UNLOADING CARGO--AGAIN THE MASTER--NATIVE POLICE
I had no difficulty in hiring ten of the little men, and took them off
to the ship to work cargo. In the afternoon we hauled a raft of lumber
ashore. I was greatly encouraged with this process of unloading; of
course it lacked the noise of the steam winch and the occasional
profanity of the Frisco longshoremen, but this was the South Sea Isles
where work was a pleasure.
I drew thirty pounds (a hundred and fifty dollars), remembering that the
crew had some "purchases" to make that evening. After supper they came
aft, dressed in their best clothes, and repeated their demands of the
evening before.
After giving each member of the crew forward one pound, and the second
mate and cook two pounds, they got in the boat and pulled ashore,
leaving me and Toby, the black cat, to guard the ship. I remained long
after sunset on deck listening to the natives singing and playing their
guitars. The sound, mingled with the noise of the surf breaking on the
reefs beyond the purring of Toby, created a lullaby that would soothe
the wildest intellect.
Leaving Toby on deck to play with the cockroaches, I went aft to the
cabin to make the report of the day. While thus working I was
interrupted by a strange noise in the Captain's room. I thought it was
Toby going his rounds, but upon investigation I found that he was on
deck and sitting by the galley door. I was busy with an example in
proportion. If it took one day to unload twenty thousand feet of lumber
how many days would it take to unload five hundred thousand? I seated
myself at the table again, but was brought up with a sudden start on
hearing three loud and distinct knocks on the dead Captain's door. I
found myself saying, "Yes, Captain, I will attend to it at once."
In my excitement of the past few days I had forgotten to mail the dead
Captain's last will to Berkeley, California. I jumped up and opened the
door leading to his room. Lighting the light and going to a small
drawer in the desk, I took out the will, also the little shoes, and the
pink ribbons, and yellow curls, and started ashore to mail them to the
above address in the U. S. A. I did not stop now to write the letter,
which I knew must also go, and which would be so very hard for me to
write.
I made the small boat fast at the landing, and hurried to where I could
get stamps, for I was bound that these packages should leave on the next
north-bound steamer.
As I neared the Pier Hotel I was surprised to see Riley standing outside
the door talking in a loud and profane voice. In passing him I could
hear him say, "Ah go-wan, you dirty Connemara crook, shur'n I knew your
father, he used to eat swill out of the swill barrels."
With this a chair came bouncing through the door, which increased my
speed for the Post Office. Evidently, Mr. Fagan and Riley had been
having some political argument, for in the distance he was shouting,
"Parnell was a gintleman and a scholar!"
Riley's shouting was evidently disturbing the peace of the harbor, for a
great many of the natives, men and women, were running towards the Pier
Hotel where he was holding forth.
As I walked to the more thickly settled part of the town I stopped and
asked a white man where the Post Office was. On being told it was down
by the Club Hotel, the anxiety to relieve my mind of this obligation
caused me to put on more speed, and I shoveled along in the Captain's
heavy and much too large boots. Arriving at the Club Hotel I was
informed that the Post Office was closed. The genial host, a thick
heavy-set Australian, supplied me with stamps, paper and envelopes, and
I wrote to the owners telling them of the Captain's death, and sent the
package in their care, with instructions to forward it to the proper
address.
I felt greatly relieved of my responsibility to the Captain and owners
when the host assured me that he would take care of the postage in the
morning. Becoming suddenly conscious of the real picturesqueness of
these islands and anxious to see the natives at closer range, I called
up all the old beach combers in the hotel to have a drink. This seemed
to please the proprietor, for he shouted, "Come on, men, breast the
bar!"
I noticed Broken-Nosed Pete in the corner having a very confidential
chat with a villainous-looking man. They were so occupied that they
failed to hear the cheery command of the proprietor. The attractive
barmaid was very much annoyed at my ordering ginger ale, turning around
and looking at herself in the glass and adjusting her white crocheted
cap as if to make sure that she was really awake and not dreaming.
"Whoever heard of a sailor drinking ginger ale," she might have said,
"haven't they come here from the four corners of the earth always
thirsty for the rum that makes them merry and gay? Besides, you can
never loosen up a man on ginger ale."
His spendings in the rum shops in this case are not at all to the liking
of the pretty barmaids, who flatter themselves that they get the last
penny from the sailor just off the sea. I was reminded of the time by
seeing an old-fashioned clock hanging to the right of the bar, when
suddenly a trap door on top of the old clock opened, and a cuckoo hopped
out cooing the hour of eleven o'clock. So absorbed had I been in meeting
with the old shell-backs, who were lined along the bar at my expense
drinking Old Tom and soda that I became oblivious both of the flight of
time and the slow trickling away of my money. I made a hasty getaway for
the open.
Outside the night was warm and everything peaceful and tranquil. The
rolling hills to the eastward were illuminated by the silvery rays of a
rising moon. The occasional hum of the disgusted mosquito who had missed
his mark was all that seemed to disturb the peace of this quaint Fijian
town. The moon took flight, squeezing and pushing her way through the
far-off stately palms. As she began to throw ghostly shadows from the
native house tops, I felt the fascination of these islands as never
before. The soft trade winds, the silvery rippling waters, the lullaby
from the reef beyond, the cooing and gurgling of the surf as it played
upon the coral beach below, were enchanting.
The distant call of the native boatman shoving off with his cargo of
vegetables and fruits for early market, caused silvery threads of sound
in the night, and a parrakeet chattered as he gave way to a more worthy
rival. The tune of the sea-gull reached me as he dove from on high and
missed his wiggling fish.
While listening to these strange and interesting sounds, I was rudely
interrupted by boisterous laughter coming from the direction of the Pier
Hotel. I thought of Riley, and hastened there, thinking that his
political argument must have taken a serious trend.
Much to my surprise Riley was not to be seen, but there stood the
Socialist cook, perched high on a dry goods box with a large mug of ale
in one hand and a black cigar in the other. There were a few native men
and women standing around, evidently much amused by the cook's gestures.
Back of him, beside a sickly and yellow oil lamp, stood two natives
dressed in loose tunics, whose sleeves were cut off at the elbow. They
also wore short skirts coming down to the knee, and below that was
nature's own. What attracted me most was the coloring of this strange
uniform.
As I edged closer I noticed that this kilty-look-costume was a very dark
blue, but the trimmings were getting on my nerves. The wearers were
standing with one side to the oil lamp, and from this angle I could see
that the dresses were trimmed with red borders about three inches wide
above the neck. The cut-off sleeves also had their share of this Satanic
display. The short petticoat was more conspicuous. This, contrasted with
large feet and yellow legs, showing the blood-red border on the indigo
skirt, was a coloring seldom seen in any man's country.
As they whispered to each other I noticed that they had long clubs
belted onto their hands. The cook, between a puff on the black cigar and
a drink of Bass' Famous was decrying the British government for making
slaves of them. After much persuasion I took the cook in tow for the
ship. I did not like the look of His Majesty's Fijian policeman,
especially since I was so much dependent on early breakfasts for both
the crew and natives.
At the row-boat the cook hesitated, saying: "Just one more before we
part." When I answered him in the negative he straightened up and
squared his shoulders, saying: "To Hell with monarchies; I shall give
them the ballot to do with as they may." The ginger ale in this
instance was more powerful than the famous Bass' ale and I shouldered
the cook easily up the gangway. I noticed as I did so that the cat-boat
was not alongside. Evidently the crew was still enjoying Fiji
hospitality. This was proven on reaching the deck, for the only sound
that greeted us was Toby purring and wagging his black tail, happy in
the knowledge that even a drunken cook was preferable to the lonely
swinging anchor light on the forestay.
I left the cook, after assuring him that I would lend my assistance in
starting a socialist colony on one of these islands. From the way he
tumbled into the bunk there would be little time consumed in making his
toilet in the morning. Perhaps it was just as well if one denies the
claims of bedbugs, cockroaches and mosquitoes. They had waited patiently
for the past six hours for just this event. What a wonderful opportunity
they would find in this fat and blubbery creature lying there in an
ecstasy of bliss, with not a groan to disturb their peaceful recreation.
Only a matter of a slight incision on a choice part, then insert the
valve and turn on the centrifugal pump and all would be done to their
great satisfaction. But this slumbering animal was now done up in
impenetrable strata of clothes, which ruined their sport.
Removing the hat and loosing the black and red tie from around his neck,
I blew out the light, and left him to determine a battle for the
survival of the fittest.