Wherein I describe the Harem Cave—Oriental Picturesqueness and Mohammedan Faith in its Bald State

IN this chapter I will take the reader to one of the many beautiful caverns of natural subterranean architecture that are to be found in the Marquesan Group, both in the mountain districts and by the shore.

In one of these caverns a certain group of Malay Indians had their stronghold, where they lured the semi-civilised native girls.

It will be obvious that I can give no more than a meagre account of all that followed the betrayal of Waylao, and in reference to Pauline’s acquaintance with Abduh, which I hinted at in the close of the preceding chapter, I do not wish to do more than paint a picture in chameleon colours of the incidents connected with her infatuation for the aforesaid abomination.

Neither do I make these remarks because I have any inward qualms as to my method of placing the facts of the case before my reader. My doubts are absolutely nil. I know that a man reigns king over the dominions of his own book if he dips his pen in his own ink—the molten centre of his own experiences.

When Waylao reached the Indian’s side she looked into his eyes as though she would read his soul. But I suppose that the instincts of woman failed her in the supreme moment and she did not appear to doubt the veracity of his explanation. I can well imagine that his voice was musical and sounded divinely truthful. How could she be expected to doubt so noble, so manly-looking a lover?

Most of us place our confidence in the most unworthy objects. It’s a pity that faith, which Providence lends us, is not double-sighted in women—and in men too.

It was at this meeting that the Indian persuaded the girl to go with him to the cavern.

“Must I go?” she said fearfully.

There was no light of mercy in that masterful gaze, as the girl hesitated, seeking to fathom the truth with her own poor, blinded eyes.

Her innocent glamour had created that thing that stood before her, clad in Oriental silken swathings, a coiled turban on its head. It represented the embodied god of her romantic dreams.

The deceit of that spittoon-like skull triumphed. He led her away into the shadows, just as the devil in Eden led happy Eve. But he took no risks—he held her tightly by the wrist, and repeatedly reassured the girl by tender pressures.

They were off to the Mohammedan mosque, the harem cavern by Temoria. It will be hard to piece together the scene in that hell of passion, and describe all that Waylao must have felt as she fell beneath that Nemesis—the hand of her own idolatry and the power of Islam.

The remorse and the tears and the sorrow which followed she confessed to Father O’Leary long after. But that is not to be written yet, and sometimes I wish that I may never tell it.

The memory of that girl’s story and her weeping voice now seems as far away as the stars which flashed in the vault over the windy tips of those bread-fruit trees by Tai-o-hae. I could almost tell Waylao’s thoughts as she crept by that man’s side, on to her fate. I will attempt to describe all that followed.

“Ta’ala [come], O Hassan Marah, ta’ala!” whispered that Calcutta cut-throat as he led the girl along the forest track. They had reached the sea. Between the tree trunks the waves were distinctly visible. It was a beautiful spot that surrounded that secret temple of Mohammed worshippers. As Waylao tripped beside the tempter her sandalled feet brushed the carpet of forest flowers. She was proud of those sandals. I must admit they looked well, fastened to her feet with red ribbon from the little Islamic carpet bag.

“Marah [wifey], I take thee to where thou shalt see many wonders; but remember that I love thee as man never loved maid before. Also, forget not that thou art now a child of Mohammed. Think not that whatever thou seest is anything else but what it is!” (I can imagine that he smiled grimly here at the thought of uttering so great a truth!)

Then he continued: “Remember, O child of beauty, that our humble mosque, which is but a symbol of the Almighty Prophet’s creed, is the Mecca of all our happiness; and all that happens therein is symbolical of all that happens.”

The foregoing is a fair example of Indian Mohammedan lore as dabbled in by its preachers in the islands.

They had now reached the shore. For miles along the coast by the serried lines of giant bread-fruits and palms shone the blue lagoons that reflected reefs of stars.

As though a ghost had crept from the forest to warn Waylao, her shadow crept in front of her. Abduh’s monstrous silhouette also dodged in front of him, so grotesque, so hideous that it might well have been the true index of his mind expressed in his shadow to warn the mad girl. Suddenly they arrived at the hollow in the volcanic rock. It was the entrance to the mosque. Once in ages past that great cavern by the sea had been moulded by Nature’s volcanic passion—and now the children of those wild lands were lured into those old bowels wherein glowed the passions of a greater hell. An old-time Chinese opium den, joss-house or fan-tan den in ’Frisco or George Street, Sydney, was a positive holy citadel compared with that cavernous hole of debauchery and Mohammedanistic religion.

Waylao trembled with fright. The Indian, taking no risks, still clutched her arm like some monstrous spider, as she looked behind her, stared over her shoulder in fear. Then they entered that hollow doorway and left the moonlit seas outside. The Indian, still clutching her arm, bent his turbaned head as he passed beneath the low roof of that subterranean passage, that harem cave of Mohammedanism in Southern Seas. Did her heart flutter and all hope die as she entered there? God only knows. Most likely she would have escaped if the man had not held her.

No sooner had they entered that tunnel-way than she heard the murmur of singing harem beauties and the mumblings of far-off encores. Sounds of ribald heathenish himees (Marquesan cannibal songs) came to her astonished ears, accompanied with faint whiffs of opium and scented gin.

Ah me! Had I and my old shellbacks had the slightest idea or hint of all that happened in that cavern, methinks there would have been a mighty rumpus between shellbackism and the Mohammedanistic propaganda one dark night. Several pious Indians would have been seen floating seaward on the next tide, with their skulls cracked.

Such an Island Night Entertainment was not to be found in the length and breadth of the North and South Pacific as that one in the underworld. Had Robert Louis Stevenson known of such a cavern, what a book we should have had to-day.

The scene that met Waylao’s eyes as she emerged from that tunnel-way was like some wildly exaggerated orgy of the heathen days.

I who stood in that hellish hole of past iniquity when the great crash came which overthrew that inferno can well explain the scene that met her eyes.

It was a large cavern, the rugged walls glittering with stalactites, a roof adorned with scintillating festoons mirrored in the silent pool waters that divided that subterranean temple’s floor.

The pool was left by each tide’s rise, forming a kind of underworld blue lagoon of exquisite beauty. At the glassy bottom waved fern-like seaweeds, clinging to beautiful twisting arms of vermilion-hued and alabaster coral. The water was as clear as the purest crystal. Just overhead, dangling from the roof, hung glimmering oil lamps that threw flickering shadows into the far corners of the subterranean chamber. The mirrored flames in those waters touched the red corals and gave a blood-red hue which added to the mystery of that wide, rocky hollow. It seemed that the waters blushed at the scenes they reflected in their translucent depths, the dusky harem beauties who danced beneath those hanging lamps.

The turbaned plantation gentry who inhabited those headquarters had erected a pae-pae at the far end of the chamber, where rose the roof to the height of about eight feet. It was on this pae-pae (stage) that the newly converted native girls, or newly wedded brides, sang their farewells to Christianity and went through those rhythmical swervings and indescribable postures that so delighted the eyes of their swarthy Eastern masters.

It was one of these sights that met Waylao’s eyes as she entered that harem temple. A wedding dance was in full swing. The blue lagoon was shining like a vast mirror beneath the hanging lamps and faithfully reflected the shadows of festival dancers. At the far end, by the rocky walls, where the roof sloped down to barely a man’s height, were several rough wooden tables. Round these tables sat Indian and Chinese settlers playing a kind of fan-tan, smoking and drinking with joss-house liberality.

It will not be libellous to state that several of them were escapees from Fijian law. On mats close by squatted several Marquesan chiefs who had entered that holy order. They were a wild crew, and much that happened in their midst can be better imagined than described. Several Marquesan maids, dressed in Oriental robes of gauzy design, were on the platform dancing some kind of can-can. The winds of heaven creeping in from the moonlit sea outside quite innocently abetted that lascivious scene; their unseen, shifting fingers touched the swaying girls, threw the unloosed robes right out from their feet, and then once again let them cling to the dancing, voluptuous figures.

The handsome faces of the dancers were aglow with pride as their excited masters shouted: “Kattar rheyrak!”

These girls were the wives of the Malay Indians. There seemed more wives than husbands knocking about, but that is explained by the fact that the creed of the Great Mecca Prophet allowed a man four wives to go on with ere he reached Elysium.

On a dais sat four aged, pock-marked marabouts reading the Koran. Their long beards pointed ever and anon to the cavern’s roof as some holy simile came from their lips.

As Waylao gazed with astonishment on the scene, a swarthy old Indian mongrel, under the influence of liquor, prostrated himself before her. Abduh gave him a nudge in the ribs with his boot and the old rouÉ at once ceased pouring forth praises to the virtues of Mohammed’s beard.

“O mine Ayishah, O beautiful Marah, drink!” whispered the alluring voice of Waylao’s Oriental hubby. The girl’s head swam with fear. She had already repented coming to that hell. The sights that she witnessed reminded her of all that she had thrown aside for the sake of her infatuation. The heaven that the great Potter had mixed in her own elemental clay blushed to her throat’s dusky whiteness. The natural beauty of the girl’s face was intensified by the half-shrinking appeal of her eyes and expression. To see her standing there with the bit of pink ribbon fluttering at her throat, the hibiscus flowers in her pretty hair, must have made even the engrossed cut-throats at the card-tables stare for a moment and forget their tricks.

The sight of those dancing, full-blooded Marquesan girls on that pae-pae sickened her. Nor was it to be wondered at. Those tawny figures of perfect grace swayed their limbs with pride, yes, surveyed their own symmetrical proportions as the brass leg bangles jingled and the glass jewels flashed as their limbs swung roofward in response to the encores of Islamic delight.

Abduh’s voice pleaded passionately for his wishes. Indeed Waylao recovered so much that she even smiled at the admiration that was so evident in the eyes of the men about her.

“Marhabba!” (“Welcome!”) cried those young Islamic knuts as they stood up from their gaming tables, threw their shoulders back, screwed their heads sideways and surveyed the comely half-caste girl. Some went too far. Abduh saw the look of realisation leap into her eyes. She looked terrified.

“Something must be done at once: this will never do,” was his mental reflection.

“Drink, Marah!” The voice was insinuating and sweet. Hardly knowing what she did, Waylao let the innocent-looking coco-nut-shell goblet linger at her lips. Then she gazed helplessly at his masterful eyes, half in wonder. The jovial yellow boys from the Malay Archipelago, and the Sudan and Calcutta reprobates clinked their mugs. “Allah be with thee!” they murmured.

Somehow even their voices were hushed. It almost seemed that even they saw the shame of it all, that so fair a creature should fall into the spider-like clutch of that abomination.

Waylao blushed again. It was not the blush of shame, but the warmth of vanity and the feverish effects of that potion, the wretched ecstasy of morphine and gin, as those handsome men fell at her feet and paid obeisance to her beauty. Did she dream? What was this wonderful worship that made her feel she was some heathen queen, as that crew of flushed faces whispered praise into her ears?

“Mebsoot! Mebsoot!” called the Marquesan girls. “Blessed be the great Mahomeys!” It was the one little bit of Indian language that they had learnt. Even the fine eyes of those abandoned native girls expressed wonder at seeing so white a woman in that hellish abode.

The drug began its work, Waylao’s brain became delirious. Gin, morphine and innocence mixed together had more enchantment in it than morphine, gin and downright wickedness! Abduh Allah suddenly shone before her eyes with such resplendent beauty that she lifted his hand and kissed it before them all. The pock-marked old marabouts nudged each other in the ribs and the younger villains exchanged glances. A treat was in store for them.

If Benbow, her father, had entered at that moment, that cavern would have experienced the greatest volcanic eruption of its history. Alas! Benbow was at sea or in some island seaport telling of his past experiences, how he had captured pretty girls in the blackbirding days, filled his hold up to the brim with that quivering cargo, battened them down and then, singing with his wild crew For Those in Peril on the Sea (his favourite hymn), put to sea.

Waylao quite forgot her father. Her mother’s old legendary creed was true after all. Was she not in some wonderful underworld, some heathen shadow-land? Were not goddesses and god-like men at her feet—worshipping her? Her very innocence, her strange, poetic brain, made beautiful creations of those abandoned native girls as they danced like faery shadows around her.

It may seem unbelievable, but Waylao, to the call of a host of impassioned pleadings, stood on the pae-pae and began to dance; but not as the others. Even those dissolute men gazed intensely, half sobered by the exquisite beauty, the rhythmical movements of her perfect figure. The winds crept in and stirred her bronzed tresses and their crown of vermilion forest flowers: she lifted her robe delicately and sang to her shadow in the lagoon at her feet. It was a unique sight, a new experience to all in that cave as she danced and chanted. What was that faint, ineffable glimmer that silently struck the still water? It was a pale light, a streak from heaven, moonlight piercing through a chink just overhead in the cavern’s rocky roof. That faint glimmer streamed upon her mass of entangled hair, and lit her eyes with some wild, half-etherealised light. As she danced on, it seemed the very poetry, the grace of her movements appealed to these better qualities which exist in the hearts of even the worst of men. As they watched the earnest expression of her face, the cavern hollows became silent, except for the twanging of bamboo flutes accompanying her wild melody. Those swarthy, bearded scoundrels stood like unto awestruck figures of carven stone, expressing artistic surprise. The devil in them was touched by the magic of beauty in its finest form—the girl’s innocence.

Waylao chanted on. The liquor fumes began to work to their full extent. With arms outspread, she danced along the pae-pae, her head close against the rocky roof. Nearer and nearer she glided, step by step, till with a cry she reached Abduh Allah’s side and swooned into his extended arms.

As soon as the breathless, staring crew recovered from their astonishment, the cavern echoed and re-echoed the encore: “Hasan! Kattar rheyrak!” (“Beautiful! Oh, thanks!”)

The four grey-bearded marabouts who were squatting on the mats of the dais opposite the pae-pae lifted their eyes and turbaned heads; so overcome were they with envious admiration that their pointed beards were level with the rugged roof as they once again gasped out in sombre syllables: “Allah! O Mohammed’s beard! Bless its growth!”

Suddenly realisation flashed through Waylao’s brain. She stared with fright on the swarthy crowd of uplifted faces around her. Ere the men had fathomed the meaning of her terror, she had broken away. Like one demented she swept by them and, eluding their clutching hands, fled out of that cavern, back to the sight of heaven and the moonlit seas.

It is no wish of mine to dwell on the terrors, the abominations of that Indian Night Entertainment of Eastern Sensualism. All that I am out to tell is of the temptation that came to Benbow’s daughter. And so I have painted to the best of my ability all that is fit to tell of the scene and happenings in that harem cave near Tai-o-hae: a scene that is common enough in the Indian lines—as they call them—in Fiji and other plantation settlements which are the glory-holes of emigrant Mohammedanism in the South Seas. To this day the missionaries curse those swarthy men, who, I have been told, were not true Indians, but a mongrel race from the Malay Archipelago. However that may be, Abduh had lived in Calcutta, and they were all Mohammedans.

I may as well say and have done with it that Pauline was also lured into that cavern of iniquity. She too had crept behind that mockery in the shape of man, Abduh, expecting to see something that corresponded with her girlish conception of paradise. I do not wish to dwell on all that she confessed to me; suffice it to say that Pauline swiftly saw through the veiled curtain that hid the monstrous inclinations of that human spider and his crew.

Thank heaven! he failed to pounce upon her innocence then. She too had lifted that vile potion to her lips, but had shattered the goblet, untouched, in fragments at his feet.

Those swashbucklers at the card-tables, flushed with drink and thoughts of the prize that seemed almost in their clutches, had also put forth their vile talons to stay her flight; but she was too swift for them as she sped from that sensual hollow by the seas, her soul ablaze with fear.

Such is a portion of the history of those much-admired caves and subterranean passages of the Marquesan Group, caverns where the tourist doubtless enters to take a snapshot of Nature’s transcendent beauty of coral, flowers and ferns, little dreaming of the secret they held for the guile of men years ago.

I believe that these caverns were also used as Chinese opium dens. The French authorities had issued an edict forbidding the traffic in opium because of its demoralising influence on the native population. But still the trade prospered in secret, natives inhaling the dreamy narcotic, from Tai-o-hae to Papeete. The penalty for smugglers was a heavy fine, but if the culprit had not the wherewithal he was discharged with a caution, for the official exchequer was too poor to keep them in the calaboose, which was always full of successful aspirants who yearned to live, under Government protection, a life of comparative luxury and ease.

It was hinted that the French officials of that time were not above accepting bribes in the way of cash and maids, for Abduh Allah’s harem cave was strangely immune from the vigilant eye of the law.