Produced by David Widger
A MEMORY OF THE SOUTHERN SEAS
From “Chinkie's Flat And Other Stories”
By Louis Becke
Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company 1904
CAPTAIN “BULLY” HAYES
In other works by the present writer frequent allusion has been made,
either by the author or by other persons, to Captain Hayes. Perhaps the
continuous appearance of his name may have been irritating to many of
my readers; if so I can only plead that it is almost impossible when
writing of wild life in the Southern Seas to avoid mentioning him. Every
one who sailed the Austral seas between the “fifties” and “seventies,”
and thousands who had not, knew of him and had heard tales of him.
In some eases these tales were to his credit; mostly they were not.
However, the writer makes no further apology for reproducing the
following sketch of the great “Bully” which he contributed to the _Pall
Mall Gazette_, and which, by the courtesy of the editor of that journal,
he is able to include in this volume.
In a most interesting, though all too brief, sketch of the life of
the late Rev. James Chalmers, the famous New Guinea missionary, which
appeared in the January number of a popular religious magazine,
the author, the Rev. Richard Lovett, gives us a brief glance of the
notorious Captain “Bully” Hayes. Mr. Chalmers, in 1866, sailed for the
South Seas with his wife in the missionary ship _John Williams_--the
second vessel of that name, the present beautiful steamer being the
fourth _John Williams_.
The second John Williams had but a brief existence, for on her first
voyage she was wrecked on Nine Island (the “Savage” Island of Captain
Cook). Hayes happened to be there with his vessel, and agreed to convey
the shipwrecked missionaries to Samoa. No doubt he charged them a pretty
stiff price, for he always said that missionaries “were teaching Kanakas
the degrading doctrine that even if a man killed his enemy and cut out
and ate his heart in public, and otherwise misconducted himself, he
could yet secure a front seat in the Kingdom of Heaven if he said he was
sorry and was then baptized as Aperamo (Abraham) or Lakopo (Jacob).”
“It is characteristic of Chalmers,” writes Mr. Lovett, “that he was able
to exert considerable influence over this ruffian, and even saw good
points in him, not easily evident to others.”
The present writer sailed with Hayes on four voyages as supercargo, and
was with the big-bearded, heavy-handed, and alleged “terror of the South
Seas” when his famous brig _Leonora_ was wrecked on Strong's Island, one
wild night in March, 1875. And he has nothing but kindly memories of a
much-maligned man, who, with all his faults, was never the cold-blooded
murderer whose fictitious atrocities once formed the theme of a highly
blood-curdling melodrama staged in the old Victoria Theatre, in Pitt
Street, Sydney, under the title of “The Pirate of the Pacific.” In this
lively production of dramatic genius Hayes was portrayed as something
worse than Blackboard or Llonois, and committed more murders and
abductions of beautiful women in two hours than ever fell to the luck in
real life of the most gorgeous pirate on record. No one of the audience
was more interested or applauded more vigorously the villain's downfall
than “Bully” Hayes himself, who was seated in a private box with a lady.
He had come to Sydney by steamer from Melbourne, where he had left his
ship in the hands of brokers for sale, and almost the first thing he saw
on arrival were the theatrical posters concerning himself and his career
of crime.
“I would have gone for the theatre people,” he told the writer, “if they
had had any money, but the man who 'played' me was the lessee of the
theatre and was hard up. I think his name was Hoskins. He was a big
fat fellow, with a soapy, slithery kind of a voice, and I lent him ten
pounds, which he spent on a dinner to myself and some of his company. I
guess we had a real good time.”
But let us hear what poor ill-fated Missionary Chalmers has to say about
the alleged pirate:--
“Hayes seemed to take to me during the frequent meetings we had on
shore” (this was when the shipwrecked missionaries and their wives were
living on Savage Island), “and before going on board for good I met him
one afternoon and said to him, 'Captain Hayes, I hope you will have no
objection to our having morning and evening service on board, and twice
on Sabbaths. All short, and only those who like need attend.' Certainly
not. My ship is a missionary ship now' (humorous dog), 'and I hope you
will feel it so. All on board will attend these services.' I replied,
'Only if they are inclined.'” (If they had shirked it, the redoubtable
“Bully” would have made attendance compulsory with a belaying pin.)
“Hayes was a perfect host and a thorough gentleman. His wife and
children were on board. We had fearful weather all the time, yet I must
say we enjoyed ourselves.... We had gone so far south that we could
easily fetch Tahiti, and so we stood for it, causing us to be much
longer on board. Hayes several times lost his temper and did very queer
things, acting now and then more like a madman than a sane man. Much of
his past life he related to us at table, especially of things (he did)
to cheat Governments.”
Poor “Bully!” He certainly did like to “cheat Governments,” although he
despised cheating private individuals--unless it was for a large amount.
And he frequently “lost his temper” also; and when that occurred
things were very uncomfortable for the man or men who caused it. On
one occasion, during an electrical storm off New Guinea, a number of
corposants appeared on the yards of his vessel, which was manned by
Polynesians and some Portuguese. One of the latter was so terrified at
the ghastly _corpo santo_ that he fell on his knees and held a small
leaden crucifix, which he wore on his neck, to his lips. His example was
quickly followed by the rest of his countrymen; which so enraged Hayes
that, seizing the first offender, he tore the crucifix from his hand,
and, rolling it into a lump, thrust it into his month _and made him
swallow it_.
“You'll kill the man, sir,” cried Hussey, his American mate, who, being
a good Catholic, was horrified.
Hayes laughed savagely: “If that bit of lead is good externally it ought
to be a darned sight better when taken internally.”
He was a humorous man at times, even when he was cross. And he was one
of the best sailor-men that ever trod a deck. A chronometer watch,
which was committed to the care of the writer by Hayes, bore this
inscription:--
“_From Isaac Steuart, of New York, to Captain William Henry Hayes, of
Cleveland, Ohio. A gift of esteem and respect for his bravery in saving
the lives of seventeen persons at the risk of his own. Honor to the
brave._”
Hayes told me that story--modestly and simply as brave men only tell a
tale of their own dauntless daring. And he told me other stories as well
of his strange, wild career; of Gordon of Khartoum, whom he had known,
and of Ward and Burgevine and the Taeping leaders; and how Burgevine
and he quarrelled over a love affair and stood face to face, pistols in
hand, when Ward sprang in between them and said that the woman was his,
and that they were fools to fight over what belonged to neither of them
and what he would gladly be rid of himself.
Peace to his _manes!_ He died--in his sea-boots--from a blow on his big,
bald head, superinduced by his attention to a lady who was “no better
than she ought to have been,” even for the islands of the North Pacific.
THE “WHALE CURE”
I once heard a man who for nearly six years had been a martyr to
rheumatism say he would give a thousand pounds to have a cure effected.
“I wish, then, that we were in Australia or New Zealand during the shore
whaling season,” remarked a friend of the writer; “I should feel pretty
certain of annexing that thousand pounds.” And then he described the
whale cure.
The “cure” is not fiction. It is a fact, so the whalemen assert, and
there are many people at the township of Eden, Twofold Bay, New
South Wales, who, it is vouched, can tell of several cases of chronic
rheumatism that have been absolutely perfectly cured by the treatment
herewith briefly described. How it came to be discovered I do not know,
but it has been known to American whalemen for years.
When a whale is killed and towed ashore (it does not matter whether it
is a “right,” humpback, finback, or sperm whale) and while the interior
of the carcase still retains a little warmth, a hole is out through one
side of the body sufficiently large to admit the patient, the lower
part of whose body from the feet to the waist should sink in the whale's
intestines, leaving the head, of course, outside the aperture. The
latter is closed up as closely as possible, otherwise the patient would
not be able to breathe through the volume of ammoniacal gases which
would escape from every opening left uncovered. It is these gases, which
are of an overpowering and atrocious odour, that bring about the cure,
so the whalemen say. Sometimes the patient cannot stand this horrible
bath for more than an hour, and has to be lifted out in a fainting
condition, to undergo a second, third, or perhaps fourth course on that
or the following day. Twenty or thirty hours, it is said, will effect a
radical cure in the most severe cases, provided there is no malformation
or distortion of the joints, and even in such cases the treatment causes
very great relief. One man who was put in up to his neck in the carcass
of a small “humpback” stood it for sixteen hours, being taken out at
two-hour intervals. He went off declaring himself to be cured. À year
later he had a return of the complaint and underwent the treatment a
second time.
All the “shore” whalemen whom the writer has met thoroughly believe in
the efficacy of the remedy, and by way of practical proof assert that
no man who works at cutting-in and trying out a whale ever suffers
from rheumatism. Furthermore, however, some of them maintain that the
“deader” the whale is, the better the remedy. “More gas in him,” they
say. And any one who has been within a mile of a week-dead whale will
believe _that_.
Anyway, if there is any person, rheumatic or otherwise, who wants to
emulate Jonah's adventure in a safe manner (with a dead whale), let him
write to the Davidson Brothers, Ben Boyd Point, Twofold Bay, N.S.W., or
to the Messrs. Christian, Norfolk Island, and I am sure those valorous
whalemen would help him to achieve his desire.
THE SEA “SALMON” SEASON IN AUSTRALIA
The sea salmon make their appearance on the southern half of the eastern
seaboard of Australia with undeviating regularity in the last week of
October, and, entering the rivers and inlets, remain on the coast till
the first week of December. As far as my knowledge goes, they come
from the south and travel northwards, and do not appear to relish the
tropical waters of the North Queensland coast, though I have heard that
some years ago a vast “school” entered the waters of Port Denison.
Given a dear, sunny day and a smooth sea the advent of these fish to
the bar harbours and rivers of New South Wales presents a truly
extraordinary sight. From any moderately high bluff or headland one can
discern their approach nearly two miles away. You see a dark patch upon
the water, and were it not for the attendant flocks of gulls and other
aquatic birds, one would imagine it to be but the passing reflection of
a cloud. But presently you see another and another; and, still farther
oat, a long black line flecked with white can be discerned with a good
glass. Then you look above--the sky is cloudless blue, and you know
that the dark moving patches are the advance battalions of countless
thousands of sea salmon, and that the mile-long black and white streak
behind them is the main body of the first mighty army; for others are to
follow day by day for another fortnight.
Probably the look-out man at the pilot station is the first to see
them, and in a few minâtes the lazy little seaport town awakes from its
morning lethargy, and even the butcher, and baker, and bootmaker, and
bank manager, and other commercial magnates shut up shop and walk to
the pilot station to watch the salmon “take” the bar, whilst the entire
public school rushes home to prepare its rude tackle for the onslaught
that will begin at dark.
The bar is a mile wide or more, and though there is but little surf,
the ebbing tide, running at five knots, makes a great commotion, and the
shallow water is thick with yellow sand swept seaward to the pale green
beyond. Presently the first “school” of salmon reaches the protecting
reef on the southern side--and then it stops. The fish well know that
such a current as that cannot be stemmed, and wait, moving slowly to
and fro, the dark blue compactness of their serried masses ever and
anon broken by flashes of silver as some turn on their sides or make an
occasional leap clear out of the water to avoid the pressure of their
fellows.
An hour or so passes; then the tumult on the bar ceases, the incoming
seas rise clear and sandless, and the fierce race of the current slows
down to a gentle drift; it is slack water, and the fish begin to move.
One after another the foremost masses sweep round the horn of the reef
and head for the smooth water inside. On the starboard hand a line of
yellow sandbank is drying in the sun, and the passage has now narrowed
down to a width of fifty yards; in twenty minutes every inch of water,
from the rocky headland on the south side of the entrance to where the
river makes a sharp turn northward, half a mile away, is packed with a
living, moving mass. Behind follows the main body, the two horns of
the crescent shape which it had at first preserved now swimming swiftly
ahead, and converging towards each other as the entrance to the bar is
reached, and the centre falling back with the precision of well-trained
troops. And then in a square, solid mass, thirty or forty feet in width,
they begin the passage, and for two hours or more the long dark lines of
fish pass steadily onward, only thrown into momentary confusion now and
then by a heavy swell, which, however, does no more than gently undulate
the rearmost lines of fish, and then subsides, overcome by the weight
and solidity of the living wall.
Along the beach on the southern side of the river stand a hundred or
more yelling urchins, with stout lines fitted with many baitless hooks
and weighted with a stone. As the swarming fish press steadily on within
ten feet or less of the shore the children fling their lines across, and
draw them quickly in. Sometimes two or three fish are “jagged” at once,
and as the average weight is 10 lb. the jagger takes a turn of the line
around his waist and straggles up the beach. Even if he has but one fish
hooked amidships he has all he can do to drag him out from the countless
thousands and land him. It is not an eminently ideal or sportsmanlike
sort of fishing, this “jagging,” but it possesses a marvellous enjoyment
and fascination for the youth of ten, and older people as well; for a
full-grown salmon is a powerful fellow, and his big, fluke-like tail
enables him to make a terrific rush when under the influence of terror
or when chasing his prey.
Once over the bar and into the placid waters of the tidal river, the
vanguards of the hundreds of thousands to follow pursue their way
steadily up the shallow flats and numberless blind creeks, where they
remain till spawning is over. Every day some fresh accessions to their
numbers, and at night time strange, indescribable sounds are heard,
caused by the movements of the fishes' tails and fins as they swim
to and fro, and one section, meeting another, endeavours to force a
right-of-way. On the third or fourth evening the sharks and porpoises
appear, having followed the “schools” in from the sea, and wreak fearful
havoc among them. Sometimes in a deep pool or quiet reach of the river
one may see a school of perhaps five or six thousand terrified salmon,
wedged one up against the other, unable to move from their very numbers,
while half a dozen sharks dash in among them and devour them by the
score; and often as the current runs seaward hundreds of half bodies of
salmon can be seen going out over the bar. At night time the townspeople
appear on the scene in boats with lanterns and spears, and for no other
purpose than the mere love of useless slaughter kill the fish till their
arms are exhausted. At places within easy access of Sydney by steamer or
rail some few thousands of salmon are sent to market, but as the flesh
is somewhat coarse, they are only bought by the poorer members of the
community, 4d. and 6d. each being considered a good retail price for a
10 lb. fish. The roes, however, are excellent eating, and some attempt
has been made to smoke them on a large scale, but like everything else
connected with the fishing industry (or rather want of industry) in New
South Wales, has failed. It sometimes happens (as I once witnessed in
Trial Bay, on the coast of New South Wales) that heavy weather will
set in when the salmon are either passing inwards over the bars or are
returning to sea. The destruction that is then wrought among them is
terrific. On the occasion of which I speak, every heavy roller that
reared and then dashed upon the beach flung upon the sands hundreds of
the fish, stunned and bleeding. At one spot where the beach had but a
very slight inclination towards the water from the line of scrub above
high-water mark there were literally many thousands of salmon, lying
three and four deep, and in places piled up in irregular ridges and
firmly packed together with sand and seaweed.
“JACK SHARK”
“What is the greatest number of sharks that you have ever seen together
at one time?” asked an English lady in San Francisco of Captain Allen,
of the New Bedford barque _Acorn Barnes_.
“Two or three hundred when we have been cutting-in a whale; two or three
thousand in Christmas Island lagoon.”
Some of the hardy old seaman's listeners smiled somewhat incredulously
at the “two or three thousand,” but nevertheless he was not only not
exaggerating, but might have said five or six thousand. The Christmas
Island to which he referred must not be mistaken for the island of the
same name in the Indian Ocean--the Cocos-Keeling group. It is in the
North Pacific, two degrees north of the equator and 157.30 W., and is
a low, sandy atoll, encompassing a spacious but rather shallow lagoon,
teeming with non-poisonous fish. It is leased from the Colonial Office
by a London firm, who are planting the barren soil with coconut trees
and fishing the lagoon for pearl-shell. Like many other of the isolated
atolls in the North Pacific, such as the Fannings, Palmyra, and
Providence Groups, the lagoon is resorted to by sharks in incredible
numbers; and even at the present time the native labourers employed by
the firm alluded to make a considerable sum of money by catching sharks
and drying the fins and tails for export to Sydney, and thence to
China, where they command a price ranging from 6d. to 1s. 6d. per pound,
according to quality.
The lagoon sharks are of a different species to the short, thick,
wide-jawed “man-eaters,” although they are equally dangerous at night
time as the deep-sea prowlers. The present writer was for a long time
engaged with a native crew in the shark-catching industry in the North
Pacific, and therefore had every opportunity of studying Jack Shark and
his manners.
On Providence Lagoon (the Ujilong of the natives), once the secret
rendezvous of the notorious Captain “Bully” Hayes and his associate
adventurer, Captain Ben Peese, I have, at low tide, stood on the edge of
the coral reef on one side of South Passage, and gazed in astonishment
at the extraordinary numbers of sharks entering the lagoon for their
nightly onslaught on the vast bodies of fish with which the water
teems. They came on in droves, like sheep, in scores at first, then
in hundreds, and then in packed masses, their sharp, black-tipped fins
stretching from one side of the passage to the other. As they gained the
inside of the lagoon they branched off, some to right and left, others
swimming straight on towards the sandy beaches of the chain of islets.
From where I stood I could have killed scores of them with a whale
lance, or even a club, for they were packed so closely that they
literally scraped against the coral walls of the passage; and some
Gilbert Islanders who were with me amused themselves by seizing several
by their tails and dragging them out upon the reef. They were nearly all
of the same size, about seven feet, with long slender bodies, and their
markings, shape, and general appearance were those of the shark called
by the Samoans _moemoeao_ (“sleeps all day”), though not much more than
half their length. The Gilbert Islanders informed me that this species
were also _bàkwa mata te ao_ (sleepers by day) at certain seasons of
the year, but usually sought their prey by night at all times; and a few
months later I had an opportunity afforded me of seeing some hundreds of
them asleep. This was outside the barrier reef of the little island of
Ailuk, in the Marshall Group. We were endeavouring to find and recover
a lost anchor, and were drifting along in a boat in about six fathoms of
water; there was not a breath of wind, and consequently we had no need
to use water glasses, for even minute objects could be very easily
discerned through the crystal water.
“Hallo! look here,” said the mate, “we're right on top of a nice little
family party of sharks. It's their watch below.”
Lying closely together on a bottom of sand and coral _débris_ were about
a dozen sharks, heads and tails in perfect line. Their skins were a
mottled brown and yellow, like the crustacean-feeding “tiger shark”
of Port Jack-son. They lay so perfectly still that the mate lowered
a grapnel right on the back of one. He switched his long, thin tail
lazily, “shoved” himself along for a few feet, and settled down again to
sleep, his bedmates taking no notice of the intruding grapnel. Further
on we came across many more--all in parties of from ten to twenty, and
all preserving in their slumber a due sense of regularity of outline in
the disposition of their long bodies.
The natives of the low-lying equatorial islands--the Kingsmill, Gilbert,
Ellice, and Tokelau or Union Groups--are all expert shark fishermen;
but the wild people of Paanopa (Ocean Island) stand _facile princeps_. I
have frequently seen four men in a small canoe kill eight or ten sharks
(each of which was as long as their frail little craft) within three
hours.
SOME PACIFIC ISLANDS FISHES
Of all the food-fishes inhabiting the reefs, lagoons, and tidal waters
of the islands of the North and South Pacific, there are none that are
prized more than the numerous varieties of sand-mullet. Unlike the same
fishes in British and other colder waters, they frequently reach a great
size, some of them attaining two feet in length, and weighing up to ten
pounds; and another notable feature is the great diversity of colour
characterising the whole family. The writer is familiar with at least
ten varieties, and the natives gave me the names of several others
which, however, are seldom taken in sufficient numbers to make them a
common article of diet. The larger kind are caught with hook and line in
water ranging from three to five fathoms in depth, the smaller kinds are
always to be found in the very shallow waters of the lagoons, where they
are taken by nets. At night, by the aid of torches made of dried coconut
leaf, the women and children capture them in hundreds as they lie on
the clear, sandy bottom. In the picturesque lagoons of the Ellice Group
(South Pacific), and especially in that of Nanomea, these fish afford
excellent sport with either rod or hand-line, and sport, too, with
surroundings of the greatest beauty imaginable; for the little lagoon
of Nanomea is perfectly landlocked, except where there are breaks of
reef--dry at low water--which is as clear as crystal, and the low-lying
belt of land is a verdant girdle of coco and pandanus palms, growing
with bread-fruit and _fetau_ trees on the rich, warm soil composed of
vegetable matter and decayed coral detritis.
And then, too, you can look over the side of the canoe, or from an
exposed boulder of coral, and see the fish take your bait--unless a
breeze is rippling the surface of the water.
I usually chose the early morning, before the trade wind roused itself,
as then, if in a canoe, one need not anchor, but drift about from one
side of the lagoon to the other; then about ten o'clock, when the breeze
came, I would paddle over to the lee of the weather side of the island
(the land in places not being much wider than the Palisadoes of Port
Royal in Jamaica) and fish in unruffled water in some deep pool among
a number of sand banks, or rather round-topped hillocks, which even at
high water were some feet above the surface.
When bent on sand-mullet--_afulu_ the natives call them--I was in the
habit of going alone, although the moment I appeared in the village
carrying my rod, lines, and gun, I was always besought to take one or
two men with me. One of the most ardent fishermen on the island was one
Kino--a gentleman who weighed eighteen stone; and, as my canoe was only
intended for two light-weights like myself, I always tried to avoid
meeting him, for not only was he most persistent in his desire to see
how I managed to get so many mullet, but was most anxious to learn to
speak English.
On one occasion I fatuously took the monster out in my whaleboat to
fish for _takuo_ (a variety of _tuna_) one calm starlight night when the
ocean was like a sheet of glass. We pulled out over the reef, and when
a mile from the shore lowered our heavy lines and began fishing. For
nearly a quarter of an hour neither of us spoke, then he suddenly asked
me in his fat, wheezy tones, if I would mind telling him something.
“What is it?”
“Will you tell me, friend, what are the English words that should be
spoken by one of us of Nanomea to a ship captain, giving him greeting,
and asking him if he hath had a prosperous voyage with fair weather? My
heart is sick with envy that Pita and Loli speak English, and I cannot.”
Forgetting my past experiences of my man, I was fool enough to tell him.
“You say this: 'Good morning, Captain; have you had a good voyage and
fair weather?'”
He greedily repeated each word after me, very slowly and carefully; then
he asked me to tell him again. I did so. Then he sighed with pleasure.
“Kind friend, just a few times more,” he said.
I told him the sentence over and over again for at least a score of
times; and his smooth, fat face beamed when at last he was able to say
the words alone. Then he began whispering it. Five minutes passed, and
he tackled me again.
“Is this right?--'Good--mornin',
kipen--ha--ad--you--have--goot--foy--age--and--fair wesser?'”
“That is right,” I said impatiently, “but ask me no more to-night.
Dost not know that it is unlucky to talk when fishing for _takuo_ and
_tautau?_”
“Dear friend, _that_ we believed only in the heathen days. _Now_ we are
Christians.”
He paused a moment, then raised his face to the stars and softly
murmured, “Good--mornin' kâpen--haad--you--you--have--goot--foyage--and
wesser--and fair--wesser?” Then he looked at me interrogatively. I took
no notice.
He toyed with his line and bent an earnest gaze down in the placid
depths of the water as if he saw the words down there, then taking a
turn of his line round a thwart, he put his two elbows on his enormous
naked knees, and resting his broad, terraced chin on the palms of his
hands, he said slowly and mournfully, as if he were communing with some
one in the spirit-world--
“Good--mornin'--kâpen. Haad--you--haave----” &c., &c.
Then I sharply spoke a few words of English--simple in themselves, but
well understood by nearly every native of the South Seas. He looked
surprised, and also reproachful, but went on in a whisper so faint that
I could scarcely hear it; sometimes quickly and excitedly, sometimes
doubtingly and with quivering lips, now raising his eyes to heaven, and
with drooping lower jaw gurgling the words in his thick throat; then
sighing and muttering them with closed eyes and a rapt expression of
countenance, till with a sudden snort of satisfaction, he ceased--at
least I thought he had. He took up a young coconut, drank it, and began
again as fresh as ever.
“Stop!” I said angrily. “Art thou a grown man or a child? Here is some
tobacco, fill thy pipe, and cease muttering like a _tama valea_ (idiot
boy).”
He shook his head. “Nay, if I smoke, I may forget. I am very happy
to-night, kind friend. Good-mor----”
“May Erikobai” (a cannibal god of his youth) “polish his teeth on thy
bones!” I cried at last in despair. That shocking heathen curse silenced
him, but for the next two hours, whenever I looked at the creature, I
saw his lips moving and a silly, fatuous expression on his by no means
unintelligent face. I never took him out with me again, although he sent
me fowls and other things as bribes to teach him more English.
* * * * *
These sand-mullet are very dainty-feeding fish. They are particularly
fond of the soft tail part of the hermit crabs which abound all over
the island, especially after rain has fallen. Some of the shells (_T.
niloticus_) in which they live are so thick and strong, however, that
it requires two heavy stones to crush them sufficiently to take out the
crab, the upper part of whose body is useless for bait. For a stick of
tobacco, the native children would fill me a quart measure, and perhaps
add some few shrimps as well, or half a dozen large sea urchins--a very
acceptable bait for mullet. My rod was a slender bamboo--cost a quarter
of a dollar, and was unbreakable--and my lines of white American cotton,
strong, durable, and especially suitable for fishing on a bottom of pure
white sand. My gun was carried on the outrigger platform, within easy
reach, for numbers of golden plover frequented the sand banks, feeding
on the serried battalions of tiny soldier crabs, and in rainy weather
they were very easy to shoot. The rest of my gear consisted of twenty or
thirty cartridges, a box of assorted hooks, a heavy 27-cord line with
a 5-in. hook (in case I saw any big rock cod about), a few bottles of
lager, some ship biscuits or cold yam, and a tin of beef or sardines,
and some salt. This was a day's supply of food, and if I wanted more,
there were plenty of young coconuts to be had by climbing for them, and
I could cook my own fish, native fashion; lastly there was myself, in
very easy attire--print shirt, dungaree pants, panama hat, and no boots,
in place of which I used the native _takka_, or sandals of coconut
fibre, which are better than boots when walking on coral. Sometimes I
would remain away till the following morning, sleeping on the weather
side of the island under a shelter of leaves to keep off the dew, and
on such occasions two or three of the young men from the village would
invariably come and keep me company--and help eat the fish and birds.
However, they were very well conducted, and we always spent a pleasant
night, rose at daybreak, bathed in the surf, or in the lagoon, and after
an early breakfast returned to the village, or had some more fishing. It
was a delightful life.
My canoe was so light that it could easily be carried by one person from
the open shed where it was kept, and in a few minutes after leaving
my house I would be afloat, paddling slowly over the smooth water, and
looking over the side for the mullet. In the Nanomea, Nui, and Nukufetau
Lagoons the largest but scarcest variety are of a purple-grey, with fins
(dorsal and abdominal) and mouth and gill-plates tipped with yellow;
others again are purple-grey with dull roddish markings. This kind, with
those of an all bright yellow colour throughout, are the most valued,
though, as I have said, the whole family are prized for their delicacy
of flavour.
As soon as I caught sight of one or more of the sought-for fish, I would
cease paddling, and bait my hook; and first carefully looking to see
if there were any predatory leather-jackets or many-coloured wrasse in
sight, would lower away, the hook soon touching the bottom, as I always
used a small sinker of coral stone. This was necessary only because of
the number of other fish about--bass, trevally, and greedy sea-pike,
with teeth like needles and as hungry as sharks. In the vicinity of the
reef, or about the isolated coral boulders, or “mushrooms” as we called
them, these fish were a great annoyance to me, though my native
friends liked them well enough, especially the large, gorgeously-hued
“leather-jackets,” to which they have given the very appropriate name
of _isuumu moana_--the sea-rat--for they have a great trick of quietly
biting a baited line a few inches above the hook. _Apropos_ of the
“sea-rat,” I may mention that their four closely-set and humanlike teeth
are so thick that they will often crush an ordinary hook as if it were
made of glass, and as their mouths are exceedingly small, and many are
heavy, powerful fishes, they cause havoc with ordinary tackle. But a
fellow-trader and myself devised a very short, stout hook (1 1/2 inch of
shank) with a barbless curve well turned in towards the shank; these
we bent on to a length of fine steel wire seizing. They proved just the
ideal hook for the larger kind of sea-rat, which run up to 10 lb., and
the natives were so greatly taken with the device that, whenever a ship
touched at the island, short pieces of fine steel wire rigging were
eagerly bought (or begged for).
However, no leather-jackets, wrasse, greedy rock-cod, or keen-eyed
trevally being about, the bait touches the sandy bottom, and then you
will see one--perhaps half a dozen--_afulu_ cease poking their noses in
the sand, and make for it steadily but cautiously. When within a foot
or so, they invariably stop dead, and eye the bait to see if it is worth
eating. But they are soon satisfied--that round, pale green thing with
delicious juices exuding from it is an _uga_ (hermit crab) and must not
be left to be devoured by rude, big-mouthed rock-cod or the like, and
in another moment or two your line is tautened out, and a purple-scaled
beauty is fighting gamely for his life in the translucent waters of the
lagoon, followed half-way to the surface by his companions, whom, later
on, you place beside him in the bottom of the canoe. And even to look
at them is a joy, for they are graceful in shape, lovely in colour, and
each scale is a jewel.
You take up the paddle and send the canoe along for half-a-cable's
length towards a place where, under the ledge of the inner reef, both
_afulu sama sama_ and _afulu lanu uli_ (yellow and purple mullet) are
certain to be found; and, as the little craft slips along, a large
gar--green-backed, silvery-sided, and more than a yard long--may dart
after you like a gleaming, hiltless rapier skimming the surface of the
water. If you put out a line with a hook--baited with almost anything--a
bit of fish a strip of white or red rag--you will have some sport,
for these great gars are a hard-fighting fish, and do the tarpon
jumping-trick to perfection. But if you have not a line in readiness you
can wait your chance, and as he comes close alongside, break his back
with a blow from the sharp blade of your paddle, and jump overboard and
secure him ere he sinks.
“Not very sportsmanlike,” some people will say; but the South Sea native
is very utilitarian, and it takes a keen eye and hand to do the
thing neatly. And not only are these gars excellent eating--like all
surface-feeding, or other fish which show a “green” backbone when
cooked; but fore and aft strips out from their sheeny sides make
splendid bait for deep-sea habitants, such as the giant sea bass and the
200-pounder “coral” cod.
Under the ledge of the inner reef, if you get there before the sun
is too far to the westward, so that your eyes are not blinded by its
dazzling, golden light, you will see, as you drop your line for the
yellow and purple mullet which swim deep down over the fine coral sand,
some of the strangest shaped, most fantastically, and yet beautifully
coloured rock fish imaginable. As you pull up a mullet (or a green and
golden striped wrasse which has seized the bait not meant for him), many
of these beautiful creations of Nature will follow it up to within a
few feet of the canoe, wondering perhaps what under the sea it means
by acting in such a manner; others--small creatures of the deepest,
loveliest blue--flee in tenor at the unwonted commotion, and hide
themselves among the branching glories of their coral home.
“LUCK”
CHAPTER I
A “hard” man was Captain William Rodway of Sydney, New South Wales, and
he prided himself upon the fact. From the time he was twenty years of
age, he had devoted himself to making and saving money, and now at sixty
he was worth a quarter of a million.
He began life as cabin boy on a north-country collier brig; was starved,
kicked, and all but worked to death; and when he came to command a
ship of his own, his north-country training stood him in good
stead--starving, kicking, and working his crew to death came as
naturally to him as breathing. He spared no one, nor did he spare
himself.
From the very first everything went well with him. He saved enough money
by pinching and grinding his crew--and himself--to enable him to buy
the vessel to which he had been appointed. Then he bought others,
established what was known as Rodway's Line, gave up going to sea
himself, rented an office in a mean street, where he slept and cooked
his meals, and worked harder than ever at making money, oblivious of the
sneers of those who railed at his parsimony. He was content.
One Monday morning at nine o'clock he took his seat as usual in his
office, and began to open his pile of letters, his square-set, hard
face, with its cold grey eyes, looking harder than ever, for he had been
annoyed by the old charwoman who cleaned his squalid place asking him
for more wages.
He was half-way through his correspondence when a knock sounded.
“Come in,” he said gruffly.
The door opened, and a handsome, well-built young man of about thirty
years of age entered.
“Good morning, Captain Rodway.”
“Morning, Lester. What do you want? Why are you not at sea?” and he bent
his keen eyes upon his visitor.
“I'm waiting for the water-boat; but otherwise I'm ready to sail.”
“Well, what is it then?”
“I want to know if it is a fact that you will not employ married men as
captains?”
“It is.”
“Will you make no exception in my favour?”
“No.”
“I have been five years in your employ as mate and master of the
_Harvest Home_, and I am about to marry.”
“Do as you please, but the day you marry you leave my service.”
The young man's face flushed. “Then you can give me my money, and I'll
leave it to-day.”
“Very well. Sit down,” replied the old man, reaching for his wages book.
“There are sixty pounds due to you,” he said; “go on board and wait
for me. I'll be there at twelve o'clock with the new man, and we'll go
through the stores and spare gear together. If everything is right, I'll
pay your sixty pounds--if not, I'll deduct for whatever is short. Good
morning.”
At two o'clock in the afternoon Captain Tom Lester landed at Circular
Quay with his effects and sixty sovereigns in his pocket.
Leaving his baggage at an hotel he took a cab, drove to a quiet
little street in the suburb of Darling Point, and stopped at a quaint,
old-fashioned cottage surrounded by a garden.
The door was opened by a tall, handsome girl of about twenty-two.
“Tom!”
“Lucy!” he replied, mimicking her surprised tone. Then he became grave,
and leading her to a seat, sat beside her, and took her hand.
“Lucy, I have bad news. Rod way dismissed me this morning, and I have
left the ship.”
The girl's eyes filled. “Never mind, Tom. You will get another.”
“Ah, perhaps I might have to wait a long time. I have another plan.
Where is Mrs. Warren? I must tell her that our marriage must be put
off.”
“Why should it, Tom? I don't want it to be put off. And neither does
she.”
“But I have no home for you.”
“We can live here until we have one of our own. Mother will be only too
happy.”
“Sure?”
“Absolutely, or I would not say it.”
“Will you marry me this day week?”
“Yes, dear--today if you wish. We have waited two years.”
“You're a brave little woman, Lucy,” and he kissed her. “Now, here is
my plan. I can raise nearly a thousand pounds. I shall buy the _Dolphin_
steam tug--I can get her on easy terms of payment--fill her with coal
and stores, and go to Kent's Group in Bass's Straits, and try and
refloat the _Braybrook Castle_. I saw the agents and the insurance
people this morning--immediately after I left old Bodway. If I float
her, it will mean a lot of money for me. If I fail, I shall at least
make enough to pay me well by breaking her up. The insurance people know
me, and said very nice things to me.”
“Will you take me, Tom?”
“Don't tempt me, Lucy. It will be a rough life, living on an almost
barren, rocky island, inhabited only by black snakes, albatrosses, gulls
and seals.”
“Tom, you _must_. Come, let us tell mother.”
Three days later they were married, and at six o'clock in the evening
the newly-made bride was standing beside her husband on the bridge
of the _Dolphin_, which was steaming full speed towards Sydney Heads,
loaded down almost to the waterways with coals and stores for four
months.