what is your name?"
I had been married over a week and I did not know my wife's name.
"Kippiputuonaa," she murmured musically.
"Taro ititi aa moieha ephaa lihaha?" I questioned, which, freely
translated, is "What?"
"Kippiputuonaa."
Then, throwing back her head with its superb aureole of hair she softly
crooned the words and music of the choral which the community chorus
had sung on our wedding night.
Hooio-hooio uku hai unio
Kippiputunonaa aaa titi huti
O tefi tapu, O eio hoki
Hooio-hooio, one naani-tui
How it all came back to me! Leaning towards her, I gently pressed the
lobe of her ear with my chin, the native method of expressing deep
affection. Her dusky cheeks flushed and with infinite shyness she
lifted her left foot and placed it on my knee. Tattooed the length of
the roseleaf sole in the graceful ideographic lettering of the islands
I read--
"Kippiputuonaa," (Daughter of Pearl and Coral).
"What an exquisite name!" I murmured, "and so unusual!"
I was awed. I felt as if this superb creature, my mate, had revealed
to me the last, the most hidden of her secrets. I had heard of Mother
of Pearl,--but of the Daughter--never...and I was married to her!
"And you," she whispered, "are Naani-Tui, Face-of-the-Moon!"
I liked that. Frankly I was a bit set up about it. It sounded so much
better than Moon-face. I thrust out my left foot, bare of any
inscription, and she tickled it playfully with a blade of _haro_.
Radiant Kippiputuonaa--whom I soon called "Kippy" for short--your name
shall ever remain a blessed memory, the deepest and dearest wound in
my heart.
Kippy proposed that I should be marked for identification in the usual
manner, but I shuddered at the thought. I was far too ticklish; I
should have died under the needle!
What days of joyous romping we had! One morning a little crowd of us,
just the Swanks, Whinneys and ourselves, met on the beach for a
pillow-fight. It was a rare sport, and, as the pillows were
eighteen-inch logs of _rapiti-wood_, not without its element of danger.
A half-hour of this and we lay bruised and panting on the beach
listening to the hoarse bellowing of the _wak-waks_.
The _wak-wak_ is without exception the most outrageous creature that
ploughs the deep in fishy guise. For man-eating qualities he had the
shark skinned a nautical mile.
Whinney made a true remark to me one night,--one of the few he ever
made. The ocean was particularly audible that evening.
[Illustration: Watchful Waiting]
[Illustration Note: WATCHFUL WAITING
There was something about the unfamiliar appearance of Dr. Traprock's
yawl, the Kawa, which filled the beautiful native women with a wonder
not unmixed with apprehension. This was particularly true of the lovely
creatures who married the three intrepid explorers. The strange object
which had brought to the islands these wonderful white men might some
day carry them away again! In view of the tragic subsequent events there
is something infinitely pathetic in this charming beach-study where
Kippiputuonaa is seen anxiously watching "the tree-with-wings" (as she
naively called the yawl), where her husband, Dr. Traprock, is at work
rigging a new yard-arm. The Kawa, unfortunately, is just out of the
picture.]
"Listen to that surf," I remarked. "I never heard it grumble like that
before."
"You'd grumble, if you were full of _wak-waks_," he said.
The _wak-wak_ has a mouth like a subway entrance and I was told that so
great was his appetite for human flesh that when, as occasionally
happened, some unfortunate swimmer had been eaten by a shark, a
_wak-wak_ was sure to come rushing up and bolt shark, man and all.
Consequently I did most of my swimming in the lagoon.
Speaking of the lagoon reminds me of an absurd bit of information I
picked up from Kippy that made me feel as flat as a pressed fern. We
were wandering along the shore one morning and she suddenly pointed
to the Kawa and said laughingly.
"Why Tippi-litti (Triplett) bring Tree-with-Wings over _Hoopoi_
(cocoanuts)?"
"Why not swim?" she asked. "Look see. Big hole."
I looked and saw. A whole section of the atoll near where we were
standing was movable! Kippy jumped up and down on it and it rocked
like a raft. At the edges I saw that it was lashed to the near-by trees
with vines! Cheap? You could have bought me for a bad clam. As I thought
of the days we had sweated over those damned cocoanuts, of Triplett's
peril, of the danger to the yawl, while our very families looked on
and laughed, thinking it was a game, and we might have slipped out the
movable lock-gate and simply eased through--well, for the first time
in my married life I was mad. Kippy was all tenderness in an instant.
"Face-of-Moon, no rain," she begged, "Daughter of Pearl and Coral eat
clouds."
She chinned my ear passionately, and I was disarmed in an instant.
I hated to tell Triplett--it seemed to dim his glory, but I needn't
have worried.
"Good business," he exclaimed. "We can get her out inter the open an'
have some sailin' parties. I'd like to catch one of them _wak-waks_."
That was the sort Triplett was. He'd done his trick and there was an
end of it. The next day he had William Henry Thomas busy re-rigging
the Kawa. William Henry Thomas, by the way, insisted on living
on board in happy but unholy wedlock, and Whinney, Swank and I felt
that it was better so. Somehow we considered him the village scandal.
During these peaceful days I wrote a great deal, posting up my diary
as far as we had gone and jotting down a lot of valuable material.
Swank had got his impediments off the boat and began daubing furiously,
landscapes, seascapes, monotypes, ideographs, everything. Most of them
were hideously funny, but he did one thing,--inspired by love, I
suppose--a portrait of his wife that was a hummer. She was a lovely
little thing with a lovely name, Lupoba-Tilaana, "Mist-on-the-Mountain."
"Swank," I said, "that's a ten-strike. The mountain is a little out
of focus but the mist is immense!"
He squirted me with yellow ochre.
Whinney was in his element. Ornithology, botany, ethulology, he took
them all on single-handed.
"Listen to that," he said to me one night as we were strolling back
from a friendly game of _Kahooti_ with Baahaabaa and some of our
friends.
I listened. It was the most unearthly and at the same time the most
beautiful bird-song I have ever heard.
"What is it?" I asked, as the cry resounded again, a piercing screech
of pain ending in a long yowl of joy.
"It is the motherhood cry of the _fatu-liva_," he said. "She has just
laid an egg."
"But why the note of suffering?" I queried.
"The eggs of the _fatu-liva_ are square," said Whinney, and I was
silenced.
Motherhood is indeed the great mystery. Little did I realize that night
how much I was to owe to the _fatu-liva_ and her strange maternal gift
which saved my life in one of the weirdest adventures that has ever
befallen mortal man.
It was a placid day on the sea and Kippy and I were returning from a
ten-mile swim to a neighboring island whither I had been taken to be
shown off to some relatives.
"_Wak-wak,_" I had said when she first proposed the expedition, but she
had laughed gaily and nodded her head to indicate that there was not the
slightest danger, and, shamed into it, we had set forth and made an
excellent crossing.
On the return trip, midway between the two islands, I was floating
lazily, supported by a girdle of inflated dew-fish bladders and towed
by Kippy. She had propped over my head her verdant _taa-taa_
without which the natives never swim for fear of the tropical sun, and
I think I must have dozed off for I was suddenly roused by a hoarse
Klaxon-bellow "Kaaraschaa-gha!" which told me all too plainly that I
was in the most hideous peril.
_"Wak-wak!"_ I barked, and all my past life began to unfold before me.
It was a horrid sight--the _wak-wak,_ I mean. He was swimming on the
surface, and at ten feet I saw his great jaws open, lined with row
upon row of teeth that stretched back into his interior as far as the
eye could reach and farther. Mixed up with this dreadful reality were
visions of my past. I seemed to be peering into one of those vast,
empty auditoriums that had greeted my opera, "Jumping Jean," when it
was finally produced, privately.
"Help! Help!" I screamed, reverting to English.
Suddenly Kippy seized the _taa-taa_ from my nerveless grasp. Half
closing it, she swam directly toward the monster into whose widening
throat she thrust the sharp-pointed instrument, in, in, until I thought
she herself would follow it. And then, as she had intended, the point
pierced the _wak-wak's_ tonsil.
With a shriek of pain his jaws began to close and, on the instant,
Kippy yanked the handle with all her might, opening the _taa-taa_ to its
full extent in the beast's very narrows.
Choked though he was, unable for the moment to bite or expel the outer
air and submerge, the brute was still dangerous. Kippy was towing me
shoreward at a speed which caused the sea to foam about my bladders but
the _wak-wak_ still pursued us. A second time my dauntless mate
rose to the occasion.
With amazing buoyancy she lifted herself to a half-seated position on
the surface of the water and poured forth the most astounding imitation
of the motherhood cry of the _fatu-liva_.
"Biloo-ow-ow-ow-ow-zing-aaa!"
Again, and yet again, it rang across the waters, and in the distance,
flying at incredible speed, I saw the rainbow host of _fatu-livas_
coming towards us!
Gallant fowl! Shall I ever forget how they circled about us. One of
their clan, as they supposed, was in dire danger and they functioned
as only a _fatu-liva_ can. Flying at an immense height, in battle
formation, they began laying eggs with marvelous precision. The first
two struck the _wak-wak_ square on the nose and he screamed with
pain. The third, landing corner-wise, put out his right eye and he
began to thrash in helpless circles. The fourth was a direct hit on
my left temple. "Face-of-the-Moon" passed over the horizon into oblivion
whence he emerged to find himself in a tree, his brow eased with an
_alova-leaf_ poultice, his heart comforted by Daughter of Pearl and
Coral.
CHAPTER VII
Excursions beyond the outer reef. Our aquatic wives. Premonitions.
A picnic on the mountain. Hearts and flowers. Whinney delivers a
geological dissertation. Babai finds a fatu-liva nest. The strange
flower in my wife's hair.
As I look back on the months which followed I can truthfully say that
they were the happiest of my existence. The semi-detachment of our
island domesticity was a charm against tedium; our family reunions
were joys.
Often we organized picnics to distant points. With hold-alls of
_panjandrus_ leaves packed with a supply of breadfruit sandwiches,
sun-baked cuttywink eggs and a gallon or two of _hoopa,_ we would
go to one of the lovely retreats with which our wives were familiar.
Occasionally we sailed in the Kawa, at which times the intrepid
Triplett accompanied us. Remembering those happy times I now realize
that his presence cast the only shadow across the bright sunlight of
our days. Why this was I could not have said,--indeed I should have
probably denied that it was so, yet the fact remains that on some of
our excursions to neighboring islands, when, having pulled back the
terrestrial cork of the atoll, we had eased our tight little craft
into the outer waters, I experienced a distinct dorsal chill.
Both Kippiputuonaa and Lupoba-Tilaana felt this to a marked degree,
but most of all was it apparent in its affect on Mrs. Whinney whose
maiden name, Babai-Alova-babai (Triple extract of Alova), only faintly
describes the intoxicating fragrance of her beauty.
"Tiplette, naue aata b'nau boti!" she used to cry. "Do not let Triplett
go in the boat."
The old man was insistent. He had worked William Henry Thomas to
exhaustion rerigging the craft and then thrust him out, bag and baggage.
But I must admit that between them they had done a good job. William
Henry and his bride took up lodgings in a tall tree near the lagoon
whence they used mournfully to regard the floating home in which they
had spent their unhallowed honeymoon. When we actually began to sail
her the William Henry Thomases disappeared from view as if the sight
were too much for them, and we seldom saw them thereafter.
Triplett's ingenuity was responsible for the bamboo mast, woven
_paa-paa_ sail and the new yard-arm, which, in the absence of a
universal joint was cleverly fashioned of braided _eva-eva_.
On our cruises our wives spent a large part of their time overboard,
sporting about the ship like porpoises, ever and anon diving deep under
our counter only to appear on the other side decked with polyp buds
as if crowned by Neptune himself. At this game Babai-Alova-Babai
excelled. Never shall I forget the day she suddenly popped up close
alongside and playfully tossed a magnificent pearl into Triplett's lap.
But, as I say, I did not feel at ease. Perhaps it was my experience
with the _wak-waks_,--perhaps,--however, I anticipate.
Our merriest jaunts were nearer home. Most memorable of all was our
first trip to the mountain, that gorgeous pile on the center of the
lagoon.
It was early morning when we set out, disdaining our trim
"Tree-with-Wings" from the deck of which Triplett watched our short
three-mile swim across the still water. At every stroke flocks of
iridescent dew-fish rose about us uttering their brittle note,
"Klicketty-inkle! Klicketty-inkle!" [Footnote: One of the pleasantest
sights imaginable is that of the natives gathering these little
creatures as they rise to the surface at dawn. The dew-fish or
_kali-loa_ are similar to our white-bait, but much whiter. W.E.T.]
[Illustration: Golden Harmonies]
[Illustration Note: GOLDEN HARMONIES
This was the sort of thing that greeted the intrepid explorers of the
Kawa when they made their first tour of the island and were
entertained by the entrancing inhabitants of the women's compound. The
two performers are respectively Lupoba-Tilaana and Baibai-Alova-Baibai.
It was only after much persuasion that they agreed to be photographed
but, when finally posed to Mr. Whinney's satisfaction, they entered
into the spirit of the occasion by bursting into the national anthem
of Love, which is described in Chapter II. The instruments are the
bombi, a hollow section of rapiti-wood covered with fish membrane,
and the lonkila, a stringed instrument of most plaintive and persuasive
tone. These two instruments, with the addition of the bazoota, a
wood-wind affair made from papoo reeds, make up the simple orchestral
equipment of the Filberts.]
We were all wearing the native costume and Swank, I remember, caught
his _rigolo_ on a coral branch and delayed us five minutes. But we were
soon on the inner beach laughing over the incident while Babai made
repairs.
The path up the mountain led through a paradise of tropical wonders.
On this trip Whinney was easily the star, his scientific knowledge
enabling him to point out countless marvels which we might not otherwise
have seen. As he talked I made rapid notes.
"Look," he said, holding up an exquisite rose-colored reptile. "The
_tritulus annularis_ or pink garter snake! Almost unheard of in the
tropics."
Kippy insisted on tying it around her shapely limb. Then, of course,
Babai must have one, too, and great were our exertions before we bagged
an additional pair for our loved ones.
Thus sporting on our way, crowned with _alova_ and girdled with
_tontoni_ (a gorgeous type of flannel-mouthed snapdragon which kept all
manner of insects at bay), we wound toward the summit, stopping ever and
anon to admire the cliffs of mother-of-pearl, sheer pages of colorful
history thrown up long ago by some primeval illness of mother earth.
Swank was so intoxicated by it all that I made almost the only break
of our island experience.
"You've been drinking," I accused.
"You lie," he answered hotly, "it's these colors! Wow-wow! Osky-wow-wow!
Skinny wow-wow Illinois!"
"Oh, shut up!" I remonstrated, when I saw Tilaana advancing toward me,
fluttering her _taa-taa_ in the same menacing way in which Kippy had
attacked the _wak-wak_.
"I beg your pardon," I said. "I was wrong. I apologize."
We stood in a circle and chinned each other until peace was restored.
The view from the summit was, as authors say, indescribable.
Nevertheless I shall describe it, or rather I shall quote Whinney who
at this moment reached his highest point. We were then about three
thousand feet above sea-level.
I wish I could give his address as it was delivered, in Filbertese,
but I fear that my readers would skip, a form of literary exercise
which I detest.
Try for a moment to hold the picture; our little group standing on the
very crest of the mountain as if about to sing the final chorus of the
Creation to an audience of islands. Far-flung they stretched, these
jeweled confections, while below, almost at our very feet, we could
see the Kawa and Triplett, a tiny speck, frantically waving his
yard-arm! Even at three thousand feet he gave me a chill.... But let
Whinney speak.
"It is plain," he said, "that the basalt monadnock on which we stand
is a carboniferous upthrust of metamorphosed schists, shales and
conglomerate, probably Mesozoic or at least early Silurian."
At this point our wives burst into laughter. In fact, their attitude
throughout was trying but Whinney bravely proceeded.
"You doubtless noticed on the shore that the deep-lying metamorphic
crystals have been exposed by erosion, leaving on the upper levels
faulted strata of tilted lava-sheets interstratified with
pudding-stone."
"We have!" shouted Swank.
"Evidently then," continued the professor, "the atoll is simply an
annular terminal moraine of detritus shed alluvially into the sea,
thus leaving a geosyncline of volcanic ash embedded with an occasional
trilobite and the fragments of scoria, upon which we now stand."
[Illustration: William Henry Thomas]
[Illustration Note: WILLIAM HENRY THOMAS
Of all the members of the now famous cruise of the Kawa into hitherto
uncharted waters it is doubtful if any one entered so fully into the
spirit of adventure as the silent fore-mast hand whose portrait faces
this text. It was he who first adopted native costume. The day after
landing in the Filberts he was photographed as we see him wearing a
native wreath of nabiscus blooms and having discarded shoes. Every day
he discarded some article of raiment. It was he who first took unto
himself an island mate. It was he who ultimately abandoned all hope
of ever seeing his home and country again, electing rather to remain
among his new-found people with his new-found love and his new-found
name, Fatakahala (Flower of Darkness). Truly, strange flowers of fancy
blossom in the depths of the New England character. It is reported
that he has lately been elected King of the Filberts.]
We gave Whinney a long cheer with nine Yales at the close to cover the
laughter of the women, for the discourse was really superb. In English
its melodic charm is lost, but you must admit that for an indescribable
thing it is a very fine description.
After several days of idyllic life in our mountain paradise we felt
the returning urge of our various ambitions.
"Kippy, my dear," I said, "I think we ought to be going."
Sweet soul that she was! that they all were, these beautiful women of
ours! Anything we proposed was agreeable to them. As we trooped down
the mountain singing, our merry chorus shook the forest glades and
literally brought down the cocoanuts.
Whinney was not alone in his scientific discoveries for on the return
trip Babai suddenly gave a cry of delight and the next instant had
climbed with amazing agility to the top of a towering palm whence she
returned bearing a semi-spheric bowl of closely woven grass in which
lay four snow-white, polka-dotted cubes, the marvelous square eggs of
the _fatu-liva_!
"Kopaa kopitaa aue!" she cried. "Hide them. Quickly, away!"
I knew the danger, of which my temple still bore the scar. Concealing
our find under our _taa-taa_ we scraped and slid over the faulted
and tilted strata to which Whinney had referred until we reached the
beach. High above us I could hear the anguished cry of the mother
_fatu-liva_ vainly seeking her ravished home and potential family.
The marking of the eggs is most curious and Whinney took a photograph
of them (see [Illustration: THE NEST OF A FATU-LIVA]) when we reached
the yawl. It is an excellent picture though Whinney, with the
raptiousness of the scientist, claims that one of the eggs moved.
Just before we left the mountain beach my own radiant Daughter of Pearl
and Coral made a discovery which in the light of after events was
destined to play an important part in our adventures. Kippiputuona,
my own true mate, there is something ironically tragic in the thought
that the simple blue flower which you plucked so carelessly from the
cliff edge and thrust into your hair would some day--but again, I
anticipate.
We had reached the yawl, which we made a sort of half-way house and
were chatting with Captain Triplett. Whinney was repeating parts of
his talk and I noticed that Triplett's attention was wandering. His
eye was firmly fixed on the flower in Kippy's hair. That called my
attention to it and I saw that whenever my wife turned her head the
blossom of the flower slowly turned in the opposite direction.
Suddenly Triplett interrupted Whinney to say in a rather shaky voice,
"Mrs. Traprock, if you please, would you mind facin' a-stern."
I motioned to Kippy to obey, which she would have done anyway.
"An' now," said the Captain, "kindly face forrard."
Same business.
The flower slowly turned on Kippy's head!
Stretching forth a trembling hand, Triplett plucked the blossom from
Kippy's hair!
You can only imagine the commotion which ensued when I tell you that,
in the Filberts, for a man to pluck a flower from a woman's hair means
only one thing. Poor Kippy was torn between love of me and what she
thought was duty to my chief. I had a most difficult time explaining
to her that Triplett meant absolutely nothing by his action, a statement
which he corroborated by all sorts of absurd "I don't care,"
gestures--but he clung to the flower.
An hour later when we had escorted the ladies safely to their compound,
I paddled back to the yawl. Peering through the port-hole I could see
Triplett by the light of a phosphorous dip working on a rude diagram;
at his elbow was the blue flower in a _puta-shell_ of water.
"Triplett," I asked sternly, as I stood beside him an instant later,
"_what is that flower?_"
"That," said Triplett, "is a compass-plant."
"And what is a compass-plant?"
"A compass-plant," said Triplett, "is---," but for the third and last
time, I anticipate.
I _must_ get over that habit.
CHAPTER VIII
Swank's popularity on the island. Whinney's jealousy. An artistic
duel. Whinney's deplorable condition. An assembly of the Archipelago.
Water-sports on the reef. The Judgment.
Whinney and I were surprised to find that the islanders took Swank
more seriously than they did either of us. Of course, since the Kawa's
forcible entry into the atoll premier honors were Triplett's, but Swank
was easily second.
The curious reason was that his pictures appealed. I think I have
indicated that Swank was ultramodern in his tendencies. "Artless art,"
was his formula, often expressed by his slogan--_"A bas l'objectif!
Vive le subjonctif."_ Whatever that means, he scored with the
Filbertines who would gather in immense numbers wherever he set up his
easel.
This was due in part to his habit of standing with his back to the
scene which he proposed to paint and, bending over until his head
almost touched the ground, peering at the landscape between his
outspread legs.
"It intensifies the color," he explained. "Try it."
Baahaabaa bestowed a title on our artist--"Maimaue Ahiiahi"--"Tattooer
of Rainbows"--by which he was loudly acclaimed. Whinney and I used
to sing, "He's always tattooing rainbows!" but artistic vanity was
proof against such _bourgeoisie_.
Baahaabaa was tireless in suggesting new subjects for him to paint.
One day it would be a performance of the _Ataboi_, the languorously
sensuous dance which we had first seen in the women's compound; again
he would stage a scene of feasting, at which the men passed foaming
shells of _hoopa_ from hand to hand. A difficulty was that of
preventing the artist from quitting work and joining his models which
Swank always justified by saying that the greatest art resulted from
submerging oneself with one's subject.
"Look at Gaugin!" he used to say.
"But I don't like to look at Gaugin," I remonstrated.
Whinney foolishly tried to compete with Swank by means of his
camera--foolishly, I say, though the result was one of the finest
spectacles I have ever witnessed.
For days Whinney had been stalking Swank, photographing everything he
painted. In a darkroom of closely woven _panjandrus_ leaves the
films were developed and a proof rushed off to Baahaabaa long before
the artist had finished his picture.
This naturally irritated Swank and he finally challenged the scientist
to mortal combat, an artistic duel, camera against brush, lens against
eye.
When the details were explained to Baahaabaa, he was in a frenzy of
excitement. As judge, his decision was to be final, which should have
warned Whinney, who, as the challenged party, had the right to select
the subject. His choice was distinctly artful.
"I think I've got him!" he confided. "We're to do the 'lagoon at dawn.'
You know what that means? Everything's gray and I can beat him a mile
on gray; secondly, there won't be a gang of people around, and, thirdly,
Swank simply loathes getting up early. They're all alike, these artists;
any effort before noon is torture!"
"All right," said Swank, when I explained the conditions, "I won't go
to bed at all."
[Illustration: The Lagoon at Dawn (Whinney's Version)]
[Illustration Note: THE LAGOON AT DAWN
(Whinney's Version)
What the camera can do in interpreting the subtle values of a delicate
color scheme is here shown in the prize photograph submitted by Reginald
Whinney in the great competition presided over by Chief Baahaabaa. It
is rare indeed to find a beach in the Filbert Islands so deserted. An
hour after this photograph was taken more than three thousand natives
were assembled to witness the judging of the exhibits. In the small
hours of night, the entire strand is covered with pita-oolas, or giant
land-crabs, about the size of manhole covers, who crawl inland to cut
down the palm trees with which they build their nests. An examination
of the picture with a powerful microscope will reveal the presence on
the surface of the water of millions of dew-fish enjoying their brief
interval of day and dew.]
When the rivals showed up on the beach at the appointed time I regret
to say that Swank was not himself. He had spent the night with Baahaabaa
and Hitoia-Upa, who supported him on either side, and balanced him
precariously on his sketching-stool where he promptly fell asleep. In
the meantime Whinney was dodging about with his camera, squinting in
the finder, without finding anything--one never does--peering at the
brightening sky, holding his thumb at arm's length, [Footnote: In
Southern Peru the same gesture used to signify contempt and derision.]
in a word going through all the artistic motions which should have
been Swank's. The latter finally aroused himself and laboriously got
onto all fours, looking like a dromedary about to lie down, from which
position he contemplated the sunrise for several minutes and then began
to fumble in his painting box.
"Ver' funny--ver' funny," he crooned, "forgot my brushes."
"Let me get them for you," I suggested.
He waived me aside. "Gimme air."
Whinney's shutter was now clicking industriously. He had decided to
use an entire film, and submit the picture which came out best. Swank
was gradually covering his canvas by squeezing the paint directly from
the tubes, a method which has since been copied by many others--the
"Tubistes" so called. Every few moments he would lurch forward and
press his nose against the canvas, once falling flat on his masterpiece,
most of which was transferred to his chest. But he persevered.
Whinney by this time had retired to his darkroom; Baahaabaa and
Hitoia-Upa snored; Swank worked and I, from a near-by knoll, watched
the miracle of a tropical dawn.
It was a scene of infinite calm, low in color-key, peaceful in
composition, the curve of purple and lavender beach unbroken, the crest
of dark palms unmoved, "like a Turk verse along a scimitar." The waters
of the lagoon, a mirror of molten amber, reflected the soft hues of
the sky from which the trailing garments of night were gradually
withdrawn before his majesty, the Day.
Swank only allowed himself the use of the three primary
colors--consequently his rendering of the opalescent beauty of this
particular dawn was somewhat beyond me.
Where I saw the glowing promise of color rather than color itself,
Swank saw red. Where I felt the hushed presence of dawn "like a pilgrim
clad," Swank vibrated to the harmonies of pure pigment, the full brass
of a tonal orchestra.
Of a sudden his color hypnotism transported him.
"Eee--yow!" he howled, brandishing a handful of Naples yellow mixed
with coral which he hurled at the canvas. "Zow! Bam! Ooh, la la!" His
shrieks roused his escorts and brought a rapidly swelling crowd to the
dune, where, to the sound of his own ravings and the plaudits of the
spectators, he finished his masterpiece.
Late afternoon of the same day was the hour agreed upon for the
Judgment. Baahaabaa had sent invitations by express swimmers to all
the near-by islands. He invited the entire archipelago.
The picture of their approach was interesting. Kippy haled me to the
top of a tall tree whence we watched the convergent argosies, hundreds
of tiny specks each bearing an outspread _taa-taa_ of gleaming leaves.
It was as if Birnam Wood had gone yachting.
"Tapa nui ekilana lohoo-a" chanted my mate.
Following her outstretched hand I discerned a group of _taa-taas,_
arranged in wedge formation, the enclosing sides being formed by
swimmers carrying a web of woven _haro_, in the center of which
reposed a visiting chief with three or four of his wives.
[Illustration: The Lagoon at Dawn (Swank's Version)]
[Illustration Note: THE LAGOON AT DAWN
(Swank's Version)
An interesting example of the way in which the mind of a painter works
will be found in this reproduction of the masterpiece created by Herman
Swank in competition with the photograph of the same title. Both
camera and painter were to reproduce the same subject, yet how
differently they reacted to it. In the beauty of nature about him it
is evident that the great artist felt only the dominant feature of
island life, the glorious, untrammeled womanhood of the South Seas.
The wild abandon, the primitive gesture of modesty, the eyes of
adoration--symbolically expressed as detached entities floating about
the loved one--all are present in this remarkable picture. Thus
expressed, too, we may find the ever-present ocean, the waving palms
and, if we seek carefully, the Kawa herself, scudding before
the trade wind. Truly may this be called, as the artist prefers, the
Venus of Polynesia.]
By four o'clock the beach was thronged with thousands of gleaming
bodies. Festivity and rejoicing were in every eye. Shouts of welcome,
bursts of laughter, and the resounding slap of friendly hand on visiting
hip or shoulder, the dignified welcome of the chiefs, cries of children,
dances and games, myriad details of social amity--all presented a
picture of unspoiled Polynesia such as is found in the Filberts alone.
When I forget it, may I be forgot.
Of course Swank, Whinney and I were objects of much curiosity--and
admiration. Hundreds of times my radiant Daughter of Pearl and Coral
repeated:
"Ahoa tarumea--Kapatooi Naani-Tui"--"I should like to make you
acquainted with my husband, Face-of-the-Moon."
Hundreds of times did I press my chin against soft ears and submit to
the same gentle greeting. Hundreds of times did I raise the welcoming
hoopa-shell with the usual salutation--"Lomi-lomi,"--"May you live
for a thousand years and grow to enormous size."
In a rest period Kippy and I swam to the reef where the younger set
were sporting among the coral, diving for pearls which rolled on the
purple floor. As I think now of the value of those milky globes, the
size of gooseberries, I marvel that not a thought of covetousness
crossed my mind. What were pearls to us?
"Catch!" cried Kippy, and threw a fish-skin beauty in my direction.
I admired its lustre for an instant and its perfect roundness
acquiredfrom the incessant rolling of the tides--then carelessly tossed
it back. It slipped between Kippy's fingers.
"I'll get it," I cried, making ready to dive, but she shouted a warning.
"Arani electi. Oki Kutiaa!"-"Look out! The snapping oysters!"
Gazing down through the crystal depths into which our bauble had fallen
I saw a great gaping _kutiaa_, the fiercest of crustacea, its shelly
mouth slightly ajar, waiting for the careless hand or foot that might
come within its grasp. We let the pearl go and amused ourselves by
sucking the eggs of the _liho_, a bland-faced bird which makes its nest
in the surface coral branches. [Footnote: The _liho_ is in many respects
the most remarkable fowl in existence. It is of the _gallinaris_ or
hen-family crossed with the male shad which causes the bird to produce
eggs in unheard of quantity.] Here, too, we laughed over the ridiculous
_ratatia_, that grotesque amphibian who is built like a ferry-boat, with
a head at either end and swivel fins so that however he may move he is
always going forward.
From these diversions the sound of singing summoned us. The Judgment
was about to take place. At top speed we swam ashore and joined the
crowd. For once I was glad that literature had no place in the
competition, so that Kippy and I were free to watch the proceedings.
Years ago I saw the ceremonial by which the British Government conferred
on the Bahia of Persia the title of "The Bab of Babs," but it was
nothing compared to what I now gazed upon.
As far as the eye could reach stretched the crowd. Under a gorgeous
dais of _panjandrus_ leaves respondent with _alova_ blossoms sat
Baahaabaa, on his right Captain Triplett, on his left Hanuhonu, the
ranking visitor, and all about retinues of nobles, with their superb
families, groups of dancers, slim and straight as golden birches,
singers, orators and athletes. It was grand opera on a titanic scale,
with the added distinction of really meaning something.
Baahaabaa spoke first--in fact I think I may say that he spoke first,
last and all the time. I can conscientiously claim that he is the
champion long-distance orator of the world. Ever and anon he gave way
to a guest but only for a moment.
"We are met," he said--I translate freely--"we are met to witness the
emulation of friends." Could anything be more delicate?
"We have with us tonight, in this corner, Wanooa-Potonopoa (Whinney),
the Man with his Eye in a Box" (this was plainly a reference to
Whinney's camera)--"while in this corner, we have Mainaue Ahiiahi,
Tattooer-of-Rainbows. Both boys are members of this island."
The applause was enormous but Swank had the grace to rise and kiss his
finger-tips toward the audience which immediately put him on a friendly
footing.
After a few more speeches by Baahaabaa the exhibits were unveiled. Of
course, the result was foregone. I must admit that Whinney's was not
hung to advantage. The two pictures were placed against tufts of _haro_
at forty yards distance where, naturally, the detail of the photograph
lost something of its effectiveness. Swank's picture on the contrary
blazed like a pin-wheel. The further you got from it the better it
looked.
A characteristic point in the competition was that Swank had introduced
figures into his composition where no figures had existed. "What do
I care?" he said to my objection. "I was there, wasn't I? And you were
there? There may have been others."
A mighty roar followed the unveiling, a shout of such force that tons
of breadfruit and thousands of cocoanuts fell from the adjacent trees.
But it was plain to see whom the shouting was for. Then Baahaabaa made
the awards and--the prizes were identical--two royal _rigolos_ of
mother-of-pearl, elaborately trimmed with corals and pendants of
limpid aquamarine. What tact, what grace and charm in these identical
rewards!
I am fortunate in being able to reproduce both masterpieces, so that
my readers may form their own decision. Personally, Whinney's photograph
seems to me to reproduce more completely my memories of "The Lagoon
at Dawn." But I may be wrong. Modern artists will probably back up the
popular judgment and on that memorable day in the Filberts I would
certainly have been in the minority.
CHAPTER IX
More premonitions. Triplett's curious behavior. A call from
Baahaabaa. We visit William Henry Thomas. His bride. The christening.
A hideous discovery. Pros and cons. Our heart-breaking decision. A
stirrup-cup of lava-lava.
It was two weeks after the great Competition before the celebrations
which followed it terminated, the tumult and the shouting died, and
the last of our amiable visitors paddled homeward, some being towed
by new-found wives, while not a few remained in our own community,
infusing our society with the novelty and fresh gossip of their islands.
Little by little we settled back into domestic quiet.
A blithe incident enlivened that peaceful period, preceding tragic
events which must be told in their proper place.
On the fairest of tropical mornings Kippy and I heard a gentle tapping
at the trunk of our tree and, peering over the floor, saw below
Baahaabaa, his face shining with happiness.
"Katia?" we questioned, but he was mysterious and led us quietly to
the trees occupied by the Swanks, the Whinneys and finally Triplett,
all of whom he roused as he had us.
"Katia?" we repeated.
"Hoko," he answered, and to our surprise, again motioned us forward.
For twenty minutes we threaded a forest trail in which still lurked
the shadows of night. At a giant palm tree our leader again tapped
gently.
Who should look over the edge of the densely screened dwelling but
William Henry Thomas!
At first glimpse of us he hastily drew back and I heard the muttered
sound of old-fashioned, New England cursing. Reassured by Baahaabaa,
however, he slid down to join us, followed by his wife.
It was the first time I had ever really seen her and I must say that
I was completely bowled over by the sight. Plainly not of the same
social class as the beautiful women whom Baahaabaa had selected for
us, she yet possessed an eerie charm of her own which instantly stirred
strange emotions in my breast. I heard Swank gasp and Whinney's face
was white and drawn, his favorite expression when deeply moved. She
stood close to her husband, half-twined about him with the grace and
strength of an _eva-eva_ vine while her kindling eyes burned
questioningly, her lithe body tense and protective. "He is to be
christened," said Baahaabaa, with a magnificent gesture toward William
Henry Thomas.
We could only look our astonishment.
"Yes," continued the chief, smiling benignly, "first among you all is
he to have his name recorded in our ancient fashion."
As he pronounced these words Baahaabaa lifted his left foot solemnly
and pointed to his own royal appellation tattooed on the sole. Our
wives did likewise.
"What is his name?" Whinney asked.
William Henry Thomas's head rose proudly as his wife replied in
thrilling, woodland tones, "Fatakahala."
"Fatakahala!" repeated Baahaabaa, "Flower of Darkness," and William
Henry Thomas raised his head as high as it would go.
"When does the ceremony take place?" asked Whinney. Baahaabaa pointed
to the distant peak of the mountain.
"Tonight. Maka, the Tattooer, is ready; the fishbones are sharpened;
the juice of the tupa-berries fills the holy shell. We go."
All that day we strung ceremonial garlands about the base of the
mountain, which, with its circumference of a mile and three-quarters,
was no small task. But sunset found it completed. We supped on the
beach and at nine, under a rising moon, climbed toward the summit. The
peak was reserved for William Henry Thomas, Maka and her four attendants
who bore the utensils and long ropes of _eva-eva_--"to tie him with,"
whispered Baahaabaa.
[Illustration: The Nest of a Fatu-Liva]
[Illustration Note: THE NEST OF A FATU-LIVA
This is without question the most extraordinary picture which has ever
been taken of any natural history subject. It corroborates in most
convincing manner the author's claim to the discovery of the wonderful
fatu-liva bird with its unique gift of laying square eggs. Here we see
the eggs themselves in all the beauty of their cubical form and quaint
marking; here we see the nest itself, made of delicately woven haro
and brought carefully from the tree's summit by its discoverer,
Babai-Alova-Babai. An extremely interesting feature of the picture is
the presence in the nest of lapa or signal-feather. By close
observation, Mr. Whinney, the scientist of the expedition, discovered
that whenever the mother-bird left the nest in search of food she
always decorated her home with one of her wing feathers which served
as a signal to her mate that she would return shortly, which she
invariably did. Skeptics have said that it would be impossible to lay
a square egg. To which the author is justly entitled to say: "The
camera never lies."]
At exactly ten, by the shadow of the mountain on the atoll, William
Henry Thomas stepped forth into the moonlight to face his ordeal--alone.
In the darkness we waited, Kippy clinging close to me. Then came a
sound at which I could but shudder. It was a giggle, the voice plainly
that of William Henry Thomas. This was followed by a hysterical sob
of laughter.
"The christening has begun," murmured Kippy.
You can not imagine anything more horrible. _Never_ before to my
knowledge had William Henry Thomas laughed. Now, wilder and yet more
wild rang his uncontrollable mirth, rising at times to demoniac screams,
anon sinking to convulsive chuckles. The worst of it was that it was
infectious.
Conscious though we were of the poor wretch's suffering, we could not
help joining his vocal expression of it, and thus we sat, in the
darkness, our peals of laughter bursting forth at every fresh paroxysm.
Tears of distress rolled down Swank's cheeks.
An hour later the vines parted and a recumbent form was borne gently
down the mountain; William Henry Thomas, that was, his new name wrapped
in soft leaves over which his wife sobbed in tender ecstasy.
On the day following a bolt fell from the blue.
Swank and I were spending the afternoon with Triplett on board the
Kawa where the captain was explaining the workings of various
home-made navigating instruments which he had manufactured.
"This here is a astrolabe," he said, "jackass quadrant, I call it."
He displayed a sort of rudimentary crossbow. "An' this here is a
perspective-glass, kind of a telescope, see? Made'er bamboo. The
lenses ain't very good; had to use fish-skin. Got my compass-plant
nicely rooted in sand, see--she's doin' fine."
"What's this all for?" asked Swank.
Triplett smiled malevolently.
"Don't you want to know where you be? I've got it all figgered out.
Got a chart, too."
He unrolled a broad leaf on which he had drawn a rough sketch of the
island, probable north and possible latitude and longitude.
Again the chill of dismay and apprehension which I had felt before in
Triplett's presence ran up and down my spine. It was beginning to dawn
upon me that Triplett was planning a get-away. "My God!" I cried, "take
that thing away! What you trying to do, Triplett? Hook us up to
civilization with all its deviltry and disease and damned conventions?
Don't you appreciate the beauty of getting outside of the covers of
a geography?"
The old devil only grinned, his very leer seeming to say, "I've got
a trump card up my sleeve, young man."
What might have been a bitter scene was interrupted by something much
more serious.
We saw Whinney running along the edge of the lagoon into which he
presently plunged and began swimming madly in our direction. As he
drew near I saw that he was deathly white. When we dragged him over
the rail he collapsed in the scuppers and burst into tears.
"What is it?" we questioned.
He jerked out his answer in hoarse, broken fragments, while our blood
froze.
"It's come.... I was afraid of it.... from the first... it's here...
we've done it... we've got to get out... it is not fair..."
"For heaven's sake," I shouted. "What's here? What have we done?"
"Disease!" he panted. "Disease! You know ... how the other islands...
Marquesas... Solomons... Tongas... dying, all dying."
His voice sank and he covered his face with his hands, shoulders
shaking.
"What... what is it? Who has it?"
It was then that Whinney made the supreme call on his nerve, stiffened
visibly and answered in a dead voice, "My wife, Babai-Alova-Babai, has
prickly-heat!"
It seemed to me in that moment that the entire atoll revolved rapidly
in one direction while the mountain twirled in the other. Through my
brain crashed a sequence of sickening pictures, the lepers of Molokai
with their hideous affliction imported from China, the gaunt, coughing
wrecks of Papeete, the scarecrows of Samoa--and now this!
And Whinney was right. _We_ had done it; who individually, I know
not, nor cared, but collectively we were guilty. Into this Eden, this
Paradise in which I had never seen or heard of the slightest ailment,
we, the prideful whites, had brought this deadly thing!
Should we remain, I dared not face the consequences.
"Is it... bad?" I managed to ask.
"Pretty," moaned poor Whinney. "Left knee, small of back... spreading."
"I'm going home," I said. "We'll meet here tomorrow afternoon at the
same tune. If this thing develops" ...
I finished my sentence by diving overboard.
Early next morning I knew the worst. Daughter of Pearl and Coral was
restless during the night. When the sun rose a single glance at her
polished shoulders and my heart broke, never to be repaired. Folding
her gently in my arms, I trembled in a paroxysm of grief.
We spent the entire day together, I in an agony of soul which I could
not quite conceal and which my beloved tried to dispel by the tenderest
tributes of her consuming love. I cannot speak more of what lies too
deeply in my heart.
[Illustration: A Fledgling Fatu-Liva]
[Illustration Note: A FLEDGLING FATU-LIVA
It was by the rarest good fortune that Dr. Traprock was able to secure
what is probably the only living specimen now in captivity of the
hitherto unknown fatu-liva bird. Immediately upon his arrival at Papeete
efforts were made to secure a mother bird of any kind which would hatch
out the four fatu-liva eggs then in the explorer's possession. Owing
to their angular and uncomfortable shape it was found impossible to
keep a bird brooding for more than three minutes at a time. After much
effort one egg was finally hatched from which was derived the handsome
specimen shown in the illustration. The youngster is now doing finely
in the Bronx aviary. Unfortunately he is a male, so that his hope of
posterity rests entirely upon the success of another expedition to the
Filbert Islands.]
It was a tragic trio which reassembled on the Kawa's deck as the late
afternoon sun spread its golden hand across the lagoon. The purple
shadow of the Mountain rested on our tiny craft but a shadow yet deeper
shrouded our hearts. Each of us carried the consciousness of a terrible
duty. We ought to leave the Filberts.
Broken-heartedly we talked over the situation.
"Getting worse," was Whinney's report. "Saw Baahaabaa scratching his
leg this morning--probably got it."
Poor Baahaabaa, how my heart ached for him.
"We ought to leave," I said.
It was the first time any of us had dared state the hideous truth in
plain words. They fell like lead on our spirits. Swank's sensitive
soul was perhaps the most harrowed of all.
He sat moaning on the taffrail taking little or no part in the
discussion. All at once he sprang up with blazing eyes.
"I can't do it!" he shouted. "I can't--and I won't. Blessed little
Lupoba,--my Mist-on-the-Mountain. How can I desert you? How can we any
of us desert our wives--let us stay, let us live, and, if we must, let
us die. Love is more than life."
It was a powerful appeal. Overwrought as I was, I nearly succumbed to
the false reasoning which was but the expression of my desire. And
then once more the vision of those deadly inroads of disease rose
before me.
"Whinney," I asked, "is there no cure for this awful thing? No
antitoxin?"
He shook his head sadly.
"We have been studying it for years. The only hope is in their complete
isolation. If we stay here ... and a second epidemic breaks out....
"; he shrugged hopelessly and Swank buried his face in the bilge-sponge.
"Enough!" I said sternly. "Triplett, when can we leave?"
"Tonight, sir," he answered with his old subservience. "I've got her
completely stored, watered and ready."
"Come on," I said shortly. "We must get William Henry Thomas."
We swam ashore dejectedly, each, I know, contemplating suicide. For
an hour we visited our friends. For them it was but a friendly call,
for us the agony of parting.
Gentle, dignified Baahaabaa, shall I ever forget you as you stood with
your hands resting on my shoulder, confidently expecting to see me on
the morrow!--Merry Hitoia-Upa, kindly Ablutiluti, and Moolitonu, oh!
that I might send some message across the waste of waters to tell your
loving hearts of the love which still kindles in mine.
We did not dare visit our wives.
At dusk, that our conference might be unnoticed, we found our way to
the William Henry Thomas family tree.
He came down instantly. All his old deference was gone. Something in
the straight look of his eye told me that his christening had worked
a tremendous moral change in the man, but I was not prepared for its
extent.
"Not me," he said briefly, when we explained the necessity of our
departure. "Not by a damn sight."
In vain we reasoned, urged and argued.
"Don't you want to go back to your own people?" asked Swank weakly.
A mocking laugh was the reply.
"My own people! Who was I among my own people? Just a bunch of first
names--no last name at all. William Henry Thomas! That's a hell of a
bunch of names. Who am I here? Fatakahala--Flower of Darkness--I guess
that'll be about all. Good night, gentlemen."
With the agility of a monkey he bounded up his tree and disappeared.
I stood at the foot of the tree and tried to argue further with him.
"Remember Henry James," I shouted. "Think of Charles Henry George."
It was in vain.
Swank started after him, but as he reached the floor-level a large
_hola-nut_ struck him squarely on the top of the head and he fell back,
stunned.
Still further depressed we made our way back to the Kawa, our
hearts aching as with the hurt of burns, a dull, throbbing torture.
"Drink?" said Captain Triplett in his most treacly manner. He held out
a cup of _lava-lava_, the most deadly beverage of the islands. It is
mixed with phosphorus and glows and tastes like hell-fire. I saw his
plan and for once was grateful. We took the bowl from his hands and
filed into the tiny cabin--each picking out a corner to fall in.
In silence we filled our shells and raised them to our lips, the last
thought of each of us for our lost loved ones!
Hours--perhaps days--later I was dimly aware of a soft sobbing sound
near my ear. Was it Swank crying? And then I realized that it was the
chuckling of water under the Kawa's counter as manned by the intrepid
Triplett she merrily footed it over the wrinkled sea.
CHAPTEK X
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.
That Triplett's refitting of the Kawa had been thorough and
seamanlike was amply proven by the speed with which she traveled under
the favoring trades. When our saddened but still intrepid ship's company
reassembled on our limited quarterdeck there was no sign of land visible
in any direction. The horizon stretched about our collective heads
like an enormous wire halo. It was as if the Filberts had never existed.
The captain alone was cheerful. Joy bubbled from that calloused heart
of his in striking contrast to the gloom of his companions. Most of
the time he was our helmsman, his eye cocked aloft at the taut halyards
of _eva-eva_, occasionally glancing from the sun to the compass-plant
which bloomed in a shell of fresh water lashed to an improvised
binnacle.
At regular intervals he took observations, figured the results, and
jotted down our probable course on his chart. This document we could
scarcely bear to look at for upon it our beloved island figured
prominently. But the course of the Kawa interested us. It was
a contradictory course and even Triplett seemed puzzled by the results
of his calculations.
"Can't quite figger it out," he would mutter, lowering the astrolabe
from its aim at the sun--"accordin' to this here jackass-quadrant we
orter be dee-creesing our latitude--but the answer comes out different."
"Too much jackass and too little quadrant," snapped Swank, whose nerves
were still like E strings.
Little by little, however, the calm of the great ocean invaded our
souls and that well-known influence (mentioned in so many letters of
consolation), "the hand of time," soothed the pain in our hearts. I
think it was the quiet, self-contained Whinney who brought the most
reasoned philosophy to bear on the situation.
"They will forget," he said one evening, as we sat watching the Double
Cross slowly revolve about its axis. "We must remember that they are
a race of children. They have no written records of the past, no
anticipations of the future. They live for the present. Childlike,
they will grieve deeply, for a day maybe; then another sun will rise,
Baahaabaa will give another picnic--" he sighed deeply.
"The tragedy of it is that their memories should be so short and ours
so long," I commented.
"Yes," agreed Swank, "but I suppose we ought to be thankful. They were
a wonderful people, it was a wonderful experience. And no matter what
art-juries of the future may do to me, my pictures were a success in
the Filberts."
Blessed old Swank, he always looked on the bright side of things!
Day by day matters mended--and our spirits rose. We began to think
more and more of getting in touch with civilization. What a tale we
should have to tell. How we should put it over the other explorers
with their trite Solomons and threadbare Marquesas!
"Where do you think we'll land, Captain?" I asked Triplett.
"Hard to say," he answered, "accordin' to compass-plant I'm steerin'
a straight course for anywhere, but accordin' to the jackass (he had
dropped the word "quadrant" since Swank's thrust) we're spinnin' a web
round these seas from where we started to nowhere via where we be."
[Illustration: Baahaabaa Mourning the Departure of His Friends]
[Illustration Note: BAAHAABAA MOURNING THE DEPARTURE OF HIS FRIENDS
In all the history of great friendships there is nothing more touching
and more noble than the beautiful bond which existed between Baahaabaa,
the simple, primitive chief of the Filbertines and the white men who
spent the happiest months of their lives on his island and then so
strangely vanished. For several days after their departure he spoke
no word. But every evening at sunset he took his place opposite an
opening in the reef where the Kawa had first made her appearance
and there he sat until darkness covered him. "Whom are you awaiting?"
his chieftains asked him. He shook his head mournfully; memories in
the Filberts are mercifully short. Then placing his hand over his heart
he said, "I know not who it is, but something is gone--from here."
Three weeks later when this photograph was taken he was still keeping
up his lonely vigil.]
We tried to help him. While the Captain pointed his astrolabe sunward
and announced the figures Whinney and I, like tailors' assistants,
took them down, Whinney doing the adding, I the subtracting and Swank
the charting. The results were confusion worse confounded.
And then a dreadful thing happened.
The compass-plant sickened and died.
Whether some sea-water splashed into the shell or whether it was just
change of environment, I do not know. But day by day it drooped and
faded.
I shall never forget the night she breathed her last. With white faces
we sat about the tiny brown bowl in which lay our hope of orientation.
In Triplett's great rough paw was a fountain-pen filler of fresh water
which he gently dropped on the flowerlet's unturned face. At exactly
one-thirty, solar time, the tiny petals fluttered faintly and closed.
"She's gone," groaned Triplett, and dashed a tear, the size of a robin's
egg, from his furrowed cheek. In that ghastly light we stared at each
other.
We were lost!
From then on we gave up all attempts at navigation and went in for
plain sailing. Taking an approximate north from sun and stars we simply
headed our tight little craft on her way and let her pound.
A sort of desperate feeling, the panic which always comes to those who
are lost, led us to wild outbursts of gaiety and certain excesses in
the matter of use of our supplies. Every evening we opened fresh gourds
of _hoopa_ and made large inroads into our stores of _pai_, pickled
_gobangs_ and raw crawfish.
How long this kept up I cannot say, for we had given up time reckoning
along with other forms of arithmetic. But I well remember that it was
the Captain who had to intervene at last.
"Look here, boys," he said. "Do you realize that you're eatin' an'
drinkin' yourselves outer house an' home? We got jest a week's grub
in our lockers, if we go on short rations. Beyond that,"--he waved his
arm toward the ocean, as if to say "overboard for ours."
"Look here!" cried Swank excitedly, "do you suppose I want to go in
for one of these slow starvation stunts, perishing miserably on half
a biscuit a day! O man! that's old stuff. Every explorer that ever
wrote has done that, you know--falling insensible in the boat, drifting
around for weeks, being towed into port, sunbaked, like mummies. Not
on your life! What I propose is one final party--let's eat the whole
outfit tonight, hook, line and sinker."
We carried the proposition by acclamation, except Triplett who spat
sourly to windward, a thing few men can do. And we were as good as our
word.
Late into the night we roared our sea-songs over the indifferent ocean,
pledging our lost ones, singing, laughing and weeping with the abandon
of lost sheep. With Triplett it was a case of forcible feeding for he
kept trying to secrete his share of the menu in various parts of his
person, slipping fistsful of crawfish in his shirt-bosom and pouring
his cup of _hoopa_ into an old fire-extinguisher which rolled in the
ship's waist. Pinioning his arms we squirted the fiery liquid between
his set jaws, after which he too gave himself up to unrestrained
celebration.
Our supplies lasted for two days, and for two days our wild orgy
continued.
We have all read of the hunter lost in trackless forest wilds who
finally falls exhausted on his pommel and is brought safely home by
his loose-reined mustang.
That is exactly what happened to us. I know I am departing from literary
custom when I abandon the picture of slow starvation, with its
attractive episodes of shoe-eating, sea-drinking, madness, cannibalism
and suicide which make up the final scene of most tales of adventure.
But I must tell the truth.
While we caroused, our helm was free, the tiller banging, sail flapping,
boom gibing, blocks rattling. It was as if we had thrown the reins of
guidance on the neck of our staunch little seahorse and she, superbly
sturdy creature, proceeded to bring us home. On we went across the
waters, steered only by fate.
In the midst of a rousing rendering of "Hail, hail, the gang's all
here," we were startled by a grinding crash that threw us in a heap
on the floor. Down the companion way burst a flood of green water
through which we struggled to the steeply slanting deck, where on
ourport bow I glimpsed the picture of a pleasant sandy beach, trees,
ships, docks, a large white hotel and hundreds of people--white and
brown, in bathing! In one thundering burst of amazement the truth swept
over me; we were in the harbor of Papeete! In the next instant strong
arms seized me and I was borne through the breakers and up the beach.
Well, they were all there! O'Brien--dear old Fred, and Martin Johnson,
just in from the Solomons with miles of fresh film; McFee, stopping
over night on his way to the West Indies; Bill Beebe, with his pocket
full of ants; Safroni, "Mac" MacQuarrie, Freeman, "Cap" Bligh--thinner
than when I last saw him in Penang--and, greatest surprise of all, a
bluff, harris-tweeded person who peered over the footboard of my bed
and roared in rough sea-tones:
"Well, as I live and breathe, Walter Traprock!"
It was Joe Conrad.
I told my story that night in the dining-room of the Tiare, or, at
least, I told just enough of it to completely knock my audience off
their seats. For many good reasons I avoided exact details of latitude,
longitude, and the like.
No island is sacred among explorers.
"Gentlemen," I said, rather neatly, "I cannot give you the Filberts'
latitude or longitude. But I will say that their pulchritude is 100!"
The place was in an uproar. They plied me with questions, and Dr.
Funk's! It was a night of rejoicing and triumph which I shall never
forget, and which only Fred O'Brien can describe.
The later results are too well known to need recital, Swank's success,
Whinney's position in the Academy of Sciences, my own recognition by
the Royal Geographic Society.
The tight little Kawa still rides the seas, Triplett in command.
She is kept fully stocked, ready to sail at a moment's notice. Soon,
perhaps, the wanderlust will seize us again and, throwing down our
lightly won honors, we will once more head for the trackless trail.
But we will not make for the Filberts. Too tender are the memories
which wreathe those opal isles, too irrevocable the changes which must
have taken place. Rather let us preserve their undimmed beauty in our
hearts.
On our next trip we have agreed, all of us, that by far the best plan
will be to leave the choice of our route, destination and return (if
any) to the Kawa herself.
OTHER BOOKS BY WALTER E. TRAPROCK
Who's Hula in Hawaii 1899
Dances, Near-dances and No-dances of the
Far East 1902
Through Borneo on a Bicycle 1904
Curry-Dishes for Moderate Incomes 1907
Sobs from the South Seas-Poems 1912
Around Russia on Roller Skates 1917
Crazy With Tahiti-Translations from Native
Folklore 1918
How to Explore, and What 1919
NOTE:--Most of the above are out of print. The author still has a few
copies of "Curry-Dishes for Moderate Incomes" which may be had at the
publication price, $200.
SEE THE SOUTH SEAS
S. S. _Love-Nest_, sailing from San Francisco, June 1st, Sept. 3rd,
Dec 2nd and March 7th. Three months' cruise.
See the cute cannibals. Excursion rates for round trip with stops at all
important islands. Everybody's doing it. Don't be a back number.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Cruise of the Kawa, by Walter E. Traprock