Impecunious Youth—In Sydney—Once more I go Seaward—In Fiji—Lose my Comrade—I arrive off Tai-o-hae—The Isles of Romance—French Officials and Convicts—I am welcomed by a Pretty Chiefess—The Brown Maids’ Preference for English Sailormen—Nuka Hiva by Night—Ranjo’s Grog Shanty—I sleep beneath the Palms—My First Meeting with Waylao, the Half-caste Girl—The Passing of the Great Mohammed—I feel a bit fascinated by the Half-caste Girl—Planting Nuts for a Living

IHAD been travelling a good deal when at length I left a ship and was stranded for the fourth time in Sydney. In those days the Australian seaboard cities seemed to have come into existence by special grace of Providence. They were kind harbours where Fate could dump, at leisure, impecunious, hopeful youths on the various wharves. Nor do I claim to have been the least hopeful of the multitudinous youths who in my day arrived fresh and green from other lands.

I do not think I was “on the rocks” for more than three weeks before the opportunity presented itself, and once more I secured a berth on a schooner that happened to be bound for the islands of the South Seas. I recall that I met an old pal at this period. We had been several voyages together and had shared many exciting adventures, through a deep faith in the impossible and absurd. This pal of mine secured a job on the same ship.

I was about sixteen years of age at this time. Crammed with the enthusiasm of romantic youth, nothing seemed improbable, and all that which was hopelessly absurd to the matured mind of man was to me something that glowed with inexhaustible possibilities. And all this notwithstanding the fact that I had already travelled the Australian and New Zealand bush, lived with deported Chinamen in ’Frisco and exiled wild, white men from civilised cities, besides roughing it before the mast on voyages across the world. Also, and not least, I had lived on nuts, green bananas, hard tack and the dubious “locusts and wild honey” of the wildernesses, and much suspicious-looking soup in the cities.

One fine morning, as sunrise imparadised the clean waters of beautiful Sydney harbour, off we went. I was delighted to see the steam-tug dragging our schooner from the miserable wharf near Miller’s Point. In due course we arrived at Fiji, where my comrade and I “jumped the ship,” as they say in sea parlance. A few days after arriving in Suva my pal came to me with melancholy aspect and told me that he had fallen in love with a nut-brown lassie.

I condoled with him and made strenuous efforts to restore his mental balance, but to no purpose whatsoever.

Fiji was a wild enough, God-forsaken, missionary-stricken township in those days, and to finish my last hopes my pal, on the third day, in a paroxysm of grief, eloped into the mountains with a celebrated high chief’s faithless partner—and I saw him no more.

A few days after, being quite fed up with Suva, I secured a berth on a schooner and again went seaward across the Pacific. We called at many wonderful isles, which suddenly loomed on the sky-line like enchanted lands of untravelled seas. I could devote chapters to the wonders of that voyage, the strange peoples I met, people wild and romantic, clad in no clothes, beautifully varnished by the tropical sunlight of ages. How they laughed and sang their wonderful songs to the sailors—songs that seemed to have been composed in deep ocean caves and blown into their heathenish brains on patches of moonlight. But I digress. The climax arrived when we reached Nuka Hiva—the shores of the gloriously romantic Marquesan Isles.

Though I was penniless, I felt as happy as a sand-boy when at last we dropped anchor in the bay off Tai-o-hae.

I was entranced as I stood on deck, and with all the fevered imagination of boyhood drank in the natural beauties of that land-locked bay. The inland mountain slopes, that reached their zenith in the peak of Ua Pu, were clad with feathery palms and beautiful pauroas. Peeping beneath the shore palms were the birdcage-shaped bamboo homes of the native village. It was silent and deserted on that “Pious Morn,” but its inhabitants would return. For lo! floundering in the ocean waters around the schooner, and clambering on the deck, were the handsome, mahogany-hued, scantily attired people of that little village. No wonder that I felt that I had, at last, arrived at the wonderful isles of dim Romance.

I made no delay in getting ashore. A large silk handkerchief contained my worldly goods, which consisted of a violin and bow, two flannel shirts, a small-tooth comb and one flask of bug-powder. It was terrifically hot. Leaving the curious traders loafing on the beach, I made my way up a track that led to the jungle-like scenery that overlooked the bay. I longed to be alone. I yearned to think out of earshot, away from the oaths and grousing of the crew who had been informed that the beer in the shore shanty had gone quite sour through the hot weather.

As I went up the track I was enthusiastically welcomed by vast crowds of sandflies. How happy I was! Turning seaward I saw the unrivalled blaze of the sun’s dying splendour flood the horizon.

I vividly recall the beauty of that sunset when, a romantic lad, I watched the tremulous stains of the western sea-line. Standing beneath the interlacing boughs of scarlet-flowered tropical trees, I seemed to be staring down upon some enchanted hamlet of romance that was nestling at the rugged feet of the mountains. That hamlet, the small, semi-pagan city of old Tai-o-hae, lay silent, like some little sculptured city beautifully engraved on a slope that fronted the sea. Its one little shore street of wooden houses stood out in clear relief in the light of the low sunset. The green jungle pauroas and feathery palm groves that sheltered the township of tin roofs were unstirred by one breath of wind. Out in the bay lay two schooners, their canvas hanging as motionless as though they were painted ships on an oil-painted bay of the deepest indigo-blue water.

But it was no painting, for the group of huddled Chinamen who toiled on the pineapple plantations by Prison Hill moved, and their pigtails tossed, and the grog shanty door by the shore-side opened as two traders emerged and spat violently seaward.

Such was the scene that met my eyes as I stood alone by that capital of Nuka Hiva. With the approaching coolness of night Tai-o-hae awoke from its lethargy, for only the Chinese worked in the heat of the tropic day. The French officials spent the day in a deep siesta, dreaming of La Belle France and sipping absinthe between their yawns.

Walking down the rugged slopes I met a white settler, who dwelt in a neat bungalow near an old mission-room.

“Where yer hail from, mate?” said he.

I told him.

“Any chance of getting a living if I stick here?” said I to him.

Hitching his trousers up he regarded me almost fiercely, as he scornfully ejaculated: “Why, don’t yer know this is God’s own country?”

“Oh yes, I quite forgot,” I said, half to myself as I smiled, for at every Australian and American port that I had entered I had never failed to meet some shore loafer who enthusiastically welcomed me to “God’s own Country.”

But still, Tai-o-hae certainly looked as though the Hand of the Creator had succeeded in making it the most picturesque and romantic-looking isle that one could well wish to come across.

For a time I wandered about like an inquisitive schoolboy. I went up to Prison Hill and watched some native convicts sweep the roads. A gendarme kindly pointed out Queen Vaekehu’s palace. He enlightened me as to Vaekehu’s past. I had already heard of that queen’s barbarian fame as a multitudinous lover and cannibal.

“Is she a cannibal now?” said I, as I stared beneath the palms and spied the old queen and her obsequious retinue of dusky chiefs on the verandah of her wooden palace. She had been a kind of Helen of Troy in the pre-Christian times of Tai-o-hae.

“Ah, no, monsieur, she is not zee cannibal now.” So saying, the gendarme, as he smiled and shrugged his shoulders, banged a native convict over the head with his bamboo truncheon by way of harmless digression. At this moment several natives, handsome youths and Marquesan maids, went laughing by. As they passed me they called out, “Aloah, monsieur!” One pretty chiefess, who had a figure like a goddess, arrayed in hibiscus blossoms and weaved grass, threw me a kiss.

“I’m going to stop on this isle,” murmured I to myself as I walked on. The shadows fell over the mountain range and hid the pinnacles of Ua Pu. I was still tramping inland, once more alone. The scene, as night fell, changed to one of magical beauty. Such a change! I heard the wild shouts of laughter, and the musical cries of approval, as the sailors and native girls met and whirled under the palms by the shanties. Those maids seemed to prefer English sailors. I recall that I often heard the Frenchmen say: “Ze Englese sailors are ze very deevils when they are tousand of miles from Londres.”

Often when the French officials were sipping their light wines and absinthe and gave out their toast: “Vive la France,” those sinful maids would gaze into the English sailors’ eyes and murmur (out of earshot): “Vive la Angleese!”

The missionaries had a great deal of trouble to keep them away from those old sea salts, and the French authorities passed all sorts of peculiar Acts to keep them in order. It was a sight worth seeing when a missionary suddenly appeared on the scene where they all danced with the white men: off they bolted into the forest like frightened rabbits! I suppose the missionaries had gone over to Hatiheu that night, for as I passed the shanty the laughter and wild song was in full swing.

The deserted schooners lay out in the bay, not a soul aboard. I saw a canoe shoot across the still waters, paddled by frizzly-headed savages. The darkened lagoons, fringed by feathery palms, mangroves and guavas, loomed into view for miles along the shore, looking like a natural stockade that protected the approaches to fairyland.

Even when the moon hung out in the vault of heaven, the weird beauty of that island scene was not dispelled; for, like miniature starry constellations, swarms of fireflies danced and twinkled in the spaces for miles along the lagoons of the wooded coast.

I observed this from my bedroom, which, that night, was beneath a palm-tree by the shore. I awoke late, considerably refreshed and happy. As I looked about me, I saw several beachcombers still sleeping by me. They were genuine beachcombers, and only left their resting-places when the schooners arrived. These schooners brought in the generous sailormen, who lavishly spent their wages in the grog shanty, which was the economic centre of Tai-o-hae, for, believe me, beachcomberism in full swing—cadging drinks in exchange for fearsome tales, punctuated by mighty oaths—was the staple product and commercial stock exchange of that semi-heathen-land.

Though I had travelled through Samoa, Fiji, Solomon Isles, Tahiti, New Caledonia, also through the wilds of savage London town, I waxed enthusiastic over the wild life and primeval beauty of these scenes and wondrous folk. Touring inland, alone with my violin, I entered little villages that were tiny pagan cities of the forest. The inhabitants, a fine race of handsome, semi-savage people, lived in primitive splendour, nursing their old traditions and secretly practising heathen rites that were supposed to be extinct. Nature’s mysterious grace had given them a palatial home of natural warmth, beauty and plenty. Fertile hills, mountain slopes giving forth abundance of glorious fruits to the gaze of the kind sun, surrounded me. By the hut towns mighty sheltering trees, bending their gnarled, sympathetic arms, threw tawny bunches of coco-nuts and delicious foods into the hands of her wild children. Beneath the forest floor for ever toiled that patient eremite, Dame Nature, pushing up through the mossy earth the clothes that so well suited her children’s modest requirements: bright bows, green-fringed kerchiefs, weaved loin-cloths, stiff grass-threads for sewing fibrous materials into cheap scented suits, also debonair hats for their fierce heads! I liked those fierce heads. I found them crammed with kindness. They applauded my violin solos, and brought me sweet foods when I slept beneath the trees, untroubled by man! Yet how wealthy was I, lying beneath the coco-palms, counting my wealth in the numberless stars of strange constellations till I fell asleep. It was whilst I was hard up, sleeping beneath the friendly trees, that I first came across a native woman, Madame Lydia. She spied me from her bungalow window hole, as, lying on my cheap mossy sheet, I counted the clouds that crawled like monstrous spiders across my vast, blue ceiling.

“Aloah, monsieur,” she said, as she poked her sun-varnished physiognomy through the bamboos and handed me a pannikin of hot tea. I accepted the gift with alacrity and thanks, and I unconsciously ingratiated myself into her good graces. She turned out to be the kind old wife of B— —, an English sailor and trader. She was a full-blooded Marquesan, decidedly handsome, notwithstanding the expressive wrinkles mapped on her face. I discovered that she dwelt in a small bungalow that stood in a most picturesque spot on the slopes that fronted the sea. I was soon quite chummy with this native woman, told her who I was, and finally discovered that she was the mother of the beautiful half-caste girl, Waylao, whom I had met the day before on the beach. So much for old Lydia. But as my reminiscences will deal at times with the daughter, I will introduce her.

She was an attractive girl, about sixteen years of age. When I first saw her standing on the slopes she decidedly enhanced the scenery of Tai-o-hae, and that’s saying something for the beauty of Waylao.

As I vividly recall her, Tai-o-hae, its romantic scenery, its background of pinnacled mountains and dim blue ocean horizons once more surround me. Waylao stands on the ferny slopes by the pomegranates and flamboyant trees. She has not yet perceived me. I hold my breath as I catch sight of her and stare with all the ardour of sanguine youth. The softest, warm sea wind creeps through the giant bread-fruits; her loose tappa robe stirs, lifted by the winds, and twines about the perfect limbs of the girl’s delicate figure. Standing there, with hand held archwise at her brow, her massive, bronzed hair uplifting to the breeze as she stares seaward, I half fancy that the dusky heroine of a romantic South Sea novel has suddenly stepped from the pages of my book and stands before me, smiling in the materialised beauty of reality.

“Aloah, monsieur!”—it is a salutation in French official fashion. Her speech rings in my ears like music. She seems even more beautiful than she appeared yesterday when listening to my violin solo in the grog shanty by the beach.

By degrees reality returns. It’s no dream at all. I’m an ordinary mortal, who was bitten ferociously last night by Marquesan fleas and who only possesses one English shilling and ten centimes in cash.

Though poor in worldly goods, I’m rich with transcendent cheek, gallantry and the enormous deception of youth. I take a mighty interest in all that interests the girl. I pluck a flower from the bush beside us. She smiles deliciously when I, recalling my old aunt’s advice to be polite to ladies, have bowed and fastened the flower in a fold of the diaphanous robe that modestly covers her maiden bosom. As we walk up the slope I feel that I am the old confidential friend of the family; in ten minutes I learn the last five years of her history. I know that her mother, old Lydia, kicks up a shindy if she’s out too late at night. I know that Benbow (as I will call him), her father, gets awfully drunk when home from sea. I know that, notwithstanding her rough surroundings, she is innocent as a child; I know she loves her pet canary. I envy that canary as she babbles on, and I catch glances from her fine lustrous eyes, dark with a blue depth in the pupils, a depth that sparkles at times as though a far-off star shines in their heavens.

In a few moments we part. I hear a musical ripple of laughter as she disappears in the mission-room where resides PÈre de ——, the old priest, who has known and educated Waylao since she toddled.

The next adventure that I can recall is that I was compelled to accept a rotten job on a plantation. It somewhat grieves me to confess that such humble employments came to me through the curse of being cashless. I sweated in fine style whilst planting nuts. I also pulled taro, broke copra with a native axe, cleared scrub, and did other odious things that did not chime in with the elements of romance.

Soon afterwards I threw the job up in disgust and eventually found it more congenial to consort with the derelicts who frequented the grog shanty hard by.

About those men and their ways I will attempt to discourse in the next chapter.