Once more the Kawa foots the sea. Triplett's observations and
our assistance. The death of the compass-plant. Lost! An orgy of
desperation. Oblivion and excess. The Kawa brings us home. Our
reception in Papeete. A celebration at the Tiare.
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE AUTHOR AND HIS ISLAND BRIDE
CAPTAIN EZRA TRIPLETT
A BEWILDERED BOTANIST
THE W.E. TRAPROCK EXPEDITION
BABAI AND HER TAA-TAA
WALTER E. TRAPROCK, F.R.S.S.E.U
GATHERING DEW-FISH ON THE OUTER REEF
HERMAN SWANK
LUPOBA-TILAANA, MIST ON THE MOUNTAIN
WATCHFUL WAITING
GOLDEN HARMONIES
WILLIAM HENRY THOMAS
THE LAGOON AT DAWN (WHINNEY'S VERSION)
THE LAGOON AT DAWN (SWANK'S VERSION)
THE NEST OF A FATU-LIVA
A FLEDGLING FATU-LIVA
BAAHAABAA MOURNING THE DEPARTURE OF HIS FRIENDS
CHAPTER I
We get under way. Polynesia's busiest corner. Our ship's company. A
patriotic celebration rudely interrupted. In the grip of the elements.
Necessary repairs. A night vigil. Land ho!
"Is she tight?" asked Captain Ezra Triplett. (We were speaking of my
yawl, the Kawa).
"As tight as a corset," was my reply.
"Good. I'll go."
In this short interview I obtained my captain for what was to prove
the most momentous voyage of my life.
The papers were signed forthwith in the parlor of Hop Long's
Pearl-of-the-Orient Cafeteria and dawn of the following day saw us
beyond the Golden Gate.
I will omit the narration of the eventful but ordinary occurrences
which enlivened the first six months of our trip and ask my reader to
transport himself with me to a corner with which he is doubtless already
familiar, namely, that formed by the intersection of the equator with
the 180th meridian.
This particular angle bears the same relation to the Southern Pacific
that the corner of Forty-second Street and Fifth Avenue does to the
Atlantic Seaboard. More explorers pass a given point in a given time
at this corner than at any other on the globe. [Footnote: See L. Kluck.
_Traffic Conditions in the South Seas_, Chap. IV., pp. 83-92.]
It was precisely noon, daylight-saving time, on July 4th, 1921, when
I stood on the corner referred to and, strange to say, found it
practically deserted. To be more accurate, I stood on the deck of my
auxiliary yawl, the Kawa, and she, the Kawa, wallowed on the corner
mentioned. To all intents and purposes our ship's company was alone. We
had the comforting knowledge that on our right, as one faced the bow,
were the Gilbert and Marshall groups (including the Sandwiches), on our
left the Society, Friendly and Loyalty Archipelagoes, back of us the
Marquesas and Paumotus and, directly on our course, the Carolines and
Solomons, celebrated for their beautiful women. [Footnote: See "Song of
Solomon," King James Version.] But we were becalmed and the geographic
items mentioned were, for the time being, hull-down. Thus we were free
to proceed with the business at hand, namely, the celebration of our
national holiday.
This we had been doing for several hours, with frequent toasts,
speeches, firecrackers and an occasional rocket aimed directly at the
eye of the tropical sun. Captain Triplett, being a stickler for marine
etiquette, had conditioned that there should be no liquor consumed
except when the sun was over the yard-arm. To this end he had fitted
a yard-arm to our cross-trees with a universal joint, thus enabling
us to keep the spar directly under the sun at any hour of the day or
night. Consequently our celebration was proceeding merrily.
While in this happy and isolated condition let me say a few words of
our ship's company. Having already mentioned the Captain I will dispose
of him first. Captain Ezra Triplett was a hard-bitten mariner. In fact,
he was, I think, the hardest-bitten mariner I have ever seen. He had
been bitten, according to his own tell, man-and-boy, for fifty-two
years, by every sort of insect, rodent and crustacean in existence.
He had had smallpox and three touches of scurvy, each of these blights
leaving its autograph. He had lost one eye in the Australian bush
where, naturally, it was impossible to find it. This had been replaced
by a blue marble of the size known, technically, as an eighteen-er,
giving him an alert appearance which had first attracted me. By nature
taciturn, he was always willing to sit up all night as long as the gin
was handy, an excellent trait in a navigator. About his neck he wore
a felt bag containing ten or a dozen assorted marbles with which he
furnished his vacant socket according to his fancy, and the effect of
his frequent changes was both unusual and diverting.
[Illustration: Captain Ezra Triplett]
[Illustration Note: CAPTAIN EZRA TRIPLETT
The annals of maritime history will never be complete until the name
of Captain Ezra Triplett of New Bedford, Massachusetts, receives the
recognition which is justly its. For more than ten generations the
forebears of this hard-bitten mariner have followed the sea in its
various ramifications.
The first Triplett was one of the companions of Goswold who, in 1609,
wintered on Cuttyhunk Island in Buzzard's Bay. From then on the members
of this hardy New England family have earned positions of trust and
honor. By courage and perseverance the subject of this portrait has
worked himself up from cabin boy on the sound steamer _Puritan_ (wrecked
on Bartlett's Reef, 1898) to his present position of commander of the
Kawa.
Of his important part in connection with the historic cruise described
in these pages, the Kawa's owner, Dr. Traprock, has no hesitancy in
saying, "Frankly, without Triplett the thing never could have been
done." The accompanying photograph was taken just after the captain
had been hauled out of the surf in Papeete. It will be remarked that
he still maintains an indomitable front and holds his trusty Colt in
readiness for immediate action.]
But sail! Lord bless you, how Triplett could sail! It was wizardry,
sheer wizardry; "devil-work," the natives used to call it. Triplett,
blindfolded, could find the inlet to a hermetically sealed atoll. When
there wasn't any inlet he would wait for a seventh wave--which is
always extra large--and take her over on the crest, disregarding the
ragged coral below. The Kawa was a tight little craft, built
for rough work. She stood up nobly under the punishment her skipper
gave her.
Triplett's assistant was an individual named William Henry Thomas, a
retired Connecticut farmer who had chosen to end his days at sea. This,
it should be remarked, is the reverse of the usual order. The back-lots
of Connecticut are peopled by retired sea-captains who have gone back
to the land, which accounts in large measure for the condition of
agriculture in these communities. William Henry Thomas had appeared
as Triplett's selection. Once aboard ship his land habits stood him
in good stead in his various duties as cook, foremost-hand, butler and
valet, for it must not be supposed that the Kawa, tight though
she might be, was without a jaunty style of her own.
Our first-class cabin passengers were three, Reginald K. Whinney,
scientific man, world wanderer, data-demon and a devil when roused;
Herman Swank, bohemian, artist, and vagabond, forever in search of new
sensations, and myself, Walter E. Traprock, of Derby, Connecticut,
editor, war correspondent, and author, jack-of-all-trades, mostly
literary and none lucrative.
Our object? What, indeed, but life itself!
I had known my companions for years. We had been class-mates at New
Haven when our fathers were working our way through college. How far
away it all seemed on that torrid Fourth of July as we sat on the
Kawa's deck singing "Oralee", to which we had taught Triplett the bass.
"Like a blackbird in the spring,
Chanting Ora-lee...."
"Very un-sanitary," said Whinney, "a blackbird ... in the spring ...
very un-sanitary."
We laughed feebly.
Suddenly, as they do in the tropics, an extraordinary thing happened.
A simoon, a monsoon and a typhoon met, head on, at the exact corner
of the equator and the 180th meridian. We hadn't noticed one of
them,--they had given us no warning or signal of any kind. Before we
knew it they were upon us!
I have been in any one of the three separately many a time. In '95 off
the Blue Canary Islands I was caught in an octoroon, one of those
eight-sided storms, that spun our ship around like a top, and killed
all the canaries for miles about--the sea was strewn with their bodies.
But this!
"Below," bellowed Captain Triplett, and we made a dive for the hatch.
William Henry Thomas was the last in, having been in the bow setting
off a pinwheel, when the blow hit us. We dragged him in. My last memory
is of Triplett driving a nail back of the hatch-cover to keep it from
sliding.
How long we were whirled in that devil's grip of the elements I cannot
say. It may have been a day--it may have been a week. We were all
below, battened down ... tight. At times we lost consciousness--at
times we were sick--at times, both. I remember standing on Triplett's
face and peering out through a salt-glazed port-hole at a world of
waterspouts, as thick as forest trees, dancing, melting, crashing upon
us. I sank back. _This was the end_ ...
[Illustration: A Bewildered Botanist]
[Illustration Note: A BEWILDERED BOTANIST Here, against the background
of a closely woven hedge of southern hornbeam (_Carpinus Tropicalis_),
we see that eminent scientist, Reginald Whinney, in the act of
discovering, for the first time in any country, a magnificent specimen
of wild modesty (_Tiarella nuda_), which grows in great profusion
throughout the Filbert Islands. This tiny floweret is distantly related,
by marriage, to the European sensitive plant (_Plantus pudica_) but is
infinitely more sensitive and reticent. An illustration of this amazing
quality is found in the fact that its snowy blossoms blush a deep
crimson under the gaze of the human eye. At the touch of the human hand
the flowers turn inside-out and shrink to minute proportions. Dr.
Whinney attempted in vain to transplant specimens of this fragile
creation to our old-world botanical gardens but found the conditions of
modern plant life an insuperable barrier. The seeds of wild modesty
absolutely refuse to germinate in either Europe or America.]
* * * * *
Calm. Peace and sun! The beneficence of a warm, golden finger that
reached gently through the port-hole and rested on my eye. What had
happened? Oh--yes. "Like a blackbird in the spring." Slowly I fought
my way back to consciousness. Triplett was sitting in a corner still
clutching the hammer. On the floor lay Whinney and William Henry Thomas,
their twisted legs horribly suggestive of death.
"Air," I gasped.
Triplett feebly wrenched out the nail and we managed to pull the hatch
far enough back to squeeze through. Enlivened by the fresh air the
others crawled slowly after, except poor William Henry Thomas who still
lay inert.
"He's all right," said Whinney. "The gin bottle broke and dripped into
his mouth. He'll come to presently." He added in an undertone, "The
wages of gin..." Whinney was always quoting.
Minus our factotum we stood and silently surveyed what once had been
the Kawa. The leathern features of Captain Triplett twisted into a grin.
"Bald's a badger!" he murmured.
Everything had gone by the board. Mast, jigger, bow-sprit and running
gear. Not a trace of block or tackle rested on the surrounding sea.
We were clean-shaven. Of the chart, which had hung in a frame near the
binnacle, not a line remained. All our navigating instruments, quadrant,
sextant, and hydrant, with which we had amused ourselves making foolish
observations during that morning of the glorious Fourth, our chronometer
and speedometer,--all had absolutely disappeared.
"And there we are!" said Swank.
Triplett coughed apologetically and pulled his forelock.
"If you don't mind, sir, night'll be comin' on soon and I think we'd
better make sail."
"Make sail?" I murmured blankly. "How?"
"The bedding, sir," said Triplett.
"Of course!" I cried. "All hands abaft to make sail."
How we knotted our sheets and blankets together to fashion a rough
main-sail would be a tedious recital, for it was slow work. Our combined
efforts made, I should say, about eight knots an hour but half of them
pulled out at the least provocation. We persevered, however, and finally
completed our task. Nor were we an instant too soon, for just as we
had succeeded in getting the oars to stand upright and were anxiously
watching our well-worn army blankets belly out with the steady trade
wind, the sun, which for the last hour had hung above the horizon,
suddenly fell into the sea and night was upon us.
"There's that," said Whinney quietly.
Thus we slid through the velvet night with the Double Cross hanging
low, sou'west by south.
It must have been about an hour before dawn that a shiver of expectancy
thrilled us unanimously.
"Did you hear that, sir?" said Captain Triplett in a low tone.
"No ... what was it?"
"A sea-robin ... we must be near land ... there it is again."
I heard it that time ... the faint, sweet note of the male sea-robin.
Shortly afterward we heard the mewing of a sea-puss, evidently chasing
the robin.
"Sure enough, sir," said Triplett. "It'll be land." Somehow we felt
sure of it.
In calm elation and tired expectancy we strained our eyes through the
slow crescendo of the day's birth. Suddenly, the sun leaped over the
horizon and the long crimson rays flashed forward to where, dead ahead,
we could see a faint swelling on the skyline. "Land-ho!" we cried in
voices of strangled joy.
"Boys," said Captain Triplett, apologetically ... "we ain't got no
yard-arm, but the sun's up and there's land dead ahead, and I
reckon..."
He paused. Through the hatchway came William Henry Thomas bearing a
tray with four lily cups.
"Fair as a lily..." said Whinney (I knew he would).
Two minutes later we had fallen into heavy slumber while the Kawa
steered by the faithful Triplett, moved steadily toward our unknown
haven.
CHAPTER II
A real discovery. Polynesia analyzed. The astounding nature of the
Filberts. Their curious sound, and its reason. We make a landing. Our
first glimpse of the natives. The value of vaudeville.
There is nothing better, after a hurricane, than six hours' sleep. It
was high noon when we were awakened by William Henry Thomas and the
odor of coffee, which drew us to the quarter-deck. There, for the first
time, we were able to make an accurate survey of our surroundings and
realize the magnitude and importance of what had befallen us. While
we slept Captain Triplett had warped the denuded Kawa through
a labyrinth of coral and we now lay peacefully at anchor with the
island lying close in-board.
Its appearance, to put it mildly, was astonishing. Let me remind the
reader that for the previous four months we had been prowling through
the Southern Pacific meeting everywhere with disappointment and
disillusionment. We had inspected every island in every group noted
on every map from Mercator to Rand-McNally without finding any variation
in type from, "A," the low lying coral-atoll of the well-known broken
doughnut formation, to, "B," the high-browed, mansard design popularized
by F. O'Brien. [Footnote: This is the type "E". of Melville's overrated
classification--_Ed._] In a few of the outlying suburbs of
Melanesia and the lower half of Amnesia, we had found a few designs
which showed sketchy promise of originality: coral reefs in quaint
forms had been begun, outlining a scheme of decoration in contrast
with the austere mountains and valleys. But everywhere these had been
abandoned. Either the appropriation had given out, or the polyps had
gotten to squabbling among themselves and left their work to be slowly
worn away by the erosive action of sea and shipwrecked bottoms.
[Footnote: In Micronesia it was even worse, the islands offering a
dead-level of mediocrity which I have never seen equalled except in
the workingmen's cottages of Ampere, New Jersey, the home of the General
Electric Company.] Add to the geographic sameness the universal blight
of white civilization with its picture post-cards, professional hula
and ooh-la dancers, souvenir and gift shops, automat restaurants,
movie-palaces, tourists, artists and explorers, and you have some idea
of the boredom which had settled down over the Kawa and her
inmates.
Only a few days before Whinney, usually so philosophical, had burst
out petulantly with: "To hell with these islands. Give me a good mirage,
any time." Swank and I had heartily agreed with him, and it was in
that despondent spirit that we had begun our Fourth of July celebration.
As we sat cozily on deck, sipping our coffee, it slowly dawned on us
that we had made the amazing discovery of an absolutely new type of
island!--something so evidently virgin and unvisited that we could
only gaze in awe-struck silence.
"Do you know," whispered Swank, "I think this is the first time I have
ever seen a virgin"--he choked for an instant on a crumb--"island."
We could well believe it.
The islands lay before us in echelon formation. The one in our immediate
foreground was typical of the others. Its ground-floor plan was that
of a circle of beach and palm enclosing an inner sea from the center
of which rose an elaborate mountain to a sheer height of two thousand,
perhaps ten thousand, feet. The general effect was that of a pastry
masterpiece on a gigantic scale. [Footnote: Oddly enough the scene
struck me as strangely familiar but it was not until weeks afterward
that I recalled its prototype in the memory of a decoration worn by
General Grosdenovitch, Minister very-extraordinary to America from
Montenegro just before the little mountain kingdom blew up with a faint
pop and became absorbed by Jugo-Slovakia (sic).] We could only stare
in open-mouthed amazement, thrilled with the thought that we were
actually discoverers. A gorgeous feature of our find, in addition to
its satisfactory shape, was its color. Sand and vegetation were of the
conventional hues, but where the flanks of the rock rose from the
enclosed pool we observed that they were of the pure elementary colors,
red, blue and yellow, fresh and untarnished as in the latest masterpiece
from the brush of the Master of All Painters. Here before our eyes was
an unspoiled sample of what the world must have looked like on
varnishing day.
Swank, who is ultra-modern in his tendencies, was in ecstasies over
the naive simplicity of the color scheme. "Look at that red!" he
shouted. "Look at that blue!! Look at that yaller!!!" He dove below
and I heard rattling of tubes and brushes that told me he was about
to commit landscape. This time I knew he couldn't possibly make the
colors too violent.
Fringing the exquisitely tinted coral strand were outlying reefs,
alternately concave and convex, which gave the shore edge a scalloped,
almost rococo finish, which I have heard decorators call the
Chinese-Chippendale "effect." Borne to our nostrils by an occasional
reflex of the zooming trades came, ever and anon, entrancing whiffs
of a brand new odor.
It is always embarrassing to attempt to describe a new smell, for,
such is our inexperience in the nasal field, that a new smell must
invariably be described in terms of _other_ smells, and by reason of a
curious, inherited prudery this province has been left severely alone by
English writers. I know of but one man, M. Sentant, the governor of
Battambang, Cambodia, who frankly makes a specialty of odors. [Footnote:
See _Journal des Debats_, '09, "Le nez triomphant" de Lucien Sentant.]
"J'aime les odeurs!" he said to me one day as we sat sipping a siem-bok
on the piazza, of the residency.
"Mais il y en a des mauvaises," I deprecated.
"_Meme_ les mauvaises," he insisted, "Oui, _surtout les_ mauvaises!"
But Sentant is unique. I can only say that as I sat sniffing on the
deck of the Kawa there was about us a _soupcon_ of the _je-ne-sais-quoi
tropicale_, half nostalgie, half diablerie. It was ... but what's the
use? You will have to go out there some time and smell it for yourself.
[Illustration: The W.E. Traprock Expedition]
[Illustration Note: THE W.E. TRAPROCK EXPEDITION It is doubtful if a
camera's eye ever recorded the presence of a more remarkable group
than that presented on the opposite page. Here we see the ship's company
of the yawl Kawa, assembled under the shade of the broad
panjandrus leaves which fringe the Filbert Islands. They are, reading
from left to right, William Henry Thomas, the crew; Herman Swank,
Walter E. Traprock, Reginald Whinney. At their feet lies Kippiputuona
(Daughter of Pearl and Coral). The black and white of photography can
give no idea of the magnificent tropical coloring, nor of the exquisite
sounds and odors which permeate every inch of the island paradise. At
the moment of taking this picture, which was obligingly snapped by
Captain Triplett, the entire party was listening to the thrilling cry
of the fatu-liva bird. Captain Triplett had just requested the group
to "listen to the little birdie" when the distant wood-notes were
heard, the coincidence falling in most happily with the photographer's
attempts to secure the absolute attention of his subjects.]
I have mentioned the contour, color and fragrance of our island. I now
come to the strangest feature of all. I refer to its sound. I had for
some time noticed a queer, dripping noise which I had foreborne to
mention fearing it might be inside my own head--a devilish legacy of
our recent buffeting. You can imagine my relief when Whinney asked
apologetically, "Do you fellows hear anything?"
"I do!" was my rejoinder, seconded by Swank who had come up for air.
We all listened intently.
Though the sky was cloudless, a distinct pattering sound as of a light
rain reached us.
"Nuts..." said Captain Triplett suddenly, spitting on the nose of a
fish that had made a face at him. A glance through our mercifully
preserved field-glasses corroborated the Captain's vision.
"For the love of Pete!" I gasped. "Take a squint at those trees." They
were literally crawling with nuts and tropical fruits of every
description. In the shadow of the broad panjandrus leaves we could see
whole loaves of breadfruits falling unassisted to the ground while
between the heavier thuds of cocoanuts and grapefruit we heard the
incessant patter of light showers of thousands of assorted nutlets,
singing the everlasting burden and refrain of these audible isles. It
was this predominant feature--though I anticipate our actual
decision--which ultimately settled our choice of a name for the new
archipelago,--the Filbert Islands, now famous wherever the names of
Whinney, Swank and Traprock are known.
It was now about half-past two bells and an excellent time to make a
landing, preparations for which were forthwith set in motion. Now, if
ever, we had occasion to bless the tightness of the Kawa, for
in the confusion below, somewhat ameliorated by the labors of William
Henry Thomas, we found most of our duffle in good order, an occasional
stethoscope broken or a cork loose, but nothing to amount to much. Our
rifles, side-arms, cartridges, camera and my bundles of rejected
manuscript were as dry as ever. I was thankful as I had counted on
writing on the other side of them. A tube of vermilion had run amuck
among Swank's underclothes but, in the main, we were intact.
After some delay in getting our folding-dory stretched on its frame,
due to Whinney's contention that the bow and stern sections belonged
on the same end, we finally shoved off, leaving William Henry Thomas
to answer the door in case of callers.
In the brief interval of our passage, I could not help noticing the
remarkable submarine flora over which we passed. The water, perfectly
clear to a depth of four-hundred and eighty-two feet, showed a
remarkable picture of aquatic forestry. Under our keel spread limeaceous
trees of myriad hues in whose branches perched variegated fish nibbling
the coral buds or thoughtfully scratching their backs on the roseate
bark. Pearls the size of onions rolled aimlessly on ocean's floor. But
of these later; for the nonce our tale leads landward.
As our canvas scraped the shingle we leaped out, tossing the dory
lightly beyond the reach of the waves, and fell into the agreed-upon
formation. Triplett in the van, then Whinney, Swank and myself, in the
order named. Beyond the beach was a luxuriant growth of _haro_.
[Footnote: Similar to the photographer's grass; is used in the
foreground of early Sarony full lengths. I have seen a similar form
of vegetation just off the fairway of the third hole at Garden City.]
Into this we proceeded gingerly, intrepid and alert, but ready to bolt
at the slightest alarm.
The nut noises became constantly more ominous and menacing, but still
we saw no sign of human life. Near the edge of the forest we came to
a halt. Plainly it would be unwise to venture within range of the
arboreal hailstones without protection, for though our pith-helmets
were of the best quality they were, after all, but pith, and a cocoanut
is a cocoanut, the world over. While we were debating this point and
seeking a possible way into the jungle which was not overarched by
trees I heard a low bird-call, as I supposed, the even-song of the
cross-billed cuttywink. On the instant a towering circle of dark forms
sprang from the haro and at a glance I saw that we were completely
surrounded by gigantic Filbertines!
Darting a look over my shoulder I noted to my dismay an enormous
land-crab towing our dory seaward. It was a harrowing moment. As agreed
upon, we waited for Triplett to take the initiative and in the interim
I took a hasty inventory of our reception committee. The general
impression was that of great beauty and physique entirely unadorned
except for a narrow, beaded water-line and pendent apron (_rigolo_
in the Filbertine language) consisting of a seven-year-old clam shell
decorated with brightly colored papoo-reeds. The men's faces were calm,
almost benign, and as far as I could see unarmed except for long,
sharply pointed bundles of leaves which they carried under their arms.
Their tattooing was the finest I have ever seen.
At this moment, however, my observations were concluded by Triplett's
suddenly wheeling and saying sharply, "Traprock! ... target practice!"
This was a stunt we had often performed for the amusement and
mystification of kindly cannibals in the Solomons. I had seen it in
vaudeville and taught it to Triplett. As was my custom, I had in the
pocket of my singlet a number of ship biscuit. Plucking out one of
these I placed it on my forehead and nose, holding it in place with
the index finger. Triplett leveled his Colt a good yard above my head
and fired, I on the instant pressing the biscuit so that it fell in
pieces to the ground.
The effect on the Filbertines was marvelous.
They were too simple to be afraid. Their one emotion was wonder. Then
Swank, grinning broadly, uttered the one word, "Cinch!"
To a nation which had never heard a word ending in a consonant, this
was apparently intensely humorous. They burst into loud guffaws,
supplemented with resounding slaps of their cupped hands on their
stomachs, at the same time raising an imitative cry of "Sink-ka!
Sink-ka!"
This was our welcome to the Filbert Islands, and also the beginning
of the formation of that new tongue, Filbertese or nut-talk, which in
the ensuing months was to mean so much to our small but absolutely
intrepid band.
CHAPTER III
Our handsome hosts. En route to the interior. Native flora and fauna. We
arrive at the capitol. A lecture on Filbertine architecture. A strange
taboo. The serenade.
With the first burst of laughter it seemed that all embarrassment on
the part of the natives had been dissipated. Those nearest us insisted
on patting our stomachs gently, at the same time uttering a soft,
crooning "soo-soo," [Footnote: This same sound is used by the natives
of Sugar Hill, New Hampshire, when calming their horses.] which it was
obviously the proper thing to return, which we did to the delight of
the bronze warriors about us.
After a few moments of this friendly massage, the most ornamental of
the savages, whom I judged to be the chief, uttered dissyllabic command
of "Oo-a," and slapped his right thigh smartly with his left hand, a
feat more easily described than accomplished. Coincident with this
signal came a cheerful riffling sound as the Filbertines broke out
their large umbrellas of panjandrus leaves which we had first mistaken
for weapons. This implement, (known technically as a _naa-naa_ or
_taa-taa_, depending on whether it was open or closed), was in reality
notonly a useful and necessary protection against the continuous
nut-showers but also a weapon of both of- and de-fensive warfare.
[Footnote: This primitive people we soon found to be profoundly
pacifistic, a natural condition in a race who, since the dawn of time,
had known no influence other than that of the Pacific Ocean. Warfare
with its cruel attributes had never penetrated their isolation. With
nations as with people, it takes two to make a quarrel. Here was but
one.]
We stood thus, in open formation, among the luxurious haro until in
response to another signal from the chief, a resounding slap on the
left shank, they escorted us ceremoniously along a winding path which
led toward the interior of the island. It was for all the world as if
we were being taken out to dinner, a thought which suggested for an
instant the reflection that we might turn out to be not _guests_ but
_courses_ at the banquet, in which case I promised myself I should be a
_piece-de-resistance_ of the most violent character.
But these solemn thoughts were not proof against the gaiety of our
surroundings, the soft patter of the constantly dropping nuts bounding
from the protective _taa-taas_, and the squawks and screeches of
countless cuttywinks and _fatu-liva_ birds, those queens of the tropics
whose gorgeous plumage swept across our path.
For Whinney and Swank as well as myself the promenade was a memorable
one, the former feasting his cool eyes on the hundreds of new scientific
items which he was later to classify, the bulbous _oo-pa_, a sort of
vegetable cream-puff, the succulent _tuki-taki_, pale-green with red
dots, a natural cross between the banana and the cocoanut, having the
taste of neither, and the numerous crawling things, the whistling-ants
and shy, lamp-eyed lily-bugs (_anchoridae flamens_) who flashed their
signals as we passed.
Swank revelled in the rainbow colors about us, the flaming nabiscus
blossoms and the unearthly saffron of the _alova_ blooms, one inhale of
which, we were to learn, contained the kick of three old-fashioned
mint-juleps. Only Triplett's hard-boiled countenance reflected no
interest whatever in his surroundings.
It was doubtless this unintelligent dignity on our Captain's part,
coupled with what was left of his brass buttons and visor cap on which
the legend "Kawa" still glimmered faintly, which prompted the aborigines
to select him as our chief, an error which I at first thought of
correcting by some sort of dramatic tableau such as having Triplett
lie down and letting me place my foot on his Adam's apple, of which
he had a splendid specimen. On second thought, however, I decided that
it would be more modest to allow him any honors he might receive
together with the responsibilities attendant upon his position. It is
the invariable habit of South Sea Islanders, in the event of trouble,
to capture and hold as hostages the chief men of a tribe. Their heads,
with or without the original bodies, seem to have a peculiar value.
[Illustration: Babai and Her Taa-Taa]
[Illustration Note: BABAI AND HER TAA-TAA
In this picture the joyous island queen Babai-Alova-Babai is seen
carrying her taa-taa, the curious implement which serves so many
purposes in the Filbert Group. It is in turn a protection against the
sun, the rain and the constant showers of falling nuts, and also, when
occasion demands, a most effective weapon of defensive warfare. The
taa-taa is made of closely laced panjandrus leaves on a frame of the
tough eva-eva. When closed, which is seldom, it is known as a naa-naa.
In addition to its other uses it is most evidently a charming background
for a splendid example of Filbertine youth and beauty.]
Soon the trail widened, and we were called upon to hurdle several low
barriers of _papoo-reeds_, designed to confine the activities of the
countless Alice-blue wart-hogs which whined plaintively about our feet.
At a majestic gesture from the chief the _taa-taas_ were furled
(becoming _naa-naas_), and we halted in a bright clearing about sixty
feet in diameter, plainly the public square, or, to be exact, circle.
My first impression was that of complete isolation in an unbroken
forest. Peer as I would, I could discern no sign of human habitation.
We had arrived, but where? My question was soon answered. By most
gracious gestures, soft sounds and a series of fluttering finger
exercises on the abdominal walls we were led to one side of the circle
where, as our guides pointed upward, white eyes for the first time in
history rested on a Filbertine dwelling!
The houses were in the trees!
Architecture is said to express deeply the inner characteristics of
a people, a statement I am glad to corroborate. But never had it struck
me so forcibly as now. Gazing up at a dim picture of informal
construction, interlaced and blended with the trunks, boughs and foliage
of the overarching palms I saw at a glance the key-note of the life
of this simple people--_absence of labor_.
The houses,--nests, were the better word--were formed by a most naive
adaptation of natural surroundings to natural needs. The curving fronds
of the towering coco-palms and panjandrus had been interlaced; and
nature did the rest, the gigantic leaves interweaving, blending,
over-lapping, meeting in a passionate and successful desire to form
a roof, proof alike against sun and rain. Some ten feet below this and
an equal distance from the ground the tendrils of the _eva-eva_ vine had
been led from tree to tree, the subordinate fibres and palpitating
feelers quickly knitting themselves into a floor with all the hygienic
properties and tensile strength of linen-mesh.
Access to these apartments was something of a puzzle until, to instruct
us, a tall Filbert, who was evidently to be our neighbor, approached
a nearby dwelling and, seizing a pendent halyard of _eva-eva_, gently
but firmly pulled down the floor to a convenient level, vaulted into the
hammock-like depression and was immediately snapped into privacy. From
below we could see the imprint of his form rolling toward the center of
his living-room and then the depressions of his feet as he proceeded to
lurch about his dwelling.
It was now mid-afternoon; we were hot, tired, and, though we did not
know it, mildly intoxicated by the inhalations of alova which we had
absorbed during our journey. I looked forward eagerly to getting
up-stairs, so to speak, and taking a sound nap. One thing only deterred
me; I was thirsty.
[Illustration: Walter E. Traprock, F.R.S.S.E.U.]
[Illustration Note: WALTER E. TRAPROCK, F.R.S.S.E.U.
This striking likeness of Dr. Traprock, the author of the present
volume, admirably expresses the intensity, alertness and intrepidity
which have carried this remarkable personage through so many harrowing
experiences. A certain bold defiance, which is one of Dr. Traprock's
characteristics, has here been caught to the life. With just this
matchless courage we know that he must have faced death a thousand
times even though, as now, he had not a cartridge in his belt. That
Dr. Traprock knows no fear is evidenced by the fact that he has not
only explored every quarter of the globe, but that he has also written
a number of books of travel, plays, musical comedies and one cook-book.
The background of this picture shows the densely matted bush of the
Filbert Islands in their interior portion, a jungle growth which might
well baffle any but the most skillful threader of the trackless wilds.
The gun carried by Dr. Traprock is a museum-piece, having been presented
to the author's great-grandfather by Israel Putnam immediately after
the Battle of Fort Ticonderoga. Thanks to constant upkeep it is in as
good condition as ever. This is also true of Dr. Traprock.]
On the edge of the clearing I heard the tinkling of a brook. Walking
to its edge, I knelt and dipped my hot wrists in the cold stream,
wetting my hands, face and matted locks, while the natives eyed me
solemnly but with, I thought, looks of anxiety. And then a strange
thing happened. As I took off my duck's-back fishing hat, filled it
to the brim and raised it to my lips, a cry of horror burst from the
throats of those swarthy giants. The chief strode forward and dashed
the cap from my hand, at the same time thundering the word "Bapoo!"
In an instant it flashed upon me that this was Filbertese for _tapu_ or
_taboo_, that strange, sacred kibosh which is laid on certain acts,
objects or localities throughout these far-flung islands. Water it
appeared was for drinking purposes--_bapoo_. I then did what I think was
exactly the right thing under the circumstances, namely, to wring out
the offending head-covering and throw it as far from me as possible, an
act which was greeted with a hearty burst of applause.
It was not necessary for me to indicate further that I was thirsty.
Two henchmen almost immediately appeared with a large nut-shell of
unfamiliar appearance,--it was about the size of a half watermelon and
bright red on the outside,--full of a pale pink liquid. The chief,
one or two of the leading men, and the rest of my party were similarly
equipped. Raising his shell the chief and nobles said simultaneously
"Wha-e-a" and we drank.
Two minutes afterward I had a faint sensation of being borne away by
the trade wind. Swank was beside me and I heard him murmur, "I'm glad
I don't have to sleep with Triplett."
The rest was silence, and the silence was rest....
We awoke many hours later. It was moonlight and we were lying in a
complicated knot in the exact center of our domicile. Unraveling
ourselves we tested our heads with gentle oscillations.
Suddenly, in the distance, we heard a sound which sent a chill thrill
running up and down our spines, the sound of singing, a faint far-off
chorus of the loveliest voices that ever fell on mortal ears. The tone
had that marvelous silver clang of the woodland thrush with yet a
deeper, human poignancy, a note of passionate longing and endearment,
shy but assertive, wild, but oh! so alluring. We chinned ourselves
expectantly on the edge of our floor and waited, panting.
"A serenade," whispered Swank, and Whinney shush-ed him savagely.
Through the forest glades we could see the choir approaching, the dusky
flash of brown bodies swaying, palpitating to the intoxicating rhythm
of the song. Slowly and with great dignity they entered the clearing
and stood, a score of slender creatures, in the full blaze of the moon,
their lithe-limbed bodies clad only in delicate mother-of-pearl
_rigolos_.
Thus standing, they again burst into the melody of their national
love-song. I transcribe the original words which for simple, primitive
beauty are without rival.
A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a
E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e
I-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i
O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
U-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u
and sometimes
W-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w
And
Y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y
The music is indescribable, I can only say that it is as beautiful as
the words.[Footnote: "The peculiarly liquid quality of Polynesian
phonetics is impossible for foreigners to acquire. Europeans who attempt
a mastery of these sounds invariably suffer from what etymologists
call metabelia, or vowel complaint."--_Prof. C.H. Towne, Nyack
University_.]
On the third encore they turned and slowly but surely filed out of the
clearing into the forest. Long after they had disappeared our eyes
still hung over the edge of our apartment and we could hear in our
memories the sweet refrain--
W-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w
Y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y
As we lay there like men in a trance I saw a dull red glow on the
horizon and then, far off a rocket split the velvet night, burst into
stars and disappeared.
It was William Henry Thomas, aboard the Kawa--a signal of
distress! Poor goof! We had completely forgotten him.
I had a vague sense, shared, I think, by the others, that I ought to
worry a bit about him. But it was no use. One by one we lowered
ourselves into the pit of our arboreal home and drifted into delicious
languorous reveries, not of William Henry Thomas. We had other things
to think about.
CHAPTER IV
A few of our native companions. Filbertine diet. Physiological
observations. We make a tour of the island. A call on the ladies.
Baahaabaa gives a feast. The embarrassments of hospitality. An alcoholic
escape.
"We really must do something about William Henry Thomas," I said on
the day following our serenade.
My companions agreed, and we really meant it. But alas, how easy it
is to put things off. Day after day slipped by and we thought less and
less of our boat-tending sailorman and more and more of what a
magnificent time we were having.
The chief's name was Baahaabaa, meaning in Filbertese "Durable Drinker."
Among his companions were several who soon became our
intimates--Hitoia-Upa (Cocoanut That Never Falls) and Abluluti (Big
Wind Constantly Blowing).
In every case reference in names was to simple, natural beauties. How
much more interesting than our own meaningless nomenclature.
We soon found that these simple folk had evolved an admirable standard
day in which there was no labor whatever, no cooking, even. Imagine
a civilization, and I use the word advisedly, in which the question
of having or not having a cook is eliminated. We were two weeks on the
island before any one of us realized that we had seen no fire. The
matches which we used to light our pipes were thought to be marvelous
flowers that blossomed and immediately disappeared.
Nature, all bountiful, supplied a menu of amazing variety. Fruits,
vegetables, combinations of the two, edible flowers and, above all,
the thousand and one kinds of nuts from which the islands receive their
name, were at hand for the plucking. Our breakfast grew on the ceiling
of our bedroom and dropped beside us with charming punctuality at the
first shiver of the rising trade.
It must not be supposed that we were strict vegetarians. Many varieties
of fish and crustacea, as well as certain insects and some of the
smaller birds were eaten raw. European and American civilizations alike
are hopelessly backward in this regard. True, we eat with avidity
oysters and clams (except in the Bapoo-period), knowing that they are
not only raw but also alive. In the Filberts it was but a slight step
forward to pop into one's mouth a wriggling _limpataa_ (a kind of marine
lizard), whose antics after he is swallowed are both pleasant and novel.
The hors d'oeuvre course of a Filbert Island banquet is one roar of
laughter caused by the interior tickling of the agile food. This of
course promotes good feeling and leads to many lasting friendships.
With one's meals thus always ready-to-serve, with no cook glowering
at the clock, no cheese souffle ready to collapse, no dishes to wash
or frying-pans to scour, life is one long gastronomic song.
In physical stature and beauty the Filbertines are far above the
average. The men are six feet in height and upwards, and proportionately
wide. By a combination of equable climatic and economic conditions
this altitude has become standardized and there is little variation
from it. A sort of rough control is exercised in this regard. When a
young male Filbertine has got his growth he is measured with a bamboo
yardstick to see if he comes up to requirements.
If not, he simply disappears. Little is said about it, but the fact
is that the physical failures are moored at low tide to a lump of coral
on one of the outer reefs. Sharks, octopi and the man-eating _Wak-waks_
do the rest. This, as I say, is a rough sort of control but effective.
[Illustration: Gathering Dew-Fish on the Outer Reef]
[Illustration Note: GATHERING DEW-FISH ON THE OUTER REEF
There is no pleasanter sight in the world than that of the stalwart
young Filbertine youths gathering dew-fish in the early dawn of a
perfect tropical day. It is only at this time that these edible little
creatures can be caught. Just as the sun's rays flash across the horizon
they rise to the surface of the water in vast numbers, turning the entire
ocean to a pulsating mirror of silver. For five minutes they lie thus,
then suddenly sink simultaneously. Their work for the day, so far as
we know it, is done. The natives fill their cheeks--which are very
elastic--with hundreds of these tiny fish which they afterwards eject
on the shore. Here we see Hitoia-Upa and Ablutiluti gathering dew-fish
for the great feast given in honor of Dr. Traprock and his companions.]
In facial character the tribe is regular and well proportioned,
presenting no traces of negroid antecedents. Noses are slender and
slightly retroussed, lips clean-cut, chins modestly assertive with
lower jaws superbly adapted to cracking cocoanuts and oysters, foreheads
low with sufficient projection at the eye-line for shade purposes. All
in all, they are entitled to an A-plus in beauty and reminded me less
of Polynesians than of a hand-picked selection of Caucasians who had
been coated with a flat-bronze radiator paint.
Beards, moustaches, imperials, goatees, side-whiskers and Galways are
unknown, a fact which was to me strange considering the luxuriance of
other vegetation until I learned that, from infancy, it is the custom
of the Filbertine mother to scour her offspring's face with powdered
coral which discourages the facial follicles. These eventually give
up and, turning inward and upward, result in a veritable crown of glory
on the top of the head, the place, after all, where the hair ought to
grow. Their teeth, as with most gramnivora, are sound, regular,
brilliantly white and exceptionally large, the average size being that
of the double-blank domino.
So much for the men, and far too much, if you ask me, when you think
that we still have the adorable women to speak of.
Ever since our first nocturnal glimpse of the charming creatures you
can imagine that my companions and I were most eager to see more of
them. During the entire next day not one of "les belles sauvages" was
visible. It was next to impossible to make inquiries, but Swank, the
irrepressible, resolved to try and plied Baahaabaa with questions in
French, English, German and beche-de-mer, which only resulted in loud
laughter on the part of our host. Swank next tried pantomime, using
the French gesture for beauty, a circular motion of the hands about
his face accompanied by sickening smiles. Baahaabaa watched him
intently, slapped his hip sharply, uttering a melodious command and
shortly afterward Hitoia-Upa presented Swank with a beautifully made
wreath of elecampane blossoms (_inula helenion_) exactly matching his
beard. This was all very well but got us nowhere.
On the day following, however, our difficulties were unexpectedly
solved. Abluluti and a companion of his, Moolitonu
(Bull-lost-in-a-Thunder-Storm), indicated by certain large gestures
that if we liked they would be glad to make a tour of the island, a
proposition we gladly accepted. Moolitonu was our official map. On his
broad back in the most exquisite azure tattooing was a diagram of the
island showing all main-routes, good and bad trails and points of
interest. Moolitonu was, in fact, a human Blue-book.
Equipped with individual _taa-taas_ and quart cocoanut shells of
_hoopa_, a delicious twenty-seven per cent. milk, we set out along
a well-traveled trail, stopping ever and anon to enjoy the tranquil
beauty of the outer sea or the more spectacular glimpses of the inner
lagoon dominated by the mountain. We had made the circuit of
approximately three-fourths of the island, when suddenly, without a
word of warning, we stumbled into the _Hativa-faui_, or ladies'
dressing-room. Instantly we were surrounded by a bevy of captivating
beauties. Our guides had evidently counted on our surprise for they
laughed uproariously, their mirth being joyously echoed by the graceful
women who crowded about us, patting, petting and bidding us unmistakable
welcome to their compound. I have never seen a more charming sylvan
retreat.
[Illustration: Herman Swank]
[Illustration Note: HERMAN SWANK
Since the exhibition of Herman Swank's South Sea Studies in the Graham
Galleries, New York City, it is hardly necessary to introduce by name
the illustrious artist who has justly earned the title of "Premier
Painter of Polynesia." A whole school of painters have attempted to
reproduce the exotic color and charm of these entrancing isles. It
remained for Herman Swank, by his now famous method of diagrammatic
symbolism, to bring the truth fully home. This he accomplished by
living, to the limit, the native life of the Filbertese. Clad only in
the light lamitu, or afternoon wrap of the islands, it was the artist's
custom to spend entire days inhaling the perfume of the fragment alova
flower, a practice which undoubtedly accounts for the far-away, dreamy
expression so evident in the photograph. He is also wearing the paloota,
or wedding crown, the gift of his lovely island bride.]
Let me briefly outline the Filbertine domestic arrangements as they
were gradually unfolded to us. To begin with, make no mistake, marriage
in the Filbert Islands is a distinct success. This is accomplished by
the almost complete separation of the husband from his wives. During
the day these joyous maids and matrons lead their own lives in their
own community, rehearsing their songs, weaving chaplets of flowers,
stringing pearls for their simple costumes, playing games and exchanging
the badinage and gossip which are the life-breath of womanhood the
world over. They are inordinately proud of their hair, as well they
may be, and spend hours at a time dressing and undressing it.
The men, on their side, are equally free. The result is that a meeting
with their wives is an event. Happiness, love and the elation of
celebration are the harmonious notes of this beautiful domestic
diapason.
Feast-days, banquets, picnics, swimming parties--the Filbertines adore
salt water, which is not potable but thirst-producing--these are the
occasions of a frank and joyous mingling of the sexes.
Before we left the clearing we were treated to a most graceful
spectacle, a performance of the _Ataboi_, a dance descriptive of the
growth and blossoming of the _alova_ flower. This was performed by seven
beautiful girls to an accompaniment of song and clapping. The plaintive
love-motif was unmistakably introduced by a deep-chested dame who played
on the _bazoola_, a primitive instrument fashioned from the stalk of the
figwort (_Scrophulariaceae_). It may interest music lovers to know that
the Filbertines employ the diatetic scale exclusively, four notes in the
ascent and five on the recoil.
At the close of the performance we were shown the nursery compound,
an enclosure teeming with beautiful children, screened by hedges where
the little ones could be heard but not seen.
Two days subsequent to our amble we were invited to a grand banquet
which led to disturbing problems and momentous decision on our part.
This feast was our formal welcome; the keys of the islands, so to
speak, were presented to us. There were ladies present--and everything.
It was served in a special clearing lighted by the moon and countless
_anchoridae_ tied by their legs in festoons, a procedure which causes
them to open and shut their lambent eyes very rapidly, and gave a quaint
cinema effect to the scene. After counting the courses up to
twenty-seven I lost as each was accompanied by a new brand of island
potion. Fortunately we were seated on the ground.
Triplett was in his glory. If I have failed to mention recently our
hard-bitten old navigator it is only because we had seen comparatively
little of him. Resting on his titular dignity as chief he seldom
appeared in public, spending most of his time up his tree snoozing or
reading an old copy of the New Bedford "Argus," which he was never
without. Tonight, however, he blazed forth in full regalia, wearing
his best blue marble, his visor-cap wreathed with nabiscus blossoms,
his case-hardened countenance lighted with conviviality. Following an
interminable period of eating and drinking came a long speech by
Baahaabaa which, like most after-dinner speeches, meant nothing to me.
Captain Triplett replied. The gist of Triplett's remarks, memorized
from the "Argus," were taken from the 1916 report of the New Bedford
Board of Trade. When he proclaimed that "besides cotton goods, 100,000
pianos were turned out yearly and 8,500 derby hats every day," his
audience, set off by Whinney, burst into uproarious applause. The
climax was reached when he lowered his voice dramatically and said,
"And keep always in mind, O Baahaabaa and friends, that the New England
Fur Company uses daily 35,000 rabbit pelts! Gentlemen, I thank you."
Pandemonium broke loose. Triplett was showered with congratulations.
Music and dancing followed, among others an amazing performance by a
sturdy youth, Zambao-Zambino (Young-Man-Proud-of-His-Waist-Line) who
rendered a solo by striking his distended anatomy with his clenched
fist, varying the tone by relaxing or tightening the abdominal muscles.
Whinney sang a very dreary arrangement of "Mandalay"--his one parlor
trick; Swank did an imitation of Elsie Janis's imitation of Ethel
Barrymore and I sang "The Wreck of the Julie Plante," an amusing ballad
describing the loss by drowning of an entire ship's company.
But the climax was yet to come.
There was a vague sort of commotion among the banqueters and Baahaabaa
rose with amazing steadiness and made another speech, short this time,
but aimed point-blank at us, after which, through the center of a sort
of kick-off formation I saw approaching four of the most exquisite
women in the world. When ten feet away they fell on all fours and,
using the Australian crawl-stroke, crept slowly toward us, exhaling
sounds of passionate endearment mingled with the heart-stopping
fragrance of _alova_. Beyond the glimmering lights, an unseen choir
burst into the "a-a-a" of the national love-song.
It was a critical not to say embarrassing moment. These lovely ladies
were very evidently presents, banquet-favors so to speak, which we
were expected to take home with us. To refuse them meant certain
offense, perhaps death. Triplett was plainly non-plussed. Swank and
Whinney were too far gone to be of any assistance. Summoning all my
reserve strength I rose and faced the whirling assembly.
"Gentlemen," I said solemnly, "one final toast, to the President of
the United States,"--at the same time draining a huge shell of _hoopa_.
My companions followed suit and we fell simultaneously.
For the next twenty-four hours we were safe. After that, who knew?
CHAPTER V
A frank statement. We vote on the question of matrimony. A triple
wedding. An epithalmic verse. We remember the "Kawa." An interview
with William Henry Thomas. Triplett's strategy. Safe within the atoll.
In most volumes on the South Seas the chapter which I am about to write
would be omitted. I mean to say that we have reached a point in my
narrative in which the status of our relations with the Filbertine
women, as such, must either be discussed frankly and openly, or treated
in the usual tongue-in-cheek fashion which seems to be the proper thing
with English and American writers.
I have looked them all over carefully (the writers, I mean), and find
them divided into two categories, those who take their wives along as
a guarantee of virtue, or those who are by nature Galahads, Parsifals
and St. Anthonys. This latter group is to me particularly trying. They
revel in descriptions of desirous damsels with burning eyes who crave
companionship, but when an artfully devised encounter throws one of
these passionate persons across the path of the man behind the pen,
does he falter or swerve or make a misstep? Never. Right there is where
the blood of the Galahads tells. Supremely he rises above temptation!
Gracefully he sidesteps! Innocently he falls asleep!
I don't believe a word of it. I think it's just a case of literary men
sticking together.
Two days after the Grand Banquet described in the last chapter, Whinney,
Swank and I awoke with a sigh of simultaneous satisfaction, completely
rested and restored. Ten minutes later we were engaged in a brisk
debate in which the question before the house was, stated boldly,
Should we or should we not "go native?" In other words, should we hold
ourselves aloof, live contrary to the customs of the country and
mortally offend our hosts,--to say nothing of our hostesses,--or
should we fulfil our destinies, take unto ourselves island brides and
eat our equatorial fruit, core and all?
For the purpose of discussion Whinney was designated to uphold the
negative, and for an hour we argued the matter pro and con. Whinney
advanced a number of arguments, the difference in our nationalities,
our standing in our home communities (which I thought an especially
weak point), our lack of a common language, and several other trivial
objections, all of which Swank and I demolished until Whinney got
peevish and insisted that he and I change sides.
I spoke very seriously of the lack of precedent for the step which we
were considering and of what my people in Derby, Conn., would say when
they learned that a Traprock had married a Filbert. Swank replied with
some heat that he didn't believe that anything could be said in Derby
that hadn't been said already and Whinney was much more eloquent on
the affirmative than he had been on the negative. Finally when I thought
we had talked enough I said--
"Well, gentlemen, are you ready for a ballot?"
"We are," said Swank and Whinney.
"Remember," I warned, "The green nuts are for the affirmative,--the
black ones for the negative. Secret ballots, of course."
Wrapping our votes in _metani_ leaves we dropped them in the ballot
shell. Whinney was teller. It was an anxious moment until he looked up
and said with a hysterical quiver in his voice:
"Unanimously green."
"Let's go!" shouted Swank, but I stopped him.
"Hold on," I said. "Triplett is in on this. We agreed that it must be
unanimous."
My companions' faces lengthened like barrel-staves.
"Damn," muttered Whinney. "I hadn't thought of him."
You can imagine our disgust when we interviewed the Captain.
"Not on your life!" he said decidedly. "Why, boys, I got two a 'em
a-ready, one in Noo Bedford--she's my lawful,--and one--a sort of
'erdeependence, in Sausalito. But boys, I don't go for to commit
trigonometry, no sir!"
Thunder rested on our brows but the Captain continued,--
"But you--you boys, you ain't married, leastways if you are I don't
know about it, and if you ain't"--he looked at us severely,--"if you
ain't, it's high time you was. And what's more, if you want to be, I
kin do it for you." "What do you mean?" we gasped.
"Justice of the peace," he said proudly, "dooly signed and registered
in Dartmouth County, Mass."
We were overwhelmed. This was more than we dared hope for,--more than
we had even dreamed of!
"Now, boys," said the Captain in a fatherly tone, "lemme tell you
something. While I've been a-roostin' up here in my perch, I've been
a-watchin' you boys; a-watchin' an' a-worryin'. What have you been
a-doin'? You've been a-raisin' hell, you have. Son, you ain't a rote
a word, have yer? An' you, Whinney--boy, you ain't ketched a bug nor
a beetle, have yer? And you, ole Swanko-panko, you ain't drawed a line,
have yer?"
We hung our heads like schoolboys before the master. Of course if
Triplett put it that way, on moral grounds, so to speak, there was no
more to be said.
"Well, what's the answer?" he continued. "It's time you got married
an' settled down, ain't it? When is it to be?"
* * *
It was a triple wedding, the first and probably the last in the Filbert
Islands, and one of the most charming affairs I have ever seen. We
left the selection of our brides to Baahaabaa and, believe me, he
showed himself a master-picker. The ceremony took place on the beach
at high midnight, the fashionable island hour.
How happy we all were! Triplett's qualifications had completely cleared
the atmosphere of any moral misgivings which might have clouded the
beauty of the gorgeous tropical night. The Captain read a service of
his own composition full of legal whereases and aforesaids and
containing one reference to the laws of the Commonwealth of the State
of Massachusetts which struck me as rather far-fetched but which under
the circumstances I decided to let pass.
Mrs. Traprock, of whom I can even now write only with deep emotion,
was an exquisite creature, constructed in accordance with the best
South Sea specifications in every particular. Swank and Whinney were
equally fortunate. We would not have traded wives for ten tons of copra
though Moolitonu, who was my best man, explained that this was perfectly
possible in case we were not satisfied.
The gayest of wedding breakfasts followed at which all the ushers
behaved in the orthodox manner after which we were conducted to our
individual trees with appropriate processional and epithalamic chorals.
The ladies' singing society had composed for the occasion a special
ode which ran as follows:
Hooio-hoaio uku kai unio,
Kipiputuonaa aaa titi huti,
O tefi tapu, O eio hoki
Hoio-hooio ona haasi tui.
This was set to a slow five-eighths rhythm. A crude translation of the
words, lacking entirely the onomatopoetic quality of the original goes
something like this:
Stay, O stay, Moon in your ascending!
Daughter of Pearl and Coral to the Moon up-goes,
Stay, O stay, Moon with light unending,
Coral, Pearl and Moonlight, guard them from falling cocoanuts.
I should stand convicted of ingratitude if I did not here and now pay
tribute to the sound common-sense of Captain Triplett at whose
instigation we had embarked upon this our great adventure. As Triplett
had predicted, ere a few days had passed we found awakening within us
the fires of ambition which had sunk lower and lower in our breasts
during our two weeks of carousing. We were now responsible married
men. We wanted to do something to take our places in the community.
I began to scribble furtively on the back of an old manuscript--the
book of an operetta I had once written, a musical version of _Les
Miserables_ called "Jumping Jean," in reference to which one of the
New York producers, Dillingham, I think, wrote me: "You have out-Hugo-ed
Hugo; this is more miserable than _Les Miserables_ itself!" I noticed
also that Swank began to use his atelier jargon of "tonal values" and
"integrity of line," while Whinney showed up one morning in the village
circle with a splendid blossom of the bladder-campion (_Silene
latifolia_) pinned to the center of his helmet.
It was doubtless this renaissance of mental activity that reminded us
of the Kawa and of William Henry Thomas. Great heavens, what
would he think of us? Here nearly a month had elapsed, we were mostly
married and had never given him a thought. We were filled with
compunction. On top of this Triplett came to us with the announcement
that Baahaabaa had informed him that we might expect a big wind about
this time. Remembering what we had been through the Captain was worried
about our tight little craft.
"He allows," said Triplett, jerking his thumb at the chief, "that we
orter git the Tree-with-Wings in out'er the wet. The question is,
where be she?"
I explained our anxieties to Ablutiluti who, after a glance at
Moolitonu's diagrammatic shoulder blades, immediately set out along
a winding path to the shore. I was surprised at the shortness of the
distance. A half-hour's walk brought us to the beach and there lay the
Kawa as handy as you please. She had been considerably tidied
up since our departure. Our blanket-sail had been stowed and between
the dingey-oars, which were rigged fore-and-aft, stretched a rope of
_eva-eva_ from which, to our surprise, hung an undershirt and a dainty
feminine _rigolo_. But no sign of William Henry Thomas. In vain we
shouted, "Kawa ahoy!" and hurled lumps of coral. All was mysteriously
quiet.
Triplett finally pulled out his Colt and, being a dead shot, drilled
the undershirt through the second button. This had the desired effect.
Our crew almost immediately appeared on deck and shouted peevishly,
"Hey there, quit it."
I will not repeat what we said in reply as this is a book for the home,
but it had a surprising result.
"Is _that_ so?" yelled William Henry Thomas and proceeded to step
jauntily over the rail and _walk_ in our direction. I knew he couldn't
swim a stroke and yet here he was, performing an apparent miracle right
in our faces. Then it suddenly dawned on me--he was walking on the coral
branches!
It was not a particularly pleasant interview.
[Illustration: Lupoba-Tilaana, Mist on the Mountain]
[Illustration Note: LUPOBA-TILAANA. MIST ON THE MOUNTAIN
Readers of the text may have noticed that animal life plays a very
unimportant part in the life of the Filbertines. Exception must be
made in the case of a magnificent ooka-snake, the only one on the
islands, which was the proudest possession of lovely Lupoba, who later
became the wife of Herman Swank. The ooka-snake lives entirely upon
cocoanut milk which gives him a gentle disposition admirably adapted
for petting. Mr. Swank has confessed that his wife's fondness for the
creature stirred in him a very real jealousy which, in view of the
charming testimony of her portrait, we can well understand. A painting
of Mrs. Swank by her husband has recently been purchased by the Corcoran
Art Gallery of Washington, D.C.]
After apologizing for our absence, which we attributed to illness, we
broke the news as gently as possible that we were married.
"Well," said William Henry Thomas, "so be I ... the lady's on board."
"You old land-crab!" blazed Whinney. "Who married you?"
"She did," he replied.
"But who performed the ceremony?" asked Swank.
"Me," answered William Henry.
In vain we tried to explain the necessity of proper rites. His only
rejoinder was, "You're too late."
But what made our sailor-man maddest was the information that the yawl
had to be moved.
"Here I be as snug as a bug in a rug," he stormed, "an' you go
gallivantin' round marrying an' what all, an' now you show up an boost
me out. Its e-viction, that's what it is, e-viction."
This was a long speech for William Henry Thomas; fortunately it was
his last. While he was delivering it I heard a slight splash and turned
just in time to see a seal-like form slip over the Kawa's counter and
disappear. I watched in vain for her reappearance. Doubtless like all
Filbertines she could stay under water for hours at a time. After that
Thomas sullenly did Triplett's bidding and half-heartedly assisted in
the work of getting the Kawa into the atoll.
It was an arduous task. For four days we labored, working our vessel
close in shore opposite a clearing in the forest, where the outer
island was not more than quarter of a mile wide and free from trees.
Instructed by Triplett, we paved the highway to the lagoon with
cocoanuts. Our wives and friends thinking it was a game, assisted us.
If they had known it was work they would, of course, have knocked off
immediately. And then the promised storm broke and I saw Triplett's
plan.
It was such a storm as this, undoubtedly, that had struck us on July
4th. This time, crouched in the shelter of the near-by trees, clinging
to the matted _haro_, we were free to watch a stupendous spectacle.
Triplett alone went aboard and lashed himself to the improvised steering
post. Our sail had been stretched and rigged with hundreds of yards
of _eva-eva_, in addition to which four large _taa-taas_ were lashed
along the scuppers.
In less time than it takes to tell, the wind had risen to
super-hurricane force. Suddenly Baa-haabaa let out a yell of warning
and pointed seaward. Rushing toward us at lightning speed was a wall
of white water, sixty feet high! In a trice we were all in the treetops,
my wife hauling me after her with praiseworthy devotion. All, did I
say? All but Triplett. He was sublime. Then for the first time I knew
that he was, in truth, our chief. Waving his free arm at the advancing
maelstrom, he yelled defiance. Then this towering seawall hit him
square in the stern.
I caught one fleeting glimpse of the Kawa gallantly riding the
foam. An instant later she was flung with a tremendous crash far down
the leafy lane. Fully half the distance she must have gone in that
first onslaught. The last eighth-of-a-mile she ground her way through
a torrent of sea and cocoanuts. The forest rang with the bellowing
wind, the snapping coral branches and the screams of the whistling-trout
fighting vainly against the current. What a plan was Triplett's! The
cocoanuts, being movable, rolled with the flood and actually acted as
ball bearings. Without them our craft must certainly have burst asunder.
The storm passed as quickly as it had come and by the time we had
clambered to the ground and rushed across the atoll there lay our tight
little darling, peacefully at anchor in the still waters of the lagoon,
with Triplett on her quarter-deck immersed in the New Bedford "Argus."
CHAPTER VI
Marital memories. A pillow-fight on the beach. A deep-sea devil.
The opening in the atoll. Swank paints a portrait. The fatu-liva bird
and its curious gift. My adventure with the wak-wak. Saved!
I shall never forget a day when my bride and I sat on the edge of the
lagoon after our matinal dip in its pellucid waters. It was a perfect
September morn. So was she.
"My dear," I said suddenly, "Hatiaa Kappa eppe taue."