LIFE AT NASOVA—FARMYARD—CONVICT THATCHERS—NATIVE FESTIVAL AT
BAU—RETURN TO NASOVA—BATTLES WITH CRABS—BEGINNING OF CANNIBAL
DISTURBANCE—FIJIAN FAIRIES—A STORM.
NASOVA, FIJI, _March 1, 1876_.
DEAR AUNT EMMA,—I have not yet written once direct to you, but I trust
you nevertheless consider yourself bound to write to me; for you cannot
realise how greatly we prize all home letters out here, and how we do
watch for the mails. We have been so watching now for upwards of a week,
the mail being long overdue, and a hundred times a-day we look up to see
if no faint line of smoke on the horizon tells of its approach; and when
it does come in with a whole month’s European news, can you not fancy
what an anxious minute the opening of the mail-bag is? If only people
at home could realise the delight their letters are to wanderers in far
lands, I think they would surely write more regularly.
I wish I could look in at you all, just for a good chat, but I should
wish to carry with me a flood of sunshine, and this calm blessed sea,
for I fear London is hardly as pretty to-day as Fiji; and whatever
disadvantages this place possesses, it certainly has no lack of beauty.
At present, however, it is terribly isolated—a small steamer to New
Zealand being our only direct communication with the outer world, the
Australian boats having deliberately dropped us, declaring that we don’t
pay! However, for the last three months the great steamers running
between San Francisco, New Zealand, and Australia have touched at
Khandavu, our outermost isle, bringing and taking mails and passengers;
but they are fighting hard to get off doing so, and only do it at all
because their agent signed a contract which they find they cannot at
present legally break.
_March 7._—I began this letter a week ago, when we were waiting and
watching for the mail. At last, when we were beginning to fear our little
steamer had gone to the bottom, she returned with a few Australian
letters, but the aggravating steamer from San Francisco never touched
Khandavu at all; so all our English letters and papers have gone to New
Zealand, and we shall not see them for six weeks. So much for being a
poor colony, which cannot afford to build proper lighthouses. And poor
it is with a vengeance. You cannot imagine anything more so. The whole
white community are only just above starvation-point, and yet everything
is very expensive.
I cannot give you a better proof of the general poverty than the fact
that scarcely any one in Levuka (the capital) owns a boat—the only
other means of locomotion being to tramp on weary feet along the vilest
of shingly footpaths. Even the officials—the Colonial Secretary and
Auditor-General—have none. The Judge (Sir William Hackett) and the
Attorney-General (Mr de Ricci) have a rickety old tub between them, which
they either pull themselves, or man with two labour-boys, each great arm
of the law supplying one! Of course the Governor has his own boat, in
which Lady Gordon goes for a small row two or three times a-week; but
it takes six of the native police to man it, and they are not always
available. Moreover, it is such a good boat that there are very few
places where it can ever be allowed to touch; and above all, it must keep
a very respectful distance from the beautiful coral-reefs and patches,
which are to me the chief delight of this place. I always envy the native
women, who are for ever playing, and fishing, and finding wonderful
treasures on the reef, but here the whites do not understand the interest
of such pursuits. So my enjoyment of the reef consists in looking down on
it from the hill above us, and lovely indeed it is.
Just behind the house is a steep glen, with a rocky wee burn, overhung
with good large trees, and these are matted with ferns and creepers. It
is not a very fine piece of tropical scenery, but it is my own, in the
sense that no one else ever takes the trouble to climb up. So there are
few days that I do not scramble up to some pleasant perch among the grey
boulders, whence I can look down through the fringe and frame of green
leaves to the lovely blue sea, with the band of rainbow light that marks
the coral-reef. I am writing there just now, in a cleft between two great
rocks, and right glad to escape from the sound of many voices down at
the house. For one of the aggravations of house-building out here (as
in tropical countries generally) is, that to improve ventilation, the
partitions between rooms always stop short of the ceiling. Consequently
every word spoken in one is heard in all the others, to the great
aggravation of the unwilling listener. How the gentlemen can concentrate
their minds sufficiently to write business letters in their very noisy
quarters, with people of all colours perpetually coming and going, is
to me a standing mystery; and the annoyance is further aggravated by
the fact that, in these one-storeyed houses, all rooms must of course
be on the ground-floor, and all windows are shutterless glass doors,
opening on to a public verandah; and you have to choose between sitting
with several doors wide open to all comers, or stifling for lack of air
by closing them. Certainly no one in Fiji can say that his house or
his room is his castle, where he may rest undisturbed. I think, of all
delights of a British house, there is none which we all shall henceforth
prize more thankfully than the privilege of sitting at our own windows
up stairs with closed doors. I am bound to say, however, that I am far
better off than any one else in the house in this respect, having a very
cosy nest in the new wing. But being next the nursery, the system of
open roof makes the rooms virtually one; and though the two children,
Jack and Nevil, are the very clearest and best of little chicks, and
their Welsh nurse and Portuguese nursery-maid are likewise excellent, it
does sometimes suggest itself that silence would be preferable. So then
I creep up my glen and have an hour or two, with only the blue and gold
lizards as companions.
Happily in Fiji we have really no noxious creatures except mosquitoes
(and they do swarm). But the houses are full of cockroaches, which
eat everything—boots, shoes, clothes, &c.—and what they spare the
mildew destroys. My drawing-paper is already spoilt, and our dresses
and boots are green with mildew every morning. So are our collections
of spears, clubs, and bowls, which require daily rubbing with oil.
Another foe is a lovely white cockatoo, which has a special fancy for
eating the best table-cloths and the gentlemen’s dress-clothes! We have
a good many parrots about the place, more or less tame, which will
come and perch on the tea-cups, upsetting more than they drink; and
there are tame kingfishers, which eat the cockroaches (in which useful
art they are assisted by huge spiders, which we love and cherish). A
pair of laughing-jackasses walk about the apology for a garden, and
jeer at everything; and sometimes they and the pigeons come into the
drawing-room, and have to be driven out; and all farmyard creatures,
carefully reared by Abbey since our arrival, roam about on every
side,—cows, sheep, turkeys, geese, and fowls; and don’t they all cackle
and gobble! You see there is so very little available ground for anything
here on this rocky island, that everything is huddled up into no space at
all. A very pet dog, with her puppies of two generations, complete the
family.
We are getting tolerably cosy at last; but it has been a slow
process,—and it is little more than a month since we were able to take
possession of the three new rooms which Sir Arthur has added to the old
house—namely, a large drawing-room, a nursery, and bedroom, which last
was built for Lady Gordon; but as she prefers remaining in the old house,
it falls to my share. It is a simple wooden house; but so expensive is
every detail of work here, that I believe it has cost Sir Arthur upwards
of £1000; and as he refunds more than a third of his nominal salary as
Governor to this wellnigh empty treasury, it follows that the post is by
no means a lucrative one. Our new rooms are very nice; but in the wish
to make the building less hideous than other houses here, Sir Arthur
indulged in gable-ends, which, we are told, will probably result in our
being left roofless the night of the first hurricane,—for which the
weather prophets look about three weeks hence.
They tell us that this intense heat will last about six weeks longer,
when, the rainy season being over, we may expect a long spell of
beautiful weather. Meanwhile we only have occasional rain—very heavy when
it does fall.
It was suddenly discovered that the roof of this old house (only four
years old) was quite rotten—the thatch, I mean. So one hundred men were
collected to repair it; and they are now crawling all over the roof like
a swarm of ants, or else passing down the hill in long lines, bearing
huge burdens of tall grass, ten feet high, with great white plumes of
silky blossom. It is a very picturesque scene; but as they have been at
it for about three weeks (and indeed there are always a tribe of workmen
at some corner of the place, if not everywhere), we begin to wish they
had finished, especially as many of them are unhappy-looking prisoners.
One is a murderer, working in heavy chains; and though he looks very
happy, generally climbing nimbly about the roof, notwithstanding this
heavy weight, it makes me hot and miserable to see him. He was found
guilty of the murder of a planter of the name of Burns, and his wife. It
was a frightful story. I do not know why he was not hanged. He is working
in chains because he has already escaped once and been recaptured; but
from his extreme activity, I should think his fetters might prove a very
slight impediment should he resolve to try his luck again. Another large
body of men are working at the rough ground behind the house, turning it
into a little garden. Already it is taking shape, and will doubtless be
very nice by the time the capital is moved to another island, when it
will probably be left to its fate. Sir Arthur is very anxious to effect
this move, which undoubtedly will, in the long-run, prove a wise step;
but in the meantime it will, of course, entail various hardships on many
of these already hard-struggling people. But I daresay it will be a good
while before anything is done about it. Everything here is very slow
work, and the inhabitants have sore need of patience.
It is pleasant to turn from the many cares and sorrows of the whites
to the cheerier dark side of the picture; for the Fijians are always
laughing, and seem always ready to sing and dance. Certainly they, too,
are wretchedly poor; but they need very little, and are well off, where a
white man would starve.
_March 10._—I have just returned from a most delightful expedition,
thanks, as usual, to the Wesleyan missionaries, to whose kind help I
really am indebted for all I have yet seen of native life. Last week I
had a letter from Andi Kuilla—_i.e._, Lady Flag—daughter of Thakombau,
asking me to go and stay with her at Bau, the native capital, to be
present at a grand gathering of the chiefs, when all their most striking
Bau dances would be performed at the great annual missionary meeting. It
is the custom here for every district to hold an annual social gathering,
to which all the people bring their contributions for the funds of the
mission. These they generally carry in their mouth for safety, and spit
them on to a mat at the feet of the missionary. The advantage of this
self-acting purse to men who have no pockets, and whose hands carry
clubs or fans, is evident. Then they go off in grand procession and have
a dance, which combines ballet with pantomime, all the dancers being
dressed up in the most startling varieties of Fijian style. Paint of all
colours; garlands of every sort of material, for every limb except the
head, which is adorned with its own magnificent halo of spiral goldeny
curls—tiny ones—the hair standing straight out from the head; it is
dotted with one or two blossoms or sprigs of grass, coquettishly stuck in.
Well, this invitation was most tempting, but there seemed at first no
means of accepting it—no boat was to be had, and no escort. At last,
in despair, I went off to ask a nice English girl, who talks perfect
Fijian, if she would venture on coming alone with me (twenty-five miles
in an open boat, supposing I could hire one). She agreed, and we went
together to consult Mr Wylie, the missionary here. He at once solved all
difficulties, and sent his own good boat for us at daybreak, in charge of
a native teacher, who, he said, was only waiting for an opportunity to
go to Bau. At the last moment, Captain Havelock, the Colonial Secretary,
found he could manage to allow himself a holiday—the very first since
his arrival. So we started most happily. We had a lovely day for our long
row (no wind for sailing, however); halted for luncheon at a small sandy
island covered with cocoa-palms, and rested under a splendid Mbaka tree
(Fijian banyan); then on again, and reached Bau at sunset. It is a tiny
island just off the mainland.
We found kind Mr Langham waiting at the pier to welcome us and offer us
comfortable quarters, as a Fijian house is not good for sleep on such
occasions. It seemed to me the dancing was going on more or less for
thirty-six hours, counting from the moment of our arrival, when a most
picturesque rehearsal was going on in the bright moonlight! Of course
there had been innumerable previous ones; for the figures are most
elaborate, the movements very varied and like a complicated ballet in
which every dancer (perhaps two hundred at once) must move in faultless
time.
As we came up to Thakombau’s quarters a hundred and fifty ladies of Bau
were beginning their dance, each carrying a paddle of polished wood,
which they waved and turned with simultaneous action. The general effect
was most stately. (I should have said ladies and their attendants, for
nowhere is all etiquette of rank and birth so rigidly cared for. All
rank comes through the mother.) The dancers were led by Andi Lytia and
Andi Kuilla, the ex-queen and her daughter. Both are very tall and
stout,—really fine stately women. No high-bred English duchess could
carry herself more nobly than these born ladies leading their Tongan
minuet. One of the sons has just married a Tongan princess, a very pretty
woman.
Hitherto I had only seen them in the undress of their homes, with a white
waist-cloth, and sometimes a tiny pinafore only just covering the breast.
Even then no one could fail to be struck with their true dignity. It is
just the same with the men—the fine old chief and his handsome sons. It
is quite impossible to look at these people now and realise the appalling
scenes in which at least the older ones have so often joined. Now the
ladies were in full dress, consisting of a waist-cloth of very rare black
_tappa_, tiny jackets of white silk edged with lace, and no ornament
whatever save a small English locket, and a small tuft of scarlet flowers
in their halo of hair—that of the old queen is quite grey. They both
looked really handsome.
Next day crowds of canoes kept arriving from every neighbouring island,
and dancing and feasting went on all day. The grand _mékés_ came off
in the afternoon, but many of the occasional ones were quite as
pretty. Each district has dances peculiar to itself. Here there was
not one spear-dance,—all clubs or fans. The men on these occasions are
generally so painted and dressed up that you cannot recognise your
dearest friend; and we were quite puzzled by the king’s handsome sons,
Ratu Joe and Ratu Timothy, appearing, one scarlet the other black, down
to the waist. But we were chiefly puzzled and attracted by one very
fine fellow, all painted black, with a huge wreath and neck-garland of
scarlet hybiscus and green leaves, and rattling garters made of many
hanging strings of large cockle-shells, and the usual _liku_ (a sort
of kilt or waist-drapery) of fringes of coloured _pandanus_ leaves, or
fresh ferns, &c. Of course he carried a club, and was barefooted. This
man distinguished himself greatly, and afterwards acted the part of a
huge dog in a dance where all the children appeared on all-fours as cats
(“pussies”). Eventually we discovered him to be a European known as Jack
Cassell.
One very pretty girl, Andi Karlotta, who is engaged to Ratu Joe, wore a
rose-coloured bodice and _sulu_, and a tinge of red sprinkled over her
hair, all to match. Very often now the girls wear streamers of English
ribbon; but these Bau ladies hold their heads very high, and decided
that, as girls on the mainland had adopted ribbon, they would _tambu_ it;
so only a little lace-edging was allowed. In addition to the actual kilt,
many of the men wear innumerable loops and folds, and even a trailing
train, of white _tappa_, the effect of which is graceful. Some wore a
headdress made of very delicate bands of it, from the forehead to the
back of the neck, looking like tiny white wreaths; others wore a kind of
turban of smoke-dried gauze, and large beautiful breast-plates of pearly
shell inlaid with ivory.
Just when the principal _mékés_ were over, a tremendous shower came on;
happily not till the people had gone home to feast. Later it cleared up,
and they danced the whole night in the moonlight, though the rain had
converted half the grass into a lake. But as they had no satin shoes to
think about, they danced right through it, and seemed very happy. Their
commonest figure is a great double circle, working opposite ways, the
orchestra standing in the middle, singing and beating time with bamboos;
and sometimes they dance off like a very curly letter S to join another
double circle.
We sat up watching them from the mission garden till past 1 A.M.; for
though we were all tired, there was a solemn conference going on at the
house, the neighbouring brethren having all assembled to sit in judgment
on the alleged delinquencies of a native minister. So, as their wives did
not know whether they were to go home that night or not, all they could
do was to lay their small children down to sleep in every corner. Finally
one family departed, with two little ones, to row to a neighbouring isle
and then carry the children a mile through the forest—one fair little
thing carried by a Fijian child not much bigger than itself,—such a
bright intelligent little monkey.
When we awoke next morning the dancers were still in full swing; but soon
after sunrise all departed in their canoes, singing as they sailed away,
and all declaring it had been a very pleasant time.
We foolishly allowed ourselves to be detained till towards noon, trusting
to our host’s practice in catching tides (for only at certain hours can
you cross the coral-reefs, and that only at certain points, miles apart).
But a head-wind set in and made a nasty wobbly sea. Our men were not very
fresh, and when we neared the isle where we had lunched on our way, we
found we had lost the tide and had to row a long way round outside the
reef, and then come in by a passage so very narrow that it was difficult
to discern it in the very fitful moonlight. It was an anxious moment
passing between the two great lines of breakers which mark the edge
of every reef. Once inside, the danger is only of running aground on
coral-patches.
It was nearly 9 P.M. before we reached a small island where we were
carried ashore and had supper on the sands under the palm-trees while our
men rested. It was pleasant sitting in the moonlight, but when we had
re-embarked very heavy rain came on; however, we had good waterproofs,
and our men had a good coating of fresh oil, so it did no harm. It was
clear moonlight when at last, at 1 A.M., we reached the pier, whereon
lay sleeping a row of labour-boys, who had chosen this _al fresco_
bedroom for the sake of the breeze. They are the servants from other
isles, who work harder than Fijians. Fijians make most graceful table
servants and good police. They look on their drill as a sort of _méké_,
but they utterly abhor all hard work. So half the isles of the South
Pacific are represented in the household. We woke the boys and got our
things carried up to the house, crept up the verandah to my room without
disturbing anybody, rigged up our mosquito-curtains, and had no further
adventures save two battles with land-crabs, which came in and walked
about clattering their claws against the woodwork, so that they had to be
turned out. (I clubbed one one night in my anguish lest he should nip
my toes, but the result was so horribly nasty, that now I always catch
them and carry them down to the little stream hard by, to prevent their
coming back)—rather an aggravating episode to occur twice in a night
when you are very tired; and before I was well asleep again, a pathetic
little cry came from the nursery, “Oh, I am so sick, and nurse has gone
to bathe!” So I had to fly to the rescue, to find dear little Jack on the
sick-list. He is better to-day, but the climate is a very trying one for
children—debilitating, though not positively unhealthy.
We have had intense heat and damp, but I think it is over now, and we
have a sweet breeze, so long as we can sit in it; but unfortunately it
does not reach rooms round the corner, so some are always hot. However,
thanks to moving about a good deal for change of air, we all keep very
fairly well.
Though our household party is nominally a large one, two or three are
generally absent. Captain Knollys and Mr Gordon have just returned from
an expedition to the camp up in the mountains, in the heart of the
disaffected district, among the wild big-heads, the Kai Tholos, or people
of the mountains. Captain Olive was sent up there some time ago with a
strong force of native police (very fine men, and he glories in them,
and lives like them and with them). He made a regular fortified camp,
on a plain in the heart of the mountains, and at first the mountaineers
thought he certainly meant war; but by degrees they are getting tamer,
and the one tribe which is most seriously antagonistic has been vainly
trying to persuade others to back it up, and they have refused; so now
we hope all fear of fighting is over. But it was necessary to send up
some more armed men as a reinforcement, and a great mass of stuff for
barter; so these two went in charge of it, and have brought us back very
interesting sketches of places and people. Mr Gordon is a real artist,
and his sketches are very clever.
Up in the mountains the people are still heathen, and the dress is yet
primitive. For full dress, women wear a fringe of grass four inches long.
The men of the mountains when fully dressed wear a strip of _tappa_ tied
in a very large bow, and trailing train. Their heads are gigantic, about
eighteen inches in diameter, and some much larger; the stiff hair being
very long and bent back in large bunches, makes it grow inward among the
roots: of course it is rarely, if ever, dressed, and forms magnificent
cover! As the inmates are apt to tickle, every big-head wears a long pin
stuck through the hair to scratch with, and when the irritation becomes
unbearable, he kindles a fire of banana-leaves, and, placing his wooden
neck-pillow close to it, gets his head thoroughly smoked.
These wooden neck-pillows occupy a prominent position in the annals of
the Fijian police-courts. They are handy weapons; and a bolstering match
in which they figure is apt to be a serious one. They are a great check
on aggravating curtain-lectures, and are used everywhere all over the
isles. Most pillows are a stick about one inch in diameter, resting on
two legs.
These Kai Tholos (Highlanders) have many legends and fairy tales which,
unfortunately, no one who has really mastered the language can find time
to collect. One is, that the great _dakua_ or _kaurie_ pine-forests are
haunted by tiny men called _Vélé_, with high conical heads. They carry
small hand-clubs, which they throw at all trespassers, who go mad in
consequence; but (mark the coincidence with German fairy tales) if you
have the wit to carry in your hand a fern-leaf, they are powerless, and
fall at your feet, crying, “Spare me.” Once they all fell in love with a
pretty human girl who strayed into the forest. They were so charmed with
her that they kept her there a year before she managed to escape.
I find that Mr Williams, one of the earlier missionaries, took some notes
on this subject. He says:—
“The Fijian peoples with invisible beings every remarkable spot: the
lonely dell, the gloomy cave, the desolate rock, and the deep forest.
Many of these, he believes, are on the alert to do him harm; therefore,
in passing their territory, he throws down a few green leaves to
propitiate the demon of the place. Among the principal objects of Fijian
superstition are demons, ghosts, witches, wizards, fairies, evil-eyes,
seers, and priests, all of whom he believes to possess supernatural
power. A very old Fijian used to talk to me of ‘those little gods,’ with
a faith as strong as that of a Highlander in his fairies. And these
‘little gods’ are the fairies of Fiji. ‘When living near the Kauvandra
mountains, I often used to hear them sing,’ said the old man; and
his eyes brightened as he went on to tell how they would assemble in
troops on the tops of the mountains and sing unweariedly. They were all
little—‘like little children. I have often seen them and listened to
their songs.’ These are the mountain fairies. There are other ‘little
gods,’ called _luve-ni-wai_, children of the waters. My list contains
more than fifty of their names, but I believe it is incomplete. They are
represented as wild and fearful, and at certain festivals they visit
their worshippers, who for several successive weeks assemble morning and
evening to allure them by drumming with short bamboos. Little flags are
placed at various inland passes to prevent these water-gods from passing
on to the forests; so they halt at an enclosure where offerings have
been prepared for them, and there the worshippers seat themselves and
beat their bamboos, and others dance in most fantastic style, while one,
called the _Linga Viu_, or shade-holder, dances in a circle all round the
others, waving a sunshade which he alone is privileged to carry.”
“There is a warlock, called _Ndrudru Sambo_, who is very tall, and of
a grey colour, with a wide flat head; he breathes hard, and makes a
clattering noise as he moves. He steals fish from the fishermen, and
dainty bits of food wherever he finds them. If touched with a spear he
instantly takes the form of a rat.”
I find that is all I can learn of the fairies at present. Possibly the
reward of £100, offered at Max Müller’s instigation, for a collection
of such lore, may induce some one to find time to make one before it
all dies out, as it invariably does when the people become civilised or
Christianised and ashamed of old superstitions. Then good and bad all
pass away together. But I must say the missionaries in Fiji have shown
superlative common-sense in their method of dealing with native customs,
discriminating between the innocent and the evil.
We are especially grateful to the Kai Tholos for proving that
Christianity has no connection with broadcloth, and in every way
discouraging the adoption of European garments. I have only seen one man
foolish enough to appear in such—a native minister—and I rejoiced to hear
his superiors indulging in gentle sarcasm, which would certainly have
its effect. But in some neighbouring groups—Tonga for instance, where
the people are even a finer race than these—everything native is dying
out. To encourage the import of foreign goods, the people are _forbidden
by law to make or wear native cloth_, and they are encouraged to make
themselves objects of ridicule by adopting European dress. Imagine
Parisian bonnets and absurd hats on these picturesque heads. This is
the last news from Tonga just brought by H.M.S. Nymphe (Captain Grant
Suttie), which went there to take Mr Layard, Consul of Tonga, on official
duty. The cruise was delightful, but with some shadows. One officer, Mr
Grey, died quite suddenly; the armourer also died, but he was very ill
before they started.
Mr Gordon has gone off to-day to try and make an amicable temporary
arrangement between some natives and a white settler, who all claim the
same land. So the former spear the cattle of the latter and drive them
down into the sea. The wretched beasts are dying of starvation; and as
it may be a couple of years before the Lands Commission can decide on
the ownership of the innumerable estates claimed by hundreds of people,
the white man’s wife came here to crave some temporary interference. She
wore a white dress and white lace, her hair in beautiful long ringlets, a
large hat and feather, and is very interesting to look upon. I hear she
is a splendid musician, and something of an artist. She is an Austrian
lady who had money of her own, which her husband has invested in this
charming way. I should think plantation life in Fiji was hard enough in
any case; but when you come to being at logger-heads with the natives, it
must be odious indeed.
Now I think I have given you a long enough screed. I am sure dear old
Lady Ruthven will like to hear “A letter from Fiji.” Please give her my
kindest love.
_March 16._—After all, our letters have never gone. The weather was so
bad that it was impossible to finish necessary repairs to the Government
steamer (which recently discovered a new coral-reef, greatly to her own
discomfiture). The glass is falling steadily, and there is every symptom
of an approaching hurricane, which will probably carry away our whole
roof if it proves severe. Nor is this our only danger. This morning when
daylight broke we found that my dear little burn in the rocky glen had
swollen to an angry mountain torrent, and was tearing along, making new
little streams and waterfalls in every direction—one right across the
verandah. A squad of men have been working at a dike all the afternoon;
but as it has rained steadily all day, and the bed of the stream is not
ten feet from the drawing-room and nursery windows, we fully expect
to be washed out to-night. So the drawing-room and my room have been
entirely dismantled, and present a hideous sight of blank bare floors and
packing-cases!
As for the poor little attempt at a garden, young rivers are careering
all over it. As yet our only flowers are balsams, raised from seed, not
very interesting flowers, but our only treasures in this flowerless
region. But really, what pleasure is there in making anything nice in
such a country? I thought I would have my room very dandy, so I invested
in a pair of tall vases to stand on carved brackets and hold ferns and
grasses. Almost the first day I put them up, one sudden gust of wind blew
them both over, and I found only fragments!
The Governor has just come to despatch the gentlemen to dig out Mrs
Macgregor, the doctor’s wife, who is being buried by a mud avalanche,
and her husband is far too busy with his sick folk to look after her.
The hospital is quite full, and he has out-patients in all directions.
We certainly heard very false accounts of the healthiness of this place,
especially the utter absence of sunstroke. At least three deaths have
been due to it since we came. One victim was a Fijian, who dropped
down dead at his work on Saturday; the other two were Engineers; and
a labour-boy dropped down dead yesterday, but I do not know from what
cause. A third Engineer died and was buried yesterday. They only landed
here in September, and out of their corps of sixty men three have died,
and many are on the sick-list. Just imagine that they have never yet got
their sun-hats, or any white clothing, though this is by far the hottest
place any of us have ever been in!
The cemetery lies on a hill beyond us, and it is so sad seeing all the
funerals pass. The last was that of a poor American sailor, who died in
hospital, and four labour-boys trotted past, carrying him with no more
ceremony than if the coffin had been an old packing-case.
We have just had two interesting domestic events in the middle of the
storm. The first was the arrival of a fine litter of young pigs, who
chose this very awkward moment for their appearance. The other was the
ruthless destruction of a cherished nest, just in front of the nursery
window, where a Muscovy duck had made her home at the root of an old
tree overhanging the water. We watched a sudden rush carry away her
supporting-bank, and the poor thing looked up in despair, as, one after
another, her eggs rolled into the stream. A Fijian rushed to the rescue
up to his waist in water, saved the last six, and carried them and her
off to the kitchen for safety, but she declines to sit on the surviving
eggs.
A fresh access of storm. My door has just blown violently open. We are
putting up hurricane-bars, and expect to have an anxious night. The new
roof of the old house is leaking all over.
_March 17._—We have had a night of it, but as yet no hurricane. However,
old hands tell us we cannot hope we are through the wood for ten days to
come, after which we may count on six months of pleasant weather. The
rainfall yesterday was 4½ inches, and all night the wind blew savagely;
but the roof was very slightly damaged, and the stream kept in its proper
channel. No harm was done, save that the boat-house was blown down.
Luckily all the boats had been dragged up to the verandah for security.
Last night at sunset we were watching a poor little cutter trying to
beat in at the passage through the coral-reef. Then we lost sight of
her in the utter darkness. This morning we hear she did reach a passage
farther along the coast, but struck the reef and went down like a shot.
The men got to shore, but she and her hard-earned cargo are lost. Her
story may interest you. She was the private property of a tribe near
Khandavu, who had the sense to see the advantages of owning a ship for
themselves. About eighty of the tribe bound themselves to work for three
years on plantations in order to pay off her price; and their long
service has only just expired. So you see it is a serious loss to these
poor folk.
_March 18._—After a storm a calm. To-day is a dead calm—not a ripple on
the sea. We do not know whether it is merely a case of _reculer pour
mieux sauter_; but at all events, a vessel is to be despatched to-night
to Khandavu on the chance of still being in time to catch the mail _viâ_
Torres Straits. Anyhow, we hope we shall get some English letters, unless
the storm blew the mail-steamers past us. We are rather anxious about
Baron von Hügel, as he has for months been wandering about the mountains
alone with natives, and a fortnight ago wrote that he was very ill. We
expected him by the steamer to-day, but have no word of him.