FIJI ROYALTY--LOCAL COLOR--VISITORS TO THE SHIP
Today I met the royal family of the Fiji Islands. The King, although
old, was a very impressive figure, with his long white kinky hair and
massive bushy eyebrows. His color was that of a mulatto, a higher type
than that of the native Fijians. He wore a loose white tunic cut off at
the elbows, and girdled around him was what looked like a homespun
sheet. This garment was twisted and tucked tight around the hips, the
lower folds falling loosely above the knee; the legs were muscular and
strong, and the calves bulged out as if inflated with air. The feet were
ugly, long and broad, and the toes resembled those of a starfish. No
matter what the angle from which one viewed them, there would always be
a toe pointing towards one.
The two princesses were gaily attired in blue checked Mother Hubbards.
This long and flowing garment made them look like our North American
squaws. In features they resembled the Samoan type of women.
The Prince, of stately bearing, wore a costume similar to that of his
royal father, but his most distinguishing characteristic was the number
twelve boots he wore. He seemed particularly interested in those massive
hides, as he told me how he came to be their proud possessor. There was
no last large enough on the island, and again there was a shortage of
leather, so it came to pass that some local astronomer measured the
altitude of his Highness' feet, and this measure, sealed in a conch
shell, was cast adrift and floated away to an Australian port, where it
finally drifted into the hands of one of Dickens' migrating cobblers,
who filled the order and waxed them together.
While discussing with the King the starry banner as it floated from the
mast head of the "Wampa," my attention was attracted to the silent and
lonesome figure of a man, descending the hill beyond the town. As this
melancholy figure wended its way among the palms, I could make out the
pea jacket and cheese-cutter cap of Captain Kane. As he approached he
wore a troubled and anxious look as if in fear, but when he recognized
the royal family, his expression gave way to a more pleasing one. He
spat out a large chew of tobacco, and slapping the King on the shoulder,
"How in Hell did you know the missionary ship was in?"
"Oh," replied the King, "we see flag on hill."
Captain Kane explained to me that when a missionary ship puts in to Suva
they raise a flag on one of the largest hills back of the town. That
signals to the natives for miles around that there are big doings in
Suva. Captain Kane and the royal family evidently did not have much in
common, for he grabbed me by the arm and led the way to the Pier Hotel,
leaving the royal family gazing and wondering if they could not have
made a better bargain with the Stars and Stripes than with the Union
Jack of old England.
At the Pier Hotel, Mrs. Fagan greeted us with a smile. As she passed the
Old Tom to Captain Kane she remarked, "Sure'n me eyes haven't rested
upon you for days, Captain Kane. 'Tis sick I thought you were." Here she
gave me a roguish wink.
Before replying, Captain Kane filled his bumper, leaving very little
room for the soda, and took a step toward the door to see if the coast
were clear. Satisfied that everything was in his favor, he reached for
the glass of Old Tom, and with one gulp and a gurgling sound as if
running over pebbles, the Old Tom disappeared to its last resting place.
He pulled out a much worn bandana handkerchief, and wiping his mouth and
beard he said to Mrs. Fagan, "No, I have not been sick, I have been a
very busy man of late. But if this incessant singing and praying keeps
up I am pretty damned sure I will get sick." Mrs. Fagan interrupted,
saying: "Captain, how long are the missionaries going to remain?" "They
will stay here until they have every one of us converted again," moaned
the Captain.
Mrs. Fagan adjusted a large tortoise-shell comb in her hair, and
straightening out her hand-embroidered flounces in her white dress,
remarked, "Shur'n it's poor business we do be having when the missionary
ship comes in."
"Mrs. Fagan," said I, "give us another drink. And won't you join us?"
"Ah, and it's seldom I ever touch it, but I will take a little drop of
Burke's Irish just to be sociable with you."
After Captain Kane had three bumpers of Old Tom the world had a
different aspect for him; even the old gray-haired missionaries weren't
so bad after all. They had to make a living like the rest of us. But at
times they were objectionable, especially when the gin was awash in the
bilges.
On the way down to the wharf Captain Kane promised to take me for a
drive in the country, as he felt it would be a great relief to be away
at least one day from the missionaries. While pulling off to the
"Wampa," I was amused, as a canoe glided past me, to see a native make
use of his breech-cloth for a sail. He unwound about two yards of cloth
from around his waist and fastened it to two bamboo poles that were
about three feet apart. After tying this calico wrapping at the top and
bottom of the poles he had a square sail. The square sail with a fair
wind made it easy for the native; he leaned back on his steering oar,
evidently well pleased with such favorable conditions.
When I came alongside, I noticed that the crew looked me over very
critically, as if wondering why I stayed away so long. As it was now
one hour past grog time they wore anxious looks. A growl here and a
grunt there were all that greeted me. But after each getting a jolt of
Scotch, their expressions changed to a smacking of lips, and a heave-aho
on the six-by-sixes.
After supper the missionary boat came alongside, and two elderly women
came aboard and asked if there were any Christians among the crew. I
informed these sanctified-looking ladies that I had my "doots," but
would be pleased to escort them to the crew's quarters where they could
make their own diagnosis. I left them to go down the scuttle hatch
leading to the forecastle and beat a hasty retreat to the cabin, fearing
that I might have to share some of Captain Kane's misery.
While entering in the log book the events and progress of the day, I
realized from the sounds coming from the fore part of the ship, that the
old ladies were making some headway with the crew. As the sound took
volume, I could hear them singing, "Pull for the shore, sailors, pull
for the shore, heed not the tempest's roar but bend to the oar."
The cook, putting away his clean dishes, said, "What in Hell has got
into those fellows this evening?"
I told him that they were having a very sociable visit from the ladies
who ran the missionary ship, and that no doubt they would be pleased to
pay him a friendly visit. The cook threw the dishes to the pantry shelf,
and slamming the pantry door exclaimed, "Keep them away from me; I'm in
no mood to discuss religious philosophy tonight."
After giving each member of the crew a small Bible, and praying for our
souls in the safe passage home, the old missionary women shoved off for
the shore, apparently not at all pleased with their evening's work.
If they had brought about four quarts of Scotch whiskey on board they
would have had no trouble in converting the crew, for even the cook
could be reconciled to any form of religion, old or new, as long as the
Scotch flowed freely.