large, and at last all of us that yet lived were driven upon the last
sand bank to the west. Beyond lay the open sea. There were ten thousand
of us, and we covered the sand bank from the lagoon edge to the pounding
surf on the other side. No one could lie down. There was no room. We
stood hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. Two days they kept us there,
and the mate would climb up in the rigging to mock us and yell, Yah!
Yah! Yah!' till we were well sorry that we had ever harmed him or his
schooner a month before. We had no food, and we stood on our feet two
days and nights. The little babies died, and the old and weak died,
and the wounded died. And worst of all, we had no water to quench our
thirst, and for two days the sun beat down on us, and there was no
shade. Many men and women waded out into the ocean and were drowned, the
surf casting their bodies back on the beach. And there came a pest of
flies. Some men swam to the sides of the schooners, but they were shot
to the last one. And we that lived were very sorry that in our pride we
tried to take the schooner with the three masts that came to fish for
beche-de-mer.
“On the morning of the third day came the skippers of the three
schooners and that mate in a small boat. They carried rifles, all of
them, and revolvers, and they made talk. It was only that they were
weary of killing us that they had stopped, they told us. And we told
them that we were sorry, that never again would we harm a white man, and
in token of our submission we poured sand upon our heads. And all the
women and children set up a great wailing for water, so that for some
time no man could make himself heard. Then we were told our punishment.
We must fill the three schooners with copra and beche-de-mer. And we
agreed, for we wanted water, and our hearts were broken, and we knew
that we were children at fighting when we fought with white men who
fight like hell. And when all the talk was finished, the mate stood up
and mocked us, and yelled, Yah! Yah! Yah!' After that we paddled away in
our canoes and sought water.
“And for weeks we toiled at catching beche-de-mer and curing it, in
gathering the cocoanuts and turning them into copra. By day and night
the smoke rose in clouds from all the beaches of all the islands of
Oolong as we paid the penalty of our wrongdoing. For in those days of
death it was burned clearly on all our brains that it was very wrong to
harm a white man.
“By and by, the schooners full of copra and beche-de-mer and our trees
empty of cocoanuts, the three skippers and that mate called us all
together for a big talk. And they said they were very glad that we had
learned our lesson, and we said for the ten-thousandth time that we were
sorry and that we would not do it again. Also, we poured sand upon our
heads. Then the skippers said that it was all very well, but just to
show us that they did not forget us, they would send a devil-devil that
we would never forget and that we would always remember any time we
might feel like harming a white man. After that the mate mocked us
one more time and yelled, Yah! Yah! Yah!' Then six of our men, whom we
thought long dead, were put ashore from one of the schooners, and the
schooners hoisted their sails and ran out through the passage for the
Solomons.
“The six men who were put ashore were the first to catch the devil-devil
the skippers sent back after us.”
“A great sickness came,” I interrupted, for I recognized the trick.
The schooner had had measles on board, and the six prisoners had been
deliberately exposed to it.
“Yes, a great sickness,” Oti went on. “It was a powerful devil-devil.
The oldest man had never heard of the like. Those of our priests that
yet lived we killed because they could not overcome the devil-devil.
The sickness spread. I have said that there were ten thousand of us
that stood hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder on the sandbank. When the
sickness left us, there were three thousand yet alive. Also, having made
all our cocoanuts into copra, there was a famine.
“That fella trader,” Oti concluded, “he like 'm that much dirt. He like
'm clam he die KAI-KAI (meat) he stop, stink 'm any amount. He like 'm
one fella dog, one sick fella dog plenty fleas stop along him. We no
fright along that fella trader. We fright because he white man. We savve
plenty too much no good kill white man. That one fella sick dog trader
he plenty brother stop along him, white men like 'm you fight like hell.
We no fright that damn trader. Some time he made kanaka plenty cross
along him and kanaka want 'm kill m, kanaka he think devil-devil and
kanaka he hear that fella mate sing out, Yah! Yah! Yah!' and kanaka no
kill 'm.”
Oti baited his hook with a piece of squid, which he tore with his teeth
from the live and squirming monster, and hook and bait sank in white
flames to the bottom.
“Shark walk about he finish,” he said. “I think we catch 'm plenty fella
fish.”
His line jerked savagely. He pulled it in rapidly, hand under hand, and
landed a big gasping rock cod in the bottom of the canoe.
“Sun he come up, I make 'm that dam fella trader one present big fella
fish,” said Oti.
THE HEATHEN
I met him first in a hurricane; and though we had gone through the
hurricane on the same schooner, it was not until the schooner had gone
to pieces under us that I first laid eyes on him. Without doubt I
had seen him with the rest of the kanaka crew on board, but I had not
consciously been aware of his existence, for the Petite Jeanne was
rather overcrowded. In addition to her eight or ten kanaka seamen, her
white captain, mate, and supercargo, and her six cabin passengers,
she sailed from Rangiroa with something like eighty-five deck
passengers--Paumotans and Tahitians, men, women, and children each with
a trade box, to say nothing of sleeping mats, blankets, and clothes
bundles.
The pearling season in the Paumotus was over, and all hands were
returning to Tahiti. The six of us cabin passengers were pearl buyers.
Two were Americans, one was Ah Choon (the whitest Chinese I have ever
known), one was a German, one was a Polish Jew, and I completed the half
dozen.
It had been a prosperous season. Not one of us had cause for complaint,
nor one of the eighty-five deck passengers either. All had done well,
and all were looking forward to a rest-off and a good time in Papeete.
Of course, the Petite Jeanne was overloaded. She was only seventy tons,
and she had no right to carry a tithe of the mob she had on board.
Beneath her hatches she was crammed and jammed with pearl shell and
copra. Even the trade room was packed full with shell. It was a miracle
that the sailors could work her. There was no moving about the decks.
They simply climbed back and forth along the rails.
In the night time they walked upon the sleepers, who carpeted the deck,
I'll swear, two deep. Oh! And there were pigs and chickens on deck, and
sacks of yams, while every conceivable place was festooned with strings
of drinking cocoanuts and bunches of bananas. On both sides, between the
fore and main shrouds, guys had been stretched, just low enough for
the foreboom to swing clear; and from each of these guys at least fifty
bunches of bananas were suspended.
It promised to be a messy passage, even if we did make it in the two
or three days that would have been required if the southeast trades had
been blowing fresh. But they weren't blowing fresh. After the first
five hours the trade died away in a dozen or so gasping fans. The calm
continued all that night and the next day--one of those glaring, glassy,
calms, when the very thought of opening one's eyes to look at it is
sufficient to cause a headache.
The second day a man died--an Easter Islander, one of the best divers
that season in the lagoon. Smallpox--that is what it was; though how
smallpox could come on board, when there had been no known cases ashore
when we left Rangiroa, is beyond me. There it was, though--smallpox, a
man dead, and three others down on their backs.
There was nothing to be done. We could not segregate the sick, nor could
we care for them. We were packed like sardines. There was nothing to do
but rot and die--that is, there was nothing to do after the night that
followed the first death. On that night, the mate, the supercargo, the
Polish Jew, and four native divers sneaked away in the large whale boat.
They were never heard of again. In the morning the captain promptly
scuttled the remaining boats, and there we were.
That day there were two deaths; the following day three; then it
jumped to eight. It was curious to see how we took it. The natives,
for instance, fell into a condition of dumb, stolid fear. The
captain--Oudouse, his name was, a Frenchman--became very nervous and
voluble. He actually got the twitches. He was a large fleshy man,
weighing at least two hundred pounds, and he quickly became a faithful
representation of a quivering jelly-mountain of fat.
The German, the two Americans, and myself bought up all the Scotch
whiskey, and proceeded to stay drunk. The theory was beautiful--namely,
if we kept ourselves soaked in alcohol, every smallpox germ that came
into contact with us would immediately be scorched to a cinder. And the
theory worked, though I must confess that neither Captain Oudouse nor Ah
Choon were attacked by the disease either. The Frenchman did not drink
at all, while Ah Choon restricted himself to one drink daily.
It was a pretty time. The sun, going into northern declination, was
straight overhead. There was no wind, except for frequent squalls, which
blew fiercely for from five minutes to half an hour, and wound up by
deluging us with rain. After each squall, the awful sun would come out,
drawing clouds of steam from the soaked decks.
The steam was not nice. It was the vapor of death, freighted with
millions and millions of germs. We always took another drink when we saw
it going up from the dead and dying, and usually we took two or three
more drinks, mixing them exceptionally stiff. Also, we made it a rule
to take an additional several each time they hove the dead over to the
sharks that swarmed about us.
We had a week of it, and then the whiskey gave out. It is just as well,
or I shouldn't be alive now. It took a sober man to pull through what
followed, as you will agree when I mention the little fact that only two
men did pull through. The other man was the heathen--at least, that was
what I heard Captain Oudouse call him at the moment I first became aware
of the heathen's existence. But to come back.
It was at the end of the week, with the whiskey gone, and the pearl
buyers sober, that I happened to glance at the barometer that hung in
the cabin companionway. Its normal register in the Paumotus was 29.90,
and it was quite customary to see it vacillate between 29.85 and 30.00,
or even 30.05; but to see it as I saw it, down to 29.62, was sufficient
to sober the most drunken pearl buyer that ever incinerated smallpox
microbes in Scotch whiskey.
I called Captain Oudouse's attention to it, only to be informed that he
had watched it going down for several hours. There was little to do, but
that little he did very well, considering the circumstances. He took
off the light sails, shortened right down to storm canvas, spread life
lines, and waited for the wind. His mistake lay in what he did after the
wind came. He hove to on the port tack, which was the right thing to do
south of the Equator, if--and there was the rub--IF one were NOT in the
direct path of the hurricane.
We were in the direct path. I could see that by the steady increase of
the wind and the equally steady fall of the barometer. I wanted him
to turn and run with the wind on the port quarter until the barometer
ceased falling, and then to heave to. We argued till he was reduced to
hysteria, but budge he would not. The worst of it was that I could not
get the rest of the pearl buyers to back me up. Who was I, anyway, to
know more about the sea and its ways than a properly qualified captain?
was what was in their minds, I knew.
Of course, the sea rose with the wind frightfully; and I shall never
forget the first three seas the Petite Jeanne shipped. She had fallen
off, as vessels do at times when hove to, and the first sea made a clean
breach. The life lines were only for the strong and well, and little
good were they even for them when the women and children, the bananas
and cocoanuts, the pigs and trade boxes, the sick and the dying, were
swept along in a solid, screeching, groaning mass.
The second sea filled the Petite Jeanne's decks flush with the rails;
and, as her stern sank down and her bow tossed skyward, all the
miserable dunnage of life and luggage poured aft. It was a human
torrent. They came head first, feet first, sidewise, rolling over and
over, twisting, squirming, writhing, and crumpling up. Now and again
one caught a grip on a stanchion or a rope; but the weight of the bodies
behind tore such grips loose.
One man I noticed fetch up, head on and square on, with the starboard
bitt. His head cracked like an egg. I saw what was coming, sprang on top
of the cabin, and from there into the mainsail itself. Ah Choon and one
of the Americans tried to follow me, but I was one jump ahead of them.
The American was swept away and over the stern like a piece of chaff.
Ah Choon caught a spoke of the wheel, and swung in behind it. But a
strapping Raratonga vahine (woman)--she must have weighed two hundred
and fifty--brought up against him, and got an arm around his neck. He
clutched the kanaka steersman with his other hand; and just at that
moment the schooner flung down to starboard.
The rush of bodies and sea that was coming along the port runway between
the cabin and the rail turned abruptly and poured to starboard. Away
they went--vahine, Ah Choon, and steersman; and I swear I saw Ah Choon
grin at me with philosophic resignation as he cleared the rail and went
under.
The third sea--the biggest of the three--did not do so much damage. By
the time it arrived nearly everybody was in the rigging. On deck perhaps
a dozen gasping, half-drowned, and half-stunned wretches were rolling
about or attempting to crawl into safety. They went by the board, as
did the wreckage of the two remaining boats. The other pearl buyers and
myself, between seas, managed to get about fifteen women and children
into the cabin, and battened down. Little good it did the poor creatures
in the end.
Wind? Out of all my experience I could not have believed it possible
for the wind to blow as it did. There is no describing it. How can one
describe a nightmare? It was the same way with that wind. It tore the
clothes off our bodies. I say TORE THEM OFF, and I mean it. I am not
asking you to believe it. I am merely telling something that I saw and
felt. There are times when I do not believe it myself. I went through
it, and that is enough. One could not face that wind and live. It was
a monstrous thing, and the most monstrous thing about it was that it
increased and continued to increase.
Imagine countless millions and billions of tons of sand. Imagine this
sand tearing along at ninety, a hundred, a hundred and twenty, or
any other number of miles per hour. Imagine, further, this sand to be
invisible, impalpable, yet to retain all the weight and density of sand.
Do all this, and you may get a vague inkling of what that wind was like.
Perhaps sand is not the right comparison. Consider it mud, invisible,
impalpable, but heavy as mud. Nay, it goes beyond that. Consider every
molecule of air to be a mudbank in itself. Then try to imagine the
multitudinous impact of mudbanks. No; it is beyond me. Language may
be adequate to express the ordinary conditions of life, but it cannot
possibly express any of the conditions of so enormous a blast of wind.
It would have been better had I stuck by my original intention of not
attempting a description.
I will say this much: The sea, which had risen at first, was beaten down
by that wind. More: it seemed as if the whole ocean had been sucked up
in the maw of the hurricane, and hurled on through that portion of space
which previously had been occupied by the air.
Of course, our canvas had gone long before. But Captain Oudouse had
on the Petite Jeanne something I had never before seen on a South Sea
schooner--a sea anchor. It was a conical canvas bag, the mouth of
which was kept open by a huge loop of iron. The sea anchor was bridled
something like a kite, so that it bit into the water as a kite bites
into the air, but with a difference. The sea anchor remained just under
the surface of the ocean in a perpendicular position. A long line, in
turn, connected it with the schooner. As a result, the Petite Jeanne
rode bow on to the wind and to what sea there was.
The situation really would have been favorable had we not been in the
path of the storm. True, the wind itself tore our canvas out of the
gaskets, jerked out our topmasts, and made a raffle of our running gear,
but still we would have come through nicely had we not been square in
front of the advancing storm center. That was what fixed us. I was in a
state of stunned, numbed, paralyzed collapse from enduring the impact of
the wind, and I think I was just about ready to give up and die when the
center smote us. The blow we received was an absolute lull. There was
not a breath of air. The effect on one was sickening.
Remember that for hours we had been at terrific muscular tension,
withstanding the awful pressure of that wind. And then, suddenly,
the pressure was removed. I know that I felt as though I was about
to expand, to fly apart in all directions. It seemed as if every atom
composing my body was repelling every other atom and was on the verge of
rushing off irresistibly into space. But that lasted only for a moment.
Destruction was upon us.
In the absence of the wind and pressure the sea rose. It jumped, it
leaped, it soared straight toward the clouds. Remember, from every point
of the compass that inconceivable wind was blowing in toward the center
of calm. The result was that the seas sprang up from every point of
the compass. There was no wind to check them. They popped up like corks
released from the bottom of a pail of water. There was no system to
them, no stability. They were hollow, maniacal seas. They were eighty
feet high at the least. They were not seas at all. They resembled no sea
a man had ever seen.
They were splashes, monstrous splashes--that is all. Splashes that were
eighty feet high. Eighty! They were more than eighty. They went over our
mastheads. They were spouts, explosions. They were drunken. They fell
anywhere, anyhow. They jostled one another; they collided. They rushed
together and collapsed upon one another, or fell apart like a thousand
waterfalls all at once. It was no ocean any man had ever dreamed of,
that hurricane center. It was confusion thrice confounded. It was
anarchy. It was a hell pit of sea water gone mad.
The Petite Jeanne? I don't know. The heathen told me afterwards that
he did not know. She was literally torn apart, ripped wide open, beaten
into a pulp, smashed into kindling wood, annihilated. When I came to I
was in the water, swimming automatically, though I was about two-thirds
drowned. How I got there I had no recollection. I remembered seeing the
Petite Jeanne fly to pieces at what must have been the instant that my
own consciousness was buffeted out of me. But there I was, with nothing
to do but make the best of it, and in that best there was little
promise. The wind was blowing again, the sea was much smaller and more
regular, and I knew that I had passed through the center. Fortunately,
there were no sharks about. The hurricane had dissipated the ravenous
horde that had surrounded the death ship and fed off the dead.
It was about midday when the Petite Jeanne went to pieces, and it must
have been two hours afterwards when I picked up with one of her hatch
covers. Thick rain was driving at the time; and it was the merest chance
that flung me and the hatch cover together. A short length of line was
trailing from the rope handle; and I knew that I was good for a day,
at least, if the sharks did not return. Three hours later, possibly
a little longer, sticking close to the cover, and with closed eyes,
concentrating my whole soul upon the task of breathing in enough air to
keep me going and at the same time of avoiding breathing in enough water
to drown me, it seemed to me that I heard voices. The rain had ceased,
and wind and sea were easing marvelously. Not twenty feet away from me,
on another hatch cover were Captain Oudouse and the heathen. They were
fighting over the possession of the cover--at least, the Frenchman was.
“Paien noir!” I heard him scream, and at the same time I saw him kick
the kanaka.
Now, Captain Oudouse had lost all his clothes, except his shoes, and
they were heavy brogans. It was a cruel blow, for it caught the heathen
on the mouth and the point of the chin, half stunning him. I looked for
him to retaliate, but he contented himself with swimming about forlornly
a safe ten feet away. Whenever a fling of the sea threw him closer, the
Frenchman, hanging on with his hands, kicked out at him with both feet.
Also, at the moment of delivering each kick, he called the kanaka a
black heathen.
“For two centimes I'd come over there and drown you, you white beast!” I
yelled.
The only reason I did not go was that I felt too tired. The very thought
of the effort to swim over was nauseating. So I called to the kanaka to
come to me, and proceeded to share the hatch cover with him. Otoo, he
told me his name was (pronounced o-to-o ); also, he told me that he
was a native of Bora Bora, the most westerly of the Society Group. As
I learned afterward, he had got the hatch cover first, and, after some
time, encountering Captain Oudouse, had offered to share it with him,
and had been kicked off for his pains.
And that was how Otoo and I first came together. He was no fighter.
He was all sweetness and gentleness, a love creature, though he stood
nearly six feet tall and was muscled like a gladiator. He was no
fighter, but he was also no coward. He had the heart of a lion; and in
the years that followed I have seen him run risks that I would never
dream of taking. What I mean is that while he was no fighter, and while
he always avoided precipitating a row, he never ran away from trouble
when it started. And it was “Ware shoal!” when once Otoo went into
action. I shall never forget what he did to Bill King. It occurred
in German Samoa. Bill King was hailed the champion heavyweight of the
American Navy. He was a big brute of a man, a veritable gorilla, one of
those hard-hitting, rough-housing chaps, and clever with his fists as
well. He picked the quarrel, and he kicked Otoo twice and struck him
once before Otoo felt it to be necessary to fight. I don't think it
lasted four minutes, at the end of which time Bill King was the unhappy
possessor of four broken ribs, a broken forearm, and a dislocated
shoulder blade. Otoo knew nothing of scientific boxing. He was merely a
manhandler; and Bill King was something like three months in recovering
from the bit of manhandling he received that afternoon on Apia beach.
But I am running ahead of my yarn. We shared the hatch cover between us.
We took turn and turn about, one lying flat on the cover and resting,
while the other, submerged to the neck, merely held on with his hands.
For two days and nights, spell and spell, on the cover and in the water,
we drifted over the ocean. Towards the last I was delirious most of the
time; and there were times, too, when I heard Otoo babbling and raving
in his native tongue. Our continuous immersion prevented us from dying
of thirst, though the sea water and the sunshine gave us the prettiest
imaginable combination of salt pickle and sunburn.
In the end, Otoo saved my life; for I came to lying on the beach twenty
feet from the water, sheltered from the sun by a couple of cocoanut
leaves. No one but Otoo could have dragged me there and stuck up the
leaves for shade. He was lying beside me. I went off again; and the next
time I came round, it was cool and starry night, and Otoo was pressing a
drinking cocoanut to my lips.
We were the sole survivors of the Petite Jeanne. Captain Oudouse must
have succumbed to exhaustion, for several days later his hatch cover
drifted ashore without him. Otoo and I lived with the natives of the
atoll for a week, when we were rescued by the French cruiser and taken
to Tahiti. In the meantime, however, we had performed the ceremony of
exchanging names. In the South Seas such a ceremony binds two men closer
together than blood brothership. The initiative had been mine; and Otoo
was rapturously delighted when I suggested it.
“It is well,” he said, in Tahitian. “For we have been mates together for
two days on the lips of Death.”
“But death stuttered,” I smiled.
“It was a brave deed you did, master,” he replied, “and Death was not
vile enough to speak.”
“Why do you 'master' me?” I demanded, with a show of hurt feelings.
“We have exchanged names. To you I am Otoo. To me you are Charley. And
between you and me, forever and forever, you shall be Charley, and I
shall be Otoo. It is the way of the custom. And when we die, if it does
happen that we live again somewhere beyond the stars and the sky, still
shall you be Charley to me, and I Otoo to you.”