For the most part a missionary leads a hum-drum life, but at times excitements come in, and are as welcome as the plums in a sailor’s “plum-duff” if not too exciting. Most of these incidents occur in connexion with travelling. In the chapter dealing with visiting our district I shall tell you how we travel, but the experiences described in this chapter are chosen from different journeys, some of them in distant parts of the country.

After four years at Port Moresby I was ordered away so that I might try and get free from the fever. Communication with Australia was not frequent, and the first stage, as far as Thursday Island, was made with Tamate in the Mary, the little boat built by the Mission on Murray Island. Our captain was a character. Formerly a pearl diver, he had been compelled to give up his occupation owing to diver’s paralysis. His qualification for the post was his experience of small boats, and never was a man more sure of himself. Few sailors take ships through the Torres Straits without having an anxious time, and as we sat on the deck in the moonlight Tamate remarked, “Well, cap’n, I hope you are not going to put us on the Portlocks or Eastern Fields”—both dangerous reefs. “No, Mr. Chalmers,” replied the captain, “I know just where we are. We shall see the opening in the Barrier Reef at about nine to-morrow morning, if this wind holds.” With that we went below. It was a tight pack the three of us in the little cabin, but two out of the three were soon sleeping soundly. Later on the third, who is now writing this, heard one of the boys on deck shout “’bout ship,” an unexpected order when we were supposed to be many miles from any land and on a sea rarely visited by vessels. That the reason for the order was a solid one there was no room for doubt, for the next minute crash, and the little Mary trembled all through, and Number Three was shaken from his shelf-like berth right on the top of the little captain. Bump, bump, bump, went the Mary, and as soon as the little hatchway would allow we got on deck, there in the glorious moonlight to have a view of the reef much before the time the captain had promised. We were right on top of it. In a few minutes both rudder and false keel had been wrenched off, and left behind, and after each wave had lifted the little vessel she came down with a crash that threatened to jump the masts out of her. That she did not go to pieces was owing to the good sound work that had been put into her on Murray Island.

Well, what were we to do? We were miles from any land. There were nine all told on board, and the dinghy would carry three in a calm sea. I admit I had a look at the hatch covers and wondered what sort of a raft they would make, and what travelling upon it would be like when it was made. There was nothing we could do that night, and fortunately the tide was falling, and soon the Mary was resting on her side without that sickening bumping. Adjusting ourselves to the changed angle of everything in the cabin, we went to bed, but not before the captain had told us that we were not far from the spot on the reef where some natives, when out diving, had found heaps of Spanish coins all of old date, and believed to have come from a Spanish ship wrecked in trying to get through the Straits, but so long ago that not a trace of her remained.

Next morning the tide was not high enough to float the Mary, so I waded about the reef with the crew. My eyes were on my feet all the time, not because I was looking for more Spanish treasure, but because I had been warned not to tread in one of the giant clams which lay around. I soon forgot the Mary and her plight, in the delight at what I saw spread out at my feet. Water as clear as crystal allowed everything to be seen distinctly. All the colours of the rainbow were represented by both vegetable and animal kingdoms, but most beautiful of all was the sight of the open giant clams. The shell could hardly be seen, so completely was it draped by the waving fringes of the fish. A great bowl of flashing gems could not have produced a more sparkling effect; but behind all this beauty lay a cruel strength, for the shell could close with a grip that nothing could unloose, and the natives told of unfortunate men who had, while fishing on the reef, put their foot into an open shell, which had closed upon them and held them till the rising tide ended their agony.

The crew, however, wanted some of the fish to eat and managed to get them without danger to themselves. Taking a large piece of firewood they quietly approached the fish. A sudden movement would have caused it to close, and then nothing could have forced it open. Silently and adroitly the wood was placed between the two halves of the shell, which instantly gripped it, but could not close owing to the size of the wood. With another piece of wood shaped for the purpose the men then cut the live fish away from its shell, and did their cooking on the Mary.

The reef was interesting and the talk of the native crew instructing, but the question was how were we to get the Mary off and afloat in deep water again. The morning tide only rose enough to bump her, but in the afternoon when there was a higher tide, with each wave she lifted and we managed to punt her right over the reef, and at last she was afloat. Very few vessels have made the journey over the Great Barrier Reef, though many have struck it and gone to pieces.

It was a case of Reef to the right of us; Reef to the left of us; while behind us the Reef we had just left volleyed and thundered. The sun was down and we had to anchor, or run the risk of again getting on a reef. All night long the buckets had to be kept going, and the next morning with part of the crew still at the buckets, the other half managing the sails and keeping a look-out, and the two missionaries using big oars in place of the lost rudder, we made for Murray Island. There the Mary was hauled up on the beach, and on the spot where she was built and by the man who had superintended her building made ready for sea again. The work took a month to complete. That month on Murray Island cleared all the fever out of me, and did away with the necessity of the trip to Australia. Instead I accompanied Chalmers to the Fly river. Three not easily forgotten months resulted, and the poor Mary came in for more knocks, and once again lost her rudder, this time by striking a sunken log in the bed of the river.

One night, under stress of tide and wind she broke her cable and drifted ashore near Saguane on Kiwai Island, where Chalmers was then forming his head station for the district. We thought we had taken our last journey in the Mary. She settled down in the mud and sand and no amount of running out anchors and heaving on the windlass would move her, though everything possible had been taken out to lighten her. Amongst other things eighty bags of rice had to be got ashore. It required some manoeuvring to get the Saguane people to carry that rice over the soft sand and mud. Each bag was supposed to weigh 50 lbs. It may have done, as it was taken over the side of the vessel, but every hundred yards through that mud and sand increased the weight, till it was more like 100 lbs. by the time the boat-house was reached. I know one of the carriers who, after his second journey, considered it his duty to remain in the boat-house and superintend the stacking of the bags as they were brought in.

On we worked till the east began to glow, and then feeling it was hopeless I made my way back to the teacher’s house and lay down for a sleep, as dead tired as ever in my life. There seemed no time to get comfortably settled when Chalmers rushed into the house, snatched up as many of my belongings as he could manage, and calling, “Come along; she is afloat,” made his way down to the shore. I followed, picking out of the mud such of my things as Chalmers had dropped. Just at the darkest moment, when there seemed little hope of the Mary ever floating again, the wind had come from the land, and supplying that little help which the anchors required, had given us again the use of our little Mission vessel.

That was my last voyage in the Mary. A few years later she went ashore at the mouth of the Kerema river, and there went to pieces. Years afterwards when walking along the coast we saw some of her ribs sticking up through the sand.

On the coast most of our travelling is done in a whale boat, and at night, to save the glare of the sun. Few experiences could be more enjoyable than such a journey when the night is fine and the sea calm, and there are willing boys at the oars or a gentle breeze filling the sail. No need to think of accidents then. The nights are not all fine, however, and the sea is not always calm. It can be very angry and rough and make those anxious who have to land on a surf-beaten coast. Most people who have lived for any time in Papua have had nasty experiences of this kind. I will tell you of one at Maiva.

Donisi Hahine and I had started for a journey, and as we expected to be away nearly a month, we had a boatload of baggage. We left Delena at night so as to reach Maiva in the early morning when the sea is usually at its calmest, but rain drove us back, and it was morning before we again got under way. That made it early afternoon when we were off the village where we wished to land. The sea looked angry, but not so angry as on many another time when we had got through safely. There was no chance of turning back. We had to land, so the rudder was unshipped and the big steer-oar put in its place, and the boat headed for the shore. Each roller took us nearer to that first line of white. At last we were in it and through it, and all seemed going well when old Kone shouted out, “Help me!” I threw all my weight on the oar, but it was too late to keep her straight, and the wall of foam on top of which we were riding gradually swung the boat broadside on and the next moment over she turned. The last thing I saw before the boiling sea went over us was my wife vanishing under the boat, and the first when I came to the surface again was some of the boys pulling her out from under the overturned boat. Fortunately we were able to get hold of the keel, and so kept afloat.

At such times strange thoughts pass through one’s mind, but I doubt if any of you would ever guess my wife’s first remark, when she got the water out of her mouth and eyes. It was so unexpected, but as the waves were jostling us together like so many corks, it was very much to the point when she called out, “Mind my hatpins.” Before we could mind them or anything else, another wave was over us; but no sooner had it passed than away went those hatpins.

Judging from the time my watch stopped we were hanging on to the boat for nearly two hours. Repeatedly the natives tried to get to us from the shore, but the sea would not let them. Close in shore was a deep passage with the water rushing along it like a mill stream, and those who tried to help us, not making sufficient allowance for the current, were carried beyond us. The boat would soon have drifted in with us clinging to the keel, had not the anchor fallen out when she turned over. That unfortunately kept us where the seas were breaking worst.

At last we lost our hold, and what happened next I hardly know. I can remember wishing that we had been Papuans with no clothes and no boots to hold the water and weigh us down, and that after that something struck me. I gripped it, and found it was an oar, and soon after that touched bottom. Thanks to the devotion of the boys my wife was ashore before me, and we were both practically unhurt, but had lost all we had with us in the boat. Food for a month, clothing, camp gear, camera, magic lantern—all had gone. While the clothes in which we scrambled ashore were being washed and dried it was a mercy there were no “snapshotters” about. Had there been the resulting pictures might have given amusement to others, but not to ourselves. We had to borrow from the South Sea teacher and his wife. Apart from their taste in dress not being ours, he happened to be a very short and a very stout man. I am not. My wife was a little, but not much, better off. Imagine, if you can, what we looked like, but do not expect me to give you details.

It was Friday when the accident happened. The journey could not be continued, as we had lost everything, and it was not till the Monday that the sea would allow of our damaged boat being launched for the return to Delena. During those four days we lived the “Simple Life.” Sweet potatoes and bananas are all very well as a change, but they pall when served regularly three times a day, and our teacher Paiti from Kivori was a welcome visitor when he brought us a loaf of bread of his own making and a little butter. Paiti was from Aitutaki in the South Seas, and few men can handle a boat like the natives of that Island. We were relieved when he undertook to see us safely started on the return journey. There was no luggage to pack, so all ready, and perhaps a bit anxious, we sat in the boat waiting. Watching each wave as it came in, at last Paiti gave the word to start. Those at the oars pulled; those in the water pushed; and with many a shout, and many a splash, and with the boat half swamped, we found ourselves outside the breakers, with Paiti perched up behind us handling the steer oar. Would he come on to Delena with us and there wait an opportunity to return to his village? No sooner was the question asked than he promptly answered, “Good-bye, my father. I go now”; and with a header he vanished over the stern. Straight for the breakers he went with a long steady stroke. Time after time he vanished, but at last we saw him wade ashore, and signal that all was right, and then we shaped our course for Delena.

We returned much poorer than we started, but matters would have gone worse with us than they did but for Kone, Avi, and Aisi. They stuck to my wife and landed her safely. They perhaps will hardly understand such an expression of gratitude, but in that spirit I give you their photos. Of course we showed our gratitude in another way. They were told they could ask for what they liked. Their request was modest and utilitarian. Each wanted a bag of rice. He got it and more too.

The third accident took place on shore. All the world over feasting seems to accompany any special event, whether of rejoicing or regret. It was near the time of our English furlough, and a farewell gathering was arranged with the teachers. Their part was well managed and passed off without any accident. In solemn, slow procession they had marched round the house, telling us many nice things about ourselves, in a chant composed in English by one of the Samoan teachers, the chorus of which ran: “Good-bye, Misi Donisi. Do not forget us when you are far away on the Ioane Uiliamu (John Williams).”

Donisi Hahine had spent much time in making preparations for the farewell feast, so that the spread might include more than the everlasting boroma (pig). Stores of tinned provisions that could neither be taken to England, nor used up before we sailed, were added to the menu. The long verandah of the teacher’s old house was the dining-room, banana leaves the cloth, not spread on a table, but down the centre of the verandah. The food that could not be accommodated on the dishes was piled all down the middle of the banana leaves, and then the teachers, their wives, and their children, all as smart as their best clothes and well oiled hair could make them, sat in two long rows, and at the one end stood the missionary to offer grace and then make a farewell speech. It was an important moment, and the children were eyeing the good things in a way that suggested the question, “How long before we can begin?” Alas! the house was an old one. The white ants had been busy. The food was plentiful, and many of the teachers and their wives were decidedly heavy weights. There was a crack, a crash, and what a transformation scene. In place of two rows of expectant guests, and a loaded table (or what took the place of a table) there was a great hole in the verandah floor, and at the bottom a mass of men, women and children mixed up with broken crockery and many kinds of food. Fortunately some of the joists held firm, and one by one those of the party who had not “gone below” withdrew to a place of safety, while others went to help the fallen and ascertain the extent of the damage. How so many fell nine feet without there being broken bones we cannot tell. Only a few scratches had resulted, but what a mess, and what a disappointment. Best dresses smeared all over food. Tinned meat and bits of roast pork to be picked from well-combed hair. A little extra grease did not matter there, for it was soon rubbed in, but one poor child had received the whole contents of a dish of tinned salmon outside, when he had intended having some of it inside. While the people were looking after themselves it was a grand opportunity for the dogs who had been waiting below for the scraps. Instead of scraps they helped themselves to the untouched feast, and various joints of pork and goat vanished into the long grass, where growls of envy as well as satisfaction told of desires unexpectedly gratified.

We bemoaned the accident, the damage to the house, and the loss of the provisions, but the dogs, and some of the outsiders who profited by our misfortune, would not have minded a frequent repetition of the performance.