My first Whiskies and Sodas—And after!—Secure Position as a Violinist in Orchestra—We stow away—Sight the South Sea Islands—Samoa

Once again I arrived in Brisbane, and walking up the main street, feeling rather down in the mouth, I was suddenly thrilled by meeting an old school chum out from England. We almost fell into each other’s arms. As soon as we had both recovered from our mutual astonishment, I inquired and learnt that he was working as a clerk in one of the Brisbane wholesale establishments. I had seven pounds in my pocket when we met that night. I went with him into my first public-house, and started on whisky and soda! I have made up my mind to tell the whole truth, in this the book of my life, and so I must tell you to my utter shame that I got fearfully drunk.

How it really occurred I do not know. My comrade was evidently used to intoxicating refreshments and showed huge delight as I got more and more excited. I did not know what had come over me. After the third whisky I felt an intense tenderness creep over me for everyone in the bar. The whole street got to know I was in that wretched place. I smacked my old school chum on the back over and over again, and as the old sailors and cunning old Colonial loafers poured into the bar and called me a fine and splendid young fellow, I shouted hurriedly for “deep seas,” “schooners,” “whiskies,” and all the thousand orders which they poured into my ears. I was not too far gone not to notice the “old salts” wink at each other as they lifted their tremendous glasses and clinked them one against the other, drinking my health and long life, as with pride I paid. That night, when I eventually got on to my bed, the room whirled round and round, and slowly sank into vast depths of infinity, and I became insensible. I will not describe my feelings the next morning, as it would make woeful reading, but I will tell you this, I have never drunk whiskies and sodas since, and so the “ill wind” blew into me a deal of good.

In the next room to me lodged a violinist, and he could play too. I introduced myself to him and he gave me several good lessons and recommended me to some good studies. I told him my tale, and to my delight he got me a job as violin player in the Brisbane Theatre. It was an easy matter for him to do this, as he was the leader of the orchestra. I shall never forget the novelty of those first nights, and the sights as the stage beauties whirled round and round, cocked their legs skyward, and bowed with blushing modesty as the audience loudly cheered. I have never seen anything like those sights, not even in the Fiji and Samoan Islands, where I met women attired in half of a coco-nut shell, and stalwart brown men standing under beautiful blue skies as nude as Grecian statues, and yet not half so nude as white women wearing only about a quarter of their clothes.

Sickening of orchestral life, I bade my few friends farewell, and sailed for Sydney. The harbour struck me as very beautiful, also the city itself, with its long streets—Pit Street, George Street and the parallel streets—along which thundered, in those days, the big engines of the steam trams.

Alas! ill luck befell me, my money was soon all spent. I strove to get into the theatre again; but the whole of Italy was standing at the door offering their services for a macaroni-living wage, and I was done for, as they were mostly good players and old in experience. I hastily wrote home to England, begging them to send me some cash. In those days however it took quite three months to get a reply, and long before the letter-due period was near I was once more stranded and sleeping on North Shore Ferry boats and on the Domain, chummy with the old unfortunates again, as like mammoth rats we crept through cracks and slept the sleep of the downcast and weary.

One day I made the acquaintance of two more lads who were about my own age. They had been sleeping out in sheds for weeks, and were both half-starved, and that afternoon we went down on the wharf of Circular Quay together, and watched a ship unloading fruit and bananas. Taking our opportunity, we stole a fine bunch of the latter. I shall never forget how we enjoyed that gorgeous feed, as we sat in the Domain hard by and shared out our stolen meal. My comrades were both English fellows. That same afternoon we decided to stow away on a large tramp steamer—I believe it was a “Blue Anchor Boat.” At dusk that very night, as she lay alongside, getting up steam so as to sail next morning, we three crept up the gangway, and after asking the chief steward and the chief officer if there was a chance of “working our passages home” we waited our opportunity and stole down the stokehold ladder at dark, as quiet as three mice, right down into the big ship’s depth, and lay by the coal bunkers all curled up together on some old sacks. For a long time we whispered together, full of glee at the thought of such easy success in getting away from Sydney, all Homeward Bound!

About midnight, we fell asleep. Suddenly I was awakened by footsteps, and coming down the iron ladder right over our heads I saw the big boots of a man. Quickly pulling the peak of my cheese-cutter cap over my eyes I pretended to sleep. My chums were both snoring beside me, and, as I once again peeped under the rim of my cap, I saw by the figure’s uniform that it was the Chief Engineer. He struck a match and looked at a steam-gauge, and just as I thought that he was going up again on deck, and that we were undiscovered and safe, he turned and spotted us three boys curled there upon the old sacks, all asleep as he thought. For a moment he gazed down upon us, and then without a word crept away. I quickly awakened my two comrades, and told them. They would not believe me at first, but eventually I convinced them, and we all quietly climbed up the ladder and bolted. He had seen us there, three pale-faced starved boys curled together, and it had touched him, and now that I am older I know that he would never have split, wishing to give us a chance to get away back to our native land. And though we did not profit by his kindness, I often think of the tenderness that made that rough sea-engineer creep up to the decks and keep a still tongue for the sake of the three little stowaways.

Next morning we saw the ship sail away half steam ahead across the Bay; round the Point her stern passed out of sight as we three stood gazing wistfully close together on the wharf. Away she went, with the white hands of the passengers waving farewells, and in my dreams I saw her pass through Sydney Heads, and heard her thundering screw start as she passed out into the ocean and rolled away full speed ahead on the long, long track Homeward Bound for England—and I cried myself to sleep that night.

I soon sickened of that life, I can tell you, and one day out at “Miller’s Point” I saw alongside the wharf a schooner which I had been told was bound for the South Sea Islands. I was lucky and secured a berth before the mast, and next morning as dawn crept over Sydney I was aboard her, flying through the “Heads” into the Pacific Ocean before a stiff breeze, with all sails set, bound for the Islands.

That night it blew like hell, and the ship almost turned upside down. I was not used to the tumbling of small craft, which is very different to the roll and heave of big ships, and so became terribly sea-sick. While I was aloft that night I brought up my dinner and tea, the whole of which was caught by the terrific wind and slashed on to the deck into the face of the skipper and the man at the wheel. By Jove! they did swear! But sailors are rough and forgiving, especially when you play the fiddle to them, as I did in the calms that followed that cursed gale and my illness.

In three weeks we sighted the first Island. At first it looked like a huge coco-nut sticking out of the calm shining sea afar, and as we got nearer we saw that it was quite a decent little world about 300 yards across and 100 wide. A big crag, its population consisted of one hut, an old man and two daughters. They were quite nude, and running out to the extreme end of a small promontory they waved their thin long brown arms, and showed their white teeth, as we flew by with full sails set, 300 yards off.

It was a most novel sight to me to see those lonely people on that old rock out there in the wide Pacific. How they lived, and what they lived there for, heaven only knows—I don’t.

As sunset faded into saffron and crimson lines along the skyline that tiny isle faded away into the infinity of travelling darkness for ever following the sunsets around the globe, and I and the crew of eight, all told, lit our pipes and sat on deck as the schooner, urged by the increasing wind which always sprang up after nightfall, crept over the primeval waters, the sails filling out and flopping at longer intervals. The crew were rough sailormen, two were Englishmen and four came from “Frisco,” the cook was a mixture of Chinese and nigger blood,—a most extraordinary-looking being he was too, with his frizzly dark hair, slit-almond eyes, and thin yellow teeth dividing the lips which incessantly gripped a long pipe. He and I had no love for each other. I caught him spitting in a tin pannikin, and wiping it clean with his claw-like hand as he put my dinner on and handed it to me. I took it, and turning on my heel gave my arm a full-length swing and over the side it went into the Pacific! By Jove! he did glare viciously at me. After that I always carried my own plate to the galley and placed my food carefully upon it myself.

Daybreak was stealing over the seas as the steep mountainous shores of Samoa burst through the skyline ahead.

At midday the anchor dropped into the calm waters of the Bay. Out from the beach, where the thundering surf leaped over the barrier reefs in the sunlight like showers of broken rainbows, came the out-rigged catamarans, swarming with savage faces. I shall never forget that strange sight of wild men dressed in their own skins, and rough-haired women too, bare as eggs. Along they came paddling and singing weird tunes that sounded like the dark ages in dismal song to my trained ears. Behind the strings of those canoes swam the mothers. On their wave-washed backs clung their tiny brown babies. The bright maternal eyes gleamed, and the wistful tiny bright frightened eyes of the infants shone, as they rode securely on the brown soft backs of those original old mothers of the sea-nursed South!

Behind them stretched the shores of their island home, thickly clad with big tropical trees, big fan-like leaves shimmering in the distance. In a few moments their naked feet were pattering on the deck of our ship. We all made a rush to save our belongings from their thieving hands, as they rushed under our very noses, like big children, to collar all that attracted their bright alert eyes.

That night off I went in one of the catamarans with the rest of the crew. On the beach we met half-castes and white traders loafing and spitting by the sweltering grog shanties and Samoan women were also loafing around. I eyed them with great curiosity. They were nearly naked; some were dressed in cloth loin-strips only; others, leaning against posts smoking and chewing, were dressed in some sailor’s old discarded shirt.

Never in my life have I seen such handsome women and men as some of those Samoans were—fine eyes, splendid physiques, the men standing nearly six feet in their skins. Beautiful heads of hair they had too, both the men and the women, and they were full of song; and when I thought of the white men of my own country, with pimply, dough-coloured skins, bald heads and stumbling gait, with pens behind shrivelled-up ears and eyes gleaming worlds of woe, as they were pulled up to London Town in the train every morning and every night pulled back again, my heart was touched over the sadness of the lot of the working people of the British Isles.