THE HUNTING-FEAST; AND A VISIT TO AFREHITOO
Two bullocks and a boar! No bad trophies of our day’s sport. So by
torchlight we marched into the plantation, the wild hog rocking from
its pole, and the doctor singing an old hunting-song—Tally-ho! the
chorus of which swelled high above the yells of the natives.
We resolved to make a night of it. Kindling a great fire just outside
the dwelling, and hanging one of the heifer’s quarters from a limb of
the banian-tree, everyone was at liberty to cut and broil for himself.
Baskets of roasted bread-fruit, and plenty of taro pudding; bunches of
bananas, and young cocoa-nuts, had also been provided by the natives
against our return.
The fire burned bravely, keeping off the mosquitoes, and making every
man’s face glow like a beaker of Port. The meat had the true wild-game
flavour, not at all impaired by our famous appetites, and a couple of
flasks of white brandy, which Zeke, producing from his secret store,
circulated freely.
There was no end to my long comrade’s spirits. After telling his
stories, and singing his songs, he sprang to his feet, clasped a young
damsel of the grove round the waist, and waltzed over the grass with
her. But there’s no telling all the pranks he played that night. The
natives, who delight in a wag, emphatically pronounced him “maitai.”
It was long after midnight ere we broke up; but when the rest had
retired, Zeke, with the true thrift of a Yankee, salted down what was
left of the meat.
The next day was Sunday; and at my request, Shorty accompanied me to
Afrehitoo—a neighbouring bay, and the seat of a mission, almost
directly opposite Papeetee. In Afrehitoo is a large church and
school-house, both quite dilapidated; and planted amid shrubbery on a
fine knoll, stands a very tasteful cottage, commanding a view across
the channel. In passing, I caught sight of a graceful calico skirt
disappearing from the piazza through a doorway. The place was the
residence of the missionary.
A trim little sail-boat was dancing out at her moorings, a few yards
from the beach.
Straggling over the low lands in the vicinity were several native
huts—untidy enough—but much better every way than most of those in
Tahiti.
We attended service at the church, where we found but a small
congregation; and after what I had seen in Papeetee, nothing very
interesting took place. But the audience had a curious, fidgety look,
which I knew not how to account for until we ascertained that a sermon
with the eighth commandment for a text was being preached.
It seemed that there lived an Englishman in the district, who, like our
friends, the planters, was cultivating Tombez potatoes for the Papeetee
market.
In spite of all his precautions, the natives were in the habit of
making nocturnal forays into his inclosure, and carrying off the
potatoes. One night he fired a fowling-piece, charged with pepper and
salt, at several shadows which he discovered stealing across his
premises. They fled. But it was like seasoning anything else; the
knaves stole again with a greater relish than ever; and the very next
night, he caught a party in the act of roasting a basketful of potatoes
under his own cooking-shed. At last, he stated his grievances to the
missionary; who, for the benefit of his congregation, preached the
sermon we heard.
Now, there were no thieves in Martair; but then, the people of the
valley were bribed to be honest. It was a regular business transaction
between them and the planters. In consideration of so many potatoes “to
them in hand, duly paid,” they were to abstain from all depredations
upon the plantation. Another security against roguery was the permanent
residence upon the premises of their chief, Tonoi.
On our return to Martair in the afternoon, we found the doctor and Zeke
making themselves comfortable. The latter was reclining on the ground,
pipe in mouth, watching the doctor, who, sitting like a Turk, before a
large iron kettle, was slicing potatoes and Indian turnip, and now and
then shattering splinters from a bone; all of which, by turns, were
thrown into the pot. He was making what he called “Bullock broth.”
In gastronomic affairs, my friend was something of an artist; and by
way of improving his knowledge, did nothing the rest of the day but
practise in what might be called Experimental Cookery: broiling and
grilling, and deviling slices of meat, and subjecting them to all sorts
of igneous operations. It was the first fresh beef that either of us
had tasted in more than a year.
“Oh, ye’ll pick up arter a while, Peter,” observed Zeke toward night,
as Long Ghost was turning a great rib over the coals—“what d’ye think,
Paul?”
“He’ll get along, I dare say,” replied I; “he only wants to get those
cheeks of his tanned.” To tell the truth, I was not a little pleased to
see the doctor’s reputation as an invalid fading away so fast;
especially as, on the strength of his being one, he had promised to
have such easy times of it, and very likely, too, at my expense.