DREAMS OF LIBERTY
At midnight after the burial, we raised the volcanic fire of Mauna Loa
dead ahead. Sailors declare that a gale always follows a death at sea and
the wind that night blew hard. But we cracked on sail and next morning we
were gliding in smooth water along the shore of the island of Hawaii with
the great burning mountain towering directly over us and the smoke from
the crater swirling down through our rigging.
We loafed away three pleasant weeks among the islands, loitering along the
beautiful sea channels, merely killing time until Captain Shorey should
arrive from San Francisco by steamer. Once we sailed within distant view
of Molokai. It was as beautiful in its tropical verdure as any of the
other islands of the group, but its very name was fraught with sinister
and tragic suggestiveness;--it was the home of the lepers, the island of
the Living Death.
We did not anchor at any time. None of the whaling fleet which meets here
every spring ever anchors. The lure of the tropical shores is strong and
there would be many desertions if the ships lay in port. We sailed close
to shore in the day time, often entering Honolulu harbor, but at night we
lay off and on, as the sailor term is--that is we tacked off shore and
back again, rarely venturing closer than two or three miles, a distance
the hardiest swimmer, bent upon desertion, would not be apt to attempt in
those shark-haunted waters.
Many attempts to escape from vessels of the whaling fleet occur in the
islands every year. We heard many yarns of these adventures. A week before
we arrived, five sailors had overpowered the night watch aboard their ship
and escaped to shore in a whale boat. They were captured in the hills back
of Honolulu and returned to their vessel. This is usually the fate of
runaways. A standing reward of $25 a man is offered by whaling ships for
the capture and return of deserters, consequently all the natives of the
islands, especially the police, are constantly on the lookout for runaways
from whaling crews.
When we drew near the islands the runaway fever became epidemic in the
forecastle. Each sailor had his own little scheme for getting away. Big
Taylor talked of knocking the officers of the night watch over the head
with a belaying-pin and stealing ashore in a boat. Ole Oleson cut up his
suit of oil-skins and sewed them into two air-tight bags with one of which
under each arm, he proposed to float ashore. Bill White, an Englishman,
got possession of a lot of canvas from the cabin and was clandestinely
busy for days making it into a boat in which he fondly hoped to paddle
ashore some fine night in the dark of the moon. "Slim," our Irish
grenadier, stuffed half his belongings into his long sea-boots which he
planned to press into service both as carry-alls and life-preservers.
Peter Swenson, the forecastle's baby boy, plugged up some big empty oil
cans and made life buoys of them by fastening a number of them together.
Just at the time when the forecastle conspiracies were at their height
we killed a thirteen-foot shark off Diamond Head. Our catch was one of
a school of thirty or forty monsters that came swarming about the brig,
gliding slowly like gray ghosts only a few feet below the surface, nosing
close to the ship's side for garbage and turning slightly on their sides
to look out of their evil eyes at the sailors peering down upon them over
the rail. Long John, the boat-steerer, got out a harpoon, and standing on
the bulwarks shot the iron up to the wooden haft into the back of one of
the sharks, the spear-point of the weapon passing through the creature
and sticking out on the under side. The stout manila hemp attached to the
harpoon had been made fast to the fore bitt. It was well that this was
so, for the shark plunged and fought with terrific fury, lashing the sea
into white froth. But the harpoon had pierced a vital part and in a little
while the great fish ceased its struggles and lay still, belly up on the
surface.
It was hauled close alongside, and a boat having been lowered, a large
patch of the shark's skin was cut off. Then the carcass was cut adrift.
The skin was as rough as sandpaper. It was cut into small squares, which
were used in scouring metal and for all the polishing purposes for which
sandpaper serves ashore.
Life aboard the brig seemed less intolerable thereafter, and an essay at
escape through waters infested by such great, silent, ravenous sea-wolves
seemed a hazard less desirable than before. Taylor talked no more about
slugging the night watch. Slim unpacked his sea-boots and put his effects
back into his chest. Peter threw his plugged oil cans overboard. Bill
White turned his canvas boat into curtains for his bunk, and Ole Oleson
voiced in the lilting measure of Scandinavia his deep regret that he had
cut up a valuable suit of oil-skins.
The captain of one of the whaling ships came one afternoon to visit our
skipper and his small boat was left dragging in our wake as the brig
skimmed along under short sail. It occurred to me, and at the same time
to my two Kanaka shipmates, that here was a fine opportunity to escape.
It was coming on dusk, and if we could get into the boat and cut loose we
might have a splendid chance to get away. The Kanakas and I climbed over
the bow, intending to let ourselves into the sea and drift astern to the
boat, but the breeze had freshened and the brig was traveling so fast we
did not believe we could catch the boat; and if we failed to do so, we
might confidently expect the sharks to finish us. We abandoned the plan
after we had remained squatting on the stays over the bow for a half hour
considering our chances and getting soaked to the skin from the dashing
spray.
A pathetic incident grew out of the visit of the captain from the other
ship. Tomas Mendez's brother, a boat-steerer, came aboard with the boat's
crew. He was a young negro whom all the boat-steerers and officers knew.
He came swinging lightly over our rail, laughing and happy over the
prospect of seeing his brother.
"Hello, fellers," he called to the Portuguese officers and boat-steerers
who welcomed him. "Where's my brudder?"
"Dead, my boy," said one of the boat-steerers gently.
"Dead?" echoed Mendez.
He staggered back. When he had heard the details of his brother's death,
he burst into tears. All the time his skipper remained aboard, the poor
fellow stood by the cooper's bench and sobbed.
While drifting at the mouth of Honolulu harbor one morning, Captain
Winchester called for a boat's crew to row him ashore. All hands wanted
to go. I was one of the lucky ones to be chosen. The morning was calm and
beautiful, the water was smooth, and we pulled away with a will.
The city looked inviting at the foot of its green mountains, its quaint
houses embowered in tropical foliage. On our starboard beam rose the fine,
bold promontory of Diamond Head, and in between the headland and the city
lay Waikiki, the fashionable bathing beach. We could see the bathers
taking the surf in the bright morning sunlight, while beyond stretched a
delectable wooded country, above the tops of whose trees peeped manors
and villas of wealthy citizens.
We reached the long pier at last and tied up the boat. While the captain
went into the city the sailors remained on the dock in charge of Long
John, the boat-steerer. Three snaky-eyed Kanaka policemen in blue uniforms
hung about, watching our every movement. We were not allowed to stir off
the dock. There was a street corner within a stone's throw. A little red
brick store stood upon it. A lazy Kanaka lounged against the building,
smoking a cigarette. That corner fascinated me. If I only could dodge
around it! How near it seemed, and yet how unattainable!
But if we sailormen could not get into town, we at least had the freedom
of the long pier. This was several hundred feet long and piled thick with
freight of all descriptions, which shut its harbor end from view. With a
casual and indifferent air I sauntered out along the pier. In a moment I
was hidden behind the merchandise from the unsuspecting Long John and
the policemen. I soon reached the harbor end. I saw that a sharp curve in
the shore line brought the part of the pier on which I was standing close
to land. It seemed easy to dive off the pier, swim past a big four-masted
English ship unloading alongside, gain the land, and escape to the cane
fields which swept up to the edge of the city.
I sat down behind some freight and began to take off my shoes. I had one
off when a barefooted Kanaka suddenly stepped into view from behind a pile
of bales and boxes. He was tip-toeing and peering about him furtively. I
knew him for a spy instantly. Directly he saw me staring at him he looked
as guilty as one taken in crime, and slunk away sheepishly. I knew he was
on his way to inform on me and made up my mind not to get my clothes wet
by any hopeless attempt to run away.
I put my shoe back on and strolled back toward the boat. I saw one of my
shipmates--it was Richard, the deep-water German sailor--walking up the
gang-plank of the English ship alongside the dock. I followed him. When
we reached the deck, we saw a gang of sailors working about an open hatch.
"Hello, mates," said Richard. "We are merchant seamen and want to clear
out from a blooming whaler. Stow us away, won't you?"
The sailors didn't seem to take kindly to the proposition. Perhaps they
were afraid of getting into trouble. But they told us we might go down in
the fore-peak of the ship and stow ourselves away. Richard and I climbed
down three decks and found ourselves in the chain lockers deep in the
ship's bow. It was pitch dark down there and we lay upon the ship's cable
in the farthest corners. For three hours we huddled there in silence.
Just when we were beginning to congratulate ourselves that our escape
would be successful, the hatch was pulled off suddenly and three Kanaka
policemen with drawn clubs came leaping down upon us.
"Come out of this, you," they yelled, swearing at us and brandishing their
billets. The jig was up; resistance would have got us only broken heads.
We were led upon deck and escorted toward the gangway for the pier. But I
was for one more try before giving up. Suddenly I darted for the rail on
the harbor side of the ship. We were in the waist and the bulwarks reached
about to my breast. Before the Kanaka policemen had recovered from their
surprise I had plunged head first over the rail and dived into the water
twenty or thirty feet below. When I came to the surface I struck out for
shore with all my might. It was only a short swim. I soon made the land
and dragged myself, dripping brine, out upon a beach.
I glanced toward the pier. The policemen, with a crowd at their backs,
were dashing for me along shore. I started for the cane fields, but in my
wet and heavy clothes I stumbled along as if there was lead in my shoes.
Perhaps I ran a quarter of a mile. My pursuers gained on me steadily. I
was drawing near a cane field, in which I felt I should be able to lose
myself; but before reaching it, my pursuers sprang upon me and bore me to
the ground. Then, with a policeman on either side of me, I was marched
back to the brig's boat.
The populace had turned out royally in my honor and I passed through a
lane of brown humanity that bent round eyes upon me and chortled and
spluttered Kanaka and seemed to get a huge amount of enjoyment out of
my capture. As my captors paraded me onto the pier, who should be there
waiting for me but Captain Shorey, our new skipper, just arrived from San
Francisco by steamer. He stood with feet wide apart and arms folded on his
breast and looked at me steadily with stern, cold eyes. In my wet clothes
I cut a sorry figure. I felt ashamed of myself and realized that this
introduction to my new captain was not all it should have been. Captain
Winchester had nothing to say to Richard and me on the long pull back to
the brig. Once aboard, he drew a pint of Jamaica rum from his pocket and
gave every man of the boat's crew, except us, a swig. But no penalty of
any sort was imposed upon us for our escapade. This surprised us.