FARMING IN POLYNESIA
The planters were both whole-souled fellows; but, in other respects, as
unlike as possible.
One was a tall, robust Yankee, born in the backwoods of Maine, sallow,
and with a long face;—the other was a short little Cockney, who had
first clapped his eyes on the Monument.
The voice of Zeke, the Yankee, had a twang like a cracked viol; and
Shorty (as his comrade called him), clipped the aspirate from every
word beginning with one. The latter, though not the tallest man in the
world, was a good-looking young fellow of twenty-five. His cheeks were
dyed with the fine Saxon red, burned deeper from his roving life: his
blue eye opened well, and a profusion of fair hair curled over a
well-shaped head.
But Zeke was no beauty. A strong, ugly man, he was well adapted for
manual labour; and that was all. His eyes were made to see with, and
not for ogling. Compared with the Cockney, he was grave, and rather
taciturn; but there was a deal of good old humour bottled up in him,
after all. For the rest, he was frank, good-hearted, shrewd, and
resolute; and like Shorty, quite illiterate.
Though a curious conjunction, the pair got along together famously.
But, as no two men were ever united in any enterprise without one
getting the upper hand of the other, so in most matters Zeke had his
own way. Shorty, too, had imbibed from him a spirit of invincible
industry; and Heaven only knows what ideas of making a fortune on their
plantation.
We were much concerned at this; for the prospect of their setting us,
in their own persons, an example of downright hard labour, was anything
but agreeable. But it was now too late to repent what we had done.
The first day—thank fortune—we did nothing. Having treated us as guests
thus far, they no doubt thought it would be wanting in delicacy to set
us to work before the compliments of the occasion were well over. The
next morning, however, they both looked business-like, and we were put
to.
“Wall, b’ys” (boys), said Zeke, knocking the ashes out of his pipe,
after breakfast—“we must get at it. Shorty, give Peter there (the
doctor), the big hoe, and Paul the other, and let’s be off.” Going to a
corner, Shorty brought forth three of the implements; and distributing
them impartially, trudged on after his partner, who took the lead with
something in the shape of an axe.
For a moment left alone in the house, we looked at each other, quaking.
We were each equipped with a great, clumsy piece of a tree, armed at
one end with a heavy, flat mass of iron.
The cutlery part—especially adapted to a primitive soil—was an
importation from Sydney; the handles must have been of domestic
manufacture. “Hoes”—so called—we had heard of, and seen; but they were
harmless in comparison with the tools in our hands.
“What’s to be done with them?” inquired I of Peter.
“Lift them up and down,” he replied; “or put them in motion some way or
other. Paul, we are in a scrape—but hark! they are calling;” and
shouldering the hoes, off we marched.
Our destination was the farther side of the plantation, where the
ground, cleared in part, had not yet been broken up; but they were now
setting about it. Upon halting, I asked why a plough was not used; some
of the young wild steers might be caught and trained for draught.
Zeke replied that, for such a purpose, no cattle, to his knowledge, had
ever been used in any part of Polynesia. As for the soil of Martair, so
obstructed was it with roots, crossing and recrossing each other at all
points, that no kind of a plough could be used to advantage. The heavy
Sydney hoes were the only thing for such land.
Our work was now before us; but, previous to commencing operations, I
endeavoured to engage the Yankee in a little further friendly chat
concerning the nature of virgin soils in general, and that of the
valley of Martair in particular. So masterly a stratagem made Long
Ghost brighten up; and he stood by ready to join in. But what our
friend had to say about agriculture all referred to the particular part
of his plantation upon which we stood; and having communicated enough
on this head to enable us to set to work to the best advantage, he fell
to, himself; and Shorty, who had been looking on, followed suit.
The surface, here and there, presented closely amputated branches of
what had once been a dense thicket. They seemed purposely left
projecting, as if to furnish a handle whereby to drag out the roots
beneath. After loosening the hard soil, by dint of much thumping and
pounding, the Yankee jerked one of the roots this way and that,
twisting it round and round, and then tugging at it horizontally.
“Come! lend us a hand!” he cried, at last; and running up, we all four
strained away in concert. The tough obstacle convulsed the surface with
throes and spasms; but stuck fast, notwithstanding.
“Dumn it!” cried Zeke, “we’ll have to get a rope; run to the house,
Shorty, and fetch one.”
The end of this being attached, we took plenty of room, and strained
away once more.
“Give us a song, Shorty,” said the doctor; who was rather sociable, on
a short acquaintance. Where the work to be accomplished is any way
difficult, this mode of enlivening toil is quite efficacious among
sailors. So willing to make everything as cheerful as possible, Shorty
struck up, “Were you ever in Dumbarton?” a marvellously inspiring, but
somewhat indecorous windlass chorus.
At last, the Yankee cast a damper on his enthusiasm by exclaiming, in a
pet, “Oh! dumn your singing! keep quiet, and pull away!” This we now
did, in the most uninteresting silence; until, with a jerk that made
every elbow hum, the root dragged out; and most inelegantly, we all
landed upon the ground. The doctor, quite exhausted, stayed there; and,
deluded into believing that, after so doughty a performance, we would
be allowed a cessation of toil, took off his hat, and fanned himself.
“Rayther a hard customer, that, Peter,” observed the Yankee, going up
to him: “but it’s no use for any on ’em to hang back; for I’m dumned if
they hain’t got to come out, whether or no. Hurrah! let’s get at it
agin!”
“Mercy!” ejaculated the doctor, rising slowly, and turning round.
“He’ll be the death of us!”
Falling to with our hoes again, we worked singly, or together, as
occasion required, until “Nooning Time” came.
The period, so called by the planters, embraced about three hours in
the middle of the day; during which it was so excessively hot, in this
still, brooding valley, shut out from the Trades, and only open toward
the leeward side of the island, that labour in the sun was out of the
question. To use a hyperbolical phrase of Shorty’s, “It was ’ot enough
to melt the nose h’off a brass monkey.”
Returning to the house, Shorty, assisted by old Tonoi, cooked the
dinner; and, after we had all partaken thereof, both the Cockney and
Zeke threw themselves into one of the hammocks, inviting us to occupy
the other. Thinking it no bad idea, we did so; and, after skirmishing
with the mosquitoes, managed to fall into a doze. As for the planters,
more accustomed to “Nooning,” they, at once, presented a nuptial back
to each other; and were soon snoring away at a great rate. Tonoi
snoozed on a mat, in one corner.
At last, we were roused by Zeke’s crying out, “Up b’ys; up! rise, and
shine; time to get at it agin!”
Looking at the doctor, I perceived, very plainly, that he had decided
upon something.
In a languid voice, he told Zeke that he was not very well: indeed,
that he had not been himself for some time past; though a little rest,
no doubt, would recruit him. The Yankee thinking, from this, that our
valuable services might be lost to him altogether, were he too hard
upon us at the outset, at once begged us both to consult our own
feelings, and not exert ourselves for the present, unless we felt like
it. Then—without recognizing the fact that my comrade claimed to be
actually unwell—he simply suggested that, since he was so tired, he had
better, perhaps, swing in his hammock for the rest of the day. If
agreeable, however, I myself might accompany him upon a little
bullock-hunting excursion in the neighbouring hills. In this
proposition, I gladly acquiesced; though Peter, who was a great
sportsman, put on a long face. The muskets and ammunition were
forthwith got from overhead; and, everything being then ready, Zeke
cried out, “Tonoi! come; aramai! (get up) we want you for pilot.
Shorty, my lad, look arter things, you know; and if you likes, why,
there’s them roots in the field yonder.”
Having thus arranged his domestic affairs to please himself, though
little to Shorty’s satisfaction, I thought, he slung his powder-horn
over his shoulder, and we started. Tonoi was, at once, sent on in
advance; and leaving the plantation, he struck into a path which led
toward the mountains.
After hurrying through the thickets for some time, we came out into the
sunlight, in an open glade, just under the shadow of the hills. Here,
Zeke pointed aloft to a beetling crag far distant, where a bullock,
with horns thrown back, stood like a statue.