Diffidence of Takaroans—Hiram Mervin’s description of the cyclone—Teamo’s wonderful swim—Mormon missionaries from America—I take a bath.

THERE was no stir on the quay of Takaroa. In these latitudes the civilized stranger is shocked by the indifference to his arrival of the half-naked native. It enrages a prideful white. He perhaps remembers the pages of Cook and the other discoverers, who wrote of the overflowing enthusiasm of the new-found aborigines for them; but he forgets the pages of history since national, religious, and business rivalries invaded the South Seas. These Paumotuans, and, indeed, most Polynesian peoples, are kin to pet cats who madden mistresses by pretending not to hear calls, and by finding views from windows interesting when asked to show their accomplishments or fine coats. Though they may have seen no outsider for months, these Paumotuans will appear as unconcerned at a white visitor’s coming as if circuses dropped in their midst daily. Yet every movement, every word of a newcomer is as alluring to their imaginations, bored by the sameness of their days, as a clown’s antics to a child.

“It is a politeness and pride, not indifference,” had explained my friend, that first gentleman of Tahiti, the Chevalier Tetuanui, of Mataiea. “We simple islanders have been so often rebuffed by uncultivated whites that we wait for advances. It is our etiquette.”

The main thoroughfare of the village stretched up from the quay half a mile, with one or two ramifying byways, along which straggled the humble homes of the Takaroans. There were not the usual breakfast fires before them, as in Tahiti, where breadfruit and feis are to be cooked, nor did the appetizing odor of coffee rise, as in Tahiti, for Mormonism forbade coffee to its adherents as it did alcohol and tobacco. Beside the quay were dozens of cutters, and a small launch. Canoes were being relegated to lesser civilizations by the fast sailing cutters. Motor power was new here; almost new in Tahiti. But a few years and it would be common, for while the islander cared nothing for time, he was attracted to labor-saving machines.

Captain Moet set the sailors to unload the Marara’s boat, and the chief of Takaroa appeared. The French, whose island possessions in Polynesia occupy sea room in spots from eight to twenty-seven degrees below the equator, and from 136 to 155 west of Greenwich, have left survive, in title at least, the chieftaincies, the form of government they found upon seizure. “Monsieur le Chef,” they said of the native officials here, as they did of a head cook in a restaurant. These chiefs, though nominally the representatives of French sovereignty, were, in pitiable reality, wretchedly-paid tax collectors, policemen, and bailiffs. But they often were gentlemen—gentlemen of rich color. The strapping fellow who had visÉd the documents of the Marara, though wearing only denim overalls, lacked nothing in courtesy. A rent disclosed that the “alls” were over his birth-suit.

I was not arrayed very smartly, having left collar, cravat, and socks, as well as shirt and undershirt, aboard. Pongee coat and trousers, with flexible shoes, were in this tropic an ideal compromise with culture. Open the coat, and the breeze had access to one’s puris naturalibus, and, if one had to swim or wade, little clothing was wetted. The chief surveyed me, saw that I took no interest in the cargo, and drew his own conclusion.

“Ia ora na!” he said gently, and led me toward the village.

It was seven years earlier that the last great cyclone had devastated these islands. Takaroa was mute witness of its ruin. The houses were almost all mere shacks of corrugated iron—walls and roofs of hideous gray metal. A few wooden buildings, including two stores, were the exceptions. The people had neither courage nor money to rebuild comfortable abodes. Lumber must be brought from Tahiti and carpenters employed. No more unsuitable material than iron for a house in this climate could be chosen, except glass, but it was comparatively cheap, easily put together, and a novelty. It was as unharmonious a note among the palms as rag-time music in a Greek theater, and in the next cyclone each separate sheet would be a guillotine. Nothing more than a few feet above the ground withstands these hurricanes, which fell cocoanuts as fire eats prairie-grass.

We had not walked a hundred yards before a powerful half-caste stopped me with a soft “Bon jour!” A good-looking, clean-cut man of thirty years, the white blood in him showed most in his efficient manner and his excellent French.

“You are American,” he said in that tongue in the wildest voice.

“Mais oui.” I replied.

“I am Hiram Mervin, son of Captain Mervin, owner of the schooner France-Austral. My father is American, and I am half American, though I speak no English. You may have read of me. I repaired his boat, the Shark, for that American author, Jack. His engine was broken down. He wanted me to go to Australia as his mechanician, but my father said no, and when an American says no, he means that, n’est-ce pas, Monsieur?”

“Where were you,” I inquired, “when the last cyclone blew?”

His fine brown face wrinkled. Hiram had a firm chin, a handsome black mustache, and teeth as hard and white as the keys of a new piano.

“Ah, you have heard of how we escaped? Non? Alors, Monsieur, I will tell you. I am a diver, and here I keep a store. We were at Hikueru, my father and I, when it began to storm. Father watched the barometer, and the sea. The mercury lowered fast, and the waves rolled bigger every hour.

“‘The barometer is sinking fast. The ocean will drown the island,’ said my father. ‘Noah built an ark, but we cannot float on one; we must get above the water.’

“There were four cocoanut-trees, solid and thick-trunked, that grew a few feet from one another. Bad planting, oui, but most useful. He set me and some others, his close friends, to climbing these trees and cutting off their heads, so that they stood like pillars of the temple. It was a pity, I thought, for we ruined them. Then we took heavy planks and lifted them to the tops of these trees and spiked and roped them in a platform.

“Attendez, Monsieur! All this time the cyclone increased. My father was not with us. It was the diving season on Hikueru, and people were gathered from all over the atolls, and from Tahiti, hundreds of Maoris, and many whites. My father was directing the efforts of the people to save their property. We had not yet thought of our lives being in great danger. We islanders could not live if we expected the worst.

“A gale from the east, strong but not dangerous, had lashed the water of the lagoon and made it like the ocean, and then, turning to the west, had driven the ocean mad. Now the ocean was coming over the reef, the waves very high and threatening. We knew that if ever the sea and the lagoon met to fight, we would be the victims. Thus, Monsieur, the lagoon surrounded by the island, and the usually calm waters inside the outer reef, were both in a frightful state, and we began to fear what had been in other atolls. My father was wise, but, being a Mormon and also an American, he must not think of himself first. My father came to us and tested the platform, and showed us where to strengthen it.

“‘The island will be covered by the sea and the lagoon,’ he said. ‘Make haste, in the name of God!’

“Some one, a woman, called to him for help, and he ran to her. A sheet of iron from a roof came through the air, and wounded him. I thought his head was almost cut off, from the quantity of blood. Mais, Monsieur, c’etait terrible! We caught hold of my father, and made a sling with our ropes, and lifted him, unconscious, to the platform at the top of the trees. He raised his head and looked around.

“‘Go down again!’ he commanded. ‘Cut down those three trees. If they fall they will strike us.’

“Monsieur, that was my father, the American, who spoke, though nearly dead. He was wise. We did as he said, as quickly as we could, and climbed back to the platform. The great breakers of the ocean were now far up on our beach at each end of the tide. The whole width of the land from the edge of the beach to the lagoon is but the length of four or five cocoanut-trees. The water below the atoll was forced up through the coral sand, Monsieur, until it was like the dough of the baker when he first pours in the cocoanut juice. People still on the ground went up to their arms in it. We feared the atoll would be taken back to the depths. Our platform was nearer the lagoon than the moat—to be exact, two hundred feet from the moat, and a hundred from the lagoon. My father had us tie him to the platform and to the trees. We had brought plenty of ropes for that.

“Mon Dieu! Below the poor people were tying themselves to the trunks of the cocoanut-trees, and climbing them, if they could, and roosting in the branches like the wild birds of the air. They were shrieking and praying. There were many whites, too, because all the pearl-shell and pearl buyers, and the keepers of stores like us, were there from Papeete. The little children who could not climb were crying, and many parents stayed with them to die. The sea was now like the reef, white as the noon clouds with foam. We had bound my father’s wounds with my shirt, but the blood dripped on the boards where he lay with his eyes open and watching the cyclone.”

The chief, who had accompanied me, became restless. He understood no French.

“Monsieur l’Americain, do I detain you?” Hiram Mervin asked me.

I signed for him to continue.

“Then came the darkness. There were only the sounds of the wind and water, the crash of the cocoanut-trees as they fell with their human fruit. We heard the houses being swept away; we thought we caught glimpses of vessels riding on the breakers, and we imagined we caught the shrieks of those being destroyed. But the wind itself sounded like the voices of people. I heard many calling my name.

“‘Hiram Mervin, pray for us! Save us!’ said the cyclone.

“Ah, I cannot tell it! It was too dreadful. It was hours after darkness that the sea reached its height. Those below were torn from hummocks of coral, from the roofs of houses, and from trees. We knew that the sharks and other devils of the sea were seizing them. The sea rushed over the land into the lagoon and the lagoon returned to the sea. When they met under us, they fought like the bulls of Bashan. Hikueru was being swallowed as the whale swallowed Iona, the perofeta. We held on though our trees bent like the mast of a schooner in a typhoon. We called often to one another to be sure none was lost. When morning came, after night on night of darkness, the waters receded, and we saw the work of the demon. Almost every house had been cut down, and most of the trees. The cemeteries were washed up, and the bodies, bones, and skulls of our dead for decades were strewn about or in the ocean. The lagoon was so full of corpses old and new that our people would not fish nor dive for shells there for a long time. The spirits are still seen as they fly through the air when there is a gale. But, Monsieur, our four cocoanut-trees had stood as the pillars of the temple of Birigi’ama Iunga. Not for nothing was my father born in America. Mais, Monsieur, the chief is waiting. The mitinare will be glad to see you. Au revoir.”

Hiram took a step to return to the quay when he called back to me. “Ah, there is Teamo, who is the Living Ghost,” and he pointed to a Paumotuan woman who was coming up from the quay towards where we three stood. Teamo had the balanced gait of one who sits or stands much in canoes, and she strode like a man, her powerful figure showing under her red Mother-Hubbard which clung close to her stoutish form. Short, she was like most of the Paumotuans, of middle height, but with her head set upon a pillar of a neck, and her bare chocolate arms, rounded, but hinting of the powerful muscles beneath the skin. Her hair was piled high on her head like a crown, and upon it was a basket in which were two chickens. A live pig was under her arm. She was carrying this stock from our boat.

“There,” said Hiram, “there is Teamo, who is the greatest swimmer of all these seas, and who went through the great cyclone as does a fish. Haere mai!” he called, “This monsieur, who is an American, like my father, wants to hear about your swimming of the seas in the matai rorofai.”

Teamo put down her pig and the chickens from her head, sat upon her haunches, and drawing a diagram in the coral sand, she told her strange tale in her own language.

“The water is coming over the atoll, and the lagoon and the sea are one,” said Teamo, “when my brother and sisters and I climbed the great cocoanut-tree by our house, because it is death below. You know the cocoanut-trees. You see they have no limbs. You know that it is hard to hold on because the great trees shake in the wind, and there is no place to sit. Only we could put our arms around the leaves and hold as best we might. When it comes on dark we feel the wind roaring louder about us, and we hear the cries of those who are in other trees. Then far out on the reef we hear the pounding of the sea and the waves begin more and more to come over the atoll until they cover it deeper and deeper, and each succeeding wave climbs higher and higher toward where we cling. We know that soon there will come a wave whose teeth will tear us from the tree.

“That wave came all of a sudden. It was like a cloud in the sky. It lifted me out of the cocoanut-leaves as the diver tears the shell from the bank at the bottom of the lagoon. It lifted me and took me over the lagoon, over the tops of all trees, and when it went back to the ocean, it carried me miles with it. I was on the top of its back, almost in the sky, and it was as black as the spittle of the devilfish.”

The chief was listening attentively, for she spoke in Paumotuan. Hiram Mervin interposed:

“Teamo went away from Hikueru on that wave and stayed three days,” said he. “She was numbered with the dead when the count of the living was made by my father.”

Teamo squatted on the sand of the road. I was afraid she would weary in her relation, as do her race. “Parau vinivini!” I said, and smoothed her shoulders.

“I kept upon its back,” she resumed. “All through that night I swam or floated, fighting the waves, and fearing the sharks. I called on Birigi’ama Iunga and on Ietu Kirito, and on God. Hours and hours I kept up until the dawn. Then I saw a coral-reef, and swam for it. I was nearly crushed time and time on the rocks, but at last I crawled up on the sand above the water, and fell asleep.

“When I awoke I was all naked. The waves had torn my dress from me, and the sun was burning my body. I was bruised and wounded, but I prayed my thanks to the God of the Mormons. I stood upon my feet, and I saw all about me the pohe roa, the blackening and broken bodies of people of Hikueru. They, too, had floated on the same wave, but they had perished. They were all about me. I searched for cocoanuts, for I was drying up with thirst and shaking with hunger. At last I found one under the body of my cousin, and, breaking it with a rock, I drank the water in it, and again fell asleep.

“Now when I awoke I was stronger, and a distance away in the water I saw a box floating. I broke it open, and found it had in it tins of salmon. They were from some store in Hikueru, for I soon knew there was no living human on that atoll but me. I could not open the tins of salmon but pierced holes in them with a piece of coral and sucked out the fish. God was even better to me, for I found a camphor-wood chest with a shirt and pareu in it, and I put them on. I then found a canoe thrown up on the beach, and it was half full of rain-water. I made up my mind to return to my home in the canoe. It was broken and there was no paddle. I patched it, I found the outrigger, and tied it on with cocoanut-fiber which I plaited. I made a paddle from the top of the salmon case, and lashed it to the handle of a broom I found. I kept enough fresh water in the canoe, and after two days of eating and resting I pushed out in the canoe, with the remainder of the salmon. I could not see any other atoll, but I trusted to God and prayed as I paddled. I pushed over the reef at daybreak of the third day, and paddled until the next morning, when I saw Hikueru, and reached the remnants of my village.”

Teamo gathered up her burdens and, with a reminiscent smile, walked on.

“Monsieur l’Americain,” said Hiram, “you may be sure that when she returned to Hikueru from Tekokota—that atoll was fifteen miles away—they were afraid of her, as the friends of Lataro when Ietu Kirito raised him from the dead.”

The chief’s restlessness increased, as if he must deliver me somewhere quickly; but I thought of the man they called the king of the Paumotus.

“The house of Mapuhi, is it—”

“The chief is taking you there now,” said Hiram. “The elders are there. My father was long-time the partner of Mapuhi. They sailed their schooners together and had their divers.”

“You and your father are Mormons?”

“Nous sommes bons Mormons,” replied the half-caste, seriously. “Am I not named for the king who built the temple of Solomon. It is a shame, Monsieur, that those Konito are permitted in these islands. They corrupt the true religion.”

The chief touched my arm, and we proceeded, after an exchange of bows with the son of the American. We walked to the very end of the small motu or islet. The motus are often long but always very narrow, between three hundred and fifteen hundred feet.

The people of Takaroa had chosen to pitch their huts on this spot of the whole atoll because of the pass into the lagoon being there. That was the determining factor just as the banks of rivers and bays were selected by American pioneers. Where the salt water was on three sides—the moat, the lagoon, and the channel between the next motu—was the residence of our seeking.

It was a neat domicile of dressed lumber, raised ten feet from the ground on stilts. It was fenced about, and here and there a banana-plant or fig-tree grew in a hole dug in the coral, surrounded by a little wall of coral and with rotting tin cans heaped about. Driven in the trunks were nails. I asked the chief the reason, and he replied vaguely that the trees needed the iron of the cans and the nails.

We were entering the grounds now, and I guessed it was Mapuhi’s house.

“Mapuhi is here?” I inquired.

“’E, he is at prayer, maybe.”

The chief shrank back, as we were on the porch.

“Faaea oe; tehaeri nei au. You stay; I go,” he said.

On the side veranda, a girl of seventeen or so, in a black gown, lay on a mattress and yawned as she scratched her knee with her toes—not of the same leg. She was almost naked, slender and very brown. These Paumotuans are darkened by the sun, their hair is not long and beautiful like the Tahitians’. Beauty is a matter of food and fresh water. She lay on this bare mattress, without sheets or pillows, evidently just awakening for the day. She made quite a picture when she smiled. The daughter of the king, doubtless.

There was a noise in response to my knock, and the door opened. A tousled pompadour of yellowish-red hair above hazel eyes peeped out, the eyes snapped in amazement, and their owner, a strapping chap of twenty-five, put out his hand.

“Hello! Where are you from?” he said.

“Off the Marara just now, and from the United States not long ago.”

“Well, gee cricketty, I’m glad to see you! My name’s Overton, T. E. Overton of Logan, Utah. Come here, Martin! He’s Martin De Kalb of Koosharem, Utah. We’re Mormon elders. Say, it’s good to talk United States!”

A body leaped out of bed in an inner room, and a pair of blue eyes under brown hair, an earnest face, supported by an athletic figure in pajamas, rushed out. The owner seized my hand.

“I’ll be doggoned! I didn’t know anything was in sight. The Marara! Any mail for me? Come in, and we’ll dress.”

The king’s daughter had fled when the missionaries appeared. I entered the living-room and found a chair, while the elders flooded me with questions from their sleeping quarters, as they put on their clothes. While I answered, I looked at the home of this foremost of the Paumotuans, whose father and mother had eaten their kind.

A dining-room table and half a dozen cheap chairs were all the furniture. South Sea Islanders found sitting in chairs uncomfortable, and these were plainly guest seats, for governors and pearl-buyers and missionaries.

The walls held prints curiously antagonistic. Brigham Young, founder of the Utah Mormon colony, with a curly white beard, smooth upper lip, and glorified countenance, sat in an arm-chair, holding a walking-stick of size, with a gilded head. A splendiferous colored lithograph of the temple at Salt Lake flanked the portrait.

On the other wall was a double pink page from a New York gazette, usually found in barber-shops and on boot-black stands, with pictures of two prize-fighters, Jeffries and Johnson, one white and the other black, glaring viciously at each other, and with threatening gloved fists. Beneath this picture was in handwriting:

Emerging from their bedroom, the elders caught my eyes fastened on the pink page, and they looked grieved, as housewives whose kitchen is found in disorder.

“They’re crazy about boxing,” said Overton. “That’s young Mapuhi who put that up and wrote that. We reprove them for such ungodly interests, but they are good Mormons, anyhow.”

I led the conversation to their own work in this group. They became enthusiastic. Sincere faces they had, simple and strong, of the pioneer type. They were sons of healthy peasantry, and products of plain living in the open. De Kalb had left a wife and child in Koosharem, and Overton a sweetheart in Logan, to take their part in spreading their gospel among these natives. They were voluntary missionaries, paying their own expenses for the two or three years they were to give to proselytizing, according to the rule of their church, they said. They were eager to return to their women and their farms, and their service was soon to be at an end. Each had spent a year or so in Papeete in the Mormon Mission House, learning the Paumotuan language and the routine of their duties, and now for a year and more they had journeyed from atoll to atoll where they had churches, preaching and making converts, they said. They talked with fervor of their success.

“The Lord has been mighty good to us,” said De Kalb, who was in his twenties. “We’ve got this island hog-tied. If it weren’t for the Josephites and some of those Catholic priests, we’d have every last one. Those Josephites are sorest, because they are deserters from Mormonism. Why are they? Why, their so-called prophet was Joseph. I forget his other name. Oh, no, he was not our martyr, Joseph Smith. They split off from the real church. They don’t amount to a hill of beans, but when the Mormons left these islands, because the French were hostyle, these Josephites sneaked in and got quite a hold by lying about us, before we got on to their game and came back here. They’re out for the stuff. The real name of our church here is, Te Etaretia a Jesu Metia e te feia mo’a i te Mau Mahana Hopea Nei.”

“Gosh, I’d like to get my hair cut and roached,” said Elder Overton. “It was fine, when I left Papeete. I just have to let it go,” and he stirred his golden shock with the air of a man who has abandoned comfort for an ideal.

“Do the Paumotuans cling to their heathen customs?” I asked.

Overton looked at the floor, but De Kalb, the older, spoke up.

“They will circumcise,” he said hesitatingly. “We try to stop it, but they say it is right; that it makes them a separate people. They often wait until thirteen years of age before prompted to perform the rite. The kids don’t appreciate it.”

“And tithes? Your church members give a tenth of their incomes?”

Again De Kalb replied:

“They should,” he said. “These Takaroans are just beginning to see the beauty of that divine law. It is hard to make them exact. Perhaps they give a twentieth. It’s cocoanuts, you know, and it’s hard to keep account.”

“Of course, polygamy is—” I was about to say “forbidden,” when I felt that I had broached a delicate topic. I was stupid. Here in a lagoon surrounded by a narrow fringe of coral, to bang the eternal polyangle of one man and many women! The elders looked pained. I was about to withdraw the remark with an apology, but Westover made the most of his twenty-four years and waived aside my amends.

“It must be met,” he said. “We obey the laws of the land. The American law forbids plural marriages, and our church expressly forbids them. We are loyal Americans. We say to these people that polygamy is not to be practised. That’s true, no matter what the Josephites say.”

Elder De Kalb, who was watching me, interposed:

“I suppose you’re not a Mormon, but, as a matter of fact, isn’t polygamy, with wives and children to the extent of a man’s purse, all avowed and cherished, better than adultery?”

Overton got upon his feet. “You bet it is,” he declared, with intense feeling. “It’s nature’s law. There are more women than men by millions. Men are polygamous by instinct. And, by heavens! look at all those old maids at home and in England!”

Considering the sorrows of old maids, I felt my standards being endangered, but was saved from downright perversion by accepting the royal favor of a tub of fresh water from a cistern that caught the rain-water from the roof. I was seeking to immerse myself in the inadequate bath when I saw the daughter of the king gazing at me interestedly, and I hope that I blushed. But the princess distinctly winked in the direction of my hosts as I attempted to sink into oblivion in the ten-gallon pail.