A DRIVE WITH CAPTAIN KANE--RAZORBACK RAMPANT
The next day Captain Kane and I started for our drive into the island
with an old battered two-seated rig. The horse, though old in years, had
a look of being well taken care of, and was rather inclined to shy as he
gazed at an unfamiliar palm or cocoanut tree. I hesitatingly offered to
spell the Captain off, and asked him to let me drive awhile. He turned
on me very angrily and said, "There is no damned ship that ever sailed
the seas that required more careful steering than this horse does. One
has got to know just how much helm to give him. If you should put it
hard over and get him on the home tack all Hell couldn't stop him until
he reached the stable. Oh, I know him," continued the Captain, "he has a
mouth on him that will hold like the devil's claw on a windlass."
As we drove through the rice fields, I noticed that Hindoos were doing
the work; here and there could be seen the lazy natives asleep under the
trees. "My object," said the Captain, as he coaxed the old horse past a
flying turban that seemed to be coming unfastened from its wearer, "my
object in taking you on this trip is to show you the result of a
hurricane that happened here twelve years ago. It will not be necessary
for me to discuss the velocity of the hurricane, you'll be able to judge
for yourself when we pass that village ahead. But," continued the
Captain, "for God's sake don't talk above a whisper while I steer
Timbuctoo" (for this was the horse's name) "through the palm village.
You can see by the action of his head that he is about to make heavy
weather of it."
I must say that the old horse had taken a new lease of life; he did not
seem to be conscious of his cocked ankles or the spavins or other
conspicuous growths that covered his legs. With head erect, arched neck
and ears pitched forward, he was not at all particular about using his
front feet, but rather inclined to do the cake walk, and always waiting
a chance to turn and bolt for home. This was worrying the Captain, for
he said anxiously, "I have driven him many times, but never have I seen
him act like this. It's these hellish Fijian huts with their
palm-covered roofs that are getting on his nerves."
Things were going along about as well as could be expected until we were
about at the center of the straggling village. Then it happened that
from out a palm-covered hut strolled a razorback hog, seemingly
unconcerned as to our presence and not inclined to observe the rules of
the road. The Captain smelled danger, as he warped an extra turn of the
lines around his hands, and remarked rather nervously, "There's going to
be Hell here in about a minute."
Timbuctoo felt as uncomfortable as his driver; he too sensed the danger
of this razor-backed hog. Captain Kane relaxed his hold on the reins to
adjust his cheese-cutter cap to a more seaworthy position. While doing
so the hog stopped in front of Timbuctoo. All would even then have been
well had it not been for the curiosity of this hungry-looking razorback.
I suggested to the Captain that I get out and drive the hog away. "Hell
and damnation, no," roared the Captain, "keep your seat, I will pass
under his quarter."
Timbuctoo veered to starboard under the steady hand of Captain Kane.
This move was in accordance with the rules of the road, but
unfortunately it proved fatal, for it exposed Timbuctoo's warty legs to
the hungry hog. He evidently thought that this was a new kind of crop
that did not require rooting, which, to judge from the two large rings
in his nose, was a lost art with him.
Before the Captain could brace his clubby boots against the dash-board
the razor-backed hog reached out with his long mouth and took hold of
Timbuctoo's most conspicuous wart, which was dangling on the right hind
leg. When Timbuctoo felt this smarting insult he decided not to await
orders from his venerable driver. Grasping the bit in his mouth, he
started full speed ahead. "There he goes," roared the Captain, "and God
knows when he will stop."
Dan Patch had nothing on Timbuctoo. The cocoanut trees looked like
telephone poles as one sees them while riding on the Twentieth Century
Limited. "I would not care a damn how far he would run," sang out the
Captain as if shouting to a man on the topsail yard in a gale of wind,
"if I had not promised to make a speech at the missionary meeting
tonight."
"Let me try him, Captain?" said I.
"You try him," said he, "what in Hell do you know about animals? There
is no living man could do anything with him now, he has too much damn
steam up, all we can do is to trust to luck and keep our helm in midship
and let him run before it."
After running about two miles he seemed to realize that the Captain was
still with him and not, as he expected, back with the razor-backed hog.
Very much disappointed, he broke into a dog trot, much to the relief and
satisfaction of the Captain. As he withdrew his number tens, which had
perforated through the dash-board, he said, "Well, I have never come
through a storm and lost as little canvas as on this here passage."
Timbuctoo had no desire to set the fisherman's staysails, he was content
to slow down to a walk.
"Now," said the Captain, "let me get my bearings. Before we met the
razorback, I was going to show you the results of a hurricane as we
know them in the Fijis."
After Captain Kane had read the various logarithms in regard to his
position, he decided that with the hypotenuse over the base the sine lay
ahead and after driving about one-half mile, we came to a large boulder
alongside the narrow road. "How much does that boulder weigh?" sniffed
the Captain.
"Oh," said I, "about four tons."
"Would you believe," said he, "that during the hurricane of twelve years
ago this boulder was carried a distance of three miles?" The Captain was
somewhat injured at my not showing more enthusiasm. I must say that the
boulder story was hard to absorb, although from its present position on
the surface of the ground it showed that it had been moved there
recently by some force other than the hand of man.
Taking a chew of tobacco and damning Timbuctoo for daring to rub his
foaming mouth on his pea jacket, he said, "You may not believe that this
was moved by the hurricane. By God, I can prove it and prove it I will
when we reach Suva." Evidently he hoped to invoke the testimony of some
of the worthies who drink their Scotch to the lullaby of the sad sea
waves. On our way back to Suva I was impressed by the scenery of the
interior of the island, the rolling hills, the native timber resembling
California redwood in color, the tall cocoanut trees, the frequent smell
of the pineapple, an occasional glimpse of a date palm trying to rear
its head from amongst the tropical foliage, claiming a riparian right to
the native shrubbery.
Timbuctoo, on the way back to Suva, was slipping it off as well as he
could after his recent flight. The razorback hog recalled early memories
to me of the country I knew when I was a boy. The rings in their noses
were no new things to me in that far-off country. The coming of the new
potato crop held much charm for the Irish hog, but unfortunately the
English landlord claimed a prior right in lieu of rent, and poor Barney
was subjected to the cruel and unmerciful treatment of having horseshoe
nails twisted in his nose.
The Captain was in a rather sullen mood as we drove back. Having had
nothing to drink but the milk from the cocoanut, he exclaimed:
"Why in Hell don't some one start a half-way house out here for the
benefit of those who admire and travel these islands?"