THE INTERNATIONAL ADVENTURE LIBRARY
THREE OWLS EDITION
THE WHITE WATERFALL
An Adventure Story
BY JAMES FRANCIS DWYER
TO L.G.D. and G.M.D.
"THAT'S THE WAY TO HEAVEN,
THAT'S THE WAY TO HEAVEN,
THAT'S THE WAY TO HEAVEN OUT
OF BLACK FERNANDO'S HELL."
PREFACE
It is perhaps inadvisable to mix fact with fiction, but, it appears,
some reference to certain portions of "The White Waterfall" that might
strain the belief of the average reader will not be out of place. In the
wonderful islands of the Pacific many things happen that seem improbable
to the minds of those who dwell close to the heart of civilization. The
mysterious Isle of Tears is not altogether a dream. There are several
islands in Polynesia that have been looked upon from time immemorial as
islands of the dead. These places are shunned by the islanders, and the
centuries have invested them with the same atmosphere of brooding
mystery that Professor Herndon and his party felt when they landed upon
the silent isle where the Wizards of the Centipede performed their weird
rites without interference from the outside world.
Nor is the Vermilion Pit created out of thin air. The savage has used
many startling methods to separate the born warrior from the coward, and
the author has seen a place just as wonderful as the pit, where the
young men of the tribe were tested in the same manner as that related
in this story. The cunning savage has always thought it inadvisable to
pick his fighting men till their courage had been thoroughly tested, and
in dull days of peace the headmen of the tribes racked their brains to
discover nerve-shaking ordeals to try the daring of the growing youth.
The safety of the tribe depended upon the valour of the fighting line,
and it would have been an inexcusable blunder to put the nervous ones in
the front rank.
The strange stone structures similar to the one upon which Holman and
Verslun narrowly escaped being offered up as sacrifices to the Centipede
are to be found in many islands of the Pacific at the present day. In
the Tongan, Caroline, and Cook groups these peculiar stone ruins remain
as evidence of the existence of an ancient people of superior
intelligence to the islanders of to-day. As to the meaning or use of
these structures we are entirely in the dark. The natives of these
groups know nothing concerning them, and the Polynesian builder in that
dark past was too busy clubbing and eating his neighbour to write
histories. Scientists are in doubt, as in the case of the great ruins at
Metalanim, whether they were built as sacrificial altars or as monuments
to ambitious chiefs, and there are no records to enlighten us. But these
relics are convincing proofs that the islands have been inhabited for
many hundreds of years, and we are left to conjecture regarding the
origin and history of the people.
The Dance of the Centipede, which Holman and Verslun witnessed in the
Long Gallery, can be seen to-day by any tourist who leaves the beaten
paths. Every missionary to the islands can tell of "devil dances" that
take place in secluded groves, and in which, to his great disgust, his
converts often take part. It takes time to turn the savage from his old
beliefs. Although the South Seas constitute the last fortress of
romance, and a mention of the coral atolls immediately conjures up a
vision of palms and rice-white beaches, the sensitive person senses the
dark and bloody past when the wizard men were the rulers, and death
stalked in the palm groves.
J.F.D.
New York, March, 1912.
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. The Song of the Maori
II. The Professor's Daughters
III. A Knife From the Dark
IV. The Storm
V. I Make a Promise
VI. The Isle of Tears
VII. The Pit
VIII. The Ledge of Death
IX. Into the Valley of Echoes
X. A Midnight Alarm
XI. Kaipi Performs a Service
XII. The Devil Dancers
XIII. Tombs of Silence
XIV. Back to the Camp
XV. A Day of Skirmishing
XVI. The Stone Table
XVII. Beneath the Centipede
XVIII. Barbara's Messenger
XIX. Leith Scores
XX. The Black Kindergarten
XXI. Together Again
XXII. The White Waterfall
XXIII. The Wizard's Seat
XXIV. The Way to Heaven
THE WHITE WATERFALL
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[Illustration]
CHAPTER I
THE SONG OF THE MAORI
There is a Tongan proverb which tells us that only fools and children
lie awake during hours that could be devoted to slumber, and it is a
wise proverb when you judge it from a Polynesian standpoint. No special
preparations are required for slumber in the last haunts of Romance, and
as one does not lose caste by dozing in public, the South Sea dweller
sees no reason for remaining awake when he could be peacefully sleeping.
The shade of a palm tree furnishes an ideal resting place, and if a dog
fight occurs in the grass-grown street, he becomes a box-seat spectator
without moving from his couch. Levuka, the second largest town in the
Fijis, was dozing on the afternoon of December 14, 1905, and I decided
to follow the example set by the inhabitants. The thermometer in the
shack at the end of the wharf registered 98 degrees, but the picturesque
little town, with its white and vermilion-tinted houses, looked restful
and cool. The hot, still atmosphere weighed down upon the Pacific,
ironing out the wind ruffles till the ocean resembled a plain of glass,
in which the Union Company's steamer _Navua_, from Auckland, appeared to
be stuck fast, as if the glassy sea had suddenly hardened around her
black hull.
A thin strip of shadow huddled close to a pile of pearl shell at the end
of the wharf, and I doubled myself up and attempted to sleep. But
hardwood planks don't make an ideal resting place. Besides, the rays of
sun followed the strip of shadow around the pile, and each time I
slipped into a doze I would be pricked into wakefulness. At last,
maddened by the biting rays, I collected half a dozen copra bags,
splintered a piece of _kauri_ pine, and after rigging up one bag as an
awning, I spread the others on the planks and fell asleep.
But another disturbing element awakened me from a short slumber. From
the sea end of the deserted wharf came a big, greasy Maori and a
fuzzy-headed Fijian, and their words went out into the silence like
sound projectiles. The Maori had such a high-pitched voice that I
thought, as I rolled over restlessly, he would only have to raise it a
little to make them hear him up in Sydney, eighteen hundred miles away.
It was one of those voices that fairly cavort over big distances, and I
buried my head in the shell as the pair came closer.
It was useless to attempt to shut out that voice. I stuffed a piece of
bag into the ear that wasn't jammed against the pearl shell, but the
noise of that fool talking fairly sizzled in my brain. Finally I gave up
all hopes of trying to sleep till the pair had left the wharf, and I lay
upon my back as they came slowly up the sun-bitten structure.
It was only when I gave up all thoughts of sleep that I recognized that
the Maori was talking English. Up to that moment I thought the pair were
arguing in some unfamiliar tongue, but suddenly their conversation
gripped me, and I strained my ears to listen.
"There's the white waterfall," chanted the Maori.
"Yes, the white waterfall," repeated the Fijian.
"An' you go along sixty paces."
"To the right?" questioned the Fijian.
"No! To the left, you fool!" screamed his companion.
"All right, you go to the left," muttered the rebuked one. "An' that's
the way to heaven!" cried the Maori.
"The way to heaven," echoed the Fijian; then the two lifted up their
voices and chanted:
"That's the way to heaven,
That's the way to heaven,
That's the way to heaven out
Of Black Fernando's hell."
The incident stirred my curiosity. If I had only heard the words of the
chant I would not have puzzled my brain to determine their meaning, but
it was the manner in which the Maori instructed his friend as to the
direction in which one must walk from the white waterfall that made me
interested. I turned the words over in my mind as I watched them saunter
slowly toward me. Black Fernando's hell and the white waterfall were
places that I had never heard of. I thought of all the missionary hymns
that I had ever listened to afloat and ashore, but the lines that the
pair had chanted were not familiar.
The two walked on in silence for a few minutes after they had lifted up
their voices in the chant, then the Maori began to cross-question his
companion concerning the information he had just given him.
"How many paces?" he asked.
"Sixty," answered the Fijian.
"To the right, isn't it?"
"Yes, to the right," stammered the learner. "You fool nigger!" screamed
the instructor. "It is to the left, pig! Do you hear me? You must go to
the left from the white waterfall! Oh, you blinded fool! you make me
sick! Sing it now with me!"
The Fijian, who was apparently afraid of the bully, hurried to obey the
order, and I wondered as I listened.
"Sixty paces to the left," squeaked the Fijian.
"Sixty paces to the left," roared the Maori. "Now together!"
"That's the way to heaven,
That's the way to heaven,
That's the way to heaven out
Of----"
I was the cause of the interruption. I lifted myself into a sitting
position, and the movement disturbed the heap of shell. Part of the pile
rattled down upon the planks of the wharf, and the Maori and his pupil
stopped singing and stared at me as if they were much surprised at
finding any one within hearing distance. The wharf had appeared
deserted, and I gave them a start by crawling from underneath the awning
I had made from the copra bag. The Maori wore a dirty khaki coat, with a
pair of trousers reaching to his knees, while the Fijian, instead of
being short-rigged in shirt and sulu, sported a full suit of duck.
"Good afternoon, boss," said the Maori, trying to wipe the look of
surprise from his face with a grin. "Mighty hot afternoon, isn't it,
boss?"
"It is," I answered. "If I knew where that white waterfall is I'd go and
stand under it for a few minutes."
The small Fijian gave a little gurgle of surprise and looked up at his
big teacher, who regarded me with eyes of wonder.
"What white waterfall, boss?" he asked blandly.
"The one you were singing about," I cried.
The Maori smiled sweetly. "We weren't singing about a white waterfall,
boss," he spluttered. "I just guess you were asleep an' dreamed
something."
That didn't improve my temper. I had an edge on the fellow on account of
the high-powered voice he owned, so when he suggested that I had been
dreaming, I climbed to my feet so that I could make my words more
impressive when I started to tell him my opinion of his bluff.
The action startled the Fijian. He had an idea that I was going to use
the piece of _kauri_ pine upon his head, so he gave a yell and started
full speed up the wharf toward the town. The Maori stood his ground for
a minute, then he made a face to express his contempt for me and bolted
after his mate. I stared at his bare legs walloping the planks, and
feeling certain that I had lost all chance of finding out where the
white waterfall and Black Fernando's hell were situated, I found a new
shadow patch and lay down again.
I fell asleep and dreamed that I was chasing those two islanders in an
endeavour to find out the meaning of their mysterious chant, but just as
I had overtaken the pair, some one gripped my arm and shook me gently.
When I opened my eyes I looked up into the face of a good-looking young
fellow of about two and twenty years, who was smiling broadly as if he
thought it a great joke to wake a man out of a sound sleep on a hot
afternoon.
"Are you Jack Verslun?" he asked.
I nodded. It was too warm to use words recklessly.
"Pierre the Rat sent me after you," he continued.
"Why?" I asked.
"I have a berth for you," he answered. "I'm from _The Waif_. The mate
died on the run down from Sydney, and Captain Newmarch sent me ashore to
hunt up some one for his perch. Do you want it?"
"Where are you bound?" I asked.
"Manihiki group."
"What for?"
"Science expedition under the direction of Professor Herndon of San
Francisco."
I sat up and looked across the stretch of water at _The Waif_, and the
young fellow waited patiently. I knew the yacht. An English baronet had
brought the vessel out from Cowes to Brisbane, but he had made the pace
too hot in the Colonies. Out in Fortitude Valley one night the keeper of
a saloon fired a bullet into his aristocratic head, and _The Waif_ was
auctioned. She had taken a hand in a number of games after that. A fast
yacht is a handy vessel south of the line, and some queer tales were
told about the boat that had once shown her heels to the crackerjacks in
the Solent. But I couldn't afford to be particular at that moment.
Levuka isn't the spot where a man can pick and choose, so I wiped the
shell grit from my drill suit and told myself that I had better accept
the berth instead of waiting in expectation of something better turning
up. Pierre the Rat, who ran "The Rathole," where penniless seamen and
beachcombers lodged, was my creditor, and when Pierre was very
solicitous in obtaining employment for one of his boarders, it was a
mighty good intimation that the boarder's credit had reached highwater
mark.
"Well," I said, climbing to my feet, "I might as well take it. I thought
I had enough of the Islands, but as this has turned up I'm your man.
Say," I added, "did you ever read Pilgrim's Progress'?"
The young fellow looked at me and grinned. "Yes, I did," he answered.
"Do you remember much of it?" I asked.
"Not much," he replied.
"Is there anything in it about a white waterfall that is on the way to
heaven out of Black Fernando's hell?" I questioned.
The youngster put his head on one side and looked as if he was turning
things over in his mental storehouse, then he gave me a quick, shrewd
glance and burst out laughing.
"Well?" I growled. "What's the grin for?"
"What has Bunyan got to do with my business?" he asked. "I came to sign
you up for a mate's job on _The Waif_, and I am in a hurry."
"Yes, I know," I grumbled, "but I thought you might have heard something
of a white waterfall. I'm not sure that it is mentioned in 'Pilgrim's
Progress,' but it seems to taste of Bunyan."
"P'raps so," said the youngster, "but Bunyan isn't in our line at
present. Captain Newmarch told me to hurry back to the yacht, as he
wants to get away by sunset, so if you're ready we'll make a start. My
name is Holman, Will Holman."
We walked up the quiet street together and I began to like Will Holman.
One couldn't help but like him. He had the frank, open ways of a boy,
but the cut of his jaw and the manner in which he minted his words led
you to believe that he would give a man's account of himself if any one
pushed him up against a wall. While he made some purchases in the little
stores, I went up to the broken-down shanty where Pierre the Rat ran his
house of refuge, and, after I had collected my few belongings, I went
back to the wharf, where a boat from _The Waif_ was waiting to take us
aboard the yacht.
It was when I was climbing into the boat that I got a surprise. One of
the two natives at the oars was the little Fijian who had been the pupil
of the Maori, but he didn't bat an eyelash when I stared at him.
"What's up?" asked Holman. "Do you know Toni?"
"He's one of the brace that were singing that song about the white
waterfall," I growled.
The Fijian let out a volley of indignant denials, and Holman laughed.
"You might be mistaken," he said. "Toni came ashore with me about two
hours ago, but I don't think he left the boat."
"I'm not mistaken," I said, as the Fijian kept on protesting that he had
never moved from the boat, "but it doesn't matter much. Let it go."
We were about a quarter of a mile from the shore when a man raced down
from the town, ran along to the sea end of the wharf and waved his arms
as if he was signalling us. Holman turned and looked at him.
"I wonder who it is?" he muttered. "Perhaps it is somebody with your
board bill, Verslun."
I started to laugh, then I stopped suddenly. The man on the wharf was
shouting to us, and when my ears caught a word I recognized him. It was
the big Maori who had been instructing the Fijian earlier in the
afternoon.
I told Holman, and he looked at Toni, but Toni's face was blank. For
some reason or other he wished to ignore his instructor who was
screaming on the end of the wharf.
"He must be mad," muttered Holman. "The darned fool thinks we--Listen!"
A land breeze brought the last line of the chant to our ears as we
neared _The Waif_, and the words seemed to stir me curiously as they
swirled around us. I had a desire to memorize the chant, and even after
we had got out of range of the high-powered voice of the singer I found
myself murmuring over and over again the words:
"That's the way to heaven out
Of Black Fernando's hell."
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