persisting for three days, kept us almost motionless until every
morsel of horse provender was eaten, and--what was still more
serious--very little water was left. All of us wore long faces now,
and the first return of steady wind was hailed by us with extravagant
delight. Continuing on our original course was out of the question
under the circumstances, so we headed directly for the nearest port,
which happened to be Prince Rupert, in the beautiful island of
Dominica. A few hours’ sail brought us into the picturesque harbour,
with its ruined fortresses, once grimly guarding the entrance, now
overgrown with dense tropical vegetation, huge trees growing out of
yawning gaps in the masonry, and cable-like vines enwreathing the
crumbling walls. Within the harbour there was a profound silence; the
lake-like expanse was unburdened by a single vessel, and although
the roofs of a few scattered houses could be seen embosomed among
the verdure, there was no other sign of human occupation. We lowered
the little boat hanging astern and hastened ashore. Hurrying toward
the houses, we found ourselves in a wide street which from lack of
traffic was all overgrown with weeds. Here we found a few listless
negroes, none of whom could speak a word of English, a barbarous
French patois being their only medium of communication. But by
signs we made them comprehend our needs--fodder for the horses, and
water. After some little palaver we found that for a few shillings
we might go into the nearest thicket of neglected sugar-cane and
cut down as many of the feathery blades that crowned the canes as
we wanted, but none of those sleepy-looking darkies volunteered
their assistance--they seemed to be utterly independent of work. Our
energy amazed them, and I don’t think I ever saw such utter contempt
as was expressed by our lively crew--true ’Badians born--towards
those lotus-eating Dominicans. We had a heavy morning’s work before
us, but by dint of vigorous pushing we managed to collect a couple
of boatloads of cane-tops, carry them on board, and return for two
casks of water which we had left one of our number ashore to fill.
Some deliberate fishermen were hauling a seine as we were about to
depart, and we lingered awhile until they had finished their unusual
industry, being rewarded by about a bushel of “bill-fish,” a sort
of garfish, but with the beak an extension of the lower jaw instead
of the upper. I offered to buy a few of the fish, but the fishermen
seemed mightily careless whether they sold any or not. After much
expenditure of energy in sign language, I managed to purchase three
dozen (about the size of herrings) for the equivalent of twopence,
and, very well satisfied, pushed off for the schooner, leaving the
fishermen standing on the beach contemplating their newly-acquired
wealth, as if quite unable to decide what to do with it.
It was worth all the labour we had expended to see the delight with
which those patient horses munched the juicy green tops of the cane,
and drank, plunging their muzzles deep into the buckets, of the clear
water we had brought. And I felt quite pleased when, upon our arrival
in Barbadoes two days after, I watched the twenty of them walk
sedately up a broad gangway of planks on to the wharf, and indulge in
a playful prance and shake when they found their hoofs firmly planted
upon the unrocking earth once more.
I hope I shall not be suspected of drawing a _longue beau_ when
I say that I was once in a big ship whose skipper was an ardent
agriculturist. On my first visit to the poop I saw with much surprise
a couple of cucumber frames lashed in secure positions, one on either
side of the rail at the break of the poop. When I fancied myself
unobserved, I lifted the top of one, and looked within, seeing that
they contained a full allowance of rich black mould. And presently,
peeping down the saloon skylight, I saw that carefully arranged along
its sides, on brackets, were many large pots of flowering plants, all
in first-rate condition and bloom. It was quite a novel experience
for me, but withal a most pleasant one, for although it did appear
somewhat strange and incongruous to find plant-life flourishing
upon the sea, it gave more of a familiar domestic atmosphere to
’board-ship life than anything I have ever known; much the same
feeling that strikes one when looking upon the round sterns of
the Dutch galliots, with their square windows embellished by snowy
beribboned muslin curtains. When we got to sea, and well clear of the
land, so that the skipper’s undivided attention could be given to his
beloved hobby, there were great developments of it. For not content
with growing lettuces, radishes, endive, and such “garden-sass,”
as the Yankees term it, in his cucumber frames, he enlarged his
borders and tried experiments in raising all sorts of queer seeds of
tropical fruits and vegetables. His garden took up so much room on
the poop that the officers fretted a good deal at the circumscribed
area of their domain, besides being considerably annoyed at having
to cover up the frames, boxes, &c., when bad weather caused salt
spray to break over them. But this was ungrateful of them, because
there never was a skipper who interfered less with his officers, or a
more peaceable, good-natured man. Nor was the frequent mess of salad
that graced the table in the saloon to be despised. In that humid
atmosphere and equable temperature everything grew apace; so that for
a couple of months at a time green crisp leaves were scarcely absent
from the table for a day. Mustard and cress were, of course, his main
crop, but lettuce, radishes, and spring onions did remarkably well.
That was on the utilitarian side. On the experimental side he raised
date-palms, coco-palms, banana-palms, mango trees, and orange trees,
dwarfing them after a fashion he had learned in China, so that in
the saloon he had quite a conservatory. But there were many others
of which none of us knew the names. And all around in the skylight,
beneath the brackets whereon the pots of geranium, fuchsia, &c.,
stood, hung orchids collected by the skipper on previous voyages,
and most carefully tended, so that some lovely spikes of bloom were
always to be seen. That saloon was a perfect bower of beauty, and
although the ship herself was somewhat dwarfed by comparison with the
magnificent clippers we forgathered with in Calcutta, few vessels
had so many visitors. Her fame spread far, and nearly every day
the delighted skipper would be busy showing a string of wondering
shorefolk over his pleasaunce.
We went thence to Hong-Kong, and there, as if in emulation of the
“old man’s” hobby for flowers, all hands went in for birds, mostly
canaries, which can be obtained in China more cheaply, I believe,
than in any part of the world. Sampans, loaded with cages so that
nothing can be seen of the hull, and making the whole harbour
melodious with the singing of their pretty freight, are always in
evidence. For the equivalent of 3s., if the purchaser be smart of
eye, he can always buy a fine cock canary in full song, although
the wily Chinee never fails to attempt the substitution of a hen,
no matter what price is paid. There arose a perfect mania on board
of us for canaries, and when we departed for New Zealand there were
at least 400 of the songsters on board. Truly for us the time of
singing of birds had come. All day long that chorus went on, almost
deafeningly, until we got used to it, for of course if one bird piped
up after a short spell of quiet all hands joined in at the full
pitch of their wonderful little lungs; so that, what with birds
and flowers and good feeling, life on board the _Lady Clare_ was as
nearly idyllic as any seafaring I have ever heard of.
V
It might readily be supposed that in such leisurely ships as
the Southern-going whalers, calling, as they did, at so many
out-of-the-way islands in the South Pacific, there would have been
more inducement than usual to cultivate the bucolics, if only from
sheer desire for something to break the long monotony of the voyage.
And so, indeed, there was, but not to anything like the extent that
I should have expected. On board the _Cachalot_ we were handicapped
considerably in this direction by reason of several of the officers
having an unconquerable dislike to fresh pork, which was the more
remarkable because they never manifested the same aversion to the
rancid, foul-smelling article supplied to us every other day out of
the ship’s salt-meat stores. Whence, by the by, is ship salt pork
obtained? Under what conditions do they rear the animals that produce
those massy blocks of “scrunchy” fat, just tinged at one side with
a pale pink substance that was once undoubtedly flesh, but when it
reaches the sailor bears no resemblance to anything eatable? And how
does it acquire that peculiarly vile flavour all its own, which is
unlike the taste of any other provision known to caterers? I give
it up; I have long ago done so, in fact. Men do eat it, although I
never could, except by chopping it up fine with broken biscuit and
mixing it with pea-soup, so that I could swallow it without tasting
it. But the only other creatures able to do so are pigs and sharks.
Sailors have all kinds of theories respecting its origin, of which I
am restricted to saying that they are nearly all unprintable. But I
do wish most fervently that those who supply it for human food, both
dealers and ship-owners, were, as their victims are, compelled to eat
it three times a week or starve. Just for a month or two. Methinks it
would do them much good. But this is a digression.
Most of us had our suspicions that our officers’ dislike was not
so much to fresh pork as to live pigs, and truly, with our limited
deck space, the objection was most reasonable. Moreover, the South
Sea Island pig is a questionable-looking beast at the best, not by
any means tempting to look at, and of uncertain dietary. They affect
startling colours, such as tortoise-shell and tabby, are woolly of
coat, lengthy of snout, and almost as speedy as dogs. When fed, which
is seldom, ripe cocoa-nut is given them, as it is to all live stock
in the islands. But they make many a hearty meal of fish as they
wander around the beaches and reef-borders, and this gives a flavour
to their produce which is, to say the least of it, unexpected. But
as if to make up for our lack of pigs we had the most elaborate
fowlery fitted up that I ever was shipmates with. Its dimensions were
about 8 ft. long, 6 ft. wide, and 5 ft. high. It was built of wood
entirely, and exactly on the principle of an oblong canary-cage that
is unenclosed on any side. Plenty of roosts and nests, plenty of
pounded coral and cocoa-nut, and--as the result--plenty of eggs. But
such queer eggs. The yolk was hardly distinguishable from the white,
and they had scarcely any taste at all. Occasionally we got a brood
hatched, but for some reason I don’t pretend to understand our fowls
didn’t “go much on feathers,” as the skipper said. Not to put too
fine a point on it, they never missed an opportunity of plucking one
another’s feathers out and eating them with much relish. So that they
all stalked about in native majesty unclad, doubtless rejoicing in
the coolth, and occasionally scanning their own bodies solicitously
for any sign of a sprouting feather, of which they themselves might
have the first taste. This operated queerly among the young broods,
who never got any chance of being fledged, and whose mothers were
always fighting about them; but I believe as much that they (the
mothers) might eat all the feathers themselves as to protect them
from any fancied danger. These naked birds certainly looked funny;
but the cook, who was an ingenious South Carolina negro, used to gaze
at them earnestly and say, “Foh de good Lawd, sah; ef I aint agwine
ter bring hout er plan ter raise chicken ’thout fedders altogedder.
W’y, jess look at it. All de strenf dat goes ter fedders ’ll go ter
meat--an’ aigs--kase dem chickens ez fatter den ever I see ’bord ship
befo’; an den only tink ob de weary trubble save in pluckin’ ob ’em.
Golly, sah, et’s a great skeem, ’n I’se right on de top ob it.” And,
really, there did seem to be something in it.
Fowls were plentiful in Vau-Vau--fairly good ones, too; but it was
entirely a mystery to me how any individual property in them was at
all possible. For no native had any enclosure for them, or seemed to
take any care of them. They just ran wild in the jungly vegetation
around the villages and roosted on the trees; but as a result, I
suppose, of the persistence through their many generations of their
original fellowship with mankind, they never strayed far away from
the houses. Our friends brought them on board at our first arrival
in such numbers that no man was without a pair of fowls, and in sore
straits where to keep them. The difficulty was soon solved by the
skipper, who said that in his opinion it would soon be inconvenient
for the fore-mast hands to see any difference between their fowls and
his. Yes, and it was even possible that having eaten their own fowls
they might forget that trifling fact, and absent-mindedly mistake
some of the skipper’s poultry for their own. In order to prevent such
mistakes he issued an edict that no more fowls were to be entertained
by the crew or cooked for them by the “Doctor.” And although this
was undoubtedly the wisest solution of our puzzle, there was thereat
great discontent for a time, until the ingenious Kanakas took to
cooking the fowls for us ashore, and bringing them on board ready for
eating. Being plentiful, as I said, poultry was cheap, the standard
price being a fathom of calico of the value of 6d. for two, for
ship’s stock, while our private friends furnished them to us for
nothing. And there are also in the South Pacific many small islands
unpeopled upon which that most sensible and practical of navigators,
James Cook, had left both fowls and pigs to breed at their own sweet
will. These islets have always many cocoa-nut trees, the fruit from
which affords plentiful food for the pigs, who show great ingenuity
in getting at the contents of the fallen nuts, while the fowls
apparently find no difficulty in picking up a comfortable livelihood.
By tacit agreement these lonely ocean store-houses of good food are
allowed to remain undisturbed by both the natives of adjacent islands
and passing ships, except in cases of necessity. We once broke this
unwritten law, for although we had not long left Fiji, we landed upon
one of these oases in the blue waste, and had a day’s frolic there.
It was a veritable paradise, although not more than three acres in
area. Its only need seemed to be fresh water, for as it had grown to
be an island by the deposit of sand upon the summit of a coral reef,
there were of course no springs. And yet it was completely clothed
with vegetation, the cocoa-palms especially growing right down to
the edge of the sea, so that at high water the wavelets washed one
side of their spreading roots quite bare. Being no botanist, I cannot
describe the various kinds of plants that luxuriated there, having,
I suppose, become accustomed to the privation of fresh water, as the
fowls and pigs had also done. But I did notice that the undergrowth
seemed to consist principally of spreading bushes, rising to a height
of about 5 feet, and bearing, in the greatest abundance, those
tiny crimson and green cones known to most people as bird’s-eye
chillies. We all had cause to remember this, for thrusting our way
through these bushes under the burning rays of the sun, we got in
some mysterious way some of their pungent juices upon our faces and
arms. And the effect was much the same as the application of a strong
mustard plaster would have been.
We did not commit any great depredations. The second mate shot (with
a bomb-gun) a couple of pigs, and we managed to catch half-a-dozen
fowls, but they were so wild and cunning here, that except at night
it was by no means easy to lay hands upon them. As so often happened
to us, we found our best catch upon the beach, where just after
sunset we waylaid two splendid turtle that had just crawled ashore to
deposit their eggs. The advantage of such a catch as this was in the
fact that turtle may be kept alive on board ship for several weeks,
if necessary, by putting them in a cask of sea-water, and though
unfed, they do not seem to be perceptibly impoverished. We also
collected a goodly store of fresh unripe cocoa-nuts, which are one of
the most delicious and refreshing of all tropical fruits. I do not
suppose it would be possible to bring them to England without their
essential freshness being entirely dissipated, for in order to enjoy
them thoroughly they should be eaten new from the tree. They would be
a revelation to people whose acquaintance with cocoa-nut is limited
to the fully ripe and desperately indigestible article beloved of
the Bank Holiday caterer, and disposed of at the favourite game of
“three shies a penny.” In that form no native of cocoa-nut-producing
countries ever dreams of eating them. For they are really only fit
for “copra,” the universal term applied throughout the tropics to
cocoa-nut prepared for conversion into oil. When the nuts are fully
ripe, a native will seat himself by a heap of them, a small block
of wood before him with a hollow in its centre, and an old axe in
his hand. Placing a nut on the block, unhusked, of course, he splits
it open by one blow of the axe and lays the two halves in the sun.
By the time he has split open the last of the heap, he may begin at
the first opened nuts and shake their contents into bags, for they
will be dried sufficiently for the meat to fall readily from the
shells. That is “copra.” But before the husk has hardened into fibre,
even before the shells have become brittle, when it is possible
to slice off the top of the nut as easily as you would that of a
turnip, the contents almost wholly consist of a bland liquor, not
cloyingly sweet, cool even under the most fervent blaze of the sun,
and refreshing to the last degree. Around the sides of the immature
shell there is, varying in thickness according to the age of the nut,
a jelly-like deposit, almost tasteless, but wonderfully sustaining. I
have heard it vaunted as a cure for all diseases of malnutrition, and
I should really be inclined to believe that there was some basis for
the claim. The juice or milk, if allowed to ferment, makes excellent
vinegar.
A long spell of cruising without touching at any land having
exhausted all our stock of fowls, to say nothing of fruit and
vegetables, of which we had almost forgotten the taste, it was with
no ordinary delight that we sighted the Kermadec group of islands
right ahead one morning, and guessed, by the course remaining
unaltered, that our skipper was inclined to have a close look at
them, if not to land. As we drew nearer and nearer our hopes rose,
until, at the welcome order to “back the mainyard,” we were like a
school full of youngsters about to break up. Few preparations were
needed, for a whaler’s crew are always ready to leave the ship at any
hour of the day or night for an indefinite period. And in ten minutes
from the time of giving the first orders, two boats were pulling in
for the small semi-circular bay with general instructions to forage
for anything eatable. A less promising place at first sight for a
successful raid could hardly be imagined, for the whole island seemed
composed of one stupendous mountain whose precipitous sides rose
sheer from the sea excepting just before us. And even there the level
land only appeared like a ledge jutting out from the mountain-side,
and of very small extent. As we drew nearer, however, we saw that
even to our well-accustomed vision the distance had proved deceitful,
and that the threshold of the mountain was of far greater area
than we had supposed, being, indeed, of sufficient extent to have
afforded shelter and sustenance to quite a respectable village of
colonists had any chosen to set up their homes in such a lonely spot.
But to the instructed eye the steep beach, wholly composed of lava
fragments, gave a sufficient reason why such a sheltered nook might
be a far from secure abiding-place, even had not a steadfast stain
of dusty cloud poised above the island in the midst of the clear
blue sky added its witness to the volcanic conditions still ready
to burst forth. But these considerations did not trouble us. With
boisterous mirth we dodged the incoming rollers, and, leaping out
of the boats as their keels grated on the shore, we ran them rapidly
up out of the reach of the eager surf, delighted with the drenching
because of its coolness. Dividing into parties of three, we plunged
gaily into the jungly undergrowth, chasing, as boys do butterflies,
the brown birds, like overgrown partridges, that darted away before
us in all directions. We succeeded in catching a few, finding them to
be what we afterwards knew in New Zealand as “Maori hens,” something
between a domestic fowl and a partridge, but a dismal failure in the
eatable way, being tough and flavourless as any fowl that had died
of old age. Of swine, the great object of our quest, we saw not a
hoof-print; in fact, we assured ourselves that whatever number of
these useful animals the family that once resided in this desolate
spot had reared, they had left no descendants. It was a grievous
disappointment, for it threw us back upon the goats, and goat as
food is anathema to all sailors. But it was a fine day; we had come
out to kill something, and, as no other game appeared available,
we started after the goats. It was a big contract. We were all
barefooted, and, although on board the ship we had grown accustomed
to regard the soles of our feet as quite impervious to feeling as any
leather, we soon found that shore travelling over lava and through
the many tormenting plants of a tropical scrub was quite another
pair of shoes. We did capture a couple of goats, one a patriarch of
unguessable longevity with a beard as long as my arm, and the other
a Nanny heavy with kid. These we safely conveyed on board with us
at the close of the day. But _the_ result of our day’s foraging,
overshadowing even the boat-load of magnificent fish we caught out in
the little bay, was the discovery of a plant known in New Zealand as
“Maori cabbage.” It looks something like a lettuce run to seed, and
has a flavour like turnip-tops. I do not suppose any one on shore can
realise what those vegetables meant to us, that is, the white portion
of the crew. For it was well-nigh two years since we had tasted a bit
of anything resembling cabbage, and our craving for green vegetables
and potatoes was really terrible. It is one of the most serious
hardships the sailor has to endure, the more serious because quite
avoidable. Potatoes and Swede turnips are not dear food, and, if
taken up with plenty of mould adhering to them and left so, will keep
for six months in all climates. They make all the difference between
a good and a bad ship. I am sure no banquet that I have ever sat
down to since could possibly have given me a tithe of the epicurean
delight I felt over a plentiful plate of this nameless vegetable and
a bit of hard salt beef that evening.