While our voyage had been a successful one, our outfits were not all exhausted; we had material enough for the capture of a few more sperm whales provided we could see them. The captain, however, was anxious to reach home, and orders were no longer given to shorten sail at night. So the old Seabird made pretty good time for a vessel of her type. There was not a member of the crew who had not heard of Pitcairn, and one had visited the spot, and he was loud in his praises of it and the people. This was before the departure to Norfolk in the early fifties of the last century. He told us of the kindness of the Pitcairners, of the noble bearing of the men and of the beauty and kindness of the women.

“I took a great fancy to two of them—John and Ruth Quintail,” he said. “They were grandchildren of one of the mutineers. John was twenty and Ruth eighteen. They did everything they could do for a common sailor like me. They were both pretty religious like most of the people, but they were full of fun. They could swim like ducks, and while I was there Ruth swam round the island. She used to wear an orange blossom in her beautiful hair. Our American girls are called fair, but she was the fairest girl I have ever seen. I suppose Ruth and John are at Norfolk Island now and will never go back to Pitcairn.”

Our interest constantly deepened, and I think that even the staidest old tars were as expectant as if they had been boys. There are no coral reefs around Pitcairn; it is of volcanic origin and is sometimes likened to a rock rising out of the ocean. It is only two and a half miles in length, and a mile in width. It was about midday when we caught sight of it. While the ocean seemed rather calm, yet as we drew near I noticed what I had already read, that the waves dashed fiercely against it. There was only one place suitable for landing, and even then a boat had to be skilfully managed in order to avoid disaster. When not far from shore the ship was hove to, and then a white flag was displayed which told that they saw us and that we were welcome. Soon a boat put out and, as it came alongside, I noticed that it was a dugout. One of the two occupants was particularly interesting to me. As he moved about the deck he caught sight of me and, approaching, said:

“You and I must be of about the same age. I am sixteen and my name is James Russell.”

He was so pleasant and unassuming that I could not help saying to myself that he would never make a sailor. Our visitors extended to the captain a cordial invitation to visit the island and assured him of a warm welcome. Of course this was intended to include officers and crew. The captain made fitting acknowledgment, rather unusual for one generally so abrupt, and replied that on the morrow there would be shore leave for all except the few required to manage the ship.

We were like schoolboys that night, anxious and expectant. In the dawn the island seemed one high peak covered with green creeping plants and trumpet vines. As we approached in the boats a man standing on an elevation showed us where to land. The surf was beating fiercely on rock and beach, but we glided ashore without any casualty. Nearly all of the eighteen then inhabiting the island were there to receive us. Russell sought me out and brought me to a young woman to whom I was presented in a very pleasant way. Her name was Sarah McCoy.

The ascent was slow as the path leading to the upland was very steep. On arriving at the top, we were told that the large open space was the market-place where trading was carried on with the whalemen who occasionally called at the island. Thence we passed by a pretty path winding through tropic trees to what was called the town. Many of the buildings showed signs of neglect, the result of the abandonment of the island only a few years before. Our guests had restored some of the buildings, and to our surprise the interior of the houses and their furnishings were about the same as those of our own homes in America.

Now let me describe Sarah McCoy. She was eighteen years of age and while she was of dark complexion and had raven black hair, which was prettily decorated with an orange blossom, yet in form and feature, in conversation and deportment, there was much of the Anglo-Saxon. Her attire was of tappa cloth, although I was told that all the islanders had European clothing. Her teeth were beautiful. The features were regular and the combination was pleasing. We were told that we were to be parcelled out among the people for dinner, and it was arranged that I was to be one of six who were to enjoy the cooking of Sarah McCoy.

The young girl said, with a laugh, “We are the most civilized people in the world, in one respect, and that is cooking. We have no stoves, yet we cook food in a very short time, and we think very much better than food cooked in stoves. The dinner is all prepared and there is only one thing to do to make it ready for the table. Come, James Russell and I will show you over the island.”

The girl was so artless, innocent and winning that I was quite carried away with her. She was full of fun, and at times almost boisterous with laughter, but modest and natural withal. Everywhere we went we saw goats, pigs and fowl running wild, and I knew that this meant a bountiful supply for our ship. I wish I could fittingly describe the scenery. From countless fragrant herbs and lime and orange trees delicious odors filled the air. The coconut trees were supplied with tall plumes which waved gently above our heads, and I should have thought that I was in some land of enchantment, far away from the world, had it not been for the sound of the breakers beating against the shore.

My companions led me to a rocky elevation overlooking the sea.

“How beautiful!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, beautiful to you,” said young Russell, “but we see it all the time. We study and read about England and America and long to see the beautiful things there, isn’t that so, Sarah?”

“Yes, indeed,” replied the young girl. “How much I would like to see England, for in reality we are all English here.” The young girl paused and soon continued, “They tell me that the American girls are bright and beautiful. Is it not so?”

What could a great boy like myself say to a question like that? I think she meant to relieve me of my embarrassment, for she said cheerily,

“Tell me about the American girls—how they look and what they do?”

In my simple boyish way I tried to comply, but not very successfully; and I think she helped me out some by asking a second question before I could answer the first. Suddenly she broke out, “There are two things that girls do the world over—they sing and dance. I would like to hear your girls sing and see them dance. I suppose we all sing alike but we dance differently. We have a simple dance which came to us from our Tahitian grandmothers. Yours is different; you glide around in kind of circles, I think; but that would be impossible for me.”

I think that, if the girl had thought a moment, she would not have made this allusion to her large bare feet which had never known shoes. There was a troubled look to her eyes. Then there came a ringing laugh.

“But we girls can put our feet to a noble use. Swimming is as easy to us as it is to the water fowl. We take to it from infancy. Only yesterday I swam round the island.”

“Swam round the island!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, that is nothing,” she said. “It is only about five miles.”

And now Young Russell plied me with all kinds of questions about American boys—how they looked and what they did—and about American cities and what they looked like. I endeavored to answer as well as I could. When it came to cities, I told him I never had been in but one—the little city I came from.

And so we strolled back to the point of departure, chatting away like old friends meeting after a long separation. It was with deep interest that I watched the preparation of the food that was to constitute our repast. Sarah’s mother was there—not so dark as her daughter, but comely and pleasant.

“Come,” said the young girl, “and see how your dinner is prepared and cooked.”

Just outside the house was a hole in the ground which was used as an oven. Sarah covered the bottom of it with fresh plaintain leaves. From a fire near by heated stones were pitched into the hole and covered with another layer of leaves. Then yams, breadfruit and sweet potatoes, four large fowl wrapped in tappa cloth, and three great cakes, made of yams and plaintains beaten up and similarly covered, were laid in. Over them all were placed more leaves and heated stones, and over the stones another great layer of leaves. Above all, to keep in the heat, was laid a piece of old canvas. Pointing at it, Sarah said with a laugh:

“That came from a ship which stopped here, and it is the only thing you see to remind you of civilization. Now in civilized countries,” she continued, “it takes a long time to cook things. In twenty minutes to half an hour, gentlemen, your dinner will be ready. The steam does it.”

I never before had taken Kreelman for a wit, but this time he was equal to the occasion.

“The steam does it, miss, just as you say. And there’s a place in America where they ain’t civilized because they cook with steam, too.”

I think we were all as surprised as we were interested.

“Where?” was the general question.

“And they use rockweed instead of plaintain leaves.”

That gave us sailors the clew, and we laughed.

The girl was puzzled. Kreelman asked:

“Did you ever hear of a Rhode Island clambake, miss?”

Of course she had not, and Kreelman enlightened her as to the similar method of cooking with heated stones. In twenty-five minutes Sarah threw off the canvas and we men pitched off the stones. Sarah tested the good things with a fork, and pronounced them well done. Then pointing at what looked like a coffee-pot on the live coals of the fire near by, she said:

“There is something that looks like civilization. In it is a drink that tastes like coffee, which we make from roots and herbs.”

We sat down in the house, and the women proposed to wait on us; but we protested. So the good things were brought in, and we all sat down together. And what a repast! One may say that the things merely seemed delicious because we had lived for many months on ship fare. Perhaps that quickened our appetite, but after all these long years I must say that I never enjoyed a better-cooked meal. After we rose, I noticed on the wall a picture of Queen Victoria, and beneath it written in a large, free hand a National Anthem, composed by Reverend G. H. Nobbs. He was the beloved pastor who was now with most of his flock at Norfolk Island. There were three stanzas. I was granted permission to copy them. The first stanza is as follows:

After dinner, a messenger announced that a little later hosts and guests would meet in the open space just in front of the houses, which constituted what they called the town. Our little party was there early, and a pleasant thing it was to see the people gather; an islander, for example, coming with three or four of our men, all talking and laughing, and making one feel that he would like to exchange the trials and turmoil and temptations of the world for the sweet rest and quiet of this little island. Our hosts entertained us with songs, concluding with the National Anthem which was rendered with fine effect. Then our captain whispered to Lakeum, who in chosen words expressed our gratitude for the hospitality rendered and wished the colony abundant blessings and especially happiness and prosperity. I think we were all proud of Lakeum, and we were fortunate to have him as our spokesman, as he was the only one of our company who was capable of creditably expressing himself.

The leave-takings were reserved for the place where we had landed, and a happy throng we were as we strolled along to the shore. If some difficulty attended our landing, more awaited our departure. Ours was the first craft to confront the surf and, staunch old whaleboat as it was on the open sea, it was unequal to the situation, for over it went, tumbling us all into the water. A loud laugh went up from the spectators, and several of the islanders plunged into the sea to help us. We righted the boat and, under the directions of our friends, mounted the crests successfully, and the other boats followed us. But something else followed us as well—the kindly adieus of the Pitcairners.

The next day liberty was given the shipkeepers, and the captain, Lakeum and Silva went ashore with them, carrying trade to be exchanged for supplies. We were notified that the bargaining would take a good part of the day, and that on the appearance of the white flag we were to lower the boats and make for the shore. About the middle of the afternoon, the signal appeared, and three boats put out. As we rested on our oars at a spot about a hundred yards from the beach, we witnessed the storing in the native dugouts of pigs, goats, fowl, fruit and vegetables, which were to be transferred to our craft. The islanders were so apt and clever that the transfer was easily effected, and as we pulled for the ship I saw Sarah for the last time. She was standing on a bank waving her hand, and Russell was beside her. He joined with a parting gesture. I experienced a feeling like that which distressed me when the Seabird slipped from her moorings at the beginning of the voyage. It was a touch of homesickness.

Now the island peak loomed in black outline against a pale green sky; heavy clouds hung about the western horizon glowing with crimson imparted by the sun which had just gone to his setting; the waves were tinted with reflected hues. I was not in a frame of mind to enjoy the spectacle. My thought was of the maiden whom I should never see again, and the dew gathered in my eyes.

The crew felt kindly towards the captain, and they lauded him highly for giving them such a royal treat. As we set sail, they were happy and elated, and their joy was increased when they were informed that we were not going round the Horn, but were to make for home through the Strait of Magellan. The shortening of the voyage was the interesting feature. They had no conception of the difficulties and dilemmas they were to encounter in that hazardous passage—frequent fogs, hidden rocks and sudden squalls.

When Kreelman and I had a few minutes together, he said: “Fancy Chest, I never was in the Magellan Strait, but a sailor who was on a merchantman told me that they went through there, and he never had such a time in his life. He said that there was a mile for every day in the year, and it took a week to get through. Once they scraped along a hidden rock, and just escaped shipwreck. I don’t know why the old man wants to go through there, but I suppose he does. I never knew of a whaler goin’ through there before. Bad as the Horn is, it’s free sailin’ there. I hope the oil, bone and ambergris is insured.”

This expression of Kreelman’s views was not encouraging.

“How did you like the day on shore?” I inquired.

“A great day for sailors. The old man done himself noble in giving us shore leave, and the Pitcairn folks done themselves proud in entertainin’ us. It was somethin’ like one of them nice, little places in a hot land. You know what I mean.”

Kreelman looked at me, appealingly. “I think you mean an oasis in the desert,” I volunteered.

“That’s it, Fancy Chest, an oyster, only not in the desert, but in the ocean.”

The man mused, then broke out, “You heard Lakeum give that talk. There ain’t no man among edicated men who could have done better. I’ve been on the sea about all my life and I never see before a man on board a whaler like that man. You never hear no bad language and he acts different from the other men. He treats the men well, but he don’t allow no nonsense. And then he carries himself well. He’s got an edication, and he come from first-class folks, but, as I told you long ago, you can’t find out nothin’ about him. I guess, if all whalers was made up of men like him, they’d be better places to live in.”