FROM THE SOCIETY ISLANDS TO THE COOK ISLANDS IN
AN OPEN BOAT
It has been something of a sport of recent years to cross the
Atlantic and even the Pacific in a small boat, sometimes under sail
and sometimes under motor power. Tiny craft have done it, and at
best it is not a comfortable kind of voyage. In sporting events,
your ocean-going small boat always had a cabin, or an imitation of
one. That is what we should have had, but we were not so lucky, and,
besides, the load we carried made existence aboard our lifeboat that
had been converted into a cruiser a cramped affair indeed.
There was only one place we could trust to be dry, the buoyant air
tanks at the sides of the boat. In these we packed our hardtack, a
few pieces of clothing, photographic apparatus, and the all-important
tobacco. It affected the buoyancy of our craft, but we had to keep
some things away from the sea water. In the body of the boat were
placed the water tanks, our large supply of weapons and ammunition,
cordage for the rigging, and several spare sails. Canvas shields at
the side, which could be drawn over at the top and be made to form
some kind of tent, sheltered us somewhat from waves and dirty
weather. Without these we should have been practically drowned.
Four mattresses could be stretched on the bottom, where four men
could sleep while two kept watch. As a concession to civilization,
we had six pairs of knives and forks, six mugs, a coffee pot, and
$5,000 in silver, gold, and paper, much of it in pounds sterling.
At six in the morning, the two men on watch filled the coffee pot and
applied fire to it from a soldering lamp. With the slightest breeze
and a rocking of the boat, it was impossible to bring the water to a
boil. Then we were glad to get tepid coffee-bean soup instead of
coffee. After toilets had been made with salty sea water, we
squatted in the cockpit for breakfast of coffee and hardtack.
Navigation was difficult in so small a boat. It was impossible to
spread the charts out properly, and with the slightest carelessness
the wind might take our priceless navigation papers overboard. We
had to use the sextant and other navigation instruments in a boat
that often pitched so much we could scarcely stand. The papers,
charts, tables, logarithms, and so on, got sopping wet, and when we
dried them in the sun they grew swollen and difficult to handle.
It was cool at night, but not unpleasant so long as our clothes were
dry. The weather was fair, but an occasional whale would come
alongside and douse us with the spray of his spout. Then, in our
damp clothing, we felt the chill of the night. The days were
broiling hot, but even while taking advantage of what little shade we
had, we grew heavy and torpid. We had, above all things, to be
careful of our water supply. We never dared drink enough to quench
our thirst completely, and were, in fact, continually thirsty.
By way of amusement, we had readings aloud from the one book we had
brought along, Fritz Reuter's comic story, _A Trip to
Constantinople_, and at night the squealer wheezed and blared, and we
whiled away the tedious hours singing old German folk songs.
After three days we sighted Atiu, the first island of the Cook group
and a British possession. There was no ship in sight. Too bad, but
perhaps a ship might be expected soon. Anyway, we had to make port
and get fresh food. Aside from the danger of storm, if our voyage
continued for any length, we feared most of all beri-beri and scurvy,
which our diet of hardtack would inevitably bring upon us unless we
varied it with fresh vegetables.
A crowd of natives, fine-looking Polynesians, watched curiously as
our little craft drew up to the dock. Kircheiss and I went ashore
and straight to the house of the British resident. He lay stretched
out in his shirt and trousers on a Borneo long chair on his porch,
and didn't even get up when we approached. He was a good-looking
fellow, but lazy as the devil. The lassitude of the South Seas had
certainly got him.
"My name is Van Houten," I began, "and this is my chief officer
Southart."
The resident looked at me suspiciously. It was a true British
mistrust. Ordinarily, your Englishman is the best of fellows, a
pleasant chap to meet, a perfect host. But in wartime you had to
admire them. They were on the lookout for everything. Their brains
seemed made only of suspicions. Kircheiss, who spoke English better
than I did, continued:
"We are Americans of Dutch birth. A few months ago we made a bet at
the Holland Club in San Francisco that we would sail from Honolulu in
an open boat via the Cook Islands to Tahiti and back to Honolulu.
The wager is for twenty-five thousand dollars. Would you, my dear
sir, kindly give me a certificate that we have been here in
accordance with the terms of our bet? Also, we should like to lay in
a supply of fresh water, canned goods, and fresh fruit."
The resident yawned, looked us over with a watery eye and replied:
"Well, a man must be a hell of a fool to go in for that kind of
sport."
"Sure," Kircheiss said politely, "but, just the same, we should like
to have the certificate. Won't you give it to us or tell us who
will?"
"Oh, to hell with you, don't bother me. I've just had dinner and
want to take my nap."
Even his British mistrust, with which he first regarded us, subsided
into the indescribable something that comes over a white man who
yields to the soft enervation of the tropics. He now looked at us
merely as mad fellows who wanted him to do something too crazy to
merit his consideration.
"Any news from the bloody war?" he asked. "Why are they so stupid as
to carry on with this fighting business? In the end, it will only
help these yellow races."
He continued like this and spoke highly of the Germans. Naturally,
we did not express any pro-German sentiments.
"We simply must get this old bird to give us that certificate," I
said to my comrade in Low German, pretending that it was Dutch.
"Yes," he replied in the same dialect, "it may come in mighty useful
later on."
The resident, as he told us, had served in the Boer War, and should
have known better, but he took our Plattdeutsch for the language of
Holland. Presently he scribbled a note saying that we had called on
him in the course of our sporting cruise.
"Any ships expected in port soon?" Kircheiss asked quite casually.
"How in hell do I know?" the resident responded wearily. "Everything
goes to the bloody war, and we don't see anything around here but
these Kanakas." He continued in this strain and cursed his boredom
on the island.
The resident was still rambling on in his lazy monotone when along
came a man who wore a cassock and had a beard down to his waist. He
was a French missionary priest who was overjoyed when we saluted him
with a few words of French. The resident and an English trader were
the only two white men on the island besides himself, and neither
talked any French.
"_Allons, allons_," he shouted, "by Joe, boys, you must pay me a
visit."
And straightway he seized our arms and took us over to his mission
house. There he poured out glasses of excellent wine.
"You are Americans," he cried, "you fight for la France? You are
Hollanders? Ah, it is too bad that your country is not in the war
with France. But I can see that you love la belle France."
With that he put on the gramophone a record of _La Marseillaise_, and
had us sing it along with him, which we did with all our lungs.
Since it had been written and dedicated to my great-grandfather, I
didn't mind a bit. He chattered in French incessantly, in an ecstasy
over having someone with whom he could talk his native tongue. He
embraced us a dozen times and made us sit down to dinner. It was an
excellent meal. The wine was particularly good. The conversation
made us squirm a little. The good father was the best fellow
possible, but patriotic to the very finger tips. He treated us to
some choice denunciations of the Germans.
After another rendition of the _Marseillaise_, we took our leave.
"What will be your next stop?" asked the jovial missionary in parting.
"I think we will put in at Aitutaki," I replied. That was the
nearest island and the next field of action in our hunt for a ship.
"Fine," exclaimed the priest cordially. "I have a friend there. You
must call on him. Just mention my name. He will be delighted to see
you. He is a Hollander, too."
A Hollander, too? And our knowledge of the Dutch language was so
strongly salted with a German accent! In that case, when we got to
Aitutaki we certainly would be anything but Hollanders, probably
Norwegians.
Everywhere on the island were trees and fruits, cocoanuts, bananas,
mangoes, and oranges. On the streets of the village, with its
thatched huts, were South Sea beauties who wore wreaths of flowers
and had dark, flashing eyes. They gazed with interest on the foreign
sportsmen, the story of whose cruise on a bet had spread among the
natives. We took aboard what provisions we needed and set sail for
Aitutaki.
The weather turned miserable, by Joe. It rained every day, those
drenching tropical downpours. Our sailcloth covering was not tight
enough to hold the water out. The sea was heavy and continually
washed into the boat. Often we bailed as many as two hundred and
fifty pails an hour. Everything not stowed in the side tanks got
wet. When the rain stopped for a while, the waves and spray kept
things from drying. We were soaked to the skin and never did get
dry. Our blankets and mattresses were dripping wet. When we lay in
the sodden bedding, we were freezing cold, and could sleep scarcely
at all. Often it was a relief to be called to go on watch. Then at
least we could thresh our arms about and get warm. Cooking was
almost impossible now, and we seldom ever got coffee anything like
hot.
Once we saw a waterspout forming right before our eyes. A fine,
whirling drizzle close to the water attracted our eyes. It revolved
ever more rapidly, seizing wider masses of water. In the sky was a
little black thundercloud extending downward in the shape of a
funnel. The whirl of spray on the water ran up swiftly. The cone of
the thundercloud stretched down to meet it. They came together and
united. A roaring and sound of bursting, a tremendous suction of
water, and sky and sea were connected by a whirling column. Gyrating
and swaying, it moved in our direction. Our boat lay in a calm. Not
a breath of air around us. Will this wandering giant strike us and
break upon us, deluge and swamp us? Automatically Leudemann at the
rudder tries to steer us. Without wind our boat cannot move, much
less steer. But the roaring monster collapses with a deafening clap.
Its mass of water falls upon the sea, and from it a circular swell
spreads out. We rock uncomfortably and thank heaven. During our
voyages among the islands we narrowly escaped several similar spouts.
After three days we found ourselves steering our way through the maze
of reefs, very beautiful but perilous, that extend out in front of
the landing place at Aitutaki. Again there was no ship in sight, but
again one might be scheduled to arrive within some reasonable time.
That was our hope. A crowd of natives gathered to watch us come in,
also half a dozen white men, among whom was the British resident. He
was a tall, lanky fellow who wore glasses, and looked a perfect
picture of President Wilson. We found this resident to be full of
the same British suspicion. Unlike his colleague at Atiu, he was in
no wise lost in tropical indolence, but was active and shrewd. We
saw that he entertained the liveliest doubts about us. Might we not
be wandering Germans? Of course, he could not venture any forcible
measures to investigate our case, such as searching our boat, for if
we really were Germans we would doubtless be armed to the teeth, and
in that case where would he be? He had no force to match ours. We
tried our level best to quiet his suspicions by our offhand natural
behaviour. We thought our sporting voyage explanation and our
request for a certificate, such as we had got from the resident at
Atiu, plausible enough. It was too bad that we could not use the
other resident's certificate, but in it were written our supposed
Dutch names, and now we were Norwegians.
The resident began by saying to us that we would no doubt be
delighted to meet a fellow countryman of ours. This "countryman"
turned out to be a Norwegian carpenter. We surmised at once that he
had been instructed by the resident to talk with us and see whether
we were really Norwegians. My Norwegian was bad, but Kircheiss spoke
the language like a native. I kept severely out of the way, and let
Kircheiss have a long, friendly talk with the carpenter. Kircheiss
convinced his man that he was as Norse as the Vikings. The carpenter
was delighted to meet a fellow countryman so jovial and, as Kircheiss
represented, so wealthy. He promptly reported to the resident that
we were the truest Norsemen alive and could in no wise be Germans.
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[Illustration: Alfred Kling, second officer of the _Seeadler_, was
left in command at Mopelia. A passing French schooner, the _Lutece_,
saw the wreck, came near to investigate, and was captured. Then
Kling and his companions re-named the schooner the _Fortuna_ and set
sail for Easter Island.]
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[Illustration: German prisoners in the internment camp on the little
island in Hauraki Gulf.
The New Zealand prison camp motor launch in which the Count made his
getaway.]
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The resident, with his inscrutable President Wilson face, invited me
to his house for dinner. I accepted. A British merchant named Low
invited my lieutenant to his house. We suspected it was a dodge to
separate us. Seemingly, the Norwegian's assurance had not fully
allayed the mistrust of these uneasy Britons. Kircheiss and I made
every excuse we could to keep together, but the hospitality was so
pressing that we could not refuse any longer without practically
giving ourselves away.
"Even if we are apart," I said to Kircheiss on the side, "we have our
pistols and hand grenades, by Joe. We will keep our eyes open, and
we can take care of ourselves single-handed. If anything looks
wrong, we will fight our way to the boat."
At the resident's house, a fine stone structure, I had a much-needed
bath and shave. When I rejoined him, the resident studied my smooth
jaws.
"Why," he exclaimed, "you are shaved."
"Yes, thanks to you, and I feel a hundred per cent. better."
"But one doesn't shave on a sporting trip, does one?"
He did not believe in anything, that Englishman. He was a true
sceptic.
We dined pleasantly enough. The resident talked a lot, although he
did not seem to be naturally a talkative kind. He asked me many
questions, which I answered cautiously. A native servant brought him
a note, and he scribbled a note in return. After a few minutes, the
servant brought him another message, and again he answered it. This
happened several times.
"Important messages?" I asked.
"Oh, no," he replied hastily, "they are from my friend Low. He wants
to arrange to have us all take coffee at his bungalow."
It was very queer. I was prepared, though, and thanked my stars for
the pistol and hand grenade in my pockets. I learned later that
their scheme was, in fact, to question Kircheiss and me separately.
The purpose of the notes was to arrange questions to be asked of us,
so that they might check up our separate answers to the same
questions. These answers, it happened, had jibed fairly well,
although not well enough to disarm suspicion altogether.
I thought it an imprudent time to ask when a ship might be expected,
and hoped that some voluntary information on the subject might be
vouchsafed. None was, however. I resolved to let the subject wait.
People suspected of being a boatload of armed Germans might too
readily be suspected of being interested in the arrival of ships.
When the time for leaving came, the resident told me that, if we
would return on the following day, he would give us the certificate
we desired, certifying that in the course of our sporting voyage we
had called at the island of Aitutaki. The delay about the
certificate was, of course, to detain us a day longer.
Away from this unsatisfactory interview, we encountered the Norwegian
carpenter who informed Kircheiss that the natives believed we were
Germans. The British had been recruiting soldiery among them for
service in France, and for the purpose of getting recruits had
stirred them up with a bit of war fever. The islanders therefore
hoped that we were enemies so they could seize us. They planned to
get our boat ashore and capture it. Upon hearing of this, I ordered
that two men be on watch all the time, ready to repel any attack.
"Any ships expected in port?" Kircheiss asked the carpenter.
"There may be one to-morrow," was the reply, "or it may not be here
for a month."
We held a council of war that night. Should we sail straight on?
That would make them certain that we were Germans, but there was no
wireless station on the island, and they could not warn the other
islands until a ship arrived to take away the news. Or should we
capture the island, which we could easily do with our extensive
armament, and then wait for a ship? Or should we still try to
convince the resident that we were the Norwegian sportsmen we
pretended? This latter temporizing measure we adopted, and decided
to call on the resident the following day and try to get our
certificate from him. In preparation for the visit, I instructed the
men who remained behind to be ready for trouble ashore. If we needed
them, they would hear a pistol shot. They should immediately open
fire with machine guns and hand grenades. They should shoot into the
air and throw the grenades into the water, where they would make the
most noise. The row would create a diversion, and then they should
hurry ashore with machine guns, rifles, and grenades to rescue us if
need be.
The following day provided us with plenty of thrills. When Kircheiss
and I went to the resident's house, crowds of natives followed us.
The resident greeted us with a worried expression but came straight
to the point.
"I shall have to examine your boat and papers," he said sternly.
"How so?" said I.
"The natives think you are Germans. I know you are not, but I must
inspect your boat to satisfy them."
He vacillated between the desire of not letting us get away and the
fear of a fight.
Outside, the Polynesians were gathering from all quarters. They made
a menacing, ugly-looking mob. Left hand in pocket, I attached a
carbine hook to the fuse of the grenade. With that mob of heathens
on the rampage, there was no use in trying to carry the deception any
further.
"It is true," I said to the resident, "we are Germans. But don't you
think it would be better if we remained friends? We are white men.
I am with you in front of these natives. Act the part that will
impress them. Come and examine our boat."
"Very well," he replied, growing pale, "but you won't take me with
you?"
"No, upon my word, no."
When we stepped out on the porch, the islanders raised a howl. I
never thought there were so many Polynesians in the world. I had
never before stood in the face of a mob. Sailors or soldiers would
not have made me so afraid.
"Don't be a coward," I said to myself. "On, by Joe, on."
Kircheiss and I stayed close together. The resident led us through
the mob, which was overawed by his presence. We were halfway to the
boat when a native in Colonial uniform stepped up. He had seen
service with the British in France, we were afterward told.
"Shall I arrest them, sir?" he asked.
"Arrest what?" I shouted. "Shut your trap. Why should a fool like
you try to arrest Norwegians?" Then I muttered to the resident: "If
that fellow makes any fuss, I'll shoot him dead."
"Don't talk that way," he replied nervously, and waved the native
soldier away.
The crowd followed us to the landing. A small rowboat picked us up.
"You won't keep me with you?" the resident asked again.
I assured him that we would not. So we rowed over and climbed into
my boat, impelled less by his own desire than by the attitude of the
natives.
"Here is the log," Kircheiss, with an impassive face, handed him a
log we had taken from one of our captured ships. He perfunctorily
turned the pages and came upon a chronometric diary we kept in the
book. Above was stamped in fat type: KAISERLICHE MARINE.
"What is that?" he stammered.
"Something in Norwegian," Kircheiss grinned sardonically. "I don't
understand it."
The resident saw: GAND UND STAND.
"What language is that?" This time he was a trifle ironical.
"Oh, Norwegian, of course," said Kircheiss.
The resident raised a tarpaulin, but dropped it quickly. He had seen
rifles. He raised another. There were neat rows of hand grenades,
as easy to pick up as apples.
"Keep those covered," he exclaimed, as pale as ashes.
"Well," I asked, "how do you find everything?"
"Quite all right--quite all right." He smiled a very acid smile.
"Won't you tell your people here that everything is all right?" I
suggested.
He turned to the crowd on the pier.
"Everything is in order," he called. "These gentlemen are Norwegian
sportsmen, as they say."
"And now the certificate," I reminded him.
He wrote a note just as the resident at Aitu had done.
"You don't intend to take me with you?" he repeated.
"No," I responded, "but I should like to have your company until we
can get some fruit and tobacco."
I stood chatting with him on the pier while Kircheiss went to procure
the fruit and tobacco. Hadn't we better take the island and wait for
a ship instead of sailing off? I debated the question with myself,
and then decided we had better go.
The last scene of this little drama was played as the resident and I
shook hands and bade each other an apparently cordial farewell. He
was a decent fellow, even if he had been suspicious, and I had eaten
an excellent dinner at his house. I was glad that we didn't have to
humiliate him before the natives, a dreadful fate for an Englishman.
As we hoisted anchor and raised sail, a cheer went up from the
natives lined along the shore. They were trying to make amends for
having treated us so shabbily and for having taken us for Germans!
But there at Aitutaki I had made the great mistake of our cruise. We
should have captured that island. Three days later a schooner
arrived. We could have taken it, rejoined our comrades, and
continued our raids. Instead, the resident told the officers the
story of our visit. The schooner sailed the next day and in a little
while met a steamer to which it transferred the news about us. The
steamer in turn radioed a warning to the whole South Seas. So we
were now in for a warm welcome.