to them
all. There were two daughters and several sons, and as they stood
listening they jabbered and eyed me with wonder, for I made the violin
wail and scream hideously as I found that, notwithstanding their love of
natural song, the shrill notes pleased them the best. They gave us a
good feed of baked plantains and other mixed food, and we could easily
have lodged there for a week had I wished to do so. I cannot describe to
you the beauty of the landscape that we tramped across. The bright
winged birds whirred overhead, and often perched on the tropic trees
around us and preened their blossom-like feathers, making strange
noises, as though their beaks touched tinkling bells.
At sunset through the trees we saw the Pacific heaving far away and the
white rising breakers for ever charging the shoreward reefs. It was a
lovely spot, and nestled below in the hollow, between the shore and the
forest, was a small native village and the homes of a few traders. A
little distance from the shore, by the promontory, a schooner lay
anchored, and hovering around it the natives paddled in their out-rigged
canoes. Arriving in the village, Marmona introduced me to some friends
of his and I was glad of a rest; I had tramped a long way and my feet
were a bit blistered, for my boots were getting rather thin. That night
Marmona bade me farewell, and I gave him several shillings and he was
very delighted indeed. Though I have read that the natives are very
proud, and scorn to take money in return for a kindness, I never had the
pleasure of running across those refined temperaments; indeed they all
seemed to be true brothers to the white man in that respect, and the
only little disagreements I ever had with my brown friends were in my
“hard-up times,” but I generally got into their good graces when the
wherewithal was once more in my possession.
I stayed in that shore village for three days and four nights. There
were several white traders living there, and I also got into
conversation with the crew of the schooner that lay outside. It was an
isolated little village and I got to know almost every one of the
inhabitants during my short stay there, and I especially remember that
little village because of the old white trader I met there. He lived
alone in a small den hut by the sea; he had earnest thoughtful eyes, and
as I sat and talked to him in the shadow of his one room I could see by
his face that he had been a very handsome man in his time. There was
something in his voice that was musical and emotional, and as I played
to him on the violin he made remarks about the operatic selections that
told me he had seen better days and in a sense was originally a refined
and educated man. Whether he was mad or not I cannot say, but when the
village was all asleep that night he gazed in a frightened way all about
him and told me to play certain old tunes, and as the moonlight crept
over the sleeping village and perfect stillness lay over everything,
excepting for the noise of the breakers beating down on the shore reefs
at intervals, he would put his finger up to his grey-bearded mouth and
say “Play softly, mate, they are coming!” Then with staring eyes he
would gaze towards the forest and down shorewards, begging me not to
stop playing as he stood by his hut door with eager eyes watching
something going on that I could not see. After it was all over, and the
terrible look had gone from his face, to my relief he bent his head on
to his knee and cried like a child. So intense was his sorrow as I stood
there by him that I almost felt the tears rise in my own eyes. I could
not make it all out, for though his manner seemed insane yet there was
something so earnest and manly in his eyes and in his actions that I
felt safe with him by that lonely hut as the village slept. Then he told
me the history of his life; and till I die I will remember that old
white trader of the South Seas, and from the poem that I have written,
inspired by that strange sight and the tale he told me, you, reader, may
gather all that I heard, which he swore before his Maker was absolute
truth.
In my wattle hut by Maffalo I lie nor can I sleep,
Deep waters beat against my heart, thro’ my head the night winds sweep,
For the brown one sleeps by the forest track with the banyans overhead,
And the white girl sleeps by the channel cliffs where the white men
bury their dead.
And the tin roofs shine, as the traders rest by the beach and still
canoes,
Where the shore-line huts in silence stand by the waveless straight
bamboos,
And when the moonlight whitely falls slantwise across the hill,
And the palms and shore lagoons for miles, with the sleeping winds, are
still,
The brown one from the forest runs, the white girl from the sea—
With shining eyes by my hut door in silence gaze on me.
And I cannot sleep as the dead eyes meet, fierce eyes of ebon-flame!
The grey eyes gleam thro’ shadowy hair, as of old she moans my name.
In moonlight struggling silently they glimmer in the gloom,
As wails the native dead child far in the forest deep of doom;
And the wistful unborn children rise down by the shoreward palms,
Peep from the sea with anxious eyes, and toss their small white arms!
But deep in my heart the dead one screams—from its grave across the
steep,
And I know it will with frightened eyes soon out of the forest creep!
As I watch the figures, ebon and gold, oft brighten by moonlight,
Till the white one wins and the brown one runs back to the forest
night;
And, in vain, I leap to shadowy arms, as she crying flees from me,
Down shoreward runs, in a flash of flame dives back to the moonlit sea.
So, I drink and drink as the nights go by and the schooners day by day
Taking my heart with the white sails home where the sunsets fade away.
Till the sea-winds cease and the trees all sleep, and the hushed waves
are all still,
And the moonlight slantwise falls across the forest track and hill
As I listening wait for the rustling sound with my dreaming
eyes—unshut!
Till out in the night by the pale moonlight their shadows seek my hut—
Out of the forest depth one runs, and the white girl up the shore
Till the dead child screams and the unborn watch the shadows by my
door.
I stayed in that village all the next day, and at sunset I bade
Marmona’s friends good-bye. Also I bade that sad trader farewell, and he
held my hand for a long time before he said good-bye.
It seemed like some enchanted village of fairyland as I looked back over
the slopes and saw the sun like a large ball of blood sink into the sea
and the moon rise over the mountainous country inland, peeping through
the heavens of shadow and stars that brightened out in the east. I
passed away from the place with a strange feeling in my heart for that
lonely man and all that would happen when the sea-shore village lay once
more asleep in the moonlight. I have heard many strange tales of spirits
and “ju-jus” from men in my travels, but never one so strangely sad and
impressive as his, and I have often wondered if all that that old man
told me was the outcome of a delirious brain or really some haunting
truth that can be seen by the eyes of those hearts that sorrow.
[Illustration: NATIVE BAMBOO BRIDGE]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XIV
South Sea Domestic Life—I attend another South Sea Wedding—Meet Men
flying from Justice—Bound for Tahiti
AT that time I was about eight miles from Apia, and though I was alone,
and a bit depressed, I soon regained my spirits and tramped along
whistling. To my right moved the deep blue Pacific waters, as the
cooling wind gently stirred them and crept up the shore and fanned my
perspiring face. No artist could paint in words or colour the beauty of
the romantic scenery that lay all around me. The ocean’s tremendous
voice murmured wavy songs as it kissed the shore reef in snatches of
whitened wave; the slope trees expressed the silent green utterance of
mother earth, beautiful with sunset-coloured flowers in the piled carpet
of jungle grass and blossoms of crimson and white wherein settled
gorgeous butterflies. A native girl, standing in her brown velvety skin,
waist deep in the grass, laughed and revealed her pearly teeth as I
tramped by, expressing in her sparkling eyes the joy of the conscious
universe. I waved my hand and smiled as her lynx-eyed bush mother
watched her from a hut door just under three large coco-trees a little
higher up where were several more huts. I saw a white man by one of
them, leaning against a tamnu-tree smoking, so I altered my course and
went up the rocky slope and introduced myself. He turned out to be a
deck-hand on one of the trading schooners that traded from Isle to Isle,
and I saw by his face and complexion that he was a half-caste, his wife
was a full-blooded Samoan. His name was Adams, he seemed mighty proud of
it, as he told me that he was a descendant of one of the old _Bounty_
mutineers and a high chief who had previously reigned in the Solomon
Group.
“Come you, Papeteo,” he shouted, and up came his daughter. I do not
think I ever saw a more beautiful native girl than she was as she stood
in front of me with raised shining eyes and a wealth of waving dark
chestnut hair.
“Pappy, go in and get him some grub,” he said, and off she bounded, and
his wife, who spoke broken English, welcomed me, saying, “White mans,
plenty eat sooner,” and so saying folded her brown hands over her
stomach to hide the tear in her tappa-cloth robe which ended at her
knees.
Inside their home I sat, talked and ate a splendid meal of grilled
chops, cooked over their camp fire, as Papeteo’s tiny brothers and
sisters romped around my stool, looked up at me with tiny demon eyes,
and tried to feel in my pockets. When I had finished we both sat outside
under the tall tropic trees, where high up droves of doves moaned and
cooed as the sea-winds swayed the tops.
That half-caste trader was the bravest man and the most fortunate man on
earth, for as soon as he had lit his big pipe and crossed his legs
comfortably he started off telling me of his narrow escapes in storms
and in fights with the natives of the various Isles. I very soon saw
that he was a swanker (they mostly are, the half-castes of the South
Seas), but to be quite friendly I encouraged him and often looked up
with assumed surprise and admiration to hear how he had saved my
countrymen from being murdered by the Solomon Islanders, Fijians and
other tribes by his own wonderful courage and herculean strength, and
just as he was gazing into my face as much as to say “What do you think
of a deed like that?” the red-hot ash from his pipe fell on to his
wife’s bare knee. Up she jumped with a howl and caught him a terrible
crash on the head with a bamboo club, as she started to beat her thin
dress with her hands, for it was all on fire. I leapt forward and tore
the dress from her, otherwise I am sure she would have been seriously
burned. All the husband did was to look horror-struck, and his
half-caste skin went greyish-white. She had given him a terrible whack
with the club, and I suppose he felt spiteful, for I noticed that his
half-caste eyes looked at her with hidden pleasure as she wailed.
Papeteo came running up from the shore sparkling with sea-water, for she
had been bathing in a tiny lagoon a few yards inland, and she quickly
ran into the homestead den and got a large piece of cloth and wrapped it
round her skinny-bosomed parent, and all was soon peace again. I learnt
from that half-caste trader that he was in the employ of the missionary
society and often went off on lecturing tours to the many Islands, as he
could, of course, speak the native language perfectly, as well as being
able to talk English and a smattering of German.
My foot was so blistered and sore on the heel that I altered my mind
about getting back to Apia and stayed there the night, and old Mother
Adams was delighted when she heard I would do so and kept saying “A loo,
O swa,” or something that sounded like it, as her eyes gazed amorously
at me. When her husband had gone across the slope to one of the other
huts, to see some natives who were having a great feast over a wedding,
she made violent love to me, jabbering something to Papeteo. She told
her to get off, and as soon as she had gone she started stroking my hand
and face softly and did many more embarrassing things of Samoan custom,
till I was beside myself with worry, and I can tell you that when
suddenly the half-caste husband returned, and she sat down quickly, I
was extremely pleased.
That night I went with them all over the slope to see the wedding party.
A pretty young Samoan girl had just been married to a stalwart
fierce-looking native, and when we arrived the “Siva dance” was in full
swing. By the rows of huts of the small seaside village the inhabitants
stood and squatted, all singing in unison as the chief dancers, dressed
in flowers and native muslin, and parakeet wings in their hair, whirled
about and around like ghosts in the brilliant moonshine that came
glimpsing through the palm leaves. It revealed the faces and shining
eyes of native maidens as they lifted their long arms and contorted
their bodies, sometimes till their noses touched the forest floor. From
time to time the squatting men, enjoying the scene as they stared in a
circle around those night-dancers, shouted out the equivalent to an
English “Encore!” as one fat native woman succeeded in doing things
which seemed impossible, bending slightly forward, giving a sudden bound
and for a second standing on her head with one leg pointing one way and
the other in the opposite direction. And then she stood on her head in
the moonlight till with another bound she regained her feet and started
hopping and whirling away once more in full swing with nothing on, as,
laughing merrily, revealing pearly teeth and clapping their hands, the
chorus girls of that midnight stage kept strict time with their feet and
bodies on the forest floor.
It was one of the most weirdly impressive scenes that I have ever seen,
more fascinating than any I had seen before with Hornecastle. As I stood
there with old Mrs Adams and her daughter Papeteo by my side, just
behind the husband smoking, I turned and saw two more white men gazing
on the scene. I was astonished to see them, as I had not seen any of my
race about during the day, and thought I was there quite alone. They
were terribly scrubby-looking and had a hunted look in their eyes, and
as they noticed me they quickly said something to the half-caste, and he
in turn quickly reassured them. They were two fugitives from justice,
who had committed some crime and were wanted by the Commissioners.
Probably they had killed someone, and it appeared that my half-caste
friend was doing his best to hide them till they could get away from the
coast on some outbound schooner. One of them was a very decent fellow to
speak to, and I gave him some plug tobacco and hinted to him that he had
nothing to fear from me, and neither had he, for I was sorry for them;
whatever they had done they had already done, and they were my
countrymen. They had at first thought I was a young missionary, and when
they found out that I was a wanderer only they were deeply relieved, and
when the dance was over I went back with them, and found that they were
staying in a hut just by my hosts. They laughed and told me that they
had peeped through a crack and seen the whole of the episode when old
Mother Adams had caught on fire, and chaffed me about her too. They were
both thickly bearded and looked rather haggard and worried, and
evidently had done something serious, but as the night wore on, and they
drank from the large stone jar which stood in the corner of the hut,
they became exceedingly cheerful, and seeing that I had a violin got me
to play, and when I struck up a familiar strain actually started to sing
loudly. Adams the half-caste came rushing in to us in a fearful rage and
called them damned madmen, and everything he could lay his tongue to. I
am sure he would have been expelled from the missionary society had they
heard the way he swore and used God’s name. He managed to sober the two
fugitives and would not leave the hut till they were both lying down. Of
course had they been caught while being harboured by Adams he himself
would have got into serious trouble.
At daybreak they were both awake and tremulously sober. “Good-bye,
matey,” they said to me as I too got quickly to my feet; “Good-bye,” I
said, “and God bless you,” and then the taller one turned and put out
his hairy sunburnt hand. I quickly clasped it and, saying “Good luck to
you youngster,” they both walked quickly down the slope shoreward;
evidently there was an outbound schooner lying in the bay and they were
taking their best chance.
It was a beautiful morning. Round the bend, sunrise was bathing the sea
with crimson and gold, and the parakeets in flocks, screaming off
seaward, passed over my head, and the damp scent of the bread-fruit
trees and orange groves gave the place the atmosphere of fairyland. I
caught sight of those two hunted men hurrying across the white beach far
away, and that was the last I ever saw of them. I hope they got safely
off and were better men afterwards.
That same day I bade Adams and his wife farewell, and pretty Papeteo
gave me a tortoise-shell with a native engraving on it as a memento, and
once more I started on my wanderings.