m mSm 19 luiHr am B nil On fl- ub mm Hi llJi ■n mm H mu u to J ~0U Si \ C \\(a A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY I'O] I I \l I 01 I 111. A I I Ih >K A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY BEING FURTHER REMINISCENCES OF A WANDERING SAILOR-TROUBADOUR IN MANY LANDS BY A. SAFRONI-MIDDLETON AUTHOR OF " SAILOR AND BEACHCOMBER " fc WITH SIXTEEN ILLUSTRA TIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 191 6 PRINTED IN CHEAT BRITAIN BY THE RIVERSIDE TRFSS LIMITED EDINBURGH TO THE MEMORY OF MY DEAR COMRADE OMAR WHOM I BURIED IN THE AUSTRALIAN BUSH NORTHERN QUEENSLAND ALSO TO D. RAELTOA OF SAMOA AND TO MY MEMORIES OF MELODY AND MIRTH IN THE SOUTH SEAS FOREWORD "The path to hell is paved with good intentions." Looking reflectively over this second instalment of my autobiography, I perceive that I am such a genuine vagabond that I have even travelled along in my remini- scences without caring for the material niceties of recognised literary method ; so I have gone back over the whole track and tried earnestly to polish my efforts. It seems quite unnecessary for vagabonds to wear (metaphorically speaking) old trousers with fringed ends to the legs, penniless pockets, dusty boots, an unshaven face and dirty collar, or to give vent to the devil-may-care utterances and all the ungrammatical " politeness " of the phraseology of the grog shanty and bush hotels, when they attempt to live over again on paper the tale of their wandering life. I cannot reform the world into a population of convivial beach- combers, nor would I if I could, out of consideration for future vagabonds, who naturally want the outer spaces of the world for their special province. Neither can I make you believe I could have done better in a literary sense if I had taken more trouble with my book. But I can to some extent reform myself, and at least strive to compete with the literary aristocrats on the slopes of their own culti- vated ground. I am sure they will make good company if I succeed, and they will have been my best friends. Yes, I half believe in jumping out of bed on a cold night to hold a candle to the devil ! I know that sometimes while you stand shivering you discover that he's really not such a bad fellow, and the candlelight is likely to give you a glimpse of some faint resemblance in his wrinkled face, some far-off expression of that beautiful old life that he lived ere he sinned, became respectable and fell— banished from heaven. Life is a terrible contradiction ; we are dead because we FOREWORD are born alive. Our very creed is based on the sad fact that the cemetery tablets record the dates of the true beginning of life everlasting. The thundering city is a necropolis wherein multitudes of wandering corpses breathe, with inert souls and thoughts that are like night bats flitting through the sepulchres of our death, with dead eyes and dead mouths that open to cough and even sometimes laugh ! My book of reminiscences is (to me at least) like those silent, moss-grey tablets of immortality ; but even more wonderful and true (as far as I know), for, while I am dead, I can see my long ago. I can lift the stone slab from the grave in the silent night and gaze on the dead boy's face, and in a way make the dead eyes laugh and the voiceless mouth mutter and sing in a hollow voice old, far-away songs of love, romance and its comrade, grief. Yes, you and I can see such things. Oh, how ineffably sad to some of us ! You may wonder what all this has to do with the preface to a book of reminiscences. It has a lot to do with the matter, because I am a born vagabond, and the world is incorrigibly respectable ! There are about one hundred pages missing from this book — pages that should have told of the inevitable details of stern existence : those things that all men who are vagabonds experience, such as the stomach-rumbles of hunger, mon- strous hopes and misgivings, hospitals and illnesses, and cold nights sleeping out under the coco-palms and gum-trees when the wind suddenly shifts to a shivering quarter. Evil thoughts, heartaches, the tenderest wishes, passionate dreams, longings, and memories in the night of a woman's eyes, the fall before great temptation, atheistical thoughts, curses and religious remorses you will look for in vain. For, after all, I am not brave enough to tell the truth ! I might have done so if I had had the friendly, courageous publisher who would not cut them out of the original manuscript. But where is the publisher who would let me hide behind his influential bulk as he risked all and published the truth ? Yes, those things which would make the reader recognise the truth by his own responsive thrills. Well, I will risk my reputation on the opinions of those 10 FOREWORD critics who will be able to read the hundred pages I have left out. For real scallawags do not always leave the worst out only. Moreover, I may be lucky enough to find sympathy, for even critics are sometimes at heart genuine vagabonds, and they may realise that I have turned into the light of other days, the stars, the blue tropical skies, moonlit seas by coral reefs and palm-clad isles, and into the heart of intense dreams, to paint faithfully all that I tell. Before my North American experiences, which I have recorded in the opening chapters of this book, I had shipped before the mast of a sailing ship, the S p, at Sydney, N.S.W., intending to go with her round the Horn, and so home to England. But, being unable to tolerate the bully- ing chief mate and the offal-flavoured fo'c'sle food, I left the boat at 'Frisco and again shipped on an American tramp that was chartered for trading purposes to go cruising in the South Seas, where once more I had many ups and downs, and settled for a few months in the Fiji group and elsewhere. My reminiscences, and many of the incidents of that time, I have told in the second part of the present volume, which opens with " The Charity Organization of the South Seas." My South Sea Island legends and fairy tales have never been told elsewhere. I have written them as nearly as possible in the manner in which they were told me by the Samoan children and natives who were my friends. The mythology of the South Seas is unfortunately becoming almost completely forgotten by the natives, who now live under such different conditions, and seem only interested in the creeds, legends and mythology of the Western world. These experiences of mine are written from memory, and I have as nearly as possible kept them in the order that I lived them ; and if they seem far-flung for one as young as I was, let me assure you that hundreds of English boys have Iiad my experiences and could tell this tale. I am from a family of rovers. My uncles were travellers and explorers. My brothers out of the spirit of adventure all went to sea, and achieved success on sea and land through ii FOREWORD perseverance. My grandfather in his boyhood went to sea. (I believe he was born at sea. His mother was a lady of the Italian Court, noted for her beauty and an accomplished musician. ) He was a direct descendant of Charles, the second Earl of Middleton, whose estates were eventually confiscated by creditors — an evil destiny that has survived right down to the present, it having cropped up in the author's own affairs. I hope to follow this volume with another one, wherein I shall tell of my life when I settled for a while among civilised peoples and became respectable, and my serious troubles commenced. I have to thank Messrs Boosey & Company, of London, for permission to use certain extracts from my military band Entr'actes, Marches, etc., which they have published. A. S.-M. 12 CONTENTS CHAPTER I. IN BOSTON II. UNITED STATES MILITARY MUSIC III. I TRAVEL AND SELL BUG POWDER IV. MY BROTHER'S RETURN V. HOME VI. CHANGES IN SAMOA . VH. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON VIII. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON AND HIS FRIENDS IX. HONOLULU X. AN INLAND MARCH XI. AT SEA XII. CIRCULAR QUAY XIII. MATENE-TE-NGA XIV. MEMORIES AND REFLECTION . XV. THE LECTURER XVI. HOMESICK XVII. A NEGRO VIOLINIST XVHI. MY MANY PROFESSIONS XIX. YOKOHAMA XX. BOMBAY XXI. AT SEA IN DREAMS . 13 17 23 27 35 45 55 69 83 96 110 130 140 155 173 182 191 213 220 230 241 249 CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE XXII. I ARRIVE AT THE ORGANIZATION . . 261 XXIII. FATHER ANSTER .... 276 XXIV. BACK AT THE CHARITY ORGANIZATION . 289 XXV. AT NUKA HIVA .... 305 XXVI. A DECK-HAND ON BOARD THE " ELDORADO " 311 XXVII. MY ENGLAND .... 325 M LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Portrait of the Author Hongis Track, Rotorua, N.Z. . Whangarei Falls, North Auckland, N.Z. Wanganui River, N.Z. A River Wharf, West Africa . Kawieri, N.Z. .... Whakarewarewa, Rotorua, N.Z. Old Maori, said to be 105 years old . Half-Caste Maori Girls Lake Rotorua and Mokoia Island, N.Z. Settler's Home, Gold Coast . The First Motor-Car in a Gold Coast Village River Scene, West Africa Botanical Gardens, Ballarat . River Scene in New Zealand . Dart Valley, Lake Wakatipu, N.Z. . Frontispiece To face page 58 70 92 118 142 148 152 160 176 194 204 216 „ 238 246 272 The New Zealand photographs are by Mr F. G. Radcliffc, Whangarei, New Zealand. I 5 CHAPTER I In Boston — Song-composing — Looking for a Publisher — How I secured him — I visit Providence — I play in the Military Band — Hard up IN those old days of my youth an atmosphere of romance gathered from old novels and dreams still sparkled in my head. I am going to tell of the adventures that followed directly on my boyhood, when before the mast I had crossed the seas with eyes athirst for romance, looking for the wonderful, the beautiful in distant lands, in men and in women, and for that opportunity to perform those mighty, world-thrilling deeds that, alas, I have not even yet performed ! After much wandering in search of wealth and fame, following desperate trouble owing to schemes that failed in Australia and the South Sea Islands, I at length caught typhoid fever in San Francisco. With many misgivings I recovered. At last I found myself sitting in a top attic in North America. It was a humble little room, the atmosphere and surroundings the very thing to feed the fire of my aspir- ing mind, to force one to do better. Its one window-pane was broken ; the furniture consisted of an old table, a box chair, a candlestick and my extemporised bed on the floor ! I was in Boston, " the Hub of the Universe " ! My sea- chest and best suit were in pawn in San Francisco. My money had almost all gone, and my latest grand passion had faded. I had been practising the violin furiously day and night, for I hoped to become the world's greatest violinist. Yet at heart I still felt triumphant. The world seemed especially mine ! One thing only existence lacked — a kindred spirit to stand shoulder to shoulder by my side on some quest for glorious violence, adventurous thrills, voyag- ing across the uncharted seas of imagination. O too brief, splendid madness of youth ! Far below, outside my window, over the city's stone- b 17 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY slabbed streets, rattled vehicles, and the hurried, endless battalions of Yankee citizens passed by, seeking fortune or the grave. Gold seemed the incentive to all thrills ; human passion, hope and ambition seemed congealed into a mechanical state of steam, electric locomotion, and all that the almighty silver dollars would clink against. I also seemed to have frozen and become a part of the machine which is called civilisation. The songs of sails aloft, the noise of forest winds and soundings across deep waters, had faded from my dreams into a wail of selfishness. Imagina- tion is the soul of the Universe, and grief is its Bible ; but, alas, I felt a gross craving for food. So my ambition to outrival Paganini on the violin had subsided from its state of enthusiastic fire and had left in my heart a dull callousness. One intense wish survived : to get a sound pair of boots and a new suit ! Winter snows were only just melting, and much privation had considerably thinned me. I had done many things which I feel remain best untold. Necessity had inspired me with many original and desperate schemes, the latest of which was a determina- tion to compose songs. Music hall hits come, have their day, are whistled and sung by the elite and by the street- arab, and suddenly I thought, why should not I supply the public with those rotten melodies ? I would do it on original lines and give the American public something new. Did they not hail as brand-new old melodies that Wellington's soldiers sung at Waterloo and antiquated strains brought over by the passengers of the Mayflozver with one bar reversed and the title altered. I would jump from my bed at night and, throwing off my " blanket," which consisted of half-a-dozen old overcoats which my landlady had lent me, write down inspired strains and next day put them to suitable words, words with those sentimental and lascivious suggestions in them that suit the public taste — for the artist in me had sorrowed and become temporarily gross. I sought money more than the applause of musical critics. Boston publishers became familiar with my handwriting. I had about fifty rejected manuscripts with specially printed forms, notices that offered 18 I BECOME BUSINESS-LIKE me "' their ajjpreciation of my favours, and the editor's sincere compliments, and by the same post with many regrets they were returning the MSS." At length I thought my name was getting too well known : I was obliged to seek a nom de plume. With characteristic family cautiousness I hit on a name that was already famous in New York musical circles. My youthful innocence had almost passed, and I vaguely felt that to compete with the world I must deliber- ately stain myself with its contagion. Often my heart bristled with schemes as multitudinous as quills on a hedgehog's hide. I had composed an attractive melody and had placed suit- able words to it, but, notwithstanding my famous nom de plume, " Muller," I had had my manuscripts returned, torn in the post, the editor's marks indelibly damaging it, and too often a dark stain across the first page that looked suspiciously like editorial tobacco juice. Things began to look serious. I became, if possible, even thinner. My landlady's politeness became gross ; she thumped the door for rent. I was starving and only had a cake of common yellow soap. With the superhuman energy and pluck of aspiring youth I tried again, imitated the latest hit and sent the manuscript to " D & Co.," of Boston, a small publishing firm in a side street off 6th Avenue. I signed it with my nom de plume ; the initials differed by one letter from those of the original owner — I thought this necessary to save legal trouble. I waited three days. The post brought me no letter, so I wrote to the publisher and said : " Dear Sirs, — I am an Englishman on tour, and a member of the Carl Rosa Opera Company's orchestra. I may have to leave Boston at any moment, so, much against my wish, I must worry you for speedy consideration of my manuscript song, Breams of Eldorado, which I can get publicly per- formed in London town when I arrive back." Two days later, to my great delight, I received a letter asking me to call on D & Co. re my manuscript. The 19 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY very thought of my song reaching engraving and print thrilled me ; that I should be published in America at another man's expense seemed impossible ! A Vanderbilt- like feeling pervaded my being. I pawned my violin, paid my landlady a week's rent and gave the little blue-eyed daughter twenty-five cents to buy sweets with. I could have sung with joy. Next morning at ten-thirty I was to be at the publisher's office. By night the reaction set in. I be- came suspicious. Suppose it was all a ruse ! For had I not borrowed a famous name ? A thousand thoughts haunted me ; my musical ability seemed nil. I had no talent. I hummed my melodies over ; they seemed ridiculously tuneless. There was no doubt about it : the Boston publishers had seen through my scheme, had held a solemn council, and most probably would be waiting in that office to pounce upon me and charge me with my duplicity, and then God knows what they might do. On the floor all night the old overcoats moved and moved as I restlessly turned in my bed. I was numbed with awful suspicions and possible con- tingencies. I rose haggard and wretched, and against all my usual instincts sought a saloon and drank twenty-rive cents' worth of rum. With renewed courage I prepared to risk all. At ten o'clock I walked past a brass-plated door with D & Co. on it. Three times I passed it and then, walking crabwise, I went in. A little man with a skull-cap on got up and welcomed me. I hurriedly glanced round ; the ambushed publishers of my imagination faded as the girl typewriter yawned and clicked away. My erstwhile gloom blossomed to monstrous hopes. Negotiations commenced. " What did I usually ask for my work ? " he demanded. I blushed and hastily wiped my nose. "Will fifty dollars do ? " I answered. I eventually got five dollars for the song as a preliminary payment on royalties to come. Such royalties ! One cent on each copy sold after the first ten thousand advertisement copies had been given away and the second one thousand had repaid the actual expenses of the publication and engraving. Afterwards, too, I found out that to engrave a song of four plates cost the publisher five dollars. I trembled as I clutched the green five-dollar 20 A LACK OF TRUE BUSINESS CONFIDENCE bill. " Will he alter his mind ? " was my chief thought. " Does he think I am the great Muller ? " The publisher broke in on my thoughts. " Place your name there," he said, and I signed the imposing agreement, four times the length of my manuscript song. Readjusting his skull-cap and wiping his spectacles, he began to examine my signature. The weather was cold, but I started to perspire. Was he comparing my signature with Midler's ? It was an awful thought, and with a sickly farewell I bolted ! Hurry hi g down the main street, I longed to get out of sight with the dollars, but I heard a shout behind me ; my assumed name was loudly called : I turned ; my heart sank. I nearly fainted : the publisher was running after me. I clutched my money, determined to resist. The new great- ness thrust upon me by the sale of my song still remained with me. I could not humiliate my pride and run, though I longed to do so. With his little skull-cap askew, he stood puffing in front of me ! I gave one glance to warn him not to get too near my person, and heard him saying : ' ' Oh, excuse me, Mr Muller, I suppose you will be in Boston long enough to correct the proof ? " In a dream I reached my room, packed up my brush and comb, got my violin out of pawn and left Boston for Provi- dence, where my brother lived, who had left England years before. To my great regret I found, when I arrived, that he was away in California. No one seemed to know when he would return. I could not force my way into his bachelor rooms, and so I was once more on the rocks. I became acquainted with a young Swede who was musical and played the clarionet. Together we fixed up a small orchestra, went out to play at dances and so just managed to exist. We hired a large room in a hall near the Hoyle Buildings in Westminster Street ; made our own furniture out of meat tubs and our beds of old overcoats. My violin, with coats doubled on it, made an excellent pillow. With our heads side by side on it we slept as soundly as though we were in the Australian bush. I spent hours each day, and sometimes worked far into the night, practising 21 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY my violin and reading the lives of great musicians and writers. My brother, a crack violinist and a well-known journalist in the States, did not return for four or five months, and in the meantime our orchestra failed. My friend and I lived for a time on the free lunches of the grog saloons. North American saloon owners do not allow their customers to starve while they supply them with alcoholic poison, which is, however, fifty per cent, better than English spirit. For Americans are both humane and practical. They know that dead men do not buy rum, so the bars at luncheon hours steam with hot Frankforts, plates of cold meat, cheese and biscuits, provided without any charge to their customers. The honesty of Providence is illustrated by one fact alone — if you buy ten cents' worth of whisky they hand you a glass and the bottle, that you may help yourself. In London, Australia and the South Seas the grog-keeper would be ruined in a week if he ran his business on those lines ! You seldom see a woman in a grog saloon, and never drunk in the streets. Eventually I secured several jobs at concert halls. The pay was small, but, though other work was to be had, my temperament strongly objected to anything that needed muscular power. To tell the truth, I was ambitious. I longed to raise myself out of the ordinary ruck of things. However, when my Swedish friend got a job out at Pawtucket, digging post-holes, the high wages tempted me and I too started work there. Together we toiled for three weeks. Then once more I started composing, and had several pieces of dance music accepted in my own name. I arranged them as pianoforte solos, and one or two for the violin and piano. When the weather got warm I sometimes went out to Fort Hill, on the Seekonk river. The prairie-land of Rhode Island survives in variegated patches of miles of beautiful scenery, with rushing rivers, and landscapes dotted by wooden homesteads that remind one of New Zealand and the Australian bush-land. 22 CHAPTER II United States Military Music — The Roger Williams Park — Indians — Rhode Island Scenery and Amusements — Yankees — Experiences — A Miner from California IN Providence I made friends with a military band conductor. He was a jolly customer, hard up but good-natured and humorous, a real American band- master of the old convivial school, kind at heart and fond of good whisky. His greatest virtue was a commonplace one : he would always pay you back anything he borrowed, but unfortunately he was hard up and could not do so. He had every excuse for this, for, as elsewhere, bandsmen, indeed musicians in general, were supposed to be able to live on melody and royalties that might arrive in some remote future. I worked for him, borrowed my comrade's clarionet and secured a position in the military band. It played in Roger Williams Park, performing on the usual holidays and on sunshiny evenings. American conductors believe in vigour and fire when they perform, and sacrifice artistic pianissimo to force and go : on the march the bands lift you off your feet through the lilt of the music. The characteristic go-ahead of the Yankees is finely illustrated by the music they perform, and the military bands swing the population along as they march down the streets : men, women and children instinctively fall into line. A Picd-Piper-of-Hamelin fever seizes hold of the citizens ; the whole population is suddenly on the march as the band goes by. I played in the band on the Fourth of July, a day celebrated by fireworks and gun-firing. Americans go mad on that date, wear masks and do other hideous things ; it's a kind of Guy Fawkes celebration. The Roger Williams Park is partly wild and partly culti- vated, and artistically laid out with gardens and miniature landscapes that in summer-time are a paradise of flowers. 23 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY Various kinds of tropical-looking trees abound, in scattered clumps that arc haunted at sunset with bright, roving eyes : for springing from bough to bough jump swarms of big, wild, grey squirrels ; their brush tails, a foot long, stick up as they jump. The children are their boon companions, and come miles with lumps of cake and bread to feed their tiny, soft playmates ; for they are as tame as white mice, spring down from bough to bough and sneak a peanut off your hand, turn, brush your face with their tails and are gone ! In a second they are sitting on a skyward twig nibbling away at your gift, safe against the blue sky. I found a nest of them at Pawtucket Falls, a wild, beautiful spot near Rhodes. As I was looking at the fluffy youngsters the mother arrived and, to my astonishment, chased me away. At Pawtucket Falls, too, I met a group of travelling Indians, menagerie people I think, en route for somewhere. Fenimore Cooper and other Indian tales still interested me, so I talked to them and spoke to " Bull Face," a grave- looking chief, tawny and wrinkled with years, and clothed in a heavy brown blanket which swarmed with fleas. He spoke English as well as I did; but the South Sea Island breeds are far removed from the Indian tribes, both by blood and habit. I never sought his tribe again. I also saw Indians camping at Ochce Springs ; real Indians they were, with squaws attending to their wants as they blinked their eyes and gazed scornfully on the onlookers. Smoking their calamets, dressed in tribal fashion, they inspired me with curiosity. I cannot say that the women were as handsome as I expected, for they had stolid, broad, reddish-brown faces and expectorated frequently as they sucked clay pipes. A pretty little papoose tugged at its mother's breast, and did not look unlike a South Sea Island baby, excepting that its forehead was high and receding, and it had an impertinent European look. The women carry their suckling babes in a basket on their back : when the babe finishes pulling at the breast it crawls into the basket behind and goes to sleep until the next meal. I saw the papooses of another tribe too ; the children looked like little wrinkled old men, and you might have thought that they were small authors 2 4 PROVIDENCE SIGHTS sitting on their bundles of unaccepted manuscript, so worried did they look. Providence is a spacious city ; English towns are in the shade compared to it, and seem overcrowded and gloomy. The streets are wide; terraced store buildings on each side tower to the skies. Piazzas shade the pavements and the citizens from scorching sunlight and rain. America has built her cities on the improved plans of the Old World, and so has an advantage over London and our provincial towns. Room to breathe in is the natural birthright of America. Extensive parks, rushing rivers, and relics of primeval scenery surround the city, and divide the suburbs for miles and miles. No sign of poverty is betrayed by the well-dressed crowds that chatter cheerfully up and down the main streets; street- arabs are unknown. A Mile End woman of London town in rags, with bruised nose and eyes, walking down the street would create a sensation in Providence, and their weekly papers would devote an article to the distressing incident. Brilliantly lit saloons shine in the evening streets, and regiments of laughing youths and girls hurry to the various depots, bound for the ferry-boats on moonlight trips down the rivers. The bars are closed on Sunday, but men trust men, and more sly rum is drunk on Sunday than weekdays. Niggers with ebony faces mingle with the white population, wearing white collars which support their ears : a shabby nigger has never been seen in Providence. If you shoot a nigger and do not kill him you are in danger of getting six months in the State prison for wasting shot and powder ! Many of the characters you meet in American cities remind you of Englislmien, but you can never really forget that you arc in America. No true Yankee with self-respect allows you to quash his opinion. Nothing on earth can beat Pro- vidence, Boston, or any state you happen to be in. They will argue for ever ; and if you at length say anything that has indisputable conviction in it, a true Yankee will squirt a stream of tobacco juice with the deliberate intention of not missing you. Things of this kind worry you for a while, but you soon 25 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY fall into their ways, and if you are smart can outrival them on their own ground ; but you have got to be smart. To tell the truth, Americans have good reason to be proud of their states, and really have plenty to blow about. Literary critics have hinted that Bret Harte discovered his characters in his own imagination. I can on oath dispute that fact. Grim Mr Billy Goat Whiskers, who fought in the North and South wars, draws his munificent pension, chews tobacco and dwells in Providence to-day. You do not meet him everywhere, but he is to be met. In the grog saloons old miners from California told me their experiences, drew from their pockets photographs of gold nuggets and of gold claims that revealed small white dots in the far background — the tombstones of men who had thwarted them ! They were innocent-looking enough, these men scarred with wounds, tropic heat and bad rum. They followed the various occupations that suited aged heroes. One old miner from Alaska suddenly arrived in Providence quite penniless. His name was Cargo. Walking down Z Street, he spied the name of Cargo over a sign-writer's shop, walked straight in, spat on the floor, called the " boss," and tried to make him believe he was the ancestor of the family of Cargo, and the rightful owner of the business. He was immovable. They expostulated with him ; he would not go, so they gave him a job and thus saved legal proceed- ings in the High Courts of the state, and the expense of regiments of lawyers who would dispute the true owner's claim to his business. Providence is full of reminiscent men who tell of adventures that are wide and wonderful. If you are disinclined to go to the theatre you can always go into a bar and in peace and comfort sit within earshot of some grog-nosed hero of the old school, and find subject matter to outrival the romance of fiction. You must take good care not to let the old fellow know you are listening, otherwise he leaves facts alone and, with ill-concealed pride, makes your blood congeal with vivid descriptions of old days, murder and despair, or your mouth water for a breath of the fortunes that knocked around ere you were born. 26 CHAPTER III I travel and sell Bug Powder — Seeking my Wages — Pork and Beans — Reminiscences of Sarasate — I strive to outrival Paganini — Practis- ing the Violin — I am presented with a Round Robin — My Blasted Ambitions AS the hot months came round my money gave out. Work was plentiful in the numerous factories that throb and thunder with machinery in Pro- vidence, but such work was not congenial to my tempera- ment, and would ruin my fingers for violin-playing, as the post-digging job did. Nevertheless I should have availed myself of the opportunity had no alternative appealed to me. But my friend the conductor was a crank who was always producing some new scheme or invention that would assist him financially and augment his moderate musician's salary. One night he came to my diggings beaming with enthusiasm over a plan to make us both rich. He had invented a new bug powder : our fortunes were made ; all we had to do was to let the Providence public know the catastrophe that we had ready for these insects. Suburban houses in the States are generally made of wood that is specially suitable for the bug state. So the population of Rhode Island all have one secret ; and on dark nights in hot weather candle gleams and shadowy figures can be seen dodging on the windows of the tenements, as restless folk in their nightshirts smash bugs on the wooden walls. I write from experience. They creep down the walls in regiments, and while you sleep eat your eyelids ; if you wink they seek crevices, dart into your ears, and prepare for the next attack ! Closing your toes together swiftly at night in bed, you can be sure that you have squashed three or four American bugs. I have carelessly glanced at skeletons which I thought were ancient dead bugs on the walls in the room of my new lodgings, and then at midnight I have lit the candle, and down the walls were 27 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY marching battalions of old bug-skins ! They had smelt me, and the regiments on the frontier of my bedstead were already full blown with my blood. So it is obvious that a good insect powder would be a blessing in Providence. Well, my Swedish friend and I threw our musical instru- ments aside, and started on the bug powder business, full of hope. I had several musical compositions that I was ambitious to publish on my own account. I felt that Providence bugs had presented the tide in my affairs which I should take at the flood. With our pockets stuffed with a thousand bills, advertise- ments bearing testimonials from American presidents and English royalties who had stayed in America, my comrade and I tramped along with our hearts singing the excelsior song of happiness. We really lived in a paradise of ignor- ance and youth. " A rose by any other name would smell as sweet " is a true phrase, and happy, though selling bug powder, was equally true of us. We marched, singing, on the dusty, white track to Narragansett. In the suburban gardens that led to the front doors grew gorgeous flowers. I can still dream that I smell their fragrance, and see the dancing blossoms in the brilliant sunshine. Strange things darted over us, hovered near the blooms and moaned like big humble bees. They were humming-birds, glittering and flashing their vivid colours, outrivalling the flowers with their brilliant feathery garment. The sky was blue as a girl's eyes, and nearly as beautiful. We delivered the thousand bills and spent the rest of the day by a river. Wild fowl swam across it, and fresh from the eggs, with frightened eyes gleaming, the little ones paddled behind them. For miles the country was strewn with trees and houses, many of them made of wood, and at these especially we left three or four bills and at length disposed of the lot. When we called on my friend the conductor for a first instalment of twenty dollars for our services we found him out, but after several visits we caught him. He was pleased to hear that we had worked a full week and left five thousand 28 SEEKING THE REWARD FOR HONEST TOIL advertisements, but he put off the payment of our wages and borrowed my last five dollars ! We haunted him for days ; he was seldom home. My comrade and I sweated for miles and miles, seeking him at his various musical engage- ments ; but the man seemed gifted with second sight, for as we knocked at the front entrance he hurried off from the back and vanished. The bug business failed and he moved. Still we demanded our wages by post ; for he had left no address, and we hoped that the postal authorities would forward our pleading request. At last we found him. The sound of martial music came down D Street : a military band was leading a funeral procession, of some old soldier I suppose. There at the head of the band he blew solo cornet. We dared not approach him, but in our excitement we waved our hands. He winked in a friendly way as he passed on, and the strains of Chopin's Funeral March faded with our hopes. Eventually we caught him in a cul-de-sac, got ten dollars out of him and lived on pork and beans for a fortnight. Providence would be indeed stricken without pork and beans. As a rule they are not cooked, or rather baked, at home, but bought in jars, hot from the baker's oven, ten and twenty- five cents a jar. Crime is scarce in Providence, capital punishment abolished. If a citizen sat down to his meal and discovered no pork and beans, and slew the waiter, he would get off on extenuating circumstances. Well, to revert to the bug powder business, like all my commercial enterprises, it ceased on my receiving the ten dollars, and my employer the bandmaster told me, when I met him a month after, that 1 had made five dollars more out of the enterprise than he did. This brings me to another friend, a Sioux Indian, who was married and lived in the next rooms to my own. His wile, a white woman, took in washing and kept him. I used to sit in the evening and listen to his opinion of the States. llis whole soul hated the Yankees. I once praised the Americans and their cities. He was down on me in a flash. '* I am the true American," he growled, " and the day will come when we shall get our country back." I did not argue the point with him ; his old wife kept him, and he showed 29 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY base ingratitude by his opinions. He was educated and well dressed, and revealed to me, by all his conversation, the same kind of spite for the foreigner that I had noticed in the South Seas. Notwithstanding that the States had been peopled by whites so long, still the Yankee was an interloper and the robber of his country. He was not a bad old Indian, and was a friend to me during my stay at his tenement. Just before I took his rooms I went to Boston to hear H , a celebrated violinist who was performing there ; I was anxious to hear if he was as wonderful as the review notices made him. I do not think I have ever heard such fine playing equalled even. He played Mendelssohn's concerto, and swayed the legato strain out till it sang like a rivulet of silver song as the deeper notes mellowed to a golden strain as perfect in quality as the sunset lyre-bird of Australia. I have heard Sarasate, Ysaye, Joachim and many others, but no one with a better tone and intonation, except Sarasate, who played like some inspired magician off the concert stage. I heard him play at his villa in Biarritz, where I had the pleasure of receiving a gratuitous lesson from the celebrated maestro. " No, like this," he said, as I played one of his own compositions : then he lifted his violin to his chin, and looked out of the villa's latticed window as he played and rippled out a sparkling chain of diamond-pure notes and then literally swooned into the adagio. I never had the courage to j^lay that particular piece after. After hearing that violin virtuoso at Boston I became enthusiastic and returned to Providence. The fever was on me. Again I determined to be the Avorld's greatest violinist ! I almost wept at my wasted life on sea and shore. What might I not have been now, thought I, had I been practising the violin all those thousands of days instead of making sailors and South Sea Island savages my comrades ? I went to the music stores and purchased the American editions of Petrie's Studies, and Paganini's Twenty-four Etu des- Caprices. In my room, over the old Indian's, I commenced. At daybreak I jumped each morning off my trestle bed and started practising. At first I tackled the Caprice which is 30 THE ENTHUSIASM OF ART double-stopping throughout. In a week I had got it off. I had long fingers, otherwise I should think it an impossibility. All day I bowed away. My furniture consisted of a music- stand, the Etudes, my bed and me 1 When I look back and think of my wonderful perseverance, it seems almost in- credible. True and wonderful is the energy and happiness that aspiration brings to youth ! Day after day I worked away at the studies with almost demon-like fury. Soon my chin had a great scab on it where the violin rested as I ground out the double-stopping sweeps, arpeggios and staccatos. I became thin and haggard-looking. I greedily devoured the lives of great violinists, among them Pagan ini and Ole Bull ; also, after long intervals, pork and beans, as the old Indian below-stairs cooked them. He soon looked upon me as a sad kind of madman. I would gulp down the beans, look at his old grandfather clock and rush upstairs, then once more grind away, determined to make up for lost years. I saw the mighty crowds at concerts to be, applaud- ing my wonderful playing ! I was a new Paganini. Ah ! how I remember it all. Through excessive playing the corns on my finger-tips became so hard that I could not feel the strings ! My nervous system was soon wrecked, and my brain became ethereal with dreams — music was the all in all of life. People who did not play the violin were insanely ignorant. Inspired, I extemporised melodies as I bowed and toiled away during the night hours: the day was not sufficient. The doors of the next tenement would suddenly bang, and strange tappings soimd on the walls. I opened the window at midnight. I thought my double-stopping assuredly entranced the neighbours. It was hot weather, their windows were open too. In my imagination I thought I was playing to crowded houses. I heard the applause. Do you think I exaggerate ? Believe me, I could never write down the depth, the magnificence, of those enthusiastic dreams. Only those who have felt as I felt, and were once inspired with ambition as I was inspired, will know exactly all that I felt, and all that I dreamed. One day ten solemn-looking American citizens appeared outside the door of the Indian's tenement ; they wanted 3i A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY to see me. My name was called. 1 laid the violin down. I had no friends. Had my brother arrived ? Strange thoughts flitted through my brain. Had people come as a special convoy to praise my extraordinarily fine playing ? I opened the door and, white-faced and tremulous, I stared at a grey-bearded, solemn-looking old man who acted as spokesman. He presented me with a round robin. Fierce faces were looking over his shoulders ! Two or three hundred signatures were there, the landlord's signature looked the boldest ! I was either to stop playing the violin or give up the premises and move at once. This was a terrible blow to me. I should lose a day's practice if I had to tramp about looking for another room. I hated the world. Men were hard and mercenary. Only violinists and musicians had souls. I looked at my violin ; it was my dear, abused comrade, and I clung to its reputation more than ever. No mother on earth ever leaned over her child with thoughts that outdid the tenderness of mine as I leaned over my tiny, responsive comrade, silent in its coffin-shaped bed. The dead child of my musical aspirations it seemed to me, for they were gone, and my mighty ambition lay a dead failure. Oh, you aspirants, you musicians and poets of this world, all you who love art for art's sake, for you, and you alone, I write this. You will understand; you are my brothers. I can wish you more success, but no greater happiness than the delirium, the ecstatic joy that was mine when I sought to become the world's greatest violinist. I became melancholy : my incessant practice and irregular meals had, for the time being, destroyed my nerves. I thought of my schooldays and my life at sea, and longed for my boyhood's days in the Australian bush. I remembered the kingly stockman and his wife, and the surrounding bush loneliness ; the leafy gum clumps and the parrots roosting in them ; and the hours when I sat on the dead log by the scented wattles in the hollows and watched the fleets of cockatoos like tiny canoes fade away in the sunset. I heard in dreams the laughter of the romping bush children as I raced them down the scrub-covered slopes, and I longed for those ambitionless days to come again. 32 MEMORIES I can still see the forest trees All waving in the dusk, As scents drift on the wandering breeze, From wattle-blooms and musk ; And o'er the mountains far away Where home the parrots flock, Roams through the sunset's crimson ray The drover with his stock. The old bush homestead by the sea Still stands, the front door swings As on the tall, gaunt, dead gum-tree The magpie sits and sings. There, by the door, the stockman sits And smokes ; as on her rug His pale wife sits just by and knits — His beard three children tug ! And as I stand and, dreaming, gaze, The years have taken wing, And from my heart out of old days Comes this sad song I sing. That garden where those children ran, Raced me, laughed, screamed with joy, Is overgrown — and I, a man, Have overgrown the boy. I know the redwood's forest height Of branches thrilled with words, All laden with God's golden light- Songs of soft, bright-winged birds — Has blazed to ash in homestead fires Of cities o'er the plains ; Of all those woods and sweet desires This poem now remains. Sweet Ellen, curled hair and brown eyes, I loved her pretty ways ; And as I dream sad heart-mists rise From those wild boyhood days. My love was half a passion then, That pure love God earth gave — It comes in after years to men For someone in a grave. 33 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY Their shanty where I sweetly slept And heard the night-birds' screams — As thro'- the scrub the dingo crept — Has rotted into dreams. Now thro' the hills the echoes fly Of hearts o'er shining rails — The night express fast thundering by That brings the English mails ! Yet often I go back again To where the homestead stands ; I gaze in eyes thro' mists of pain And clasp old shadow hands ; Kiss Ellen, Bertha and Lurline : Those pretty children three May some day read these lines of mine And all remember me. 34 CHAPTER IV My Brother's Return — Scenery — Old Providence — Robert Louis Stevenson — New York — At Sea — The Change IN August that year I at last received a letter from my brother, telling me he had left California and would arrive in Providence in a few days. I was delighted, for I was then completely on the rocks, having spent all my earnings on buying a violin bow and a stock of music ! My comrade the Swede promised to come with me to meet my relative at the station. The next day we stood on the platform together at eleven o'clock. The telegram said 12.30 p.m., but we were young and eager. We rubbed our hands with joyful anticipation as we stood there anxiously watching. Our funds were low and my brother had performed a miracle — he was a poet and journalist, and had made money out of his profession. When the train steamed in and the saloon car door opened I recognised at a glance the characteristic contour of the family face, though I had not seen my brother since we were children. I rushed forward overjoyed, and the welcome of brotherhood smiled in his expression. Six feet in height, and correspondingly athletic in appearance, he was well able to carry his own portmanteau, but privations and thoughts of affluence from his exchequer inspired me. Impulsively I seized it ! Years of residence in the States seemed to have changed his original nationality and the accent of his speech. He stood smiling before me, a Yankee of the aristocratic type. His keen grey eyes stared at my shabby clothes : the situation was evident to him at a glance. In a store by the civic centre, with an entrance that looked like the south nave of the Crystal Palace, my comrade and I were measured for new suits. Words could not express my gratitude. With this lightening of my financial cares I felt the dim 35 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY delirium, the exuberance, the faint revival of my old romantic glamour return ; the world seemed beautiful after all. My Swedish friend was delighted too, and smiled from ear to ear. I can still see his tall, lanky figure, and his merry round blue eyes as he puffs and tootles away on his beloved clarionet. Ah, how happy we were, marching on, carelessly unfulfilling the great promise of youth while we were yet youthful ! Yet what is the good of promise fulfilled when youth is gone, when the glamour has faded, and you look through the grim spectacles of reality at the rouged cheeks of blushing truth and beauty ? Oh, to remould this scheme of life, and be born old ! To travel with Time and grim experiences down the years towards cheerful, glorious youth, back, back to the innocence and beauty of child- hood's dreams ! To die full of hope and fond beliefs — and let the true believers travel the other way ! I know not where we went or why we went. I only know that my brother embraced the occasion and caught the vagabond fever ; and that our valet, an old Turk (who kept swearing that he wasn't an Armenian), sang jovial songs that were musically reminiscent of his harem days as he stumbled and struggled behind us, carrying our bundles of fruit, new suits, bouquets of flowers, and my long-wanted expensive copyright Etudes, Petrie's Violin Studies, and all that sudden and unexpected affluence inspired us to buy. I recall, too, how we were walking up the brilliantly lighted main street when a negro, who was anxiously watch- ing for the editor of a Providence journal (that had criticised his lodging-house and the lady lodgers who kept such late hours), suddenly whipped out a revolver and fired. The editor had appeared at his door and received a bullet in his face, but he too had a revolver — probably he had been expecting the negro's compliments — and he fired back and blew all the negro's front teeth out. The next bullet from the negro's revolver went through the Violin Studies which I held by my side, and but for the fortunate ricochetting of the bullet 1 should not now be able to write my remini- scences ! I think the negro recovered from his wound and the editor was severely reprimanded for not hitting a vital 36. CIVILIZATION IN TIMBUCTOO ! spot. For the sins of negroes arc dwelt upon like the sins of the poor relation, and I must admit that negroes are sometimes almost as bad as white men. There were no moving pictures in those days to perpetuate the episode, but still it is flashed vividly before my mind's eye. I see the three races of good fellowship, my tall brother and myself, between us my lanky Swede comrade, and, just behind us, straight-nosed Turkey struggling along on bandy legs. Equipped with argosies of youthful dreams, pitching the moon and stars and sun from hand to hand, with rollicking song on our lips we fade away down the uncharted seas of Westminster Street, Providence ! — to awaken on dim shores of cold daybreak as once more I kneel and take the sacrament before the grim, mock-eyed old priest — Reality ! When I was twenty years and one month old — how long ago it seems ! We visited most of the fashionable places of interest, went almost everywhere, through the Open Sesame of my brother's liberality. And that is saying a good deal, for theatres and palatial halls of amusement abound. There's "The Gaiety," "The Colonial," "Hippodrome," "Sans Souci," " Bijou," and heaven knows how many more, wherein the cheerful multitudes of R.I. folk scream with laughter and weep over unreal dramas. I no longer played the monotonous second fiddle in the orchestra of the music hall ; we sat, a happy trio, the smiling occupants of orchestral stalls, where I saw the Indian squaw fade to a shadow and die rather than sell her honour ; and the American missionary weep over the grave of the half-caste Zulu in Timbuctoo who had died sooner than he would drink rum ! Here was no painting of true life, no dramatic, realistic scene showing the besotted derelict who died far away in the isolation of some alien land — the man from nowhere, who took the wrong turning twenty years before, being hurried into his roughly made coffin : then his two lonely comrades watching the sunrise gleam in his dead eyes, and the half-boyish smile on the silent lips, as they place the coffin lid on, and creep along at daybreak, carrying him under the mahogany-trees to the hole by the swamp. They say a prayer and murmur: "Pity, Bill, that 37 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY we left the bottle of whisky by his bed. Didn't he rave about someone in the old country ? Wonder what 'twas all about. The weather's hot. Buried him rather quick, eh ? Here's the cross : ' Bill.' No name. ' Died of Fever, Remembered by Us.'" Moonlight ferry trips, picnics, concerts and songs are as characteristic of Providence as of the South Sea islanders of Samoa and Tonga. One difference divides the Providence population from the islanders — the natives of Providence wear clothes ; but the Yankee mechanics outdo the Savaii and Fiji islanders in tobacco-chewing, and can spit over their shoulders with even swifter certitude than my sailor com- rades of San Francisco, whom I told you about in my first book of South Sea reminiscences. Boating is an essential feature in their amusements. Rhodes-on-the-Pawtucket is crammed with boats. On sunshiny days thousands of youths and girls paddle and sing away, and never reflect on the time when Red Indian canoes darted in the moon- light over those same waters. My comrade was still with me, and we got several engage- ments to play at dances and concerts. My brother was in the ring, so to speak, and so we were received with an enthusiasm that we had greatly missed when we really wanted it. My friend eventually, however, went off to Alaska to some relations. He promised to write to me, but I never heard of him again. My brother owned, and still owns, I hope, estates called Cranston Heights, an elevated, breezy place. On the hottest day a sleepy wind creeps about them. From that spot you can gaze down into the valleys and see a wall of cliffs about an eighth of a mile long, rising a hundred feet high. There on a large boulder, known as Middleton's Rock, my brother and I would sit reflectively smoking long Yankee corn-cob pipes, as we reclined, shaded by umbrellas of green-leafed trees from the hot sunlight. We sat there talking and dreaming of years ago when the Indians camped on Cranston Heights. I think my brother could outrival Fenimore Cooper and Cody in his knowledge of Indian history and the legends of the original tribes that owned 38 LAND OF KING PHILIP America. Stone arrow-heads and Indian pottery to this day are often found there, and my brother showed me several relics which were dug out of his estate. Rhode Island was of course originally an Indian settle- ment. Forests grew by the rushing rivers, and on the prairie landscapes stood native villages. The dominion was under a King Philip, and the island is sometimes called, for poetical purposes, " Land of King Philip." The forests have succumbed to the woodman's axe, though still patches of woods and prairie-land are left, and it was in that clump that I sat and played my violin and dreamed sometimes. Still the beautiful rivers run across the landscapes like veins of silver and gold fluid, glittering under the leafy clumps of beech, maple, hickory and many varieties of trees that resemble tropical types. The waters of those old rivers, like the coming and passing of singing humanity, have long since slipped into the distant seas, but still other waters flow on and are known by the ancient Indian names. The Seekonk river winds through Providence and throws its liquid mass into Narragansett Bay. From Cranston Heights you can see the exquisite scenery that is characteristic of the neighbourhood of Providence ; across the valleys the hills fade before the eyes into dreamy distances as sunset floods the horizon. If you are poetical you can see the ghostly camp fires and dead Indian riders galloping and fading into the arched sunset of blood fire. The view reminded me of a South Sea modern shore village, for here and there were dotted bungalows, fenced by trees and green shrub and flowers. Things have altered a good deal since those days, for I have recently visited Providence. Mr J , whose palatial bungalow was among them, is one of Rhode Island's greatest business men, and his commercial success is deserved, through his unassuming philanthropy. He has given a great deal of land, parks and drives to Providence. I think it was in Mcshanticut Park, one of his gifts to the city, that I met with an adven- ture. The weather was hot, and I spied a small lake by some trees. Immediately I undressed and, though my brother expostulated, I dived into the water : the park 39 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY officials came and arrested me, but my brother explained and I got off with a caution. Years of wild life in the South Seas had taught me to bathe where and when I liked, and I had yet to learn that park lakes in Providence were not as lagoons on the isles of the wild South Seas, wherein the whole population bathe without even the modest fig leaf, gossip, mention the weather and go their ways. Oaklawn is another pretty spot. I stayed there with some of my brother's friends, at Wilbur Avenue, I think. There is a little wooden bridge thereabouts, not far from an old stone mill. Near this spot in the old days a great Indian battle was fought, and there by that little bridge my brother would sit for hours, writing his articles for the provincial and New York papers. It was at Oaklawn Bridge that I sat and told my brother of my various boyish experiences in the South Seas, of the island chiefs, and of my reminiscences of Robert Louis Stevenson, whom I had met at Apia and on ships at sea. My brother was deeply interested in all I told him. He was a great admirer of Stevenson's work and his perfect literary style. We talked of Stevenson's easy and careless manner that seemed such a contrast to his perfection and polish in writing. How he did not care a tinker's curse for the opinion of the conventional world, and loved to shock visitors to Samoa by appearing before them suddenly in old clothes, bare-headed and bootless. I saw him come aboard a ship dressed in that way ; and I recalled how, on another occasion, I met him coming down the track inland from Saluafata, the native village. " Hello, youngster," he said ; and, as I was going his way, off we tramped along the track together as he hummed beside me. Then, with the sunset, out came the native children rushing from the forest. Like tiny ghosts they glided, begging, in the shadows at our legs as we strode alone ; and as Robert Louis Stevenson threw brass buttons to them, they raced after them, and then, half frightened that he might want to reclaim the prizes, they suddenly disappeared, racing back into the forest. The sunset died behind our backs and the stars crept over the Vaea Mountain top and the dark-branched 40 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON'S GRAVE coco-palms each side of the track ; the shadoAvs thickened as the stars brightened. So well do I remember that night that even now I seem to see my companion striding onward beside me, his loose neck-cloth fluttering in the wind that drifts in from the sea, stirring the coco-palms and pungent- smelling forest flowers as it passes. Still I see his ghost-like shadow, the clear eyes, the thin, aesthetic face ; still he is humming a folk-song, while his right hand beats the moonlit bush with a stick — and yet he has lain there many years on the top of the Vaea Mountain — his rugged island tomb railed by the dim sky-lines of surrounding tropical seas, his vaulted roof the everlasting sky, studded with the brightest stars, as he lies with his stricken aspirations like some dead Christ of the lost children of the wild, solitary South. A critic in The Times, reviewing my first book, Sailor and Beachcomber, after writing a column of critical apprecia- tion, finished up by saying : " Mr Safroni-Middleton prides himself on having known Robert Louis Stevenson in the South Seas." My book has three hundred and four pages: on three of them I spoke of Stevenson ; but I fail to see why I should pride myself on knowing him, except in this sense, that I am proud to have met him and to count him among the many men who followed after my own heart. If he had not died before I returned, a little older, to Samoa, he would have welcomed me as I should have welcomed him ; for he had several times expressed a wish that I should call on him and take my violin, but in the foolishness of a boy's thoughtlessness I did not go. Worldly greatness did not appeal to him, nor did my letters of intro- duction, for I had none, and he was, I am quite sure, aware of the fact. Well, to return to my experiences in North America. After a time I left Providence, and then went down the Hudson river bound for New York. There I stayed in a temperance hotel close to the Bowery, and I cannot forget the scene. Along winding avenues that divide the towering wooden buildings rushed battalions of hurrying legs. The noise of car bells and gongs and the babel of shouting voices assailed my ears. All the races under the sun seemed to have 4i A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY emigrated to that spot to fight in scheming regiments for the almighty dollar. White men, Chinamen, black men, tawny men, yellow men, Armenians, Turks, Germans with thick necks — all were there. Over my head rushed express trains. No space seemed wasted. Indeed the Yankees in their commercial search for gold peg out claims in the sky, claim square miles of stars, as up go their buildings to the heavens. By the second-storey windows on elevated railway tracks crash along the trains. In those days they ran by steam, and the coal-dust showered down your neck and in your eyes as you moved along with the thick crowd below ; a crowd so dense that you could shut your eyes, make no effort, and still be propelled along in the mighty rush, as you dreamed of other days of peace and solitude ! I went across Brooklyn Bridge by night : swung on mighty steel cables, it dangles in space and has several divisions for vehicles and pedestrians. Below rushed the ferry-boats on the Hudson river, their port -holes ablaze with light, and the sound of music on deck fading as they passed underneath, iicross the bridge hurried electric cars, racing along by the mechanical genius of man's brain, the light of the Universe — the stars switched on to wheels ! I only stayed one week in New York, for I met an old shipmate whom I had sailed with from Sydney. He was on a tramp steamer. One of the deck hands had gone into hospital, so I yielded to my friend's persuasion, went on board, secured the job and signed on. For the rest, it is all like a dream now : I can hear the rattle of the rusty chain as they haul the anchor up, and the uncouth, shrill calls of the pulling crew rising above the clamour of the steam winches, just before the tramp steamer moves away from the wharf to put to sea. New York and its babble of voices with their nasal twang, its vast drama of scheming existence in a feverish hurry, fades away and becomes a memory of some monstrous " magic shadow show " lit by the sun far off somewhere across the lone sea miles astern. The sea routine has commenced : deep down in the stoke- hold firemen with cadaverous faces turned to the furnace blaze are toiling away. They look like shadows in the 42 AT SEA flame-lit gloom, like dead men working out their penance in hell. Attired in pants and a sweater only, with their hairy chests steaming with running perspiration, they work furiously. Their conversation is made up chiefly of oaths and forcible criticism on the lack of generosity they found in Bill or Jim, who only stood them ten drinks ashore, after all they had treated them to on that first spree night of the last trip. They are not bad men, and as they spit out the coal-dust in a thick mass from their stained lips, and take a gulp of condensed water to quench their thirst, I feel deeply sorry for them, and realise that they are the unsung heroes of the sea. I look at the row of unshaved faces thrust forward to the roaring fires, and at their shrivelled hands and big arms moving the long steel stoking bars, and wonder at the marvellous strength and virtue of the hard-working ship's firemen. On deck, like iced wine to my lips, I drink in the fresh sea breeze. It is dark. I cannot turn in, for I should not sleep, so I go into the fo'c'sle and watch the sailors playing cards, then return on deck and look over the ship's side. Under the pendulous, curved moon — for it seems to sway to the roll of the rigging — the mate's form moves to and fro as he tramps the bridge. The sailing ship that we sighted on the weather-side at sunset is now only a tiny travelling star low down on the ocean darkness far astern, where her mast head-light shines. The weariness of the sea's monotony is on me ; wc have been to sea long enough to be half-way across the Atlantic. The weather is much colder. The moon is large and low, and looks like a ghostly arch to the south, for it seems half submerged far away on the edge of the ocean, that seems shivering for miles with silver mystery. Just over the side I watch the mirrored masts and rigging glide along with us as though a ghostly ship is following ; and the hours fly and dawn breaks greyly, and once more the tramp steamer is surrounded by blue sky-lines, till sunset sinks to a wild blaze in the western arch of the sky. The sailors go on watch. The cook washes his pots and pans ere he cuts his corns and turns into his bunk. 43 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY The wind's voice murmurs mournfully in the rigging and round the bridge awnings ; as the night grows older it swells to a tremendous voice that is really me ! for it is the re-echo of my own hearing and dreaming consciousness. I fancy I hear the hounds of death racing across the wild sea moors as shadows dropping from the flying clouds go running over the moonlit sea, and now, as though a door in the sky is opened, the stars and moon are driven and shut away in the outer Universe. For a mighty sheet of storm-cloud slides across the heavens. The world is changed to an infinity of dark and wind, and the one dim figure of the look-out man on the fo'c'sle head. The thundering seas slowly rise with their white crests glowing in the ebon darkness as the brave old tramp steamer, like a frightened thing, stays her way a moment, and shivers as seas strike the weather bow. Then again she pitches onward, as wonderful little men, with bony, haggard faces with weary eyes in them, stare into the furnace fires of the steamer's bowels, and shovel and stoke to sustain an honest existence, and drink tank water. No wonder they drink beer when they get the chance. I am quite sure I should. A week later we sighted the cliffs of England, and soon after the sea tramp touched the wharf at Liverpool with a jerk and a shiver, and went to sleep among a forest of masts and funnels till her next trip. 44 CHAPTER V Home — On an Orient Liner — The Orchestra — A Sailing Ship — Paganini — Port Said — Honolulu AGAIN I am home and meet familiar faces, and enjoy the sweet security of home life and respectability ; but soon the flight of time brings its inevitable changes both to my feelings and to those around me. I am no longer the prodigal son and a romantic novelty to the many who welcomed me at my arrival in the monotonous suburb ; but nevertheless we are all moody companions in the sad drama of respectability. I had made up my mind to go travelling no more, but my good resolutions have faded away, and my whole soul is centred on inventing the best excuse for my not being able to accept the good position in London that will make me, at last, the respected son of a respected father. Well, I feel a bit ashamed of my incorrigible personality, and yet how much my soul is burdened with the thought that I must aspire to higher things, and go off to the city each day like Mr W.'s son does, to sit on a stool. I can never be the pride and joy of the family, and as I sit alone and dream I am miserable with dim forebodings. On the back of the chair is my very high white collar and the smart tweed suit, and by my washstand my beloved fiddle. Just over it, on a peg by my bed, is my big- rimmed Australian hat. Alas ! that hat speaks of tropical sunshine and coco-palms. I can hear the arguing voices of bushmen in the grog shanty by " Bummer's Creek," and the trade wind in the shore banyans as the beachcomber laughs and nudges his pal in the ribs. I cannot sleep, for the parrots are flying and muttering across the sky of my dreams ; I hear the crack of the stock- whips on the slopes as the scampering, flying sheep go racing across my bedroom floor. I close my eyes, and the natives start singing in the Fijian village, and the drums are beating 45 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY the sunset out ere I am wide awake, through the civilised jingle of the milkman's cans in the cold, windy street below. The last dark wintry morning arrives. It has all been settled. I have signed on for a voyage as violinist and assistant purser on the Orient liner the Britannia. I am to catch the 4 a.m. train to London Bridge. How dark and cold it is as I get up and dress, then go up the next flight to kiss my three sisters a last good-bye. They lift their sleepy heads and put their arms around my neck. ' Good-bye, Tiggy," they say once again, as I gently close their bedroom door and go downstairs. My father helps me on with my overcoat, and says very kind words. I try to answer, but my voice sounds husky and I keep placing the wrong arm in my overcoat sleeves. Now comes the greatest task of all, a task that will tax all my courage. I strive to hide my weakness and make a joke about the bad penny turning up again soon, and then neither of us speak, and once again I kiss her lips, the lips of the most beautiful woman this world ever gave me. I hurry down the streets. I am glad it's dark, for my eyes feel weak, and the windy light of the lamp- posts seem to swim about the street spaces. I am haunted by her face all down the Channel that night, for she caught my soul adrift among the stars ere I was born, and my heart still sings a sad song for the woman who was my mother. There is a deal of sameness on a large liner's trip to the colonies. But for the complication of characters among the passengers and crew, and the ports that we put into on the voyage out, the passage would be extremely monotonous. Forward, near the fo'c'sle, was the glory hole, between decks, wherein slept the crowd of stewards and cooks. They were a jolly lot of men, and when the steerage and fore- cabin passengers had finished their evening meal they would sit on their sea-chests yarning or playing cards far into the night. Sometimes they would sing songs, accompanied by the twang and tinkling of the assistant cook's banjo ; and older men, who were tired out, thrust their fierce faces out of their bunks and swore at being kept awake, as once more the wild chorus of / owe Ten Shillings to O'Grady 46 THE DRIFTING ARMY reechoed through the "glory hole." Sleepless passengers up on deck clapped their hands with pleasure to hear the mono- tony broken, as the big pistons in the engine-rooms throbbed out their incessant pom-pe-te-pom, and the screws thrashed the racing liner across the world. In the morning at four- thirty the men would be dead to the world in their bunks as the second steward started shouting : " Now then, you sleepers ! Now then, you sleepers, rise and shine ! ' or " Come out of it, you young b ! " and so on, as sleepy heads lifted up in the rows of bunks and then dropped helplessly again. Some were romantic boys who had read autobiographies, and some middle-aged men who had sickened of the workman's train and drifted to sea. In the evenings I played the violin in the saloon and deck concerts aft, beyond the dividing rope which was the boundary line that told the fore-cabin passengers that they must not approach the elite in the first saloon. Our orchestra consisted of three violins, 'cello, bass, and the usual brass and wind. I had an easy time, and often till midnight would stand on deck watching the stars and the world of waters below, and listening to the voices of passengers on deck outward bound for Australia, to find fame and fortune — or ill fame. I became very friendly with a member of our ship's band, the solo cornet player. He was a quiet, elderly man, turning grey, and had once been a player in the orchestra of the Lyceum Theatre. A fine all-round musician he was too. He would sit on deck after dark, put a mute on his instrument, and extemporise melody and make it sound like a sweet- voiced girl singing softly to herself. He had the real tem- perament, and had received a first-class musical education. Nothing reveals character, the intellectual calibre of the instrumental player, so much as the type of composition that makes up his private repertoire. For in that he only plays the compositions which appeal to him. Some are devoid of personality and only perform the stock pieces that are fashionable. Others revel in melody that tells of the light side of life, its gaiety, or the pathos of dramatic existence on the stage, the tragedian's mock grief before the foot- 47 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY lights ere the curtain falls. Others find their musical heaven vaguely expressed by playing those pieces that seem to murmur, as a sea-shell murmurs of the ocean, that indefin- able note of poetry, the voice of the unknown, the intense inner life of our existence. My friend was one of the latter kind. He gave me many useful hints which I profited by, (as I often did in my travels), and so received a free musical education, the only music lessons I ever really had. But for the throb of the engines and thrashing screw, the vessel's motion, and the stewards' sea-legs aslant to the deck's list as they walk the saloons and cabin alley-ways, you could half think you were in some subterannean hotel. Travel on a liner, and the wild poetry of the sailing ships swerving to the swell of travelling seas, the climbing sailors aloft singing their chanteys among the storm-beaten sails, the flying clouds overhead that race the moon, all seem to be something that you dreamed of, or lived through ages ago. Sea-boots and oilskins seem mythical things that faintly recall your yellow-backed old buccaneer novels, or the days when Drake sailed down the seas. Officers on the P. & O. liners speak with university polish. " Ay, ay ", " Hold hard ! ", " Look out, you son of a sea- cook ! ", "Holy Moses!", "Up she comes", "All together ! ", " Let go ! ", "Haul the mainsail up ! ". This is all changed now to " Make haste, Mr Pye-Smith " and " Yes, sir, I beg your pardon. What a draught ! ". Or a bell tinkles down in the engine-room, and the mammoth liner, like a mighty iron beast, slows obediently to half-speed, stops, or slashes her tail and goes full speed astern, without one song or oath. The stormy night and head-wind, the huddled group of sailors in oilskins singing their wild chantey, O, O, for Rio Grande, on deck in the windy dark as they bend together and pull while the vast monotone of the ocean becomes the orchestral accompaniment to voices from strong, open, bearded mouths, and your world of stars suddenly veers as the dark canvas sails and yards swerve round ; the chief mate shouting, " What the blazing hell Ay, there ! '• as on the wind comes faintly back, " Ay, ay, sir, all clear ! " : 48 A SAILING SHIP this smacks more of the sea. Why, on a sailing ship, the very sea-cook at the galley door, amidships, clutching his pans, gazing across the "wild, lonely waters, where the leaping, white-bearded waves seem like old misers' hands plucking at the sunset's gold, is sheer downright poetry compared with the electric-lighted saloon crowded with munching, over-fed men and women with moving mouths and pince-nez on their respectable noses. The sailing ship has its rough, uncomfortable side, for well I remember my last trip from 'Frisco round the Horn, when I stood on deck at night, with deadly cramp gripping my legs, my eyebrows frozen together, my nose pinched and blue with cold, the decks awash and our sea-chests afloat in the fo'c'sle and deck-house. I recollect the cook holding on to his pots and pans and swearing as only an old-time boat- swain, and that cook, could swear as we begged for a panni- kin of hot coffee : stuff that tasted like heaven-sent life-blood to our frozen lips as we two boys drank it. The weather- beaten boatswain in his oilskins and sea-boots went by us in the dark, as great seas came over, singing a song to himself as though he was soliloquising in some quiet bar off the Mile End Road instead of experiencing the wildest weather I have ever seen, or ever want to see. How I admired those old seafarers ! " Fetch that, matey," they'd say, and off I'd rush, eager to please and obey the orders of Horatio Nelson and Sir Francis Drake, for such men they seemed to me. In the fo'c'sle at night they'd say : " Get that fiddle out and play to us." A thrill of boyish pride would go through me to notice their attention and respect as I played my best. Presently they would join in as I played the chanteys they had taught me, Sailing down to Rio or Blow the Man Down. Without removing their pipes or chewing quids, their cracked, hoarse-throated voices would join in. Deep bass voices two or three had, and as they sat round me on their old sea-chests, and I scraped away to the tuneless, yelling, bearded mouths beneath the dim light of the fo'c'sle oil lamp, I drank in the last breath of the winds of sea romance. I see them now as I dream. There they sit on d 49 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY their sea-chests, oilskins and sea-boots on, with curios from other lands fastened over their bunks around them, as they open their big bearded mouths and sing. How ghost-like their eyes look by the light of the dim lamp, as the hazy tobacco smoke curls thickly to the low roof ! Then their hollow voices fade and the visionary " Old Hands " vanish as the last breath of wind blows them like cobweb-fine things through the fo'c'sle door, along the moonlit deck, away sea- ward for ever as I dream. How I recall these lonely nights and the sailors moving across the deck in the dark, or climbing aloft like shadows back to the sky. I used to stand alone and gaze over the ship's side and suddenly feel the intensity of living, as my thoughts half clung hopefully to the stars, like lost, migrating swallows that cling to the rigging of ships far out at sea ; and the mighty, moving water all around me seemed to break with its monotone against eternity. I remember lying in my bunk, and by the oil lamp's light watching the ship's cockroaches go filing across the photographs of my parents and relatives which I had tacked on my bunk side to remind me of home, though I required no such reminder. Those silent faces intensified the difference between reality and my boyhood's dream ; as a cold breath out of the grave of my beloved, who slept in the seas outside, blew through the door across my face as I dreamed of her — my beautiful dead romance ! Truly, sailing ships have their rough side as well as a wildly romantic one. Rolling down south, with gales behind bring- ing the seas up like majestic travelling hills as under the poop they go, and she rolls and swerves as the masts sweep across the sky, is the motion of sea poetry. If you are aloft you look down and could swear that she must turn turtle. Tell- ing you this calls back my feelings when I first went aloft as a boy of fourteen years. The ship was rolling heavily, and as I looked down on deck something seemed to have happened (I turned pale, I'm sure) : she was turning right over. I clung on with might and main as the masts and yards went over ; death seemed to stare me in the face : like a wild beast I hooked on with fingers, toes 50 DANTE and teeth, prepared for the final plunge into the heaving ocean below, when lo ! to the mysterious equal pull of gravity- she slowly swerved and rose, the rigging jerked and rattled, the jib-boom lifted and the figure-head at the bows lifted her face from the weather-side and went right over to peep at the lee-side. Overjoyed, I looked over my shoulder astern and saw the chief mate yawning on the poop and the man at the wheel quite unconcerned, when I had instinctively thought they were clinging to anything movable, prepared to dive into the ocean when the ship turned clean over. That bronzed, broad-shouldered mate grinned when I stood on the poop. He asked me how I had felt. He was a good sort. He's dead now and under the sea, missing these many years ; and the red-bearded Scotch skipper, who was like a father to me, is worse off, for the last I heard of him was that he was still alive and missing — mentally. " But this won't buy the baby a frock," as they say at sea when you go off dreaming and leave your work to yarn. So I must return to the P. & O. liner as she races across the Mediterranean, bound for Suez. We had called in at Naples, where we had taken on board a batch of passengers. I remember one of them especially ; he was a distinguished old Italian and his profile recalled to my mind the pictures I had seen of Dante. He wore a loose cloak and a cavalier hat, and carried a violin-case. His eyes were eagle-like, yet bilious-looking, for he was suffering from some kind of yellow jaundice and slow circulation. On the hottest nights his teeth chattered with the cold. When we were crossing the Red Sea and the passengers brought their beds on deck to sleep, hoping to get a whiff of air, he went into his cabin in the usual way, with his teeth chattering with the cold, crawled into his bunk and got into his bed- clothes — a large canvas sack heavily lined with wadding ; bodily into this he would go and tic the tapes at the head of the sack tightly round his neck, so that no air could possibly get into the sack and give him a chill. The very sight of it all made me perspire and gasp in that stifling hot weather. I felt sorry for him, and I cannot imagine now that he could have lived very long after getting to Australia, where he was 5i A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY going for his health's sake. He was a splendid violin player, but did not perform. I used to talk to him on deck, and dis- covered that he was a Genoese. I was greatly interested to hear that his father, who was also a musician, had known intimately the celebrated violin maestro, Paganini, and had had violin lessons from him. From broken English, and Italian gesticulations, I learnt that the great violinist had peculiar ways. He had stayed for a few days at my friend's childhood home and while there had upset the quiet routine of the family, for he was extremely superstitious and restless, and walked about the house all night. He declared that a ghostly woman stood with her face at his window whenever he played a certain melody that had come to him in his dreams. Beyond his family's enthusiastic reminiscences over Paganini's violin playing, that is the only incident that vividly impressed me. My friend was a remark- able character and, though he was ill, extremely vivacious and always talking excitably. Sometimes he would sit on deck after dark, and plucking the strings of his violin, pizzicato, guitar style, would sing softly to himself in Italian with a clear, sweet, musical voice that was very effective. I went with him ashore at Port Said. It was fearfully hot, but as my friend walked down the gangway with me he was well swathed in scarves, and wrapped up in shirts under his large fur-lined cloak. He seemed to have plenty of money and was anything but mean with it. It was a treat to get away from the hubbub of the natives coaling the steamer. I only have a dim, dream-like recollection of that particular visit ashore at Port Said. I remember the town with the white buildings and palm-trees dimly outlined under the stars, and the begging, dark-faced descendants of the Egyptian Pharaohs who rushed forth out of alley-ways and sought our patronage. Signor Niccolo was terribly thirsty, and the English restaurant was so crowded with passengers from the boats that we both went off and sought elsewhere for refreshments. We went up a dark alky-way, directed there by a swarthy man who evidently misunderstood our requirements. In the darkness it seemed like some sub- terranean passage to an Egyptian ghost-land as we walked 52 PORT SAID along and heard the uncouth voices of the inhabitants issuing from the little barred windows that were let in in the high walls on each side. Shuffling by us went the sandalled feet of black men with white turbans on that looked like towels swathed about their heads. Presently we arrived at a tunnel-like entrance that led into a suspicious, dimly lit little restaurant. As we sat at one of the small tables and sniffed peculiar odours, that smelt like scented tea and aromatic herbs, four dusky beauties came through a little secret door and laughingly revealed their teeth, then asked in broken English what we would like to drink. Signor Niccolo called for wine and I had coffee. Off rushed the dark female attendants to execute our orders. " Funny plaze and funny girlees, eh ? " said Signor Niccolo to me. " Seems so," I answered, for the waitresses were only dressed in little singlets, with a loose piece hanging to their knees and a scarf swathed about their bosoms for modesty's sake, which was the only modesty that we saw there, as they lifted their scanty robes to dust the furniture. We drank our refreshment and hurriedly escaped from the place. I do not think there are any missionaries at Port Said ; possibly the English and American officials look upon it as hopeless. Port Said was a veritable hell of iniquity in those days, and still is. Passengers often went ashore and lost the boat, or disappeared altogether. After we left a Yankee saloon passenger sat on the settee and told us of his experiences there. He had gone into an isolated restaurant at the north end of the town and called for a drink. In his button -hole he wore a large red camellia blossom which, though he did not know it, was a kind of Masonic sign. So directly he had ordered his whisky and sat down in the large arm-chair, the attendant, who was an old black Arab mute with a heavy grey beard, suddenly touched a spring in the wall, and lo ! up went a partition on each side and he was shut in a little room, staring with surprise at the old mute, who, to his astonishment, now spoke in a musical voice. The old man's beard and eyebrows dropped off and with the old cloak fell rustling to the floor, and there, with shining dark eyes and pouting lips, a dusky harem beauty stood 53 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY before him ! Even the sedate P. & O. chief officer smiled behind his napkin as the Yankee told us that yarn, and we tried to keep straight faces over all the details which I have left out ! Three or four weeks later I arrived in Melbourne, where I stayed a week in Collins Street and at length succeeded in getting a berth on a boat that was bound for the Islands. Eventually I arrived at Honolulu, where I had some luck with my violin playing which enabled me to take a cheap passage to Apia, where I had lived before. 54 CHAPTER VI Changes in Samoa — Curios — A Moonlit Scene — Saints and Fakirs — Indians — Apia Town — Vailima — The Chief Mataaga — A Forest Ballroom — The Wandering Scribe — A Legend of Samoa — An old Shellback's Yarns — Tuputa and the Sinless Lands — A Tribal Waltz IT was some time since I had left Samoa. Things there seemed to have considerably changed. Many of my friends, both natives and white men, had gone away to another island. I went up to Mulinuu village, expecting to see my friend Raeltoa, the Samoan, and to my great regret learnt that his wife had died of consumption and that he had gone away to the Line Islands, in the Equatorial Group. Robert Louis Stevenson had died some months before, and was at rest on the top of Vaea Mountain. Indeed with his death the old Samoa seemed to have passed away. I felt rather depressed for a time, but I met an American tourist, staying at the German hotel in Apia, who was very eccentric, and he cheered me up considerably. He was a collector of native curios, and his whole life seemed to be centred on his strange hobby. He invited me into his apartments, and I could hardly move for the lumber and his large crates of native pottery, old breech-loading weapons, cutlasses, mummified human heads, dried native feet cut off at the ankles, war clubs, human teeth and skeletons, native musical instruments and barbarian furniture. He talked of nothing else but his gruesome collection. He had a high, bald head and beak-like nose, whereon he was eternally fingering his pince-nez, which kept falling off whilst he enthusiastically held up relics for my inspection. His passion for getting curios seemed never satisfied. We dined at a native's house together ; suddenly he lifted the cloth and saw that the table was a rough, native-made table of platted cane and bamboo. Immediately he bargained for 55 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY it, and to the native's delight purchased it, and off we went with it. How he got them all away from the hotel I don't know, for he had a regular cargo of stuff, but eventually he got his curios on board a steamer and went off to San Francisco. I stayed on in Apia for several weeks, joining a party of tourists, and with them I visited the various scenes and islands of the group. As I write, in a dream I see the slopes rising from the sea, lying silent in the moonlight. The curling smoke from the camp fires steals above the still coco-palms that shelter the huts of the native villages. The big, hive- shaped houses are musical with humming melody and the jabbering voices of rough-haired native girls and women. Some squat cross-legged by door-holes, whence emerge tiny, brown, naked children, to turn head over heels, or race like joyful puppies after each other romid the dens. Big full- blooded Samoan chiefs smile and show their white teeth as they roll banana- leaf cigarettes between their dusky fingers. Across the flat lies Apia town with its one main street ; beyond the inland plateaux rise, and far off you can see the moonlit waves breaking into patches like white moss on the level ocean plains. By the copra and coco plantations are the emigrant settle- ments, where tired coolies, most of them Malay Indians, rest after their toil. Native women linger near them, for they are generous men those coolies, and give the velvet-skinned native girls sham jewellery. The Indian sadhu (saint) sits by the line of dens and stores under the palms ; he looks like some carved holy image as he stares with bright, unblinking eyes. The natives' wooden idols have long since been smashed, or have rotted away, and that living idol of the East is one from many cargoes that have arrived to take the place of the old deaf South Sea idols. The new idols are real ; they have live tongues and eyes that lure on true believers, converts to Allah, to do monstrous things. The deaf, dumb wooden gods of heathen times were sanctified compared with these new immigrant idols that breathe ! That old fakir, with outstretched withered arm that brings him reverence and cash, represents Hinduism, or 56 INDIAN SEERS Buddha. His thick beard is almost solid with filth, where- from at intervals, out to the hot sky, buzz big blow-flies. Just across the track is the bazaar, wooden cabins under the mangroves and coco-palms, where the Indians sell jewellery, the Koran, and richly coloured dress materials to the Samoan women. The Indians appear fine-looking men when dressed, with their dark, brilliant eyes and curly, close- cropped beards. They swear to all things by the holy prophet Mahomet, and wear a poetic smile that enlarges when you are not looking to a sardonic grin ! Native women meet them at dark under the coco-palms, stroke their beards and gaze secretly up into their faces with passionate admiration. That pretty Samoan girl, with staring, romantic eyes and rough, bronze-coloured hair, who only a week ago gave herself body and soul to some Indian, the scum of the East, sits alone under the dark mangroves by the lagoon and thinks and thinks of the day before her fall. A red, decorated loin-cloth reaches to her waist, the forest winds kiss the maiden curves of her brown, flower-like bosom. She is very young : her childhood's dolls are still unbroken, and are being loved and nursed by her little sisters who live on the neighbouring Savaii Isle. Her father was eaten by a shark last year, and her mother is married to a white man who is never sober. Not far away sit a group of Indian women, dark and evil- looking, with round faces. Dressed in gorgeous garments of rich yellow and crimson, they are certainly attractive ; earrings dangle from their ears and some of them have a silver hoop through the nose. They loll under the coco- palms, whisper viciousness, and mortally hate the handsome Samoan girls. The mail steamer arrived in Apia harbour a few hours ago. Along the white, dusty, inland track goes the fair, handsome white woman, Maria Mandy. She is off to her bungalow up the hill, a secluded, romantic spot. Her round, pretty face is getting quite sunburnt and brown. By her side walks an aristocratic-looking tourist ; he wears pince-nez, is deeply religious and in a great hurry ! Maria is dressed up to 57 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY " the nines," is scented and looks fine and sweet : the " light o' Love " of a score of German naval officers and men of respectable repute, she has grown wealthy and intends to go soon to Sydney. With her wit and courtly polish she will get on well in Australia, and will probably get into Govern- ment House society, be extremely virtuous and so shocked that she will suggest the removal from the select clique of such suspicious characters as old Colonel B , who will foam at the mouth and wonder why he is snubbed. Mrs S. A. and Lady H. B. will go into hysterics, weep, grind their delicate white teeth, look at the ceiling of their bedroom and ask heaven who could possibly have guessed about those intrigues ; and they will never dream of the knowing Apia harlot — handsome Maria Mandy. That fat, thick-necked German official, who likes Samoa better than the Berlin suburbs, is out walking alone ; he is just off to see Salvao Marva and gaze upon her through those big-rimmed, academic spectacles. He is nearly sixty, and pretty Marva is nearly fifteen years old ! No one knows about it though. He is a good man at home, plays the Austrian zither perfectly, and sings in a deep religious bass voice folk-songs of the Fatherland. Romantic Marva loves those songs, and knows them all by heart ; she has a voice like a wild bird, and you do not feel so hard upon the in- auspicious fall of German culture. He is due back in Berlin soon, for his time is up in six months, so he is quite safe, and poor Marva can place the parental responsibility for her baby on to the back of the beachcomber, Bill Grimes, who will say, " Well I'm blowcd, if this ain't all right," then accept the position and make his home in the South Seas after all. Maria Mandy is not the only lady who will become respect- able and make the devil rub his hands and chuckle with delight. On the beach stroll other white women, and droves of pretty half-caste girls who will eventually get jobs as " ladies' maids " to touring families that call at Apia on the homeward voyage to New York and London. They have fine times those girls with the German and English sailors, or with " perfect gentlemen," and sometimes a black-sheep missionary who has been dismissed from the L.M.S. Off 58 Hongis Track, Rotorua, N.Z. O PIONEERS! PIONEERS! they go on the spree and forget themselves and do things that make even the beachcomber Bill Grimes rub his eyes and stare ; for, after all, he's not so bad ; he can some day, in that " far-off event of perfect good," buy a new suit of clothes ; but the beachcombers that loaf and eat the fruit of frailty in this Eden of the South Seas can never buy another soul. Hark ! the harbour is musical with voices, for this is fair Italy of the Southern Seas, where natives paddle their canoes and sing their weird melodies as naturally as men breathe. You can hear the splash of the paddles and oars as they cut the thickly star-mirrored water. The native boats are bringing sailors ashore from the ships that arrived at twilight. The moonlit shore and the palm-clad slopes look like fairyland to the silent ships lying out in the harbour. The men step ashore, pay one shilling, or one mark, each, then off go the canoes back to the ships for other crews, as the groups of sailors go up to Apia town. Before they get there dusky guides offer their services, and they see the sights — such sights too ! No missionaries could ever reform such creatures as they see. One of them, she is one of many, wears almost nothing, the curved, thick lips in her wide mouth murmur forth alluring Samoan speech. Her girth is enormous, and her brown bosom heaves with simulated professional passion, like a wave on the treacherous deep dark ocean of sensuality — whereon so often travelling men are shipwrecked. Her eyes are large, the pupils widely encircled with white, and warm with the sunlight gleam of downright wickedness ; she has been taught her art in the vast university of experience with white men in the fore- most ranks of civilisation's pioneer tramp ! Paid vice was never known in Samoa till the white men came ; but now she lures to her velvety brown arms the unwary innocence of fragile sailormen and tourists who come from London on the civilised Thames ; where the missionaries hail from, who in our land of purity, of course, cannot exert and bring into play their noble efforts, and so through innocence, O England, my England, your children fall before the lure of the wicked South ! 59 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY Low-caste Samoan women are not all hideous ; some have large, innocent eyes alive with wonder ; half angel and half devil they look as they stand before the camera and, answer- ing the stern voice of the operator, strive to look modest and sweet. By the edge of the small lagoon, under those tall coco- nut-trees sit four little naked baby girls. It is dark, but their brown faces imaged in the water can be seen by the brilliant moonlight ; they look like truant cherubims from Paradise out on the spree, as they sit side by side whispering musical Samoan baby words, and kissing the rag doll that was made in Germany. Their Samoan father is away in a far village on a visit to a wedding feast ; if you listen you can hear the far-off sounds of tom-toms and cymbal-clanging coming across on the drifting forest wind that brings with it odours of wild, decaying flowers and fruit. Their mother is fast asleep by the door of their native home close by ; she sleeps soundly, and the mongrel dog's snout is couched softly on her bare, warm, brown breast. It looks a mystical, beautiful world, like some spiritual land beyond the stars, as the bright eyes of those tiny faces peep through the wind- blown palm leaves ; and I watch them in my dreams to- night, though long since those little girls are women and now meet the eyes of Indian, Chinese and European men. Civilisation's iron foot is on the hills, and along the tracks that lead inland where mission schools and churches stand, to collect on weekdays and Sundays the high-class native folk who live in comfortable Polynesian homes. The night is hot, starry and almost windless, and handsome Samoan youths attired in the Java-lava (loin-cloth) patter swift- footed along the tracks under the coco-nut and tropical trees that shelter the primitive homes of the South Sea paradise. Samoan girls with wild, bright eyes, round, plump, brown faces, and curved figures as perfect as sculptural art, pass and repass up the forest tracks. They are singing Samoan songs that intensify the romantic, dream-like atmosphere of the tropical night — an atmosphere not even to be dispelled by the wailing cry of the native babies, who give short, wild, smothered screams as they lose and then 60 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON suddenly recover the breasts of sleeping mothers in those thatched homes by the palms and banana groves. The vast night sky, agleam with stars, shines like a mighty mirror. You can see the red glow of the reflection from the volcanic crater miles away on Savaii's Isle. If you go up the slope and stand on the plateau, away inland, when dawn is stealing in grey tints along the ocean horizon, awakening the birds on Vaea Mountain, and the native homes are astir, you can distinctly see afar something that looks like a cow-shed by coco-palms and thick jungle growth. It is Vailima, the home of Robert Louis Stevenson. One light gleams in the large shed-room, and the intellectual, sensitive face of the poet-author moves there in the gloom. He has come back from Apia town and is tired, yet secretly as pleased as the two old shellbacks who have carried his curios back, and who hitch up their trousers and cough respectfully as the world-famous author sneaks them in and gives each a bumping glass of the best brand. How quietly his keen eyes gaze upon them as they drink 1 On a shelf the large clock ticks warningly. He glances at it now and again as the belated sailors yarn on, grow more and more garrulous and continue their strange experiences, that cling to the wonderful, distilling brain of the listener as moonlight clings to deep, dark waters. At last, with intellectual delicacy, they are hurriedly slipped off ; for soon the respectable folk, whom he gave the slip to early in the evening, will return, and he must not be seen in such com- pany again. The old shellbacks grip the extended, thin, delicate hand, look into the keen eyes and wipe their mouths as they go down the narrow track. " He's a gentleman 'e is, d d if 'e ain't," they say to each other, as the silent, lonely man they have just left sits and dreams on alone, and thinks and feels those things that no book ever did, or ever can, tell. A few miles away lives the great high chief Mataafa ; he knows Tusitala, the writer of tales. Mataafa is the old King of Samoa : his warriors have charged up those slopes and the sound of the guns from the enemy's warships echoed and re-echoed across the bay. It is all like some far-off dream 61 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY to me that in my boyhood I should have met and fiddled to the Napoleon of the South Seas, for Mataafa was exiled, though there the similarity ends. I can still see the hand- some, intelligent face and remember the quick, kind eyes of Samoa's dethroned king. I did not know, or at least realise, who Mataafa was, as he sat on a chest in the schooner's cabin in Apia harbour. I knew he was someone important by the skipper's behaviour and respectful attention. Only long after did I clearly realise that I was in at the death at one of the most tragic periods of Samoa's history. I helped row the exiled king ashore and went with him to Mulinuu village, where I stayed the night, and then rowed him back in the ship's boat again. Had I known the truth I would have clung to the old king with all the romantic vigour of my soul. The opportunity of my boyish dreams had presented itself, but I knew it not. How I would have striven to lean on that chieftain's right arm, helping in some tragical drama of war and intrigue that would have given me the fame that my boyish aspirations yearned for as I read the novels of Alexandre Dumas. Alas ! I can only remember a sad, aged face in a South Sea forest homestead, in a schooner's dingy cabin, or earnestly talking under the forest trees by night to loyal chiefs ere he returned to the ship. I saw him three or four times ashore, and entertained him in the refuge where he lived with his faithful chiefs. Also I played the violin to him several times, while he smiled gravely and the garrulous skipper drank whisky and sang out of tune, or read out loudly snatches from The Samoan Times, which was a paper something after the style in size of The Dead Bird, published in Sydney, but suppressed and issued again as The Bird of Freedom. Behind the stores in Apia's street is the primeval ball- room where I played the violin to the Samoan grandees, and to tripping, white-shocd German officials, while five half- caste girls in pink frocks, with crimson ribbons in their forests of hair, went through the Siva dances. Robert Louis Stevenson gazed on, or argued with the crusty German official, who was red in the face as Stevenson expressed his opinions on Samoan politics. Just below too, down the 62 MEIN GOTT ! MEIN GOTT ! street, is the bar-room, where I played the violin with the manager's wife, who was a good pianist. I only performed there once : a trader was half-seas over and was arguing with a German official ; suddenly he picked my violin up and hit the German over the head with it. There was a great scene and the trader was thrown out. Everyone laughed to see the look on my face as I scanned the fiddle to see if it had been damaged ; even the manager and his wife put their fists in their mouths to hide a noisy smile. The German shouted: "Mein Gott ! I vill see that this mans be arrested ! Mein Gott ! Mein Gott ! " It's a lively place, this Samoan isle. There sits an aged, tattooed native from Motootua village. He is a wandering scribe, a poet and author of the South Seas, and well beloved by all his critics, who mostly wear no clothes ! He does not write on paper, but engraves on the brains of his audiences his memories, impromptu poems and improvisations ; or he tells of Samoan history and poetic lore. He wears the primitive ridi to his bony knees and a large shawl of native tappu-cloth round his brown shoulders ; tall and majestic- looking, with strong, imaginative face, when he stands quite still and lifts one arm to heaven he looks like an exiled scapegrace god. With eyes shining brilliantly he tells you the tale of creation, how man- and woman -kind came on earth. Ages ago a giant turtle, like a fish that walked on a thousand legs, came up from the bottom of the ocean and saw the blue sky for the first time, and far away the coral reefs and forest-clad shores of Samoa. Full of excitement, it slashed its tail, swam to the isle and crept ashore. Once on dry land it could not move and get back to its native ocean again. The sun blazed on its tremendous back as it crouched and died, and underneath its vast shell a plot of tiny crimson and blue flowers trembled with fear in the sudden darkness that had fallen over them. When the giant turtle was dead its crumb- ling flesh fed the flowers with moisture, while they cried bitterly at being hidden from the beautiful golden sunlight. "When only the shell was left, and the sun was shining beauti- fully, the flowers peeped out and saw the green hills and coco- 63 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY palms, and found that they were able to move : out they all ran and tripped up the shore, a delighted flock of laughing faces, and climbed the coco-nut and palm trees — they were Samoan girls ! That same night a cloud was leisurely travelling across the clear skies with a cargo of male stars asleep on its breast ; and as it passed right over the very spot where the new girls were climbing and clinging to the trees, the high chief of the stars, who was old and grey, looked over the side of the cloud and was astonished, for he saw the girls and at once called loudly to the youthful, sleeping stars, who rubbed their eyes and jumped up. They were beautiful youths with bright faces. ' Look down there," said the old, grey star, and all the young stars looked and saw the Samoan maidens climbing about the tree-tops. " Oh, what shall we do to get down to them ? " they all wailed, and the old, grey star said, " All, you were happy till I awoke you from sleep, but now your passions are awake and you cry aloud for sorrow." Then they all became impatient and fierce, and cried out : " Stop the cloud, stop the cloud " ; and the old, grey-bearded star sighed and said : " So shall it be." The moon at once shone out in the sky and the old leader put his hand up to the orb and filled his arms with beautiful moonlight ere he struck the cloud with his magic breath and the thick, dark mist dissolving fell as sparkling rain softly to the isle far below. The bright moonlight clinging to the falling drops made ropes of moonbeams dangle to the forest tree -tops, on which the laughing stars slid as they went down, down — as beautiful youths, to fall into the outstretched arms of the surprised maidens. And that's how man and woman first came to the Samoan Isles ! Many more were the strange but really poetic talcs told by him and by other wandering authors, but their memories and the children of their poetic imaginations arc forgotten for ever. 1 do not think many of the old-time South Sea legends have ( \ ( r been collected and translated, and so they only survive in the biographical writing of men who visited the islands and happened to have retentive memories for such things as poetic lore, and so preserved some of those old fragments of 64 BEHIND THE VEIL Samoan stories, as I have attempted to do from my recollection of many of them. The lore of the South Seas has faded and has been replaced by tragic human drama and rumour. Subject matter for three- volume novels is plentiful in Samoa ; indeed throughout the whole of the South Seas you could draw and never drain dry the living fountains of human drama. Peaceful-looking homesteads, clean, religious and happy, abound, but some are tense with passion. By the mission room down at Mulinuu lives pretty Lavo ; she is only sixteen and deeply religious. She loves the handsome white mission- ary with all her soul, but dares not speak out or confess. Eventually he goes away back to his own country, and a few days later they mid poor Lavo's body in the lagoon. She looks beautiful even in death, as she still clutches the photo- graph of the homeward-bound missionary. Her native relatives wring their hands and wail ; they lay her in the native cemetery just by the plateau, and sing sadly of her childhood till she is forgotten. A white man was found with the side of his head blown off last night ; he arrived at Apia a week ago, looking worried and haggard. All evidence of his identity had been destroyed by him, excepting a torn, half-obliterated letter which reads like this : " My own dear R . Yes, I still love you, and will not believe you did that. I read the full account in this morn- ing's Chronicle. My heart is heavy, dear ; give yourself up and face it. Oh, my darling, don't leave the country. I love you, and will die, I am sure, if you go away. Meet me to-night at same place. I long to see your poor dear face. God watch over you. Yours ever, E ." The German High Commissioner kept the revolver that was found by the dead man's side, and his fat old wife took possession of the photograph that was found on him. She lias tacked it up on her bedroom wall ; it's such a nice, happy- looking, girlish face. They buried the suicide in the whites' cemetery, at the far end, among the " no-name graves." e 65 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY On the slopes around Apia a few emigrants from far-off countries live in comfortable bungalows. They are happy with their wives and children. Their memory of the cities and turmoil of the old country is sweeter for the dreaming distance ; they were a bit homesick at first, but now they have become contented and love the new peaceful surround- ings, and look forward to the arrival of the mails. They still suffer, though, with the unrestful disease of the far-away suburban towns of advanced civilisation, and so cannot sleep for wondering who the strange couple are who rent the solitary bungalow on the edge of the forest up in the hills. It is quite evident that the new-comer is a gentleman, for he speaks well and has polished ways, but his wife talks like a servant-girl ; she's pretty, though. They arrived suddenly in Apia, and three months after the baby was born. He seems very fond of the baby, and the mother too, but he often gets very despondent. He's a handsome man and does not look a bit practical ; indeed he looks as though for the sake of affection and his word he would sacrifice all ambition and leave the world behind him. He seems to hate respect- able people, and only goes down to the Apia bar-rooms to mix with old sailors and traders and the remnants of the beach ; he stands treat and is a godsend to them, for he seems to have plenty of cash. One old shellback entertains him for hours with wonderful tales of other days, and his comrades sit by and silently smoke and drink as the bar becomes hazy with tobacco smoke. The lights grow dim as the old sailor's yarn rolls the world back, and in the now romantic atmosphere of the bar shades of old pioneers dance ghostly wise ; old schooners and slave galleons are anchored in the harbour ; you can hear the laughter and song of dead sailors and traders. They are dancing jigs, their sea-boots shuflle, under the coco-palms just outside the bar-room, the bright eyes of dark native girls shine as they whirl clinging to their arms : how they welcome the white men from the far-away Western world — the men whose ships long ago died down the seaward simscts, and faded away beyond the sky- line into Time's silent sea ere our generation was born. Out on the promontory sits the high chief Tuputo in his 66 BARBARIANS AND SAINTS homestead. He has a noble, wrinkled, tattooed face, and, though he belongs to the old school, he wears glasses. The lizard slips across his moonlit floor, and through his door he can see the silvered waves and the wind-stirred coco-nut trees twinkling by the barrier reefs ; the waves are breaking and wailing as they wailed and broke in his childhood. He has been a sailor in the South Seas ; he remembers tribal wars in Fiji and Samoa and has refused many invitations to secret cannibalistic festivals. Now he sits reading the English newspapers, for long ago they taught him to read English, and he is a staunch Catholic. Often he reads and wonders over the terrible crimes that are reported in the police news of his late-dated London newspapers. He had once, long ago, thought that England and New York were sinless lands ethereal with Christian dreams, imparadised cities, their spires glittering in the sunlight of the Golden Age. If not, why did missionaries leave them to come across the big seas to Samoa, and all the isles of the Southern Seas ? The great world war has not commenced yet, but even now his withered hands itch to clutch his disused war-club and sally forth to take revenge on those white men who laugh at his majestic bearing ; those men who stole his isles and brought rum and vice to contaminate the virtue of his race. How spiteful will he feel when he wipes his spectacles, and, astonished, reads the truth ! But then he will cool down, look at his innocent old war-club on his homestead wall and offer his humble services for the vast tribalistic war clash in the white man's lands, while Thakambau and Tano, the cannibal kings, and Ritova and King Naulivan, who never heard the word culture, sigh and turn in their graves to think that they are dead, while the very world is trembling with glorious, bloodthirsty battle. Ah, well, their children's children are coming to help us : may the old Thakambau spirit still be alive in their blood to help the advance of culture — the civilisation of sad humanity. Let us hope, too, that our semi-savage Allies will not cat the fallen foe ! But I must proceed with my own wanderings, for I have a long way to travel yet. Samoa still rises silently in moonlight out of the sea of my G 7 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY dreams. I can hear the barbarian orchestra clanging away down in the native village, as Samoan girls and youths, and two or three white men, waltz under the palms just below the plateau, where groves of orange-trees hang their golden fruit amongst dark leaves. As I play the violin the semi- savage people whirl to the wild rhythm of the forest ball- room music of a tribal waltz. I TRIBAL WALTZ. ( Barbarian. ) Tempo di Valsc. .*- -«- ■ -«- Ft: -*- -f2- ^-^-\ — r- « Con delicaiezza. Composed by A. S. M. *i •£■ T: f 1 m -m « 5TPt -&- :t=-n ! j ^T |E|3=|E?T-EEiEfe=lH| -ir —\- -m- -»- I/—" -3- ^?- : P=fP : £i I'S- rff r2- ■c. : * _t-_cL 5 = -o- r^ _eL -£3- T B P etc. i i - —3 i i Perf. ^ espress. -*\ — «— *- * se:e£ fflFre A i i~cr ^t= r r :o: &.«: :#:* :t: |_ j M-i -W= IEt^ r -ol A A -Gh- r ->*= -t-1- ^p: 68 i .4. etc. 1 CHAPTER VII Robert Louis Stevenson — Bohemian Incidents — I lead a Tribal Orchestra — The Big Drum — Robert Louis Stevenson at a Tribal Wedding — Robert Louis Stevenson in the Grog Shanty — Mr and Mrs Stevenson — The Last Man-eater of the Marquesan Group I NOTICED that the brief incidents in my first book, Sailor and Beachcomber, concerning my personal recollections of Robert Louis Stevenson were received with an interest which I had not expected. Had I antici- pated this, or had he struck me as an adventurous old shell- back of crime and sea-lore, I should have dwelt more on the subject, but so much has been written about Stevenson's life in the South Seas, by men who have devoted volumes to their reminiscences of that novelist, that I deliberately left t tie matter alone. As far as Stevenson the literary man is concerned I, of course, have nothing whatever to add, excepting, perhaps, that Stevenson's books dealing with the South Seas did not strike me as being as realistic and breezy as I had expected them to be, coming from such fresh experience and so able a pen. But having often seen him in Samoa and elsewhere, out of the limelight and under circumstances that have never, as far as I know, been written about before, I feel that I may as well tell at length the few incidents that I think may be of interest. I cannot do this better than by pursuing my own reminiscences, and so I will revert to my first visits to Samoa when I was a lad of about sixteen years of age. Stevenson was at that time residing at Vailima, Upulo. I had met him several times in Apia and at sea, for at that time I was always cruising on the trading schooners and visited most of the chief islands in the North and South Pacilic. I eventually got on a schooner tliat ran between 69 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY Samoa and Suva (Fiji), and it was on these return trips to Apia, and during my sojourns there, that I saw Stevenson frequently, which was natural enough, since he lived there and hundreds of men became acquainted with him in that isolated paradise, where conventionality, as it is known in "Western civilisation, was completely dropped, and all men became hail-fellow-well-met as soon as they sighted each other. Even missionaries practised this outward appearance of brotherhood. I recall how I was sitting in a German store in April one afternoon when a Samoan, who knew me well, approached me and asked me if I would like to come that same evening to a grand tribal wedding festival that was to be held five miles off, round the coast. " And will you bring your violin ? " he inquired. I accepted, and my companion, a young American sailor who had a banjo, agreed to go with me. I was well known among the chiefs and natives as an obliging violinist, for I seldom refused to perform at native cere- monies ; the scenes that I witnessed, indeed the novelty and romance of it all, amply repaid me for all the trouble I was ever put to, though that is saying a good deal, for my troubles were sometimes serious ones. That same afternoon my friend and I tuned our instru- ments up and made ourselves look as smart as possible, for the chief who was giving the ball was one of high standing, and a well-known follower of Mataafa, the ex-King of Samoa. In high spirits we started off to tramp the five miles which had to be covered before we reached our destination. We had not walked more than three hundred yards from Apia's main street when suddenly Stevenson appeared with several of his acquaintances, coming across the slopes carrying fish which they had purchased from the natives down by the beach. Stevenson turned and saw us, and noticing that we were carrying musical instruments, he came up and said in a jocular way : " Where are you hurrying off to ? The Lyceum Orchestra ? ' Whereupon I told him our destination and he immediately became interested. " Arc you in a hurry ? I should like to come," he said quickly. I assured him that 70 WiiAsdARKi F,\li>. North Auckland, N.Z. THE MISSING DRUMS we were in no hurry, and told him we would wait ; but as his friends were becoming impatient he said that he would come on later, and so off we went without him. When we arrived at the coast village where the ball was to be given, my friend and I sat down under the palms exhausted, for the walk was a long one and the heat terrific. Just before us was the native village, groups of conical, shed- like houses, sheltered by coco-palms growing to the shore's edge. As we sat wiping the perspiration from our brows, the village was all astir with excitement over the approaching festival. Native girls, dressed in picturesque style, passed by us along the track : they were jabbering excitedly to each other over the beauty of the bride who had been married that day, and who was to appear at the feast that evening to dance and reveal her manifold beauties to the village maids and youths ere she went off on the honeymoon to the bridegroom's home. The shadows were falling over the palm-clad shores of the wild coast and village of Samoa as the sun dropped seaward. So my friend and I started off once more and arrived at Kalofa's distinguished residence. Kalofa was the bride's father, and a wealthy man for a native. We were greeted with loud cries in joyous Samoan phrases as we arrived, carrying the violin and banjo under our arms. As we entered the large primitive ballroom, a shed that held about two hundred people, an old Samoan at once started crashing away at a monster wooden drum, and another drum-player inside the shed did likewise. The noise was deafening, and the more so because the ballroom instrument was a large European drum that had been purchased from one of the American warships that had come into Apia harbour. This drum was lent out at a high charge on special occasions by the chiefs. I forget who was the original owner, but I know that he was quite a wealthy man through the money he received from his drum receipts, and I often regretted that I had not known the tastes of Samoans, or I should have arrived at Samoa with a cargo of old army drums and made a fortune. 7i A VAGABOND'S ODYSSFA 7 Well, as we entered the ballroom Kalofa himself rushed forward and greeted us affectionately before all the chiefs as though he had known us for many years. I had only seen him once before, and my cheerful companion the banjoist had never seen him till that moment. Nevertheless we met him as though we were the oldest friends, and bowed respect- fully as the whole audience arose and waved their dark hands as they cheered us. It was a wonderful sight that we saw round us, for right to the far end of the large, low room sat in half circles the elite of the native village, dressed in all the colours and grotesque garments imaginable. Handsome Samoan girls, half dressed and quarter dressed, were squat- ting amongst old tattooed chiefs who wore the ridi only, while lines of old women sat with the handsome youths, who glanced behind them at the girls who, I suppose, were being looked after by the chiefs. The code of morals in Samoa was becoming very strict, so many maids having been tempted by the amorous youths to do things which they ought not to do. In the centre of the throng was the barbaric orchestra. I have led and conducted many orchestras and bands during my time, but never such a deliberately planned inharmonious ear-torturing lot of musicians as I led that night. I think the instrumentation was chiefly strings and wind ; the former consisted of wires strung across gourds and the latter of bamboo flutes, old coppers and the drum which I have previously mentioned. I sat down in the middle of the orchestral players, squat- ting, with my comrade by my side, on a mat, and all the native musicians around me gazed with great curiosity as I started to tune the violin, and my comrade to pink-ee-tee- ponk on his banjo ; indeed, so great was their curiosity that they arose from their mats and poked their faces against our instruments. Hitting my violin with the bow, so — tap-tap, I made a sign to them to take their seats, and then the over- ture commenced ! My comrade and I tore away at the strings. I forget what we had proposed to play, but as soon as we started and the members of the orchestra heard the violin wailing, they went completely mad with delight, and then tried to outdo us ; so placing their flutes to their dusky 72 THE CHIEF WITNESS AT THE WEDDING mouths they all started to blow terrifically, and the drums started off and the stringed gourds twanged ! In a moment I realised that to keep up our musical reputation we must outdo the barbarian music, so I signed to my comrade, who looked at me as though he had gone mad, and then started to grind away at all my violin strings at once ! I believe we both caught the primitive, barbarian fever, for though the row was terrible my memory of it all is one of some far-off event of supreme musical delight ! Not Wagner's wildest dreams, no Futurist's idea of harmony could have outdone the reality of that tribal music. Then suddenly it all changed from thunder to weird sweetness, minor melodies of sad, for- gotten loves and dreams, for on a little elevated bamboo platform the bride stood before us. She was a dusky, tender-limbed maiden of about sixteen years of age. Dressed in a blue frock that went no higher than her brown bosom, fastened on by a red sash, her thick hair bedecked with tropical blossoms, she looked like the beautiful dusky princess from a South Sea novel. Her husband, a fine- looking Samoan of about thirty, stood beside her as she gazed up into his admiring eyes and sang a tender song of love. It was a really beautiful melody and I at once caught the spirit of it, and as she sang on sweetly I extemporised a delicate accompaniment on my violin, interspersed with minor pizzicatos. As soon as she ceased her song a tiny child stepped forth, and kissing her feet handed her a large bouquet of richly coloured forest flowers ; then the bride- groom stooped and kissed the child on the brow as all the audience solemnly murmured " O whey — O whey ' : three times. This child was a relative of the bride's, and not her own child ; though, to tell the truth, this was often the case in tribal weddings at which I had officiated as violinist, where often the custom was that the bride's first-born came as chief witness to the altar, and sometimes was old enough to toddle all the way ! When she had sung one more island ditty to her delighted husband the Siva dance commenced. Through a little door behind the stage came about a dozen girls clad only in flowers and grass, and when they had squatted in a circle on the 73 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY stage they started to beat their bare limbs with their hands as they chanted, and the orchestra went tootle-tootle on the bamboo flutes. As the time passed the audience increased ; chiefs, half- castes and many high-caste natives were there. Robert Louis Stevenson arrived, with his face wreathed with smiles, and stood just inside the door, watching and talking to the natives. The old ex-King Mataafa, who was at that time residing at Malie with his faithful followers, was also there and stood talking to our host, who was, I believe, related to Samoan royalty. Mataafa was a very intelligent-looking old man, well dressed and with a majestic walk. About that time there was a deal of trouble brewing between the subjects of Mataafa and those who stood by King Malietoa, and possibly the old king was travelling incognito, for he hardly revealed himself, but stopped in the shadows. Stevenson went round behind the audience to him and was greeted very warmly ; they evidently knew each other well. As the festival proceeded, and the bowl of kava was handed round, the chiefs and women-folk became excited, while out- side under the moonlit coco-palms the girls and youths started to dance and caper about. My friend and I took the first opportunity to get outside, for the heat was stifling inside " the hall." When we arrived in the fresh air Stevenson was standing by the doorway smoking. " Hallo ! there you are ; I'm sorry, but I was too late to see the beginning," he said, and then added : " That bride was a beautiful girl, wasn't she ? " ' Yes," I answered, as several native girls came up to us, and, laughing, seized us and invited us to dance. The girl who had gripped hold of Stevenson was a very wild but good-looking maid, and gazing up into his face she started to make eyes at him. Stevenson looked round laughingly and then accepted the invitation of the girl to dance with her, and so off they went 1 As far as I can remember the novelist was a good dancer and looked at his ease as he held the Samoan beauty in his arms and gently whirled with her under the coco-palms. 74 R. L. S. DANCES WITH A DUSKY MAID All the time that Stevenson and I were dancing the native orchestra was booming and shrieking away in the festival shed, and often we heard the old native drum-conductor cry out ' O Le Sivo," and then came a terrible crash as he struck the old army drum with a war club ! Stevenson seemed delighted with himself for a little while, and then we got too hot and, much to the disgust of the maids, stopped. They were cool enough in their scanty attire, but we were bathed in perspiration and fairly steamed in the moonlight as we suddenly stood still. Now I am coming to the comical part of it all, for Steven- son's partner proceeded to make violent love to him, and the look on his face made it quite obvious that he was beginning to feel uncomfortable, for he eventually walked off and she at once followed him ! He made several attempts to get rid of her by talking to a native who stood by, but still the girl persisted, till he suddenly walked up to me and said, " I say, for God's sake get her away somewhere ; dance with her, do anything to attract her attention." I at once went to the rescue and asked her to dance. I was not much of a dancer, but as a lover I have always been passable ! Stevenson seemed very grateful, but only expressed it by walking off in great haste as I clutched the girl tightly. No sooner had Stevenson got out of sight than she started on me, threw her arms about my neck and began to say loving things about my beauty, I suppose, in her own language. Several natives were standing under the trees, shaking with laughter as they watched us : one of them touched his forehead significantly and then I realised that the girl was not quite right in the head ! "I say, Hill," I said, as I quickly turned to my comrade, " she wants you to dance with her ; do take her, old fellow." " Right you are," he answered, for he was an obliging fellow in that way, and then I also bolted and went off, toward the chief's Fale- Faipule (the head residence), to get my violin, which I had left in his care for safety. As I approached the bamboo door I saw Stevenson peeping through a chink ! ' Has she gone ? " he said. " Yes, I've got rid of her ; she is a bit wrong in the head," I answered. Then, as Stevenson came 75 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY out into the open, ready to start away home, to our astonish- ment the girl we were talking about ran across the grass and embraced him once more ! ' Well I'm d d ! " he said, and at that moment two natives came across the track and collared her. I think they were her parents ; anyway they took her off, and Stevenson hurried off also, for the hour was late and the code of morals strict in the Vailima domestic establishment. My friend and I got back to Apia soon after. I slept soundly and dreamed of dusky brides and mad lovers. So ended that wedding as far as I was concerned. A few days after the preceding events I saw Stevenson again. It was in the daytime, and I and my friend were busy packing up cases of tinned food, which had just arrived from Sydney on the s.s. Lubeck, which generally called at Apia every month. Adjoining the storeroom — where we were assisting in packing the cases — was a grog shanty's bar- room. The reputation that this shanty had was an evil one, for it was only visited by the beach fraternity who lived solely on rum, and by Samoan women who welcomed German sailors to their dusky arms after dark. In broad daylight it was a bona- fide beach hotel, frequented by traders who had no reputation to lose, yet who seemed the happiest of men as they told fearless tales to their rough comrades, squirted tobacco juice in endless streams through the open door and drank fiery rum. Well, suddenly Stevenson walked into the bar, and placing a coin on the counter called for drinks. He seemed full of glee, and laughed heartily as his two companions told him something that was evidently humorous. These two men, whom Stevenson had most probably just met, and who inter- ested him, were shellbacks of the roughest type. One was positively comical-looking with dissipation, and had a warty grog-nose ; the other seldom spoke, but simply nodded his head, as an umpire of truth, when his companion told Steven- son the wonders of the South Seas. They were telling him about earlier black-birding days, when native men and girls were lured on to the schooners and carried off to slavery and worse. I cannot remember the things that they told 76 R. L. S. AND SHELLBACKS him, but I distinctly remember Stevenson's deep interest as he stood by them, with his head nearly touching the low roof of the shanty, and called for more rum for his com- panions, though he did not drink himself. The convivial old rogues were delighted with Stevenson's generosity, and seeing that he listened eagerly to their yarns the chief speaker became more garrulous and dramatic than ever as he lifted his hands up to the roof and said : " Sir, them things that I tells you is nothing to what I could tell you." Meanwhile the novelist listened and looked out of the grog shanty door, to see that no one was about who would carry the news to Vailima that Robert Louis Stevenson was full of glee, treating old rogues to rum, in a grog-house of mystery and lurking crime. There was a native woman in the bar, whom the bar- keeper called Frizzy. She had a large mop of frizzly hair and I suppose got her name from that. She was one of the abandoned class, had four half-caste children and was a half- widow, for the father of the children, a German official, had gone back to Berlin. Whilst Stevenson was listening to his newly acquired friends this woman approached him with her ghastly smile, at the same time offering for sale her little plaited baskets of red coral. Stevenson shook his head, and as she was still persistent one of the old shellbacks pushed her away as though she was a mangy dog. Stevenson looked at him with disapproval, for, though he was naturally opposed to women of her class, he was a champion for the unfortunates who had been lured to their mode of life by white men. He then called the woman, who had walked away, and asking her the price of the coral bought two baskets, though I am sure he did not want them. At that moment a white man came into the bar and gave a start at seeing Stevenson standing there. It was a " new chum " from Sydney, and the last man you would have expected to sec in that place. Looking up at Stevenson, he said : "Well, who would have ever thought of seeing you here ! " On which the other responded in a surprised voice : ' Who on earth expected to sec you here ! " Then they 77 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY both laughed, and Stevenson said something about being a writer of books and seeking inspiration from natural sources, and with intense amusement in his eyes he introduced the two grimy reprobates to his friend, who shook them heartily by the hand and asked them what they drank. At this moment a Samoan youth rushed in at the bar door very excited, and before we could understand his gesticula- tions a native girl came in behind him, snatched a large mug from the counter and gave the youth a crack over the head ! As she made another rush to repeat the attack Stevenson gripped her tightly, and she turned on him furiously, and then, as quickly, calmed down and relented. She seemed to regret bitterly her attack on her lover, for such he was, though he had been paying attention to another maid. The youth had a gash on his forehead, and though it was not a deep cut the large flow of blood made a serious-looking affair of it all. Out of the native's home, not far off, the children and women came rushing to see what the row was about, for, unfortunately, the jealous girl had screamed out when she struck him. A German patrol came running across, and had not Stevenson expostulated, and got on the right side of him, the girl would have been arrested. The whole affair would have been in The Samoan Times, Stevenson and his friend would have been brought forward as witnesses, and though Stevenson was perfectly innocent a lot of scandal would have been the result. About eight miles from Apia, in one of the coast villages, lived a Marquesan who had married a Samoan woman, whom I knew, as she had resided in Satuafata village. One day, when I was walking along in Apia town, I was suddenly greeted by her cheery laugh, and she invited me out to their home, an invitation which I at once accepted, and so the next day I started off alone. The weather was beautiful and the sky cloudless as I passed under the coco-palms, and heard the green doves cooing in the branches around me, as the katafa (frigate-bird) sailed across the sky bound seaward. Through the trees I could see the Pacific, bright under the hot sun, and in Apia harbour the hanging canvas sails of a 73 SAMOAN SCENERY few anchored schooners. As I walked along I felt perfectly happy in the company of my own thoughts, which were only disturbed as I passed the native homesteads and returned the hand-waves and salutations of " Kaoha ! " from the pretty native girls who stood at the doors. Samoan girls were, as I have told you, born flirts, and longed for the romantic white youth who would love them and make them ' Te boomte Matan," 1 as they had read maids were loved in the South Sea novels which they bought from the old store shops in Apia. Far away along the coast I saw droves of native children standing knee-deep in the shaded lagoon waters that joined the ocean just outside. I passed a beautiful spot where I had often stood at night, when the island was asleep and the moon hung over the water, and the view appeared like some mighty painting done in silver and mystic colours, framed by the starlit skies. The palms perfectly still, stretching to the slopes of the Vaea Mountains, stood all round, only a wave gently breaking over the far-off barrier reefs, or the wavering smoke from the moonlit village huts, destroyed the impression of something dream-like and unreal around me as the wind came and moaned in the palm- tops, humming beautifully, till it seemed the chiming of the starry worlds across the sky could be faintly heard. About three miles from Apia I left the track to cut across a plantation towards the coast, when I was suddenly sur- prised to see two white people some distance off coming toward the village that I was making for. Ambushed in the thick scrub, I peered up the track to see what they might be, and was again surprised to see that it was Stevenson and his wife. Stevenson had a large bamboo rod in his hand, and was waving it about violently and seemed very excited. Indeed I thought they were quarrelling, but as they ap- proached a group of village homesteads just near the track I saw that he was gesticulating, and pointing with pleasure at the surrounding scenery, which was extremely beautiful there. They did not notice me, and so I remained un- observed. Stevenson was dressed in white trousers and had 1 Wife of a white man. 79 A VAGABONDS ODYSSEY an old cheesecutter cap on. As they approached the native homes a lot of children came rushing across the clearing to welcome them. Mrs Stevenson picked one of them up in her arms and kissed it, while her husband in fun ran after the rest with his bamboo stick, and they all scampered away in delight. At the far end of the plantation, wherein grew coco-nuts, yams and pine-apples, was the home of my native friends. I crossed the space and passing between the lines of white native houses arrived at my destination. Mrs Laota and her husband gave me an enthusiastic welcome, with the usual hospitality of Samoans, and in a very short space of time I sat down before an appetising meal of poi-poi, taro, bread- fruit, 1 yams and boiled fowl. There were two families living in the homestead, and the native children climbed over me as I sat down to eat, and, though I am fond of children, at that moment they were a fearful pest. However, as in England, I had to put up with it and assume a happiness which I was far from feeling, while the delighted eyes of the parents gazed upon me and on their children ; but they were semi-savages and, of course, it was all excusable. After I had finished my meal I stood at the door, smoking and talking to my host, who seemed a very intelligent native. He was a Marquesan, and his father, an old chief, was also in our company. It was just at this moment that Stevenson, whose wife was still visiting in the village, came strolling along ; he had evidently been to the village before, because my host and his wife at once called him and he came across and greeted us all with a cheery laugh, accepting a slice of pine-apple from the children and sitting down on the bench with us. Well, Koro, the old Marquesan chief, had lived in the stirring times when his tribe had suffered from the ravages of cannibalism, and he started off yarning almost directly Stevenson sat down. From his lips we were told many things that seemed almost unbelievable. Koro even darkly hinted that Samoans up till very recently had been addicted 1 Bread-fruit is baked in the red-hot ash, like baked potatoes. When it is cooked properly the outer rind cracks and falls off. 80 THE MAKQUESAN CANNIBAL to the awful appetite, which was probable ; but, being an intellectual race and superior in every way to the other races of the Pacific, Samoans had not allowed the stain of cannibal- ism to rest on the history of their people, letting the memory of it die out with the custom. Stevenson was alert with interest as the old chief told us of past cannibalistic orgies of his islands, and, as the old man yarned on in pidgin-English, kept saying " Well now, really me ! " for very surprise at the things we heard. One tale he told us was so blood- thirsty and cruel, and the truth so evident from the manner in which it was told, that I must repeat it here. It appeared that in the Marquesa Group, on Hiva-oa, at a period not distant from the time that I am telling you of, there was a ferocious cannibal who was the last survivor of a tribe which had ravaged the surrounding villages and preyed on the flesh of the people. In Koro's time this hated man- eater lurked in the forest, and the village was obliged to have sentinels on watch each night. For the terrible cannibal had a passion for the flesh of their children, and often by night the whole village was awakened by hearing the screams of one of their little ones, who had been seized whilst asleep, and was being carried off into the forest. The method of this monster was to crawl on his belly through the thickets and watch the village for hours, and once or twice a girl had been carried off in broad daylight to be strangled and eaten. Many of the things the old chief told us were too terrible to write down here ; it is enough to say that he did not strangle his female victims at once, but kept them lashed in his hiding- place to be killed and eaten at leisure. The people knew this, because a native girl had managed to escape, after being a prisoner of the monster's for several days. It is impossible to describe here Koro's dramatic attitude, and his wonderful way of telling the story. The listening children in the hut crept closer to us for fright, and Stevenson laughed almost hysterically and said " Good Lord ! " as the old fellow continued. " Well, Marser Stesson, one night Chief Swae, who had just got married, had a great dance, and we all be happy and dance ; and that night when the moon was getting old we all did sleep and Swae's bride did sleep beside f 81 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY him, for the night was very hot and we did all sleep in the open under the fifis (palms). Suddenly we were all awake and jumping about in the village, for Swae was shouting out with a great voice : * The man-eater has stolen my wife.' In one moment we had all seized our war-clubs, old cutlasses and muskets and rushed off into the forest, Swae the bride- groom leading the way. Presently we did hear a far-off scream coming from the direction of the sea. Swiftly we turned and went toward the shore, and it was then that we all looked through the mangroves and saw the great man- eater holding Swae's bride in his arms as though she was a caught bird. He was leaning against a tree and had stopped because she did cling to one of his legs ; he was a mighty big fellow of great strength, and his face was very, very dark and wrinkled with wickedness. Swae ran with all his might round the shore and got behind the cannibal, and, creeping up behind him, with one sweep of his cutlass cut his head from his shoulders. It fell to the forest floor and the body still stood upright, while the cannibal's head lay on the ground with the mouth still half laughing at the thought of what he would do with Swae's wife ! When we got up to the bride she lay as one dead, still clinging to the man-eater's leg. Then Swae called her softly by her name and she opened her eyes and sprang into his eager arms. We cooked the body of the cannibal and gave it to our grunting swine. No one of my tribe would eat the swine after that, so we sold them to the white sailors who came in on the big ships and they were much pleased that they were so cheap ! " And saying this the old chief gave a chuckle in his wrinkled throat, being hardly able to disguise his inward delight. Stevenson, too, saw the grim humour of it and also smiled and said : " Well now ! " As Koro finished Mrs Stevenson arrived on the scene, carrying a large bunch of flowers, and when Stevenson told her that which wc had been listening to she said : " Ugh, I am glad I wasn't here to listen ; you love gruesome things, I know." Stevenson grinned like a schoolboy as he started mischievously to tell her some of the most gruesome details which wc had just heard. 82 CHAPTER VIII Robert Louis Stevenson and his Friends — Stevenson as a Road- maker — Timbo — Stevenson on the Schooner — The Skipper — "Tusitala" and the Natives — Conventionality — A Visit to King Malietoa — Stevenson's Love of Adventure — Stevenson the Writer — Genius in the Southern Seas — Socialism 1SAW Stevenson several times after that at society balls and concerts in Apia, where sometimes he seemed full of merriment and indeed the life of the party, and again at other times strangely silent, revealing the man of moods. I have never heard that he was fond of being alone, but I can vouch for it that he was as often alone in his wanderings over the islands as he was with friends ; indeed I think I saw him more often alone than otherwise. I met Mr Strong twice, I think, when he was with Stevenson. Mr Moore too, who wrote With Stevenson in Samoa, was a pleasant man, and Robert Louis Stevenson and he were as familiar as brothers. Almost the last time I saw Stevenson was at the Tivoli in Apia ; he was with Mr Moore and several other men whom I cannot recall. They were all taking refreshments and talk- ing. Stevenson was flushed a bit, his eyes were very bright, and with his hat off, revealing a lofty, pale brow, he looked unlike the ordinary run of men. He was in an excellent mood, and Mr Moore and another member of the party were so intensely amused at what he was saying that they almost upset their glasses and spluttered as they laughed ; which gave Stevenson very obviously great pleasure, for he was as fond of a joke as any of them. On that special occasion I was in the company of the chief mate of a large schooner which was leaving Apia the next day for Honolulu. Stevenson, or one of the party, called us across and offered us drinks and cigars. Soon after my com- panion, who had to get on board his ship, left and I went with 83 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY him ; and as we got outside we still heard the jovial exclamations of Stevenson and his friends as they yarned on, their voices fading behind us as we walked away into the moonlight and shadows of the coco-palms many years ago. Stevenson would often tackle rough work, such as tree- chopping and digging ; and was often to be seen perspiring and covered with grime as he helped the natives to make tracks across the rough jungle and forest land that sur- rounded Vailima. Bare-footed, dressed in old clothes and a seaman's cast-off cap, he looked like some vagabond dust- man. His manner to the natives who worked for him was jovial enough ; he would shout : " Go it, Sambo, that's right, te rom and te pakea x if you work hard " ; and then with a twinkle in his eyes he'd stand and watch them lugging the wheelbarrows up the slope as they jabbered like school- children and worked their hardest. Several of Stevenson's friends also worked with him : one of them would be cutting the trees down as the novelist smoked, and jocularly criti- cising him, telling him to " keep moving and not be such a loafer." Mrs Stevenson arrived on the scene of hard work once and chided him for exerting himself. "Don't do that, dear, or you will be ill again," she would say ; and the novelist would look up and then work harder than ever. He was to be found in all the out-of-the-way places and would go miles alone, usually on foot ; though he had an old horse or ass, I forget which, he seldom rode it. One day I was walking along near the coast when a little native boy of about six years of age, came limping out of the jungle scrub just by the track. I picked the little fellow up and discovered he had trodden on some glass, and had a deep gash in his foot. As I was carrying him down to the shore to wash his wound, Stevenson and a boy came strolling by. Stevenson, who was always very kind to children, examined the wound, took out his pocket-handkerchief and bound the foot up, after we had well bathed it : his manner to the little outcast was one of extreme tenderness. I was living with two kindly disposed old natives at that 1 Meaning rum, refreshments and tobacco. 84 TIMBO : A TYPICAL SAMOAN CHILD time, so I picked the child up and carried him home. We found out the next day that the poor little fellow's parents had been drowned by the upsetting of a canoe in a typhoon off Apia harbour. He was very thin and looked ill, so I gave my hosts some money and told them to feed him up, which they did. I became very fond of him ; he had thick curls all over his head, and his cheery little brown face was lit up by a pair of beautiful brown eyes. He slept near me, and every morning he would jump off his bed-mat and caper about like a puppy and would insist in helping me put my boots on. He heard me play the violin and was deeply interested in it. I was always catching him looking at my violin, and each time he looked up at me artfully, as much as to say : " I must not touch your wonderful music. Oh no, I'm not that kind of Samoan baby ! " I only chided him once, when I caught the little dark tinker unscrewing all my violin pegs. He gave a terrified shriek as I ran after him, and was off like a frightened rabbit. When I at length caught him, and regained my property, he looked up at me with pleading eyes, gave a baby-like cry, and in musical, infantile Samoan phrases asked to be for- given. So I at once placed him on my shoulder and gave him a ride to his heart's delight ; and after that he stood guard over my violin, and came rushing up to me if even the dog went near it. I let him sleep with me some- times, and he placed his arms about my neck as though I were some sweet-bosomed mother ; and so in that way fell asleep the little brown savage in the arms of Western civilisation. Of course this is not telling you much of Robert Louis Stevenson, but to me, and in my memory of it all, it's just as important, perhaps even more so. The old Samoan wife became very fond of Timbo, as I called him, and he became quite plump. So I secured a good home for him for life, or till he grew up, and therefore you will see that I have also done good mission work in the South Seas ! I heard when I came home afterwards that Stevenson had seen Timbo and given him some presents, including a box of tin German soldiers. Timbo gave me half of them. I was 85 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY obliged to accept them to please him. If he's alive still he must be a fine young fellow, for he was affectionate and plucky even as a tiny child. I remember how I once took him for a canoe ride, and his delight as I rocked the small craft in the shallow water till he fell overside, for he could swim like a fish. Once I took him out in Apia harbour and we went aboard a schooner that had encountered a typhoon ; she was being overhauled, for her deck was almost washed clean, the rigging was a mass of tangle and the galley had been washed away. The skipper was a pleasant enough man ; he hailed from San Francisco and had a voice that could compete with the wildest gale's thunder, but never- theless his heart was in the right place when whisky was scarce. I had met him ashore and, hearing that I came from Sydney, and had lived near his home in San Francisco, he got into conversation with me and hinted that there was a chance of a berth aboard for me, if I felt inclined to take it. While I was on this schooner one afternoon suddenly Stevenson and his wife came on board ; they had been brought out in one of the small native canoes that were always hovering by the beach, awaiting passengers wanting to visit the anchored crafts in the harbour. The novelist was in high spirits and helped Mrs Stevenson up the rope ladder in great mirth. Mrs Robert Louis Stevenson was an excellent sailor and made no fuss about the ascent, as she clambered up and leapt on the deck with a bounce ! The skipper knew them well and was very polite to them. A young American or Australian lady, I forget which, was also visiting on board, and the skipper introduced her to Mr and Mrs Stevenson. She devoted all her attention to the novelist, and as they were having lunch together in the schooner's cuddy Stevenson's misery, as she plied him with questions and reiterated her flattering approval of his books, was very evident. ; ' Oh, I think your books most delightful ; how do you think of such things ? Was it really true about that rich uncle and the derelict piano ? Have you read Lady Audley's Secret**." So she rattled on. Stevenson looked appealingly at his wife, in an attempt to get her to engage the girl's attention, but still she persisted in reiterating 86 R. L. S. AND HIS WIFE ON A NIGHT OUT those things which she thought were music to the novelist's ears. Suddenly Stevenson looked up, and with his fine eyes alive with satire said something to the effect that " he did not write books for ladies to read," punctuating the remark with a look that made the garrulous visitor, immediately retire into her shell. The convivial equilibrium was not restored till the skipper sat down at the cuddy's harmonium and, with his feet pedalling away at full speed, started to sing with his thunderous voice : -- Fifteen men on a dead man's chest, Yo ! Ho ! Ho ! for a bottle of rum ! u The young lady who had so annoyed Stevenson joined in, and revealed the fact that her voice as a musical medium was a deal more pleasant than when it tried to flatter a writer of books. Stevenson seemed delighted to find such an opportunity insidiously to apologise for his previous irritability, and so at once started to applaud the lady's singing in an almost exaggerated fashion. A bottle of whisky was opened, and the skipper drank half- a-tumblerful, just to sample it and see if he had really opened the special brand which he had been recommending to his visitors. Finding there was no mistake, with all the liberality of a sailor, he allotted to each a due portion ; whereby the dimly lit cabin festival was immensely enhanced. Stevenson's mirth was frequently stimulated by the drunken mate, who repeatedly poked his head into the cuddy door and, with a half-apologetic leer at the ladies, looked at the skipper and said : " All's well, sir. I'm going ashore." The skipper, who was half-seas-over himself, looked at him contemptuously and said: "Clear out of it." "Ay, ay, sir," responded the mate, and in a few minutes he was back again, and out came the same information, " All's well, sir. I'm off ashore." Suddenly the skipper arose and went on deck, and a loud argument commenced, interspersed with those maritime epithets which enforce sea law and are not to be found in navigation books. After a brief interval of silence the 87 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY skipper could be heard shouting out oaths as he shook his fist to the mate, who was being rowed away ashore by the natives who always haunted the gangways of anchored ships. At sunset the party left the schooner, and the skipper went with them, and we heard their laughter fading away over the darkening waters as the singing natives paddled them away to Apia's island town. That same night I also went ashore with the sailors. Timbo sat in the middle of the ship's boat ; he had been entertained by the hands in the forecastle. As soon as I arrived on the beach I made my way to my friendly natives' home, for the hour was late and I wanted to get Timbo off to bed. I was deep in thought, and as he toddled beside me I held his hand. Suddenly I was startled by hearing the child make throaty gurgles as though he wanted to be sick, his little brown face wrinkling up as he made fearful grimaces. " What's the matter, Timbo ? " I said, somewhat alarmed, and for answer he looked up at me helplessly and dropped several objects in the scrub. I picked them up and found that he had been sucking away a't a large, rank meerschaum pipe, which I at once recognised as belonging to the boat- swain of the schooner which we had just left. The boy had also stolen a purse with a few coppers in it and a small leather belt purse full of brass buttons. I felt pretty wild with the little fellow at first, because it meant that I had to go back to the schooner and return the things. Taking Timbo up, I sat on a log and laid him across my knees, ready to give him a good spanking, for it was not his first misdemeanour ; indeed, he had done many things which I have left untold. As I laid him face downwards, so that I might administer chastisement, he twisted his little curly head round and looked appcalingly up at me with his big brown eyes : as if to say : " Oh, noble white man from the far-off moral integrity of Western civilisation, may I beg of you to overlook the sad indiscretion of a Samoan child ? " That part whereon I was about to administer justice looked so small and helpless that I did that which I should have liked to have been done to mc in my earlier years, for I 88 R. L. S. AS I REMEMBER HIM relented and stood Timbo on his feet. Then I said : " Timbo, for that which you have done you will be arrested and taken to Mulinim Jail, where the wicked chiefs are imprisoned." Hearing this, he clung to me and sobbed, and large tears rolled down his cheeks and splashed on to his small mahogany- coloured toes. So I said : " Timbo, I forgive you." For I knew, deep down in my heart, that, though I was white, I had in my childish days committed several little indiscre- tions very similar to Timbo's. He was only a tiny fellow, and I thought of English babies who at his age were still in arms and busy sucking dummies ; and I knew that civilisa- tion itself was a monstrous baby, devoid of wit, sucking away at the dry, windy dummy and soothing itself with the thought that it was swallowing kindly feeding milk. As I thought I looked at Timbo, and the expression of gratitude on his little half-wild face, as he stood on his head and waved his feet to the skies, seemed to applaud my mild philosophy. In all that I recall of Robert Louis Stevenson — his manner to strangers, his ever-ready attention to those who would earnestly tell him something, his kindness to the natives and to all who were in a conventional sense beneath him — was revealed a large mind with a sympathetic, human outlook. Often little actions, something done on the impulse of the moment, told of simplicity and tenderness and the greatness which reveals a spirit that sees the link of fellowship between men, no matter what their caste or position in human affairs. At times he might have appeared theatrical to those around him ; but it was the expression of an intellectual, dramatic instinct, not for the stage, but for the drama played by men of this world, as though he were ever gazing critically on mortals before the limelight of existence and saying, half to himself: " There you are ! I told you so. What would you say to all that you've just heard if you read it in a book ? You wouldn't believe it, I'll be bound." His manner to Mrs Stevenson revealed an affectionate, confiding nature that loved attention. I should think it was the affection of a boy's heart, with the strong strain of a discerning man who knew the nature of women. He would always treat native women with the same deference that he 89 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSF.Y showed to the women of his own race ; a deference always delicately courteous, excepting on those occasions when women might court his criticism by criticising him, or by casting aside the delicate armour of their sex and assuming man's role. His kindness and the trouble he took on behalf of the Samoans is well known, and the natives earnestly expressed their gratitude by listening to and following the advice of " Tusitala," as they called him, and when he died they loudly bewailed his death. The poet-author's coffin was borne on the strong shoulders of Samoan chiefs, and the sound of their wailing, as they carried the coffin onwards up the slopes, with slow footsteps, to the grave on Vaea's sea-girt height, was his funeral chant. I saw Robert Louis Stevenson in many places and in many moods, and looking back, as I now can, the perspective clearly shows me that he was a religious man in the true sense of that term. In no wise bigoted, he often fell into the ranks of Christianity and beat time, with a smile on his lips, as though he wished to set an example to those around him, in his know- ledge that the example was better than his own half-sad, hopeful smile. At times, too, he would fall out of the ranks and become a harum-scarum renegade, and at such moments he seemed to have no idea of the existence of the barrier-lines that men, before the public, draw between the jovial rogue and the respectable citizen. " Well, captain, how goes it ? Got an eye-opener aboard ? " he would say as he jumped aboard the schooner's deck ; and then he would turn to the sailor who might be cleaning brass close by and offer him a cigarette, or walk into the forecastle and chum with the crew, or look over the ship's side and shy a copper to the swimming natives who haunted the bay, with the sea-birds, looking for a living. Such was Stevenson's manner in the isles of Samoa, where, notwithstanding the wildness and the proximity to primitive life, many of the emigrant citizens still did things, or did not do things, because of the standard set by a majority. It does not matter where you go, or how remote from civilisation your dwelling-place may be, you are sure to have 90 MRS STEVENSON some living illustration before you to tell you that the chains of conventionality are forged from the natures of men. I believe that if we could come back to this world a myriad years hence, when the sun has cooled down to a ghostly moon, when the seas are frozen and swinging to the tideless desolation that precedes the final crashing of the planetary system, and the human race has dwindled to a camp of twelve shivering mortals wrapped in bearskins, we should find them sitting over the last log fire without wood, with gloomy faces, anxiously awaiting Monday — because it is Sunday ! Mrs Stevenson was as much a Bohemian as her husband. She accompanied him on his short visits to Apia town, and on those occasions she was generally to be seen hurriedly rushing back to get, or inquire for, that which had been left behind. The novelist walked ahead and, as he went on dreaming, forgot that his wife was out with him till the domestic voice came again. Mrs Stevenson was very pleasant to talk to ; she invited me to Vailima, but I was not able to go. Indeed, I was only a lad and, not being a lady's man, would have run twenty miles to escape Vailima fashion. I recall many men who were acquaintances of Robert Louis Stevenson, and whom I have never heard of since. I remember one old man in particular whom Stevenson was always glad to meet. Indeed, the novelist's face lit up directly he saw him. His name was Callard, and he was a bit of a scallawag, was a character and had plenty of spare cash. He was never silent, but talked all day long and nearly all night, and always had some new trouble to relate. I slept in his room one night with two other men and he kept on and on about some friend who had swindled him out of five dollars in San Francisco, for that was his native place. " Yes, he did me, by heaven he did " ; and saying this he would start reckoning up on a bit of paper, and sit on the side of the bed swearing till my friend and I said : " If you won't worry any more about it we'll give you the five dollars." About a week after he took a passage on the 'Frisco mail- boat. I really believe that he hurried home and spent five hundred dollars to ease his mind about that five dollars, and would have spent a thousand dollars sooner than be done. I 9i A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY am rather like that myself, but I do not let such losses prey on my mind, for if I did, and tried to get even with the culprit, I should be incessantly travelling off somewhere or other. Well, Stevenson often met Callard, and the old chap treated him as though he was a boy, told the novelist jokes, spun yarns and repeatedly nudged him in the ribs ; and the two would finally end up by retiring to the bar and standing each other treat. Callard's great ambition at that time was to see King Malietoa Laupepa at Mulinuu. I went off with him, and with the assistance of some Malietoans got him an introduction at the royal court. Callard behaved with great propriety, indeed, bowed to almost all the native servants of the court retinue ! I played the violin to the King, who was a most agreeable gentleman, and carried himself with a deal more importance than Mataafa did. Callard spoke day and night of the King's handshake, and chuckled in his very sleep at the thought of what his friends in America would think when they heard of Callard and the King of Samoa together. He went especially to Vailima to tell Stevenson about King Malietoa, and kept the novelist amused the whole evening. Callard's eyebrows were about half-an-inch long and they stuck straight out, and as he spoke his eyelids kept closing as though he was in deep thought ; and what with that and his high, bald head, he was a cheerful-looking man. He always drank whisky, and Stevenson tucked him up to sleep on his couch at Vailima when he was too full of it to walk back to his lodgings ! I am quite sure if Stevenson had lived the world would have heard of Callard. Stevenson had a sneaking regard for vagabonds, and his eyes twinkled with delight in their company. He was very credulous and believed a deal that he heard. I think he would have gone off exploring for some new country, or a treasure island, in five minutes, if he had been encouraged by some of the fearless adventurers whom he mixed with through his love of vagabondage and adventure. The questions he used to ask men of the seafaring class revealed 92 & z < o < STEVENSON THE TONE POET how implicitly he believed that which they were telling him, yet at other times he seemed alert with suspicion and in a mood to disbelieve actual facts. Though I heard Stevenson make several attempts to play the violin, and also heard him pedalling at the harmonium, I cannot recall that he accomplished anything that struck me as showing musical talent — that is, talent revealing a quick ear to distinguish the scales and intervals of mechanical music. Indeed the pedals made more noise and sounded more rhythmical than the tune he played ; and he looked like some careworn priest toiling away on the treadmill of penance to save his soul. But still I can say that Stevenson had a gift that was something much greater than an ear for light melody. He was a great tone poet ! His mind was a shell that caught echoes from the vastness of creation, and the murmurs of humanity in all its joy, passion and sorrow. Otherwise he could never have even noticed, let alone described as he did, for not in all literature will you find another who describes sound so perfectly at one stroke as Stevenson did. You can hear Nature's moods, in all her wild grandeur of seas and the winds in the mountain forests, as you read his books. The seas beating over the barrier reefs, the vast silence of the tropical night, the starlit coco-palms and the coughing derelict beachcomber sleeping beneath them, become realities that haunt your mind, because they are made and played by a great musician who was an artist in Nature's great orchestra. I think if Stevenson had been able to cast aside all thought of the critical inspection of lovers of polite literature, and the mechanical niceties of phrase and thought, and had written his reminiscences down in a book, the characters therein would have walked, talked and laughed with cinema realism. Down in the magical world of words, before the mind's eye and ear, we should have seen the vast tropical Pacific, and the stars over it reflected in the lagoons of the far-scattered isles clad with coco-palms as if painted by the magical silver oils of moonlight. Wc should have heard the cry of the traders and seen the beachcombers' ragged clothes fluttering by tossing waters, and paddled canoes iillcd with the swarthy 93 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY faces of wild men, on the waves that were breaking over the shores of his wonderful pages. But, unfortunately, it was not to be, because of the great truth that we cannot do differently from that which we do. We are born in the chains of grim conventionality that become inevitably a part of us. Indeed he who professes to be utterly free from it, and to have no regard for it in his work, has his published book as strong evidence against his sincerity. I've met far greater geniuses than Robert Louis Stevenson in the Southern Seas — geniuses so intense with pathos, wit, insight and heroic courage that though they had never even read a book, or learnt to write, their minds were gold mines of truth and experience and all that men have ever attempted to tell in polite phrase. Could they, by some magical means, have turned a handle and so written down in a book their reminiscences, and their thoughts on human affairs, modern literature would not have to bewail the loss of its Golden Age, but would be absorbed with delight, filled with ecstatic charm over the pathos and the wonderful touches of truth, in what would be the great classic, the new Odyssey of modern times. But to return to Stevenson. I once heard him arguing violently on board a ship, when he was at dinner in the saloon. At the time I was busily cleaning the brass door handle. It grieves me to have to confess to this humble occupation while I was seeking fame and fortune in far countries, but it was the execution of this little detail of one of my many professions that gave me the opportunity of hearing the celebrated author's opinion on Socialism. One of the diners, who sat opposite Robert Louis Steven- son, was a big red-faced man, weighing about sixteen stone, a quantity of heavy jewellery which adorned his clothing being included. He breathed violently as he ate and kept insisting on the wonderful virtues of Socialism. Stevenson combated with him in fine style, winning every point. All I can remember of the conversation was that the author said : " Socialism is based on ideas of equality and the freedom of the individual ; yet its principal aim in practice would be to 94 STEVENSON AND SOCIALISM destroy individuality and freedom, and the equality would be a system producing nothing else but a nation of slaves." I think Stevenson was right, for I have noticed that socialists are not continually busy in giving away anything. Indeed, socialists have so developed the instinct of com- mercial grab that they can always perceive, " by the cut of your jib " (a socialistic phrase), how much you are worth and whether you would part with it without the use of muscular force. I am not well read in the ethics of Socialism, because I cannot waste my time. If a burglar broke into my house, and I caught him stealing my goods as his fair share, I should not want to read his private correspondence and hear his views on human affairs, or wish to know if he had a clean shirt on ere I threw him out of the window or fetched the police. Socialists do not like sharing their property with others any more than I do. I have striven to tell in the brief foregoing details my impressions and experiences of Robert Louis Stevenson. I hope they may be interesting. In the books that deal with his life in the South Seas it is little short of marvellous how tamely his life there is painted, especially when one thinks that his island home was overrun by semi-civilised natives and a white population of the most mixed and adventurous people the world could well place together ; and certainly Stevenson was not the kind of man to travel to the South Seas and seek no other excitement beyond an afternoon walk or a fashionable dance in an Apia ballroom. • ••••••• • It was somewhere about the period which I am dealing with that a discussion was going on concerning Father Damien, the celebrated Catholic priest who had sacrificed his life for the sake of the lepers at the dread lazaretto on the Isle of Molokai. In my first book of reminiscences in the South Seas I touched briefly on the few incidents which I heard from a native friend of mine, Raeltoa the Samoan. And before I proceed with my later reminiscences of Samoa and elsewhere I will tell you all I heard about Father Damien whilst I was in Honolulu. 95 CHAPTER IX Honolulu — King Lunalilo — Chinese Leprosy — Kooma's Reminis- cences of Father Damien — Molokai — The Leper-Hunters — Father Damien at Molokai — Robert Stevenson's Open Letter to Dr CM. Hyde AFTER Samoa I think the Sandwich Isles are the most attractive islands in the Pacific. They are moun- tainous and the summits of Hawaii — pronounced Ha-wy-ee — rise to fourteen or fifteen thousand feet. All the islands of the group are volcanic, and rich both in live and extinct craters. I should not be surprised if some day the bowels of the Sandwich Group suddenly exploded and blew the isles to smithereens ! When, from the sea, you sight the coast, its promontories covered with coco-palms and gorgeous tropical trees, waving over slopes that lead down to lazy, shore-curling waves, you think of the Biblical Garden of Paradise. Native hut homes, conical-shaped, with tiny verandahs, peep out of the bamboo and clumps of bananas beneath mighty bread-fruit trees. I stayed several weeks in the Sandwich Group. The natives are mirthful and well dressed, far in advance of the Marquesan and Solomon islanders. They are all Christians, but decidedly immoral according to European codes. Honolulu is a well-shaded city, with the spires of advanced civilisation rising. Missionaries are there in plenty, and possibly they feel thankful that barbarian ideas of virtue have given them a profession on islands of tropical beauty, whereon they can live in extreme comfort while they work among, and are kind to, the natives. While there I saw the palace of the Hawaiian queen, who I think was the widow of King Kalc-Conalain. She was as polished as a Parisian prima donna. I also saw the new king, Lunalilo, a fine-looking Hawaiian, six feet high, full- lipped and very majestic-looking. He was dressed in a frock- 96 KOOMA THE HAWAIIAN coat and fashionable felt hat. As he appeared before the people and stood on the palace steps, the crowds waved and cheered as the British do to their King and Queen. The Hawaiian climate is healthy ; but Chinese leprosy attacks the natives and the white population, which con- sists of French, English, Kanakas negroes, Chinamen and ex-convicts. Swarms of mosquitoes find the Sandwich Isles a happy hunting ground for their race, and are one of its drawbacks. I toured on the island steamer Kilanea to all the various isles, and then stopped near Honolulu with Kooma, who was a Hawaiian. He was an old man, yet straight figured, well tattooed and with intelligent eyes. His high brow denoted intellectual qualities which were usually con- spicuous through their absence from the heads of his race. Hawaiians are like all the South Sea Islanders, and have a deeply rooted hatred for work. As they have embraced Christianity, heathen songs have ceased, and now, like caged birds on the polished perches of civilisation, they sit and quote, parrot- like, all that the missionaries teach them. Kooma at that time had no calling. He was aged, and had reared up a large family, and his athletic sons, who worked on shipping wharves at Honolulu, repaid Kooma for his past kindness. He had several married daughters also. I was not very well off at the time and gladly accepted the old Hawaiian's offer to let me occupy rooms in his home at a charge that nicely suited the state of my exchequer. Kooma had known Father Damien 1 intimately, that heroic leper priest who had devoted his life to combating heathenism and nursing the lepers on the Isle of Molokai, and had, a year or so before, died of the dreaded disease. So I was fortunately able to hear, directly from him, details of deep interest to me concerning the life and character of the celebrated priest, who had emigrated from Louvain as a 1 Joseph Damien de Veuster was born at Tremeloo, a small peasant village near Louvain, in 1840; and in peaceful scenes that are now ravaged by the relentless tramp of materialistic battalions he, as a boy, dreamed and fed his imagination and intense genius for helping humanity. He died on 15th April 1889. g 97 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY missionary to Honolulu, and after a strenuous life of self- sacrifice lay in his grave near his stricken children on the lonely lazaretto isle, Molokai. It appeared that my friend had known Damien many years before he went to Molokai ; had officiated as his servant, and helped the missionary build some of the extemporised churches and homes at Kohala and elsewhere. Sitting by his side, by the window of his humble home- stead, while native children romped under the palms out in the hot sunlight, I talked to Kooma of many things, and hear- ing that he had known Father Damien I at once plied him with questions. " Was Damien a kind and good man, Kooma ? " I asked, and then, with much pride that he was able to give me information concerning such a popular white man, he blew whiffs of tobacco through his thin, wrinkled lips and answered : 'I have cut wood and dug hundreds of post-holes for the great white priest, and he no pay me." " Did not pay you ? " I said, astonished. "No," he answered. "I knew that he was poor and had no money, and so I work for no wages." After many questions and replies which dealt chiefly with the Hawaiian's own character and importance, I gathered that Kooma had collected firewood for the lonely priest, and had done many services for him, both as a friend and a servant, out of a good heart, for it appeared that Damien was not by any means an austere man or master, but one who worked with those around him in a spirit of good comradeship. If anyone imposed upon the natives and Damien heard of it, he would hotly resent the imposition, and with flashing eyes shout and fight for their rights as though they were his own children. Years before Damien went to Molokai a handsome Hawaiian girl, who lived at Kahalo, loved a Society Island youth who had, with his parents, emigrated to the Sandwich Islands. The father of the maid disliked the youth, who was an idle, good-for-nothing fellow, and so would not encourage the lad's attentions to his daughter. For some time the lovers met in secret, for love laughs at locksmiths in Hawaii as well as elsewhere. One night, as Damien sat 98 FATHER DAMIEN AND THE HAWAIIAN MAID by his fireside in his lonely hut having his humble meal, the love-sick maid appeared at his door. Crossing her hands on her breast, she bowed, half frightened, and after much hesitation pleaded to the Catholic Father on the youth's behalf, begging him to help her, for she was in great distress ; and knowing that Damien was a great missionary and priest of the white God, she suddenly fell on her knees and confessed all. She was in trouble through the lad, and, telling Damien this, she laid her head on his knee and cried bitterly ; for the kindness of his eyes soothed her and made her feel like a little child. Gently bidding her to rise, the Father told her to cease from troubling, and said : "' Go, my child, home ; tell thy father all ; also that thou hast told this thing to me, and I will come and see him." The priest did all that he promised ; and the next evening the sinful youth who had brought sorrow to Ramao, for that was her name, appeared before the hut door wherein lived Father Damien and, shamefaced, hung his head for a long while. Kooma, who sat telling me all this, added : " And the great white Father put the spirit of Christ in Juno's (the lad's) heart ; for he became good, and worked hard, and was forgiven for that which he did, and they were happy and had many children ; and I learnt to love Juno in his manhood, for he was a good father and kind to the maid who was my daughter ! ' And, saying all this, he pushed the window higher up and pointed to a tall maid who, in her ridi robe, came singing down the track by the jungle ferns. On her bare shoulders she humped baskets of live fish which had been just caught below in the sea. ' She," Kooma said, ' is my granddaughter, and was the unborn child of the fallen maid whom Father Damien was kind to " ; and there she stood in the doorway and gazed on us both with laughing, sparkling eyes, bare from the waist upwards, excepting for a thread of beads hanging at her breast and a Catholic cross, with a tiny figure of the Virgin Mary, swinging below. I looked at her with deep interest, and thought of the kindness of the missionary priest, dead in his grave at Molokai. Kooma showed me a Bible which had been given him by Father Damien. It was well thumb-marked, torn, and 99 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY pencilled by the priest at those pages where he had made my friend memorise different passages. On the front leaf was Damien's signature. On my handing the sacred gift back to the Hawaiian he carefully placed it at the bottom of his chest ; and I knew that it would be no use my attempting to get it from him, however much I might want the book. Many interesting things did I learn from my stay at this native's house, for night after night I would get him in a reminiscent mood. It appeared that as time wore on the young priest, who was a handsome, healthy-looking man, became somewhat subdued and saddenedj and aged con- siderably in the space of three or four years. At times he was morose and unapproachable, though afterwards he would gaze with kindly eyes on those whom he might have spoken to in anger. ' Did he ever go away ? ' I asked Kooma, and he answered : ' Sometimes he would go for one or two days, and often at night-time go off wandering alone in the forest- lands about his house ; and night after night at sunset he would sit with his chin on his hands and gaze toward the sea- ward sunset, with eyes that saw far away." And then Kooma added : " And I would say, ' Master, shall I get thee more fire- wood ? ' and he would not answer, but would steadily gaze on, and I could see the tears in his eyes, and I knew that he sorrowed over that which I knew not of." So earnest was Kooma's manner that, as he told me these things, I saw the past, the lonely hut home and the exiled priest gazing into the sunset, sick at heart as he dreamed of his childhood's home across the world. I wondered somewhat, and thought over the stories Raeltoa of Samoa had told me, which I have written about in my earlier book of reminiscences. For Raeltoa the Samoan had also known Father Damien, as, of course, hundreds of natives did, and had told me, unasked, of his kindness and hcart-fclt sorrow for those who hid from the leper captors as they searched for the stricken people. For leprosy had wiped out thousands of the natives of the Sandwich Islands and elsewhere. When once the victims revealed the purplish-yellow patch on their bodies they were ioo DAMIEN'S GRIEF doomed, for no cure was, or is, known for the scourge of leprosy. In Kooma's house dwelt a chief who lived in Oahu. He had elephantiasis, which had swelled his legs to three times their normal size. He used to sit under the pandanus-trees reading his Bible as I talked with Kooma, and I was ex- tremely pleased to hear, on inquiring, that his complaint was not contagious ; for when he squatted with his knees up in front of him, so swollen were his limbs that his body and head were hidden from view. But to go back to Kooma's reminiscences. " What hap- pened before Father Damien went away to the Leper Isle of Molokai ? " I asked, and Kooma answered: "He became most sad, and then wished many of my people who had the leper patch good-bye, and promised to go one day and see them, and made them happier with smiles and promises ; and often he would go a long way off to comfort those whose relatives had been taken to the dreaded lazaretto." '' Did you see Father Damien after he had gone to the lazaretto ? " I asked. " Yes," he replied ; " and he looked most sad and very, very much older : and I asked him of my sister, whom he had seen at Molokai, for she was stricken with the plague, and he said, ' Kooma, your sister is happy ; the spirit is well, though the flesh, which is nothing, is ill.' " Then Kooma told me much of the doings of the Flemish priest : how he had toiled incessantly for the welfare of his native children, ministering to their souls ; and how his influence had soothed their hearts, hearts that still half nursed the old traditions ; for the Hawaiians were originally a wild race, and still their songs told of heathen mythology, of mighty warriors, of love and ravishment, and of cannibalistic times, so Damien's task of reforming them was no easy one. For many years the dreadful scourge had crept, with its fatal grip, over the whole of the Sandwich Group, and as time went on it became so prevalent that the Hawaiian Government decided that the best step to take to stay the horror of fetid rot which was annihilating the race was to isolate all those afflicted with the disease and send them to Molokai. IOI A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY Molokai was a lonely, half-barren isle surrounded by rough, beaten shores of crag and fortress reef that for ever withstood the charges of the seas as eternally they clashed, broke and moaned through the caves of the death-stricken isle, echoing and mingling with the moan of memories and deathly cries that faded on the dying lips of the plague- stricken men, women and children who rotted till they became lipless skeletons, still alive in their tomb — the grey, gloomy lazaretto of the Leper Isle. Terrible was the grief of the natives as those employed to separate the lepers sought out all those who were spotted with the livid leper patch. Father Damien's heart was sick within him as he heard the lamentations of forced farewells, as, standing by their captors, helpless men and women, gazing over their shoulders, looked into the eyes of those they loved and went away for ever ! Father Damien, who had devotedly administered comfort to the stricken ones who were scattered over the isle, saw and felt deeply the grief of those around him ; but he was powerless to help the unhappy people ; he knew the enforced separation was decreed by the authorities, and was for the best. It was well known that many of the unfortunate victims were hidden away in the forest-lands, or in caves by the shores : maidens secreting their lovers, and lovers hiding the pleading maids, husbands their wives, and wives their children. Often in the night, as the dread inquisition dis- covered some trembling, hidden victim, a scream would break the silence of the jungle as the victim was muffled, gagged and taken away ; for the leper-hunters were not the tender- cst and most poetical of men. Money was their reward for all the lepers they captured, and the men hired for the job were chosen for their evil reputations and the expression of brutality on their dark faces. Father Damien's heart was indeed wretched over the fate of his children. As Kooma the Hawaiian sat telling me all this, and the shadows fell and the island nightingale sang up in the pandanus-trces, I watched his earnest face and listened attentively, for I knew that I was hearing the truth of much that was hidden from the world. I learnt that the sad priest 102 THE LEPER HUNTERS would sit at night for hours under the coco-palms, deep in thought, and have no sleep, so troubled was he over the fate of the flock that he loved ; and many times did he help the afflicted ones, and long and deeply did he hesitate ere he told the authorities that which he had to tell, and which his tender heart stayed him from telling. As Kooma told me this I saw that his memories of the priest were sincere and loving enough. Then he called out " Pooline ! Pooline ! " and a native girl came and poked her head in at the door- way ; it was his granddaughter, whom Father Damien had christened. They had called her after Damien's sister Pauline (which they pronounced Pooline) ; for the priest often spoke of his sister in Flanders, and told Kooma that some day she would come out to him to share his work and help him in it, and several times he wrote home and asked her to think the matter over. Few were surprised when at length Father Damien volun- teered to go to Molokai and administer faith and comfort to his lost children in exile. He taught them to be patient as he walked amongst them and crept by the lazaretto huts of death, knitting their shrouds and gazing with kind eyes on their faces till they ceased to see and feel, and he buried them. Lonely indeed those nights must have been as, alone with grief and silence, his bent form hammered and hammered, beating out the muffled notes that drove in coffin nails : for he made the last beds of his dead children, digging their graves and burying with his own hands many scores of the stricken dead, until he at last succumbed to the scourge him- self. He lies buried with those he died for, and has, let us hope, found a reward for his self-sacrifice in heaven. From Kooma I heard much of Damien's true character, his love of justice and his impulsiveness in hastening to help the weak, regardless of all consequences. Once, while Father Damien was eating his supper, a Hawaiian appeared at the door and said, " Master, trouble has befallen me and my home " ; and then told the priest of a tragedy that had occurred. A native girl through jealousy had stabbed another who had sought her lover, and was cither hiding in the forest or shore caves or had killed herself, vll night the 103 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY native and Father Damien searched, and at length the girl was found almost lifeless, covered in blood, on the shore reefs seaward from Kilanea, her body lying half on the sands and half in the waves. She had slashed herself and had nearly bled to death. Damien carried the girl for miles in his arms, bandaged her and saved her life ; also the life of the girl she had stabbed so viciously in her jealousy. When they were both well again he brought them together, made them embrace each other and swear to forget all, with the result that they became greater friends through being erst- while enemies. Each secured a lover to her liking, and ever blessed the great Father who had befriended them instead of handing them over to the authorities at Honolulu — authorities whom Damien hated, for they moved on material lines and looked upon cruel force as the best means of discouraging crime, and on kindness as insanity more dangerous than the crime it forgave. In a corner of Father Damien's lonely little homestead he kept the cherished letters that arrived from his homeland across the sea. Night after night he would take those letters out and read them through again, and then tenderly place them in a small pot and hide them beneath his trestle bed. They were letters from his sister Pauline and other relatives in Flanders. One night he sought them and they were missing. Great was Father Damien's grief, and even rage flushed his face as he demanded of Kooma if he knew of their whereabouts. For hours he searched, " and never was the Master in so great a temper ; he look much fierce and his eyes fire and then cry," said Kooma, as I listened. ' What did he do then ? " I asked. " Did he find the letters ? " " Yes," said Kooma, " he did find letters : a dog that Father Damien had been kind to had smelt and pawed them up and run off with the pot, which we found in the scrub. The great Father was then good to us and did ask me to forgive him for that which he said ; which I did do ; and the dog too he forgave ; and Father Damien once more smiled, stroked the shaggy thief, and it sat up, looked at the Father's eyes, wagged its tail and was happy." 104 STEVENSON'S LETTER TO DR HYDE I often heard a lot of discussion about Father Damien's life and work, sometimes between rough island traders, and sometimes between men of the conventional middle class. A few of the former had met Father Damien, or knew those who were acquainted with him, but most of them expressed opinions from hearsay and the low or high order of their own instincts. Robert Louis Stevenson's celebrated open letter to Dr Hyde had much to do with the popular nature of the controversy and the growing enthusiasm for the self-sacrifice of the dead priest. For those who may not know the exact facts I relate them here. After Father Damien's death Robert Louis Stevenson, whilst cruising in the South Seas, happened to read a paper that contained a letter written by Dr Hyde, of Honolulu, to the Rev. Mr Gage, of Sydney, who in turn sent it to The Sydney Presbyterian for publication. Here is the letter : To The Rev. H. B. Gage. Honolulu, 2nd August 1889. Dear Brother, — In answer to your inquiries about Father Damien, I can only reply that we who knew the man are surprised at the extravagant newspaper laudations, as if he was a most saintly philanthropist. The simple truth is, he was a coarse, dirty man, headstrong and bigoted. He was not sent to Molokai, but went there without orders ; did not stay at the leper settlement before he became one himself, but circulated freely over the whole island (less than half the island is devoted to lepers), and he came often to Honolulu. He had no hand in the reforms and improvements inaugur- ated, which were the work of our Board of Health, as occasion required and means were provided. The leprosy of which he died should be attributed to his vices and carelessness. Others having done much for the lepers, our own ministers, the Government physicians and so forth, but never with the Catholic idea of meriting eternal life. Yours, etc., C. M. Hyde. (Published in The Sydney Presbyterian, 26th October 1880.) 105 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY When Robert Louis Stevenson read the above letter, and the comments upon it, he was deeply incensed, and wrote a defence of the priest about which the world knows. Mr Melville, whom I met at Apia, told me an interesting story about Robert Louis Stevenson and his championship of Father Damien. While Mr Melville was a passenger on a ship, the Lubeck, I think, he sat near Stevenson, who was dining in the saloon. The conversation touched on Father Damien and Dr Hyde's letter, and when a passenger revealed by his remarks that he was half willing to believe Hyde, Stevenson almost shouted and insulted him. The passenger, irritated, persevered with his opinions and said something further, whereupon Stevenson said : " Some of you men still make one think of the danger of Christ's mission and His risks on earth," or something to that effect. On this the passenger answered : " Mr Stevenson, you forget yourself," and Stevenson immediately replied : "I would to God that some of you fellows would forget yourselves and remember the virtues of others." When Mr Melville told me this I smiled, for from my own personal recollections of Robert Louis Stevenson I knew that he did not need a battalion of supporters to help him main- tain his own opinion when he felt that he upheld a noble purpose : for Stevenson was a fearless, though gentle soul, even apart from his literary life and work. Indeed Damien found in him a kindred and worthy champion. Not always are men able so well to express outwardly that which they beautifully write and feel. As I have said, much rumour and discussion followed both Dr Hyde's letter and Stevenson's powerful retaliation, and it was not uncommon for Catholic and Protestant divines engaged in arguments on the matter to come even to blows. Now all men admit that Or Hyde's letter of denunciation was indirectly one incentive that drew the attention and praise of the world at large to the heroism of the martyr priest, and was responsible for Robert Louis Stevenson's reply and vindication of him. Personally I do not think Dr Hyde was as deliberately hypocritical as Rumour has 106 FORKED TONGUES OF ENVY painted him. Of course this does not imply that Robert Louis Stevenson's counter-denunciation of Hyde's epistle was unjust or too fierce ; he wrote as the first champion voice, and wrote from the white-hot intensity of indignation over what he felt was a deadly wrong done to the memory of a great man. This can, too, in the consciousness of man's fallibility, be applied to motive on the other side, for Dr Hyde, of Honolulu, also wrote to his friend, the Rev. Mr Gage, from a firm belief in his heart that rumour was truth and Father Damien's memory was not deserving of "' extrava- gant laudation." Many others of his own denomination had devoted their lives to the lepers, both on the islands and at the lazaretto at Molokai, and so Dr Hyde's great sin was in believing that which he was told and remembering the self- sacrifice of his own brethren who had also toiled on behalf of the lepers. The voice of Rumour has many forked tongues of envv and the carelessness of thoughtless scandal. Our religion is founded on the sorrow and disastrous result of its tongue, for did not Christ suffer crucifixion through this weakness in mankind ? Through doubt and envy to this day some nations believe one side, and others the other ; and are there not millions now who do not believe in that which our religion is founded on ? Was Dr Hyde so wicked ? I for one do not think so. Do we know what he thought after he had written that mighty atom of a letter ? What were his reflections, misgivings and regrets over his first belief and hasty conclusions, and over that celebrated blazing challenge of Stevenson's to the world, revealing in words of fire the complete vindication of Damien's life, work and Christ-like heroic virtue ? We can imagine what he felt like, for we all make mistakes, but not with such drastic results. The stern note of intense application to a set purpose reveals in Stevenson's letter the fact that he felt that Damien needed an immediate champion. Stevenson was at heart a Christian man, in the full, true sense of the word, and I have not the slightest doubt that after his open letter had fulfilled the purpose which he intended it to fulfil, and the first heat 107 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY of his just indignation had cooled down, he himself would have withdrawn it from publication, if he could have done so, and let the whole matter slumber ; for he of all men would not have wished vindictive roots to spread and twine about the hearts of men who thus would strangely nourish the very thoughts that their creed specially preaches against. Stevenson well knew man's weakness, and the bigotry of men who differ on religious subjects and are opposed to each other by the difference of creed. Certainly the imputations of undeserved praise which were suddenly hurled at the self- exiled priest's reputation only served one end : to bring out, if possible in brighter relief, the splendid heroism of Father Damien's life, both before and after his going back to Molokai. Even had it been bitterly proved that the Flemish missionary was not a spiritual saint, but fallible flesh and blood flowing through earthly channels, which resisted, but did not always overthrow, temptation, still he would stand before us a beautiful man (and he was a man) ; and to do all that he did, and still have the weaknesses of mankind, makes the martyr stand out greater to our eyes than if he did his wonderful life's work through some effortless, inborn virtue of heavenly inheritance. The sad peasant priest of Louvain has been dead these many years ; he lived and died without ambition, and only in heaven may know the earthly fame he achieved. Well may we believe how beautifully he would smile, forgive and touch with his lips the brows of his erring detractors, with the same spirit that made him live and die for his fellow-men with the certainty of one final reward — a stricken leper's grave in far away Kalawao, on Molokai Isle. Out of grey crags by warder-seas they creep With wailing voices as the stars steal by ; Dead men — fast rotting on dark shores of sleep, Their earthly eyes still shape the shadowed sky ! Poor skeletons, they moan, laugh, grin and weep ; In loathsome amorous arms some still lie. Entombed, they curse the sun — Time's cruel dial Above that vault — the South Sea leper-isle. 108 FATHER DAMIEN Hark to the midnight scream I Then silence after Of desolation voiced by waves that leap By sepulchres — damp huts of sheltered rafter, "Where dreaming dead men shout thro' shroudless sleep ! As windy trees wail dreams of long dead laughter ; As o'er each wattle hut the night winds sweep, And dying eyes watch ships out o'er the night, Pass shores of death with port-holes gleaming bright ! J Twas on that Charn el-isle, with watching eyes He toiled for dead men who still heard the waves Beat shoreward : saw the South Sea white moonrise Bathe their-to-be forgotten flowerless graves 1 Exiled pale hero-priest ! Full oft their cries Smote his sad listening ears ; like unto caves That voice the mournful tone of ocean's roll, Infinity entombed sang in his soul. Lonely as God, he sat : enthroned o'er pain Brave music made of desolation's sorrow, Christ-like gazed on the deathless, crying slain ! His eyes breathed light — foretelling some bright morrow Till from their tombs they rose — the dead again ! Dark skeletons of woe, they rose to borrow Life from Molokai's hero : — men denied That leper-priest — like Christ — when Damien died. 109 CHAPTER X An Inland March — The Great Chief — A Siva Dance— A Sailor's Party — Nina's Samoan Fairy Tale — Death — The Golden Horn — Idols — A Marquesan Village — We ship as Stowaways I EASILY recall to mind my farewell days in Samoa, and the native trader with whom I lodged. His home- stead was a comfortable bungalow, sheltered by coco- palms, and not far from Saluafata village. I had not much money at that time, and my friendly native only charged me just what I could afford to give him, which was, unfortun- ately, very little. He had three daughters and two grown-up sons who were just about my age ; they spoke good English, were good companions, and we had merry times together. I gave the eldest daughter music lessons during my short stay. Her father purchased a cheap German violin down in the stores at Apia, and the Samoan's daughter made rapid progress. I taught her to play by ear. Her relatives came in from the districts to hear her play her first Samoan hymn. I have never been so complimented for my teaching ability in my life as I was over that dusky girl's progress. I felt well repaid by their gratitude. They fed me up, for I had been ill for a fortnight with a severe cold and was getting thin. I went off almost every evening with the sons fishing, and lived in real native style. I enjoyed the various native dishes, for Mrs Pompo, my host's wife, was a clever cook, and served up the cooked fish with stewed yams and many more island delicacies. Poi-poi was a favourite dish : a mixture of taro, bread-fruit, yams and wild bananas. My host had several wealthy relatives living inland, and at last the sons, young Pompy and Tango, succeeded in per- suading me to go off to the inland villages with my violin to visit them. I well remember the long, hot march they gave me, as I tramped between them for miles and miles along tracks just by the coast, and then inland across paths by the no ON THE WALLABY coco-palms. Some of the journey was over rough jungle country beautiful with tropical trees and flowers. Merrily my comrades sang as I plucked the fiddle strings, banjo fashion, marching along far away, with the civilised cities thousands of miles behind. We slept out the first night, as indeed I often did in my travels. Pompy and Tango lay asleep on each side of me as, sleepless, I looked round my bedroom floor and saw my palm- trees standing windless and still and my bright stars over me flashing in the midnight skies. Next day we passed across thick island jungle and then suddenly emerged on to a large clearing, where by a river stood several isolated huts. Through the doors came rushing brown-faced native girls, with delight and wonder shining in their dark eyes at hearing the music of the fiddle ! Like little dark devils bare-footed children came running behind us, and then, just as we were passing close by the half- open hut door, out came the picturesque bigger girls for the second time, for they had seen my white face and had rushed indoors with haste, all screaming out, "Papalangi ! " They had forgotten their fig-leaf, so to speak. At the very most, natives, boys and girls who lived inland, wore little dress beyond the primitive ridi, and if they wore more than usual it was some remnant of European clothes, given them in exchange for curios, or as wages by artful traders. On the green, scrubby slope, under a palm-tree by her hut door, stood a full-figured, dark Samoan mother, showing her white teeth as she smiled. She looked like some grotesque statue as she stood there quite still beneath the blue tropical sky, for she wore a delicate undergarment as a robe, which just covered half of her bronzed figure — a present, possibly, from some trader's wife. As the native girls came down and walked by me, gazing sideways with great curiosity, the tall grass brushed their bare knees and their eyes shone as they revealed their pearly rows of teeth and laughed, calling out to each other, " Arika pakea ! " * Samoan girls arc great flirts, yet I felt that I trod some enchanted land where vice was unknown. The faint 1 White man. ill A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY inland wind stirred their loose, bronze-coloured hair, wherein they had stuck white and crimson hibiscous blossoms or grass. Several little mites, with tiny wild faces, came close up to us and stood with boastful bravery a moment in front of me, their little demon-like eyes anxiously striving to examine my violin, and when I suddenly struck all the strings together — r-h-r-r-r-r-r-r r-r-n-k — off they rushed back to the hut doors and gave a frightened scream. Out poked the frizzy heads of all the mothers to see what the hullabaloo was about. When they saw me they waved their dark hands and shouted, " Kaoha ! " or " How do you do ? " as I tramped by between my two comrades. About a mile farther on we came across another small group of huts, not far from a grove of orange-trees, where we picked the golden fruit out of the deep grass ; it tasted like pine-apples and oranges mixed. Only two old native women were in sight. They were very busy, it was their washing day, and one of them stooped over an old salt pork ship's barrel, washing the village clothes : on a line hard by, stretched between two coco-nut trees, hung a row of newly washed ridis, steaming in the hot sun. As we approached, Pompy and Tango intimated that it w r as the abode of one of their great relatives. On the ground beneath a clump of bamboos, stretched out flat, was an old Samoan chief. ' O Le Tula ! " Pompy shouted, and the old fellow slowly lifted his wrinkled face and welcomed us. My comrades, his grandsons, jabbered away to him in native lingo, and intro- duced me with pride, telling me that I was gazing on one of the past great chiefs who had been King Malietoa's special favourite. He had a classical profile that was slightly spoilt, for one of his ears was missing ; it had been blown off by a gun-shot in a tribal battle some years before. As I gazed upon him with reverence his eyes looked straight in front of him and he pulled himself up majestically. His large frame was well tattooed. Suddenly he signed to me and said some- thing over and over again in broken English. When I at last understood I forced a smile to my lips and handed him my last shilling. I could not very well refuse, as I had walked many miles to see him. He grabbed the coin, and 112 SIVA DANCERS IN THE FOREST his face went into a mass of wrinkles as he grunted out L Mitar." On a slope about five hundred yards off was a tin-roofed mission room, and a missionary's homestead close by. There was only a half-caste assistant there ; " the Boss " had gone off to Apia. The half-caste seemed a decent fellow, and gave us a cup of German tea ; for Malietoa's old chief had bolted off to the nearest rum shop, miles away probably, directly he had got possession of my shilling, to get te rom. 1 That night I witnessed a native dance, resembling in character the dances which I have already described in my first book of reminiscences. But this dance slightly differed from the dance scenes of my previous experience. It was more rhythmical and, instead of being grotesque, was a weirdly beautiful sight ; for as the large, low moon, half sub- merged by the distant hill, sent a flood of light through the coco-palms and banyan-trees, it lit up the moving, dark faces on the forest stage floor, which was a cleared patch. A picturesque Samoan girl stood swathed in a girdle of festival flowers and sang, while the squatting Siva dancers rocked their bodies to and fro and clapped their hands. I stood close by and played on my violin a minor melody ; and its silvery wails were accompanied by the full orchestral moan of the whole forest of giant moonlit trees as the wind blew fitfully through them. Then came the wild chorus, as the circle of girls rose and, like a crowd of wood nymphs made of moonshine, embraced each other and then divided, whirling and waving their arms fantastically in the glimpsing moon- light that poured through the palms. As for me, I stood in the middle of the dancers playing my violin and firing away double forte, and presto velocity, to keep in with the barbarian tempo. About a mile off was the spot to which I had been dragged by a tribe of natives, who had forced me to play at a cannibalistic feast during my previous sojourn in Samoa. After the forest ball had closed, and the performers were dispersing and going off to their homes, a well-dressed native, who had known me when I was in Samoa before, recognised me, and I was extremely pleased to see him. He 1 Gin or rum. H 113 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY was a trader and an intimate friend of Hornecastle's — my convivial old friend of earlier days. I learnt from him that Hornecastle had gone away to the Gilbert Group, or to the Solomon Isles, I forget which. The trader invited us to his house, where we spent the night. We had no sooner got under the shelter of his welcome roof than clouds slid over the sky and a terrific storm came on . It lasted well into the night and nearly blew me off my sleeping-mat, for the Samoan's house was open all round. To ease my restlessness I rose and looked out on to the sleeping village. The rain had ceased and the moon, low on the ranges of Vaea Mountain, looked like a globe lamp wedged between the sky and the earth. Space was quite clear for miles, but far away was a travelling wrack of foaming cloud that looked like a serried line of mighty breakers silently charging across a shore of starlit blue. I well recall this particular night, for I was greatly impressed by a sad sight. Under some coco-palms just below I saw a light glimmering in one of the natives' shed-like huts, and I heard native voices. Going down the slope, I spoke to a Samoan who was standing by the door, and from him I understood that a native youth was dying. He had been ailing for some time and had been suddenly taken worse. The relatives had fetched the priest, who was kneel- ing by the bed-mat giving the last benediction. I saw the outline of the sick boy's face and the half-conscious smile of faith on his quivering lips ere he died. I will draw a veil over the rest, which would make very uncheerful reading. The following day, on our way back, we met a crowd of English sailors going inland. They had several natives with them who had been drinking rather heavily down in Apia. As we approached, the sailors, spying me and my violin, shouted out : " Hallo ! matey, where did you get that hat ? Any girls round these parts ? ", and then all started to do a double shuffle. Not far off was a small village, and when I offered to go there with them Pompy and Tango jumped about and laughed with delight ; and the eldest seaman of the crowd, the boatswain, I think, smacked me genially on the back with such force that I looked up at him a bit wildly at first ; but I quickly recovered as he gleefully gave me 114 BRITISH SAILORS ASHORE another nudge in the ribs, saying, as he winked with good fellowship : tk Don't kill me, youngster." As they approached the village, loudly singing the latest London hit, and emerged from the thickets of bamboo, a covey of native boys and girls came running down the slope, from a group of native huts, to welcome the jolly white men : two of the wild crew were blowing their hardest, mouth organs at their lips, and the eldest, who had goatee whiskers, and wore a Tarn o' Shanter kind of seaman's cap, sang lustily, with wide opened mouth, just behind them ; at intervals he stumbled slightly through being half-seas-over. Sunset was fading on the horizon out seaward and touch- ing the coco-palms and the distant mountain range with golden light as the shadows fell over the island. From the hut doors the naked children peeped and clapped their hands with delight. The primitive town fairly buzzed with excitement when, under the palms, Samoan maids whirled around, clasped in the arms of the joyful sailors, who made the wild island country echo to their singing voices. A crowd of stalwart Samoan men left their work on the banana plantation close by and came to watch the sailors ashore. Dressed in their ridis only they stood, with their white teeth shining and their eyes sparkling merrily to see the novel sight. The pretty Samoan girls screamed with laughter, and their long brown legs went up and swung across the grass and fern-carpeted floor of the primitive ballroom, as they twirled round and round in the sailors' arms, and looked over their brown shoulders at a corpulent, fat native woman, who hailed from the Solomon Isles. For she imitated the drunken boatswain's high kicks and fell down, purposely, on her heavy bareness, to the shrieking delight of the whole onlooking village, as I played the fiddle. " Birds of a feather (lock together " is a true saying ; and I must confess I enjoyed myself seeing my countrymen so happy. At the far end of the village was a native store, run by a half-caste who sold kava and terrible stuff called the " finest whisky." When the first dance was over, with their bashful partners on their arms, dark eyes looking up admiringly into blue ones, they all went across the slope to get refreshments. "5 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY The sailors had money and treated the natives, who were all on their own, for the missionaries were away on the coast somewhere, attending a festival. So the mission rooms were deserted, and the lotu songs unsung that night, and the sailors were welcomed by them all as missionaries had never been. Pompy, Tango and I followed the crew about and they treated us to lime-juice drinks ; we refused the whisky. When they were all primed up again with native spirit, and the stars flashed over the windless palms, they had another dance, and six native women, who did not care a " tinker's cuss ' ' for anyone on earth when the missionaries were away, stood opposite the sailormen all in a row, mimicking them in a jig, the hibiscus blossoms stuck in their thick hair tossing about. The missionaries somehow got to hear of it all and there was an awful row. Some of the women were taken before the fakali, or native judge, and fined a dollar, one month's wages, and they sat with shamed faces for hours in the mission room, counting their beads (about the only dress they had worn that night), doing penance, while the real culprits went on to their ship out in the bay. When we got back, in the early hours of the morning, old Pompo jumped off his sleeping-mat and started bellowing at his two sons for overstaying their leave. I took all the blame, and explained that the old grandfather, the late high chief Tuloa, had been so pleased to see us that we had been compelled, through sheer courtesy, after his enthusiastic welcome, to accept his invitation to stay on. Hearing this, the old chap toned down, and we went to bed and slept soundly. I went on the tramp steamer S next day and applied for a berth. The chief mate promised me a job ; so I went back to my friend the Samoan's home and stayed there till the matter was settled. Nina, the youngest daughter of my host, who was about twelve years of age, was an extremely pretty girl, and very romantic. A day or two before I left Samoa I came across her sitting by the shore holding a sea-shell to her ear, listen- ing attentively to its murmur and singing to herself. 116 NINA'S FAIRY TALE " Why do you listen to the shell's voice, Nina ? ' I asked. ' They are singing to me," she said, as she looked up into my face with earnest, wondering eyes. "Who is singing to you, Nina?" I responded, rather surprised at her remark and the assurance in her manner that someone was singing to her in the shell. Then I heard from her lips an example of the poetical Arabian Nights of the South Seas. Crossing her legs, she arranged her pretty yellow frock, then put her finger up as though to tell me a great secret, and as I sat by her on the rock she told me the following story : — " There still lives an old heathen god deep down under the sea. His home is a large cavern, so big that its roof is the floor of all the ocean. In this big cavern is a beautiful country, lit up by the light of all the sunsets that have ever sunk down into the great waters out in the west. For it is in the west, deep down in the sea, where the old grey- bearded god's door is. Every night, just as the days are going to bed, the lonely god stands by his door, with his big watching eyes gazing up through the waters, as the sun sinks slowly down into the sea. For he knows it is on the sunset fires that he will catch the shadows of dead Samoan sailors who have been drowned by the upsetting of their canoes when the great storms blow. For when they die their shadows swim away to the sun directly it commences to sink, and then, clinging to the golden light, they go down, down, and are caught by the big god as he stands by his door under the sea, pulling the sunset in as a fisherman does his nets." " And what does the god do with them, Nina ? " I said, as she sat hesitating and looking up at me with her pretty brown eyes. " Well," she continued, as she put her finger to her lips and dabbled her little brown feet in the waves that crept up the shore in foamy curls, " for thousands and thousands of years he has been watching and catching the dead sailors, and all those who are drowned in the storms ; and as he stalks along through his wonderful countries, his endless forests under the sea, moving through the light of yesterday's sunsets, 117 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY all the shadows of the dead sailors follow behind him, singing, and begging him to catch also the dead girls and women who have been drowned. But in a deep voice that echoes, and is the thunder you hear when the storms blow, he says : ' Mia fantoes ' (my children), ' you must only love me and not love mere women.' But still the shadows follow him, im- ploring and singing, ' Oh, bring us the beautiful dead girls and women' ; and their voices, for ever echoing through the cavern roof, come up to the top of the ocean shores and caves, and you can hear them, though they are far away, faintly calling, calling to the big god under the sea. So all the girls and women come down to the shore and, if they have no one to love them, they put the shells to their ears and listen to the calling voices of the dead sailormen." " Do you believe that, Nina ? " I said, as I looked at her. Then she nodded her pretty head with absolute conviction ; and I too listened to the shell's murmur and pretended to be astonished and convinced. "Nina, and what becomes of the dead girls who are drowned ? " For answer she looked up at me sorrowfully for a while, then said : " The big sea-god is jealous of women, so he takes them out of his nets of sunset and throws them back into the waters, just as a fisherman does with the fish that are of no use to him." " And what becomes of them then, Nina ? " " They turn to ruios " (sea-swallows), " and you can see them very early after dawn flying away into the fire of the rising sun, whence all that is beautiful comes" ; and saying that she looked up at me with her pretty eyes staring thoughtfully. " Who told you all those beautiful things, Nina ? " I said. Then she looked up and told me that when she went to see her grandfather, who was that old chief, "O Le Tula," he told her many wonderful things about the sea-gods, and the old heathen gods who once lived in the clouds and the forest of Samoa. So I tell you that which Nina told me, though I could never infuse into her beautiful, simple story the earnest- ness of her pretty eyes, the note of certitude in her innocent voice, or the poetry of her childish imagination. 118 X 'a < a < X a > DISTRESSED LOVELINESS I liked that little Samoan maid. "Good-bye, Nina," I said, after bidding the others farewell. ' You go away on tc kaibuke 1 and never come again ? " '* I may come back some day," I answered. I saw the tears in her eyes as I left her. She's a woman now. I wonder if she remembers me. Before I proceed I must relate an adventure I had while passing along a forest track after playing at a native dance. It was a beautiful evening ; the coco-palms, mangroves and dark orange and lime trees were bathed in the sunset's light, and the soft wind from seaward drifted sweet scents to my nostrils. I was hurrying towards Apia town before dark came on. Suddenly I heard a scream ! The knight-errant fever of other days leapt like lightning to my eyes : a woman was in distress. I stood still and cursed inwardly, for I had only my violin as a weapon. I threw my shoulders back, looked swiftly at the skies, then rushed up to the slope's top. A white man stood under an orange-tree ; in front of him was a beautiful Samoan girl. He seemed to be a large- framed, well-knit man, and I felt a tiny thrill of hesitation ; but in the forest shadows just behind me my old heroes, with dauntless eyes, seemed to be shouting : " Forward to the rescue of distressed loveliness — onward ! " The white man had once more gripped the native girl and was shaking her. Her eyes looked around appealingly. The supreme moment to do or die thrilled me. I dropped my violin-case and, longing for a comrade, with a bound I was on him ! For a moment we wrestled silently. ' Ach Gott ! " and " D — n ! " the villainous seducer muttered as I gripped him by the throat ! Crash ! On my head came a blow — the Samoan girl had struck me on the back of the head with my violin-case ! I heard the fiddle within hum trr-err-rh, as the four strings vibrated to the blow. They were jealous, quarrelling lovers, and the girl, seeing that I was getting the better of the German, had suddenly relented. I had a thundering headache all night and have never rescued a woman since. I saw an old Mataafan chief die of old age in Saluafata 1 A ship. 119 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY village. I shall never forget the sight, or my feelings at the time. He lifted his aged, shrivelled face from the sleeping- mat, whereon he died, and begged the heavens to save him. Around him wailed his children and grandchildren ; he was well loved, for all seemed earnest in their grief. I saw his eyelids close ; I heard him murmur in Samoan a prayer to the gods of old, for the child's belief revives at death. His dying frame tried to sit up ; the tattoo engraving on his breast, of warriors and weapons, went out of shape as his skin wrinkled in agony, and then his eyelids closed for ever. His death forced me to wonder on the mysterious cruelty of the Universe. Theologies give death a divine intention, but that sight affected a sense in my innermost soul, and death did not appear to me as a boon. Soon after I joined the ship in Apia harbour. We stayed in port a few days, and then I shipped on the Golden Horn, bound for the Marquesas Islands. I had been there a year or two before and had a fancy that I should like to see the old spots once more. The schooner's crew were mostly Samoans, the cook being a German. The skipper, Alfred Richardson, an Englishman, was not more than thirty years of age. I slept in the cuddy. The " Old Man " took a fancy to me, or at least to my violin-playing, so he, the English mate and 1 had a fine time together. The weather was squally for a week and kept the crew busy, and then a calm fell and we hardly moved. The boat was a splendid sailer and ran like a hound with the yards almost squared. I remember the beautiful, calm nights as the sails half filled and flopped and the rigging rattled. The ocean about us was drenched with mirrored stars ; so calm and bright was the water that we could look over the side and see the shadow of our ship and all the silent heavens over it, and the mirrored, beautiful katafa (frigate-bird) sail across the sky on silent wings. The Samoan sailors squatted on deck and sang weird ditties ; I played the violin, and even the skipper joined in in good-fellowship. Sometimes we fished and caught bonito, a beautifully coloured fish. Soon the wind sprang up again, and we made rapid headway across the wonderful world of 120 HIYA-OA AND SAM SLICK waters. One moonlight night I was standing on the star- board side thinking, and gazing at the sky-lines, ghostly bright in the moonlight for miles around us, when the great ocean silence was broken by a complaining monotone, such as you hear when you place a sea-shell to your ear. I instinctively gazed over the side and saw far off, opposite the weather side of the moonlit sky-line, curling and tossing breakers, where liquid masses soared and dissolved on the coral reefs of an enchanted isle ; for enchanted it looked to me as the tiny wind drifted us onward. Slowly the inland palm- clad mountain ranges rose, and the groves of coco-palms and dark- leafed tropical trees, and out of the creeks and bay came native canoes filled with paddling, singing savages ! Pre- sently we saw their dusky faces as they raced across the moonlit water, bringing their bargains of fruit, pine-apples, wild bananas and corals ; and alas, two or three of them, who had no wares to sell, were accompanied by their immoral wives ! Up the side they came, clambering like savage mermen out of the ocean depths. Their frizzly, wet heads came above the rails and, puff ! they leapt on deck and pattered about on naked feet. They were pleasant, bright-eyed, shaggy fellows and the world's greatest talkers : they jabbered and jabbered till sunrise burst over the ocean, and before us, over the bows, half-a-mile away, lay Hiva-oa. I asked the skipper to give me a long leave of absence ashore. " Very well, Middleton, we are not going for a fort- night. You can go off ; and mind you behave yourself and bring that fiddle back." " All right, sir, and thank you," I said gratefully, for he really did treat me as thoughl were a passenger. I had played cards with him and taught him melodies by ear on the fiddle. " Come on, Sam Slick," I said to my comrade, who was an American fellow and came from 'Frisco. I was reading Sam Slick the Clock-maker, and so gave him that name, for he was a kind of Slick. He was about twenty-six years old, but as boyish as I was ; a merry-looking fellow, with a little straw-coloured moustache, grey, kind eyes, thin lips, good- natured and determined, and his long legs balanced on 121 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY enormous feet. We went off, and I had not "one far before I met a Frenchman who had known me on my previous visit. I understood from him that a lot of the people I had been friendly with before were still living there. Slick, who had not been to the Marquesas before, was enraptured with the sights we saw. I made him go up to Turoa village and see the natives en deshabille. He made a splendid pioneer forest breaker, as his boots crashed down and levelled the jungle scrub, and I followed cautiously in the track he left behind him. The heat was terrific when we arrived, at last emerging from the thick tropical scrub and dust into the native town's open space. There was a store erected by the village, a new wooden, one-roomed shed. We fairly steamed as we loosened our shirts and stood drinking native toddy, and the little wind blew through the pandanus and dark spreading palm leaves on to our bare breasts. Out from their beehive-shaped huts came the Marquesan girls, dressed in their undraped beauty. Their fine dark eyes shone and their somewhat sensual lips, laughing, revealed their pearl-like teeth. The Marquesan girls are slightly darker skinned than the Samoans, and do their hair very attractively, almost with a Parisian effect. Some of the youths also bunch their hair up, and it is im- possible at times to tell the difference between the youths and the maids till they stand in the grass smiling before one, and one sees the straight limbs of the males and the feminine curves of the dusky, smiling Eves. Sam Slick's eyes twinkled with curiosity and very evident pleasure as they spoke to him in pidgin-English and by signs. One pretty girl, about fourteen years old, held her own baby up for our inspection. Slick held it in his hands. It was not much larger than a green coco-nut. Its skin was a pretty red-tinted brown colour. I held it on one hand and, to please the admiring mother, kissed its tiny bald head. Then all the little native children, who had crept up to us and were watching our white faces with childish interest, rushed back under the forest palms, screaming with delight. Off they went to tell the whole village population that the big white man had kissed Temarioa's fantoe (child) on the head. I 122 MARQUESAN MAID AND IDOL gave the girls a coin each, and they clapped their hands and said: " Yuranah ! " * Man's imagination could never picture a paradise to out- rival the beauty of that Marquesan village. But on we tramped, and as we turned up the winding tracks we sighted the sea, and the waves breaking in the hot sunlight over the reefs by the palm-clad shores, and far away we saw the masts of our schooner, the Golden Horn. We got hold of a half-caste, who took us off to the various tribal districts and then left us. In the solitude of the bush-land, sheltered by an enormous tree, we saw a large wooden god. As we approached, and our feet snapped the twigs, a frightened Marquesan girl, who was kneeling before the hideous, one- eyed, grimy wooden god, rose and fled like a frightened rabbit. We saw her hair flying in the wind over her bare shoulders as she faded away in the forest glooms, just look- ing over her shoulder once with awestruck eyes as she ran, and then disappeared ! Slick and I were quite impressed by the sight of the running wild girl, and then we stood and looked up at the heathen idol. It was about eight feet high, broad shouldered, and the acme of ugliness. It was considerably decayed, for one eye was gone, and swarms of large white-bodied ants filed in and out of the curved wooden lips. " Fancy praying to that thing," said Slick. " Yes, seems strange," I responded. My comrade caught hold of a large bough, and standing a little way off swung it back ; and then crash ! he smashed the old heathen deity's head in ! Then we stood and gazed upon it, and across the forest silence came a low wail of anguish, as once more we saw the heathen girl run across a cleared patch, running so fast that we could only just see the twinkle of her bare legs as she fled in terrible fright at seeing us crash her god's skull in, and yet both stand unharmed ! Slick wasn't anything of a poet, or even of a reflective tem- perament, but the silence of that spot, the broken god and the poor, terror-stricken girl made him say : " Well now, did you ever, mate ! " ; while I too looked round half frightened 1 Thank you. 123 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY and said, " No, I never ; but I'm off." When I explained to him that the girl would rush and tell some more of her tribe, who were Christianised but worshipped idols on the sly, and that they would come into the forest and get their own back, probably by strangling us and serving us up at the next cannibalistic feast, he too agreed. Just as we turned away, and I had carefully placed the god's eye in my pocket as a valuable curio, we heard a noise and looked over our shoulders. About twenty stalwart Marquesan savages were leaping towards us, not half-a-mile away ! I am tall, and to this day I thank God that my legs are long. I know not what my primitive ancestors were, or what deeds they were capable of, or what barbarian strain they have infused into my blood, but I always feel thankful that they gave me the capacity for fast running ! I never knew that Sam Slick could show such swift movement either, as simultaneously we made an unprintable remark and like two race-horses, chin by chin and neck by neck, we bolted off. I had been to the Marquesas before, and I knew that the inland tribes still nursed old cannibalistic appetites, and an intense hatred for those who hurt their gods, and that knowledge electrified my feet. Only the mechanical pumping of our breath could be heard as we raced across the slopes. Presently I saw that I was gaining in the flight ; my nose was moving through space just about one inch beyond Slick's nose ! The savages were shouting behind us ! I distinctly heard the wild, savage wails, and looking back I saw their dark faces coming through the forest of palms. Slick's face had gone white ; mine, I think, had turned ashen-grey ! The sound of running in the forest just behind us grew louder. If we did not reach the village before they overtook us we should have to fight for our lives. I had by then gained the courage of resignation, and turning slightly I gazed back through the great beads of perspiration dripping from my eyebrows. I told Slick to " P-p-pp-ick — up — sti-ick — as — you — r-run." Each word came out in jerks, for at that time we were almost tumbling down a steep slope. As we rushed up the next incline I spied some stout branches, and together we stooped and gripped one each. " I'm done, Slick," I 124 A BATTLE WITH THE HEATHENS muttered. " So am I," he breathed out, as we stood on the top of the slope and entrenched ourselves behind a lot of bush, prepared to sell our lives dearly. We both felt nearly dead as we leaned against each other and prepared to give battle to the semi-savage men who were rushing down the opposite slope. Then the strangest thing happened, but one which I believe happens to most men. When we found that we had to fight a splendid delirium thrilled us. We piled the dead logs up, gripped our weapons and waited with a grim feeling of exultation at our hearts : we would go down to the festive board game ! Slick stood by my side, a real brick. " Let 'em come, the brutes," he said. Up came a stalwart fellow and almost leapt over our branch parapet. I lifted my club and down it came, crash ! on Slick's head ! I shall never forget that terrible miss of mine, or poor old Slick's cry as I fell, and the savage buried his teeth in my leg, while with both my hands clutching his hair I called loudly to Slick to help me. Down came my chum's club on to the foe's shoulder, and in a moment we had him up bodily and between us swung him and hurled him over the dead wood ; and down the slope he went rolling ! All this had only taken a minute to happen, and the re- maining members of the horde were all standing at the bottom of the slope to see the result of their leader's attack. When we returned their chief to them half dead they stood perfectly still, hesitating, and looking up to us tried to call a truce. ' Got any tobacco plug with you, Slick ? " I said quickly. To my delight my comrade pulled out two plugs of ship's tobacco. I broke it into four pieces and holding it up in my hand I said, " Tobac ! tobac I " and made friendly signs. In a moment the grim, savage faces of the foe were lit up with smiles. All the dusky lips grinned and, incredible as it may seem, they came rushing up the slope with out- stretched hands. I at once made signs to them not to come too near, and then called the best-natured-looking one ; and, as he came close up to me, I stretched forth my hand and 125 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY said : " I give you te pakea." * Then I put a bit of tobacco plug in his dark fingers and signed to him that if they all went away I would give him a lot more. Upon which he went back ; and presently all his companions went away up the slope opposite us, and standing at the top of the hill watched the truce-bearer return to us for the promised tobacco. '' Don't you give it him till they go another mile off," said Slick ; and after parleying again we got them out of sight, and then, to make doubly sure, gave them only half of the remaining tobacco. As soon as the truce-bearer went off with it to his companions we took to our heels and did not stop running till we arrived at the village where we had left the half-caste guide. Outside the guide's homestead we lay and rested for two or three hours before we recovered from our exertion in the sun, and the fright. We told the guide about the idol, and he said that if we told the authorities they would go and arrest the Marquesans. Then he asked us if we would be witnesses and not say that he had anything to do with giving them away. I at once declined, and so did Slick : we did not want the whole tribe to swear a vendetta and seek our lives. We made ourselves comfortable and happy in the village. Many of the old chiefs lolled about by the huts, pretty little homes made of twisted bamboo, elevated on crossed palm stems. Scarred with old wounds which they had received in tribalistic battles, they looked grim, wonderful warriors. Some were tattooed extensively and had large hairy warts on their checks and ears. They loved to talk of the good old days ere the bloated whites came across the seas and the Marquesan Rome fell. Sly old native women, hideous and wonderful looking, peeped at us, then sighed, and went on chewing their tobacco or betel-nut. Pretty girls, with hats made of palm leaves and clad in a mumii 2 trimmed with flowers, passed along the tracks that lead from village to village. As we went on after resting we heard the confusion of noises in the native huts. In some the occupants were 1 Tobacco. 2 A tappu-cloth chemise that reached to the knees. 126 SLICK AND I STOW AWAY singing happily and in others shouting with hot rage in family squabbles. Often a youth or a girl suddenly rushed forth from the den door, flying for dear life, as the old chief's gnarled, tattooed face peered forth, ablaze with anger that his own children should dare argue with him and say the heathen gods were only wood and stone ! Sometimes babies disappeared in a mysterious way, and the native mothers wandered about the villages beating their hands together and wailing most mournfully. Terrible rumours floated about in those days, for some of the old chiefs had a taste for " sucking long pig " : no man who had any respect for his soul would swear by it that the grizzly old chiefs, and old concubines, did not sit by the festive fires far away inland and gnaw the bones of those very missing children ! Slick and I bathed in a lagoon and felt greatly refreshed. I rubbed the bruise that my club had given him with palm- oil, and though he moaned a bit the lump soon went down. Next day we went to our schooner and slept on board. The skipper was away for a week, so we once more went off wandering, and when we returned to go aboard, to our surprise the Golden Horn had gone ! She had been origin- ally chartered to take a cargo of tinned meats and food- stuffs to Papeete and many of the isles and groups scattered about, and had suddenly received orders to sail. The skipper had sent off to try and find us, and then left word that he would probably be back in three weeks. Three days later, being stranded, we went aboard a trading steamer and asked for a job. She was bound for the Carolines, and then across to Samoa and Tonga. They did not want any hands, so at dusk, just before she sailed, Slick and I went down in the hold and stowed away. They put the hatch on about ten minutes after we had got below and we were then imprisoned in darkness. We lay side by side against some barrels and bunches of green bananas and unripe oranges, which are always plucked green for cargo purposes. We had a terrible time together. The days and nights became a blank. We lived on the bananas and green orange juice. At last in our desperation we climbed up over the barrels and thumped the decks, but no one heard us. As we lay 127 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY down, trying to sleep, large hairy ship rats jumped at us and squeaked. I struck at them with my violin-case and smashed it, and as I lay half asleep I felt their soft snouts poke and sniff in my ears. Slick swore that they were flying rats, because they seemed everywhere and flapped about. We found out after that large island cockroaches were flying about us and the rats were leaping at them ! Slick became as downhearted as I did, though he was a good fellow and brave too. "I'd sooner have stopped in Hiva-oa for years than go through this, mate," he said. One night, when the steamer was rolling and pitching, I sat on the barrel by Slick's side and played the violin furiously. " Perhaps they will hear that," I said. " Go on, scrape the d d thing," said my comrade, and I tore away at full speed. " It's no good, Slick. It's blowing hard. Can't you feel her rolling ? We must wait till it's calm." Next day, or night, it was silent, and we only heard the screw-shaft revolving, so I got the violin out and started scraping again. I must have torn away for two hours. Suddenly a stream of light flooded over us ! The man- hatch had been lifted off ! And the crew of astonished sailors, and the skipper, mate and chief engineer, were looking down ! " God d — n it ! I wonder what next is going to happen on this old packet ! ' ' shouted the astonished skipper. ' ' Come up, you men." Slick went up the iron ladder first and I followed after, while the chief mate looked grimly down at the bare banana stems and at heaps of green orange peel. They had heard the violin through the storm, during the first night's orchestral appeal for help, and had come to the con- clusion that a ghost was aboard. For, as the mate told me afterwards, it was only a wail that sounded faint and far off above the storm. The skipper forgave us and we were treated well — considering our sins. I was placed in the stokehold and Slick was put to coal-trimming. When we arrived at Upolu (Samoa) Slick made up his mind to stay and go off with her to Honolulu. I left. Nina, Pompo and all my old native friends were delighted to see me again, and took me straight off on a fishing excursion round the coast. 128 A GOOD COMRADE I never saw Slick again ; but if ever he chances to gaze upon these reminiscences he will see I have remembered him, and still feel that I could not have found a better comrade the world over for the escapades that we went through together. 129 CHAPTER XI At Sea — A Fo'c'sle Argument — A Native's Confession — Sydney Harbour THERE was a steamer in Apia harbour and I was lucky enough to get a berth aboard her. I think I had only been in Apia two days when she got steam up to leave for Fiji and New South Wales. I berthed for- ward in the forecastle. She was a tramp steamer and carried sail to help the decrepit engines and take the vessel to port when they broke down. Just before we left we took on a cargo of natives bound for somewhere ! They were a mixed lot, most of them Samoans or Malay-Polynesians, and among them some Solomon Islanders who had arrived in Apia a week before, waiting to be transhipped. They were berthed forward between decks. Most of them were dressed in dead men's clothes, collected in the South Sea Island morgues, after the first occupants had no further use for them : dead sailors, beachcombers, coolies, suicides ; indeed all the derelict corpses of life's drama who lay in their final resting- place in the unvisited cemeteries of the Pacific Islands. These natives were a cheerful, indifferent lot of people — at least when they got over the first pang of parting from their relatives. But that grief was soon over, for they each be- lieved that they were leaving their native isle to return some day with fortunes from the promised El Dorado : hope is as intense in natives of the South Seas as it is in white people. Next day they started to sing cheerfully, and came up on deck in shoals to cadge from the galley, and get the cook to bake their bread-fruit x and yams. Some had their wives with them, big fat women with glittering eyes. They were supposed to keep down below after dark, but they came up on deck and went pattering by us as we stood by the fore- 1 The name bread-fruit is more poetical than the flavour of the fruit, which tasted to the writer like sweet turnips. 130 INTERESTING CHARACTERS peak hatchway smoking with the sailors. About three days after we left Apia, bound for Suva (Fiji), a hurricane came on, and the boat rolled and pitched till we thought she would turn a somersault, or turn turtle. The natives between decks were shut down ; we heard their yells as the mass of clinging arms and bodies were hurled about as the boat rolled and shipped seas over the bows. At midday next morning the wind suddenly ceased and the sun burst out. Only those who had experienced the howling chaos of mountainous seas, blackness and wind would have believed what the weather had really been a few hours before. The boatswain and the carpenter were interesting char- acters, both typical shellbacks of the island trading type. The boatswain looked like a priest : his face was weather- beaten and his nose twisted ; he had no hair on his face, head or neck, and wore a cap to hide his polished skull. His chum the carpenter fairly wallowed in hair, had bristly eyebrows, a bristly beard, head and neck, and a vast moustache ; you could only see his fierce, twinkling eyes as he sat arguing in the forecastle with the boatswain. Those two never agreed on any subject, but were inseparable companions. The boat- swain, I believe, loved to be contradicted by his shipmate, and if no sudden response was made to any assertion he might make, he at once looked round fiercely and said that silence was equivalent to disbelief, and they might as well call him a liar and be done with it. I recall how he sat by his bunk on his sea-chest and said : ' Remember 'im ? I should think I does. Very old man. He had been a skipper on the trader between the Sanioan and Marquesas Group ; a nice old fellow ; he was blind, quite blind in both eyes." At this the argument commenced immediately, as the carpenter looked up and said : 'Of course he was blind in both eyes ; he wouldn't be blind if he could still see with one eye, would he ? ' Then, as he hammered at the hinge of the sea-chest he was mending, the boatswain shouted : " Stow yer gab, yer clever son of a nigger, d — n yer. Isn't a man blind if he's blind in his eye ? " 131 ii. A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY Course 'e ain't, he's only lost one hye ! " Yer d d swab ! To h with yer ! If 'e's lost his eye, ain't 'e blind in it ? " At this the carpenter's unshaved face fairly steamed with heat as he appealed to the sailor standing by : "A man ain't blind if he's lost 'is one eye, is 'e ? " " Well," slowly answered the sailor solemnly, " if he couldn't see out of the eye that was blind, I should say that he was blind in it." At this the boatswain spat on the deck, the carpenter thrust his bearded chin forward, and they started to bet heavily on the matter ; and the Norwegian cook, who had come in to see what the shouting was about, wiped his mouth with his dirty sack apron and said : " Mein tear frients, vich eye was the mans vlind in ? ' " Yer son of a German sea-cook, I said the man was stone blind in both eyes, so, d — n yer, he hadn't any eyes at all ! " roared the infuriated boatswain. " Veil, now," said the sea-cook, as he stroked his short Vandyke beard and looked astonished, " he vash not vlind then ; he haf no eyes to be vlind in at all ; for how cans a man be vlind in zee eyes if he haf no eyes ? ' ' The boatswain turned purple, spluttered out " Yer God- d d cheeky," then suddenly lost his temper, made a run and pushed the cook, who nearly fell to the deck. " I vill show you vat a vlind eye is," shouted the enraged Norwegian sea-cook. " Bear witness," shouted the boatswain, looking at the sailors and members of the black squad, who were all stand- ing around to see fair play. ' The cook has insulted me by saying that a blind man has no eyes." Then the Norwegian made a rush at the old boatswain. It gave the whole crew a lot of trouble to separate them. Then the boatswain cooled down and said it was his own fault for not simply saying the man was blind, and saying nothing whatever about his eyes if he hadn't got any. Then they all had a drop of rum together, and were good friends till the next argument cropped up and they took sides once more. At other times they would sit yarning, and as I listened, 132 THE OVERSEER'S STORY sitting on my sea-chest, I heard many terrible and in- describable things : true enough too, I have not the slightest doubt, but only fit to be told here after considerable primings from the facts. There was an old Solomon Island native just by us, down in the fore-peak. He was a kind of overseer, and had to look after the natives in the hold, and separate the various tribal characters if they fought, which they often did. Now this overseer was a garrulous chap, and though he was hideous enough it was interesting to hear what he said. He was over fifty years of age, and we gathered from what he let out that he had eaten " long pig " in his youth. One calm, hot night, when the engines were clanking steadily away, while the skipper walked the poop and the steward slept, we were all sitting in the forecastle ; some of the sailors were in their bunks, and a few others smoking and playing cards beneath the dim oil-lamp. The garrulous native overseer was talking away for all he was worth, when suddenly the boatswain leaned over his bunk and said : " Shut up, yer son of a cannibal." " Me no heathen, I good Christian man. Once long ago I eat ' long pig ' ; but since then I have saved white sailor from being eaten, and been friend to white girl." " Eh ? " said the boatswain, as he pricked his ears up ; the carpenter said, " Gor blimey, you've eaten " ; quickly a sailor nudged him, so that we might hear all about it, and one of the crew who had been playing cards shuffled the pack and said quietly : " Tell us all about it." The grim-looking, half-naked savage nodded his head and started off. " Many years ago now a terrible hurricane was blowing off the Solomon Isle of Bourka, when the islanders suddenly sighted a full-rigged sailing-ship in distress. Sunset blazed behind her, and they could see the torn sails and the decks taking the seas over, as she helplessly drifted before the gale that was bringing her shoreward. That night, when the stars were flashing through rifts in the clouds, which had broken up and left pools of blue in the sky, they saw the great ship within a mile of the shore, with walls of living waters breaking over her. One or two sailors were just discernible, 133 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY clinging to the spars aloft ; and then suddenly a mountain of water rose and the masts disappeared. ' In the early morning the natives gathered the bodies of the dead sailors together, put them in old salt -beef ship's barrels and hid them on the sands just under the water near the shore. For the bloodthirsty tribe who found them were cannibals. Four of the crew were still alive — the boatswain, the chief mate, the cook and the ship's doctor ; and a girl, who was the skipper's daughter." The boatswain dropped his pipe on the floor, the sailors all looked round and left their cards, and one or two went phew ! then listened, and the half-savage native continued to this effect : " They took the four living men up the shore and put them in a cave, and hid them so that a rival tribe they had lately been fighting with should not get hold of them before they could eat them. The chief of the tribe claimed the pretty white girl ; she was not more than seventeen years old. They took her up to the stronghold, made a big festival fire and had a feast from one of the dead sailors who had been washed ashore. ' While the whole tribe sat squatting in a circle, watching and waiting while the flames of the fire flickered and hissed, the white girl, tied to a coco-palm by the hands, looked round at them all with staring, frightened eyes. Then the hideous cannibal chief caught hold of her and told her that if she would be his wife he would save the four white men who were alive in the cave. For a while they could not stop her screaming, and then she looked up at the chief and said : ' Bring me the white men first ' ; and he shook his head and said, ' No.' Later, when they were eating, and dancing wildly round the terrible fire, another chief, of a tribe inland, came suddenly out of the forest close by and joined in the feast. When he saw the white girl staring, tied to a palm just behind them, he looked at her longingly, and offered to buy her from the first chief. ' I was a young man then, about twenty years old, and I had been a servant off and on to the white missionaries who lived twenty miles away round the coast. I made up my mind to steal away at daybreak and tell them about the 134 -LONG PIG" white girl and the four sailors in the cave. For that old chief who had come and tried to buy the white girl was a bloodthirsty cannibal, and he only wanted to buy the girl so that he could eat her. It was well known by all the tribe that he loved the flesh of women, and would risk his life to eat a white girl's breasts. ' In the shadows by the trees she still sat, with her wildly staring eyes, appealing to the glittering eyes of the chief and to dumb heaven. Most of the tribe squatted or lay at full length round the dying fire, their hideous appetites satisfied and their bellies distended. I saw the two powerful chiefs stand arguing ; and then the chief who longed for the white girl turned away from the other and looked with fierce, hungry eyes at the shivering girl a moment, ere his dark, naked limbs strode away into the forest. My heart leapt with joy as I saw his big form go. I felt that I could now easily save the white girl ; for I knew that white men were brave and would come directly I arrived before them and told them all that had happened. Walking as near as I dared to the white girl, I spoke to her in English. I said four words only : ' I see white men.' I could not see her glance, as I dared not look her way ; for the chief sat close by, rubbing his chin and grunting sleepily. I sat myself down by a tree and slept, thinking to go off and get help before the day broke. Suddenly I was awakened by a great noise of shouting and running. I jumped to my feet. The tribal chief was lifting his war- club and dashing it to the ground to ease his terrible rage ; and then crash ! he smashed the sentinel's skull ; it cracked like an egg-shell. The man had slept instead of watching ; the white girl had gone ! At first I was delighted, for I thought she had escaped ; but instead of that she had been carried off by the great girl- eating chief ! " Directly he said that all the forecastle swallowed their tobacco smoke and said, " Well, I'm " ; the boatswain muttered, " Holy heaven ! " ; and then one of the sailors said, " How did you know the stinking swine of a chief had her ? " We all somehow listened hopefully ; for the overseer looked 135 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY so earnest, and we did not want to think we were hearing the truth. A yarn was all right, but this made the hands restive and the eyes blaze. However, he continued : " Some of the tribe, who were camping by a lagoon not far inland, were suddenly awakened by an agonised scream. Looking through the jungle, they saw several canoes being rapidly paddled across the moonlit waters, and in the fore- most canoe they recognised the feared, bloodthirsty cannibal chief, Torao. He was a giant of a fellow, nearly seven feet in height and of tremendous girth, and so there was no mis- taking him. He was paddling with one arm, and held the white girl under the other as you would hold a strangled rabbit." " Lummy ! " said one sailor ; as one or two others wiped their perspiring faces with their red handkerchiefs, listening as they held on to the stanchion in the middle of the forecastle, while the tramp steamer rolled and pitched along across the Pacific, heaving at intervals to the heavy cross-swell. " Veil, veil now," muttered the Norwegian cook, as he sat on the side of his bunk taking his trousers off. The Solomon Islander continued : " I was young then and could run with the swiftness of a horse, and, knowing that there was no time to lose, I never stopped once as I ran across country and round the coast for miles. At length, about midday, I arrived at Tooka village, which is on the coast, rushed up the shore and thumped at the door of the first white man's bungalow that I saw. They all came rushing from their houses when they heard what I had to say. Directly they heard all they rushed back to their homes and got their guns and revolvers, and in no time were all astride on horseback galloping across the country. " At sunset we arrived at the village where the caves were. I was brave, for I knew the white men would protect me, so I led the way at once to the caves ; but we were too late ; they were deserted ; the sailors had been taken away. At once the leader of the white men, who was a big man with a heavy grey moustache, shouted to me that I should take them to the spot where they had eaten the sailor. Quickly 136 THE DOCTOR'S FEET I ran on in front, and they all came behind, their faces stern and white-looking. When we reached the place they said nothing, but all quietly tightened the reins of the horses and then, dismounting, crept together to the edge of the forest. The white man who led them made a terrible oath when they all peeped through the bamboos ; for the savages had just clubbed two of the sailors and a great lire was blazing in the middle of the cleared patch by the huts ; and not far off from the dead bodies stood the chief mate, bound hand and foot, waiting to be clubbed too. The white men hesitated one moment, then rushed across the cleared patch, firing their revolvers. Several of the natives fell dead as the tribe scampered off into the forest. They only saved the chief mate out of the four men who had survived that shipwreck. They burnt the village to the ground and buried the bodies of the boatswain and the cook. Not far from where the fire had been thev found some shrivelled clothes and a small peaked cap ; in the pockets were some little medicine phials, and, close by, the ship's doctor's feet — still in his boots ! I told them about the ship's salt-beef barrels hidden under the shore sand. They dug them all up and took the bodies miles away and buried them. The skipper's daughter was never heard of any more. About two years after that high chief Torao, who stole the white girl, became a Christian, and taught the native children lotu songs in the mission rooms. I went and lived with the white men at Tooka ; they gave me good clothes, and I was their servant, and found them good and kind masters." " Clear out of this fo'c'sle, yer God-d d son of a cannibal ! " shouted the boatswain directly the overseer had finished ; and though he had befriended our countrymen we too felt a bit disgusted, and knew how the boatswain felt as we looked up at the thick-lipped Solomon Islander's face. The foregoing is as much as I can tell you of the main facts of the native's story. I have left out all the gruesome embellishments and the heart-rending cruelty of the native's description of the white girl's grief in the hands of the cannibal monsters. Let us hope it was not true ; but I must admit many things made my heart thump as I listened to all *37 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY that seemed too true. The boatswain and his shipmate never argued over that tale. The Norwegian cook at last pulled his trousers right off and said, "Veil now, it's too terrible to tink of," and swung his legs round into his bunk. I turned in also, just opposite him, and said : " Let's keep the lamp on ; I don't feel sleepy to-night." Next day we dropped anchor in Suva harbour and stayed there two days. I had previously been to the Fiji Group and stayed there for a considerable time, having various experiences with the natives and traders, experiences which will appear in the second half of these reminiscences. The crew went ashore and had a fly round, walked the parade and visited all the drinking establishments. The boatswain and his mate came back arm in arm, arguing at the top of their voices ; they had been drinking rather heavily. When they got on board the boatswain sighted the natives poking their heads out of the fore- peak hatch- way, and, thinking of the tale the overseer had told us, he shouted at them, " Get down below, yer d d cannibals," and then made a rush for them. We were obliged to hold on to him to keep him from going down between decks. At last we got him into his bunk ; but none of us had any sleep, for he shouted about cannibals all night and swore that we had got thousands of them on board. Next day, just before we left Suva, a passenger came on board. He was an old gentleman with bristly eyebrows, who wore a monocle. He carried two large portmanteaux and came puffing up the gangway, and directly he got on deck he started shouting : " Stew-ard 1 Stew-ard ! " Spy- ing the boatswain by the main hatch , he mistook him for the steward, and, looking through his eyeglass, said : "Where's the saloon ? " At the same time he handed him the largest of the portmanteaux. With disgust wrinkling his florid nut- cracker face, the boatswain pointed forward. Off went the old man, muttering something under his breath about the discourteous behaviour of sailors. " Down there," shouted the boatswain, as the passenger got up against the fore-peak and called once more : " Steward ! " Then down the fore- peak he went. In a few seconds we heard a wild yell, and up 138 WELCOME TO AUSTRALIA ! came the old fellow, hatless, with his face pallid with fright. He had landed in the middle of the huddled natives below. " Help, help ! " he shouted. I told him it was all right, put his hat on for him and went down quickly and fetched up his portmanteau, which he had dropped in his fright. He was " all of a -tremble " ; his hand shook visibly as he clutched his property. The German steward came hurrying forward and, when he sighted the old gentleman's massive gold chain and jewelled fingers, almost fell forward on his face, bowing and scraping in his apologies. When the old fellow recovered he swore he'd sue the boatswain, in Sydney, for damages. We had a fairly fine passage across to New South Wales and in a week sighted Sydney Heads. We dropped anchor out in the stream, and the old passenger went off in a tender. He had got over his adventure, and shook his umbrella good-naturedly at the boatswain, who grinned at him over the fo'c'sle head. I was pleased to see the lovely shores of Sydney harbour again. That same night I stood on deck and saw the beautiful sea-board city rising grandly, with her spires and walls, as moonlight crept over the horizon. Sydney by night is a sight that makes you easily under- stand the Cornstalks' pride in their beloved city. Next day we berthed by Circular Quay. It was fearfully hot, real dog- day weather. Hospitality abounds in Sydney, and one never need feel lonely, for on stepping on to the wharf I was once more enthusiastically welcomed by an immense crowd of mosquitoes ! We can joke after, but I did not see life then as I do now. How I recall it all, my beautiful youth — aye, as a woman's heart secretly remembers her first love, and gazing back feels the old passion, sees the rosy horizon of dreams, the absolute certitude of old vows, spoken by that voice that expressed all the happy Universe ! Yes, so do I remember the sleep- less, hungry nights under the stars that shone over the trees, nights radiant with dreams ! 139 CHAPTER XII Circular Quay — Figure-heads — A Derelict's Night — The World's Worst Men — Off to New Zealand — A Violin Prodigy — In the New Zealand Bush — My Maori Girl — A Pied Piper — A Recipe for the Happy Vagabond — The Philosophical Sun-downer I HAD lived in Sydney five or six years before, when I had run away from a ship in Brisbane and had come across to Sydney full of dreams and hope. I was then only fourteen years of age. How vividly I recall those days and nights. Once more I stand on old Circular Quay and seem again to breathe through my dreams the turbulent poetry of emigrant sin and sorrow ; for ah ! how many cargoes of human lives have been brought across the world and then dumped down on the quay. I dream on, and see the silent wool clipper- ships lying alongside the wharfs, the tall masts and long yards at rest beneath the sky. The fine carved figure -heads look alive, their grand, allegorical faces gazing, their out- stretched arms pointing, towards Sydney's silent streets. They seem to express dimly to me some substance of great poetic thought, as though I stood on the mysterious shores of the heaven whence those spiritual minds that conceived them drew their inspiration, when with creating brain and moving fingers they carved such sad, wonderful faces ; faces destined to be exiled for years on voyages across wild oceans. I am a boy again, and am thrilled with such a feeling as a poet has when he treads visionary worlds and forgets his sad reality. How happy I feel as I move along in the white moonlight from wharf to wharf, gazing on each wooden ship and wondering on their past voyages, what seas they crossed ere I was born, and what the seaports looked like when they came sailing down, with weather-beaten sailors staring from the fo'c'sle head. How distinctly I remember it all ! I cannot move from 140 CARVED ROMANCE one ship's side : the figure-head is that of some beautiful goddess with a crown of bronzed hair, wherein a dove flutters. Her face represents, exactly, my romantic ideal of all the tender beauty of woman as I dreamed of it in my early boyhood. It is a beautiful face. I gaze from the wharf at it with fascinated eyes : all is silent except for the plomp of the waters against the ship's side as the tide ebbs. Still I gaze at her praying hands, as with wide -opened eyelids she stares across the moonlit quay at the sleeping city. I went back to my room and dreamed of that perfect face. So strangely was I impressed by its beauty that I felt a long- ing to find some living type resembling it. The next day I walked up the Sydney streets and earnestly scanned the faces of the Colonial girls. None of them seemed to me as beautiful as the thought of the artist who had fashioned the perfect outlines of my figure-head. The next night I went down to the quay and gazed once more at her, and then again the following night ; but when I arrived on the wharf to my great sorrow I found her gone. She had left her beauty in my soul, and though she was only an insensate figure-head, the memory of her features and expression stirred and fired some devotional dream within me, and gave me a poetic reverence for womanhood, a gift from out the great strangeness of things, that I have ever cherished. Often in seaports, on my travels from land to land, my comrades wondered why I stood a moment and gazed at the silent sailing-ships by the wharf. But, though I searched, I never saw that figure-head again. I suppose they have broken those old wooden ships up now and burnt them on the hearth fires of the cities, and by them other boys have probably dreamed of strange lands, and lovers gazed in the curling flames with shining eyes. Ah ! little did they dream what their log of firewood had meant to me ; and while they kissed with cling- ing lips the substance of my boyhood dreams, those features that lived spiritually in my imagination fell to ash as the flames faded in the homestead hearth fire. The poetry of Sydney harbour, with its sights and turmoil of sound, lives in my memory as though to-day is far-off yesterday. I even remember, and feel again, my strange 141 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY romantic loneliness as I watch the silent ships lying out in the bay. Night, like life, is on the deep, tide-moving waters ; in the dark depths the fixed mirrored stars shine steadfastly like Eternity, while over them the waters ebb seaward or flow towards the shore. The outline of North Shore, like another continent, rises across the wide harbour, and exactly opposite are the spires of the grand, silent, sea -board city. Some drunken sailor's song floats across the bay from the wind-jammer that is lying at anchor out in the stream. Several lights are twinkling across by Miller's Point. The Orient liner, the giant aristocrat of the quay, is agleam with shining port-holes ; her funnels belch forth smoke that ascends to the silence. We creep by — three homeless men and a boy — looking for a place to sleep ! Our shadows suddenly hurry on with us, as in the moon's gleam we spy the quarter- master on watch at the gangway. No hope there for us, we think, so we go round to the anchored ferry -boats and leave the great liner behind. She's off for England to-morrow, dear old England ! O magical word to how many exiles in the sleeping city, and especially to us , with our stomachs rumbling with emptiness. The big Manly Beach ferry -boat is moored by the wharf ; our frightened eyes look carefully around, then down on board we go to seek the cushioned settees of the saloon. We slept there last night. Again we creep into the saloon, four of us : Roberts, the ship's stoker, villainous -looking, old, with unshaved face ; Ross, the son of the Right Honourable, and the third man, who is a late schoolmaster from a school of great distinction. He is a pessimistic-looking chap, perhaps because he lent Ross his last ten shillings on the promise of five hundred per cent, interest when Ross got an expected cheque from England. " Ah, woeful when !" The night is getting old and cold ; how comfortably the warmth of the dim saloon strikes us as we four derelicts creep across. The moonlight is stream- ing through the port -holes. Ross smothers a note of irre- sistible exultation, for he has spotted a large bunch of bananas on the saloon table ! Such sudden unexpected affluence is too much for me, and even as I wonder why the saloon smells so strongly of fresh tobacco smoke, I sit down plomp ! on the 142 N £ < DERELICTS stomach of the ferry-boat's night watchman, who is asleep on the settee ! A terrible yell of pain escapes the official's lips ; like four shadows in one headlong leap we cross the saloon and rush up the gangway. How we scampered across the quay space and then rescued poor old Roberts, the stoker, as he puffed behind and stumbled on the kerb -side and fell with a crash ! Under the trees in the domain he sat swearing terrifically, but calmed down as we held his blood-splashed face up and examined it by moonlight. The schoolmaster lent his handkerchief of other days to stanch the blood -flow. Ross promised another fifteen shillings when the cheque came. Then, under the big -leafed tree, with our heads pillowed on our coats or caps, we lay with our faces side by side to sleep. I can still see the many huddled derelicts under the gum- trees of Sydney's Hyde Park, disreputable old men, and young men, good and bad. I watch by my chums on our big bedroom floor and hear the far cry of the wild animals in the Botanical Gardens Zoo, and smell the dew-damp leaves and domain grass, as dawn steals over the windless trees away back beyond the horizon of more years than I like to count. Some inexplicable kind of sadness comes over me as I look back to the lost splendour of my derelict days. How wealthy I was with all my youthful unfulfilled promises, and what security I found in the hopeful, manly eyes of men who went down to the sea in ships. How I stuck to them as they yarned together, or sang till the shore cave echoed. The shanty was a paradise, filled with men of mighty deeds, as I gazed with the eyes of boyish inexperience at the stalwart, unshaved men from 'Frisco and London, and listened to the stories of sad self-sacrifice, or great deeds on land and sea, performed in the valiant imagination of those wonderful brains of the world's worst men. I often wonder what I have missed through the inherited taint of vagabondage that is in my blood. Should I have been happier and gained some wealth had I gone ashore in same far country, scorning vagabonds and marching down the track on honest feet, like some Dick Whittington, looking 143 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY for the lights of some distant city, with my violin slung beside me ? I doubt it. If one is really honest, one is sure, some day, to trust the wrong man through not being dis- honest oneself. But to go back to my reminiscences at the moment when I arrived in Sydney from Samoa. I did not stay in Sydney very long. I had three or four pounds in my pocket and did not want to get stranded, so once more I looked around and was lucky enough to secure a berth on a steamer that was going to New Zealand for a cargo of meat, and from there to London. I got a job down in the engine-room as a kind of snowman to look after the refrigerators . The chief engineer was a terrible pig ; he was a Dutchman, and gave me no peace, but made me paint the lower -deck iron roof. We eventually had a fight, and I received a black eye which took a considerable time to cure itself. I made up my mind to leave at the first opportunity. I smelt the freshness of the sea -water and tar when we dropped anchor in Oriental Bay. After the first old loafer who is always waiting in every Colonial seaport to say " This is God's own country " had said it, I looked about. Oh ! the splendour of those days, the glorious homelessness and the thrilling uncertainty of everything ! I stood on the wharf with my violin in my hand, and, though I was almost penniless, I felt like a monarch gazing on his multitude of toiling subjects. Ships of many nationalities lay alongside discharging their cargoes, and the crews mingled with the crowds of embarking or disembarking passengers, arriving from, or bound for, Australia, China, Japan, India ; in fact everywhere wealth and poverty massed together. I saw white faces, black faces, yellowish faces, mahogany faces ; glittering eyes, blue eyes, black eyes, bilious eyes ; Dantesque profiles, turbaned heads, thick, black lips, expressing carelessness and humour, and thin, cynical lips ; also self-exiled, broken- down, sardonic-looking poets, authors and musicians from the British Isles. It seemed that the drama of life was being enacted on that wharf, with its hubbub of uncouth voices : Hindu men, and women with rings in their cars, multitudes from the Far East, South and West. A kind of miniature parade of existence, ere Time's hand swept the whole lot like 144 THE DRAMA OF LIFE pawns off the board, it seemed to me as I watched them embark on the ships to go seaward. I eventually secured a position as violinist in the orchestra of the opera house in Wellington, and I had comfortable diggings with an English family. I think I should have settled down there, but, just as I got to like my landlady and her family, the old father made up his mind to go back to England again. This unsettled me, and I started off on my wanderings again. I got to know a man who hired concert halls. I played at many of his shows, performing Paganini's Carnaval de Venise, also De Beriot's and Spohr's concertos. I was received very well indeed, and I should have stopped on at the game, but I was very unfortunate. I could not live on the applause which I received through being billed as " The Sailor Violinist." I wore a cheesecutter cap, at the request of my employer, who indeed tried to go on the same lines as in London, where foreign prodigies of twenty, with baby collars on, appear ! I barely got any wages ; my employer secured the profits. I never knew a man who could promise so much and give so little as that particular employer of mine did. And what he did give he gave with such an air of munificence, as though he was conferring a favour on me that I had never expected, or earned, that for the moment I was completely disarmed and my protest died on my lips. So one day I started off with my violin " up country." The turmoil of the crowded city streets, and my commercial inability, had sickened me of trying to do well. When I got on the lonely roads the old knight-errant fever gripped me. As I stood on the bush track I saw the primeval forest trees all brightening in the sunlight, while singing winds, bending their tops, blew through them, and wings glittered where, overhead, flocks of cockatoos sped across the sky. At midday, tired out, I came across a small bush town. It was by a river where, on the banks, Maoris camped. I stopped there only for a day and night, and I lodged with two old men who lived in a small wooden house by a paddock. They were grizzled, retired shellbacks, not from the sea, but from the trackless bush-lands. I unfortunately paid them K 145 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY for my lodging in advance, and they at once bought some rum and sat at their little wooden bench table yarning away till their mumbling voices seemed deep down in their dirty beards. As the rum fumes got more and more to their brains they ceased telling me their experiences, grew argumentative, and, with fierce eyes, glared at each other till they fell asleep at two o'clock in the morning. The next day I heard from the farmer who lived in a shack just across the flat that they were always drunk, and that the whole bush town thought I was some relative of theirs who had come from abroad to see them, otherwise they could not think anyone would lodge with them. Once more I tramped off, and after doing about ten miles I " put up " at a homestead in which an Irishman and his wife lived. I was getting short of cash and was half inclined to sleep out ; but though it was very hot by day, a cold wind had blown for several nights. I have quite for- gotten the name of that little bush village, but I easily recall the picturesque Maoris who lived by a creek in their pah (stronghold), a beautiful spot, sheltered by karri-karri trees. I played the violin to them ; and two old Maori chiefs, aged and wrinkled, squatted, with delight beaming in their deep eyes, listening to me. They were tattooed with dark blue curves from their lips to their eyebrows, and some of the girls were also decorated with tattoo. The Maori women were very cheerful, and brought me food, fresh water, fish and vegetables. An extremely beautiful Maori girl, dressed in picturesque Maori style, sat on the grass beside me and sang as I played the violin. The surroundings were wildly romantic, and I must confess that I almost fell in love with her. I kept thinking of her eyes as I lay slecplessly on the extemporised bed that the Irishman's wife had made up for me in a shed adjoining their homestead. I went across to that pah several times ; indeed I stopped at the Irishman's all the next day and night. When I went my Maori girl bade me good-bye, and then, with some little Maori children, she came to see me off, and crept by my side along the track till the pah was almost out of sight. Her eyes gazed earnestly into mine as she looked up to me ; the wind fluttered her 146 A WANDERING TROUBADOUR blue frock ; in her wealth of hair were stuck crimson and white flowers. I seemed to live once again in the romance of my faded dreams of boyhood. How beautiful she looked as sunset deepened the mystery of her eyes. Gallantly I kissed her and then, on the top of the hill, waved my hand back to her, and she faded away, and mad Don Quixote, carrying his violin, faded away also. Before it was quite dark I sat down on the bush grass and played the song she had sung to me on my violin. I half wished I was a Maori and lived in the old days. I am sure I should have gone with a tribe of warriors and attacked that pah and ridden off into the forest with that pretty Maori girl ! I slept out that night. I did not fall asleep till midnight, but I made a small fire in my forest bedroom and managed to keep warm ; for I opened my violin-case out and with some bush grass made a good shelter, though the slight trade wind on the weather-side blew cold. In the morning I got up without bother as I had slept " all standing," had a wash in the stream just down by the gullies, and then tramped across the hills to where the smoke arose from a group of homesteads. I counted my money ; I hadn't much, I know ; but people in the New Zealand bush proved as generous to me as I had found them in the Australian bush a year or so before. As I emerged from under the gum-trees I saw that the village was a decent-sized place of some fifty houses. A main road separated wooden shop buildings, and just behind were the small homes of the population. I had slept late, and the sun was blazing over the forest trees and shining on the tin roofs of the township. As I went across the paddocks the cows lifted their heads, stared at me, slashed their tails and moved off. I heard the voices of romping children running about in the scrub of their fenceless gardens. Summing up my courage, I took up a position in the centre of the silent main street. Only one or two shops had their shutters down as I stood erect and started to play the violin ! I was a good player, and before the first strain of the sentimental operatic selection wailed 147 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY to a close the doors of all the shops and houses around me suddenly opened, and out came rushing the children, rosy- girls and boys, and women and men, who gazed at me in astonishment. I felt like some Pied Piper of Hamelin ; but the Mayor did not turn blue " to pay a sum to a wandering fellow with a gipsy coat of red and yellow " as I fiddled away. The bushmen and the whole population grinned, as though with one mouth of delight, and sunburnt little children rushed up to me with shillings and half-crowns as I moved along and they scampered behind me. I was well dressed ; my grey suit was still new looking and my collar passably clean. I appeared outwardly to have a social standing that outrivalled that of my delighted audience. The vagrancy in my blood made me perfectly happy ; and when the old storekeeper tapped me on the shoulder and invited me in, I accepted with alacrity and without a blush the breakfast he gave me. The little children's bonny brown faces looked in at the open door as I ate like a horse ; then they all screamed with delight as I tossed the cat to the wooden ceiling and caught it with one hand. By midday I practically owned the township ; for I played in the houses and the children invited me to stop. When I went away and passed up the track the whole population came to the end of the main street to see me go ! They all waved their hands as I faded along the bush path. One never forgets those few hours in life when one has been really happy, and so I have never forgotten that bush township. To the thousands of literary and commercial vagabonds living under the guise of respectability I give a recipe — how to be happy in vagabondage. First, you must have a firm belief in God and be able to keep the belief to yourself. This belief will help you when each great scheme unexpectedly fails ; for if you be a true vagabond your schemes will only benefit others. Ere you go to sleep on the grass look upon the forest about you as your bedroom ; examine the moon as though it were your lamp, trim it so that the shadows fall glimmering through the trees on to your face, and keep 148 SI £4 < < A VAGABOND'S PHILOSOPHY saying to yourself: " I am better off than anyone else ; the world is certainly mine." In time you will believe this, and people will see the belief in your eyes and respect you. Be kind to little children you meet on the tramp, and write on your brain the wisdom they speak, for they are the cheeriest of vagabonds ! Avoid luggage, and throw away your conscience with all your unpaid bills. When you have cast your socks into the bush, place palm or banana leaves in your boots as substitutes : they are cool. I've walked for miles quite happily in banana-leaf socks. If you can possibly play a musical instrument, well, take it with you ; at the worst you can pawn it. Never worry ; and when you have no money keep saying to yourself: "There was no money in the world for millions of years before money was invented." Have plenty of tobacco with you ; and when you sit under the trees by your camp fire recall pleasant memories only ; then the birds will serenade you cheerfully ; and if you have a good comrade by your side you will be as two kings, your sentinels the stars, your domain extending to the sky-lines around you. Remember that when beggars die, before they put them to bed they wash their feet and place half-crowns on their eyelids so as to keep them closed in deep sleep. If they do that for the dead, what will they do for the living ? As I tramped along the sun blazed down, and I left the track for the shade of some majestic trees. Across the gullies I saw a camp fire burning and a man cooking food on it. I had run across a New Zealand sundowner ! " Hallo, matey, how goes it ? " he said as I approached. " All right," I answered cheerfully, as he looked at my violin and then up at me and said : " Want some tucker ? " I accepted a lump of damper and, as his old dog greeted me affectionately and licked my hand, I sat down beside him. We tramped along together all that day and slept in a gully off the track. He was an experienced bushman, and made up two splendid soft mattresses of leaves and moss, and with the dog's soft muzzle crouched to the ground, its sentinel eyes agleam between us, we slept, and I dreamed of the Maori girl. My companion did not seem extremely gifted, but he was 149 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY a philosophical and kind companion and never argued, only listened. He had little thought of the morrow ; dead yesterday was the land of his dreams, for he was generally retrospective in his conversation. Nevertheless he was agreeable, and though I understood little of what he said, the note of the mumble in his beard sounded pleasant. I gathered that he had been tramping for several years, and was off to see some friends who lived up country on a farm of their own. We had a sad misfortune together : about an hour after we had left a cattle yard that was just off the track, we were tramping along, and the old fellow was mumbling, when suddenly his dog ran in front of us and started to whimper and yelp, and then fell down. It had evidently eaten something that was poisonous. Before sun- set it died in great agony. My friend, indeed both of us, were very much upset. The poor dog had travelled with him for some years. Before it got dark we went into the forest under the gum-trees, and I dug a hole at the foot of a large blue gum, then covered our silent sentinel over, as possums leapt overhead in the trees. I did everything, for my companion was too upset. I also cut its name, " Bill," on the tree trunk. He lent me his knife, and when he spoke his voice sounded husky. " I'm a bit of a fool," he mumbled. "No, you're not ; I understand," I said. Next day I gave him a large tobacco plug and some money ; but still he walked along by my side, looking in front and never even speaking, as the flocks of parakeets shrieked across the sky. We came to a river with rushing falls, and a lagoon beside it caused by the overflow when torrential rain fell in the mountains, which rose miles away, brightening behind us in the sunset. I bathed my feet in the cool water. The bush- man looked on, and when I asked him to bathe also he mumbled out that he had bathed like that once before and was afraid. That same evening we came across a deserted Maori stronghold. The whares (huts) were in ruins and overgrown. Where the garden had once been, among the tall grass and crowds of everlasting flowers, blossoms like vividly coloured crimson and yellow parchment, still grew rock melons, tomatoes and other fruit and vegetables, which 150 THE DESERTED PAH the Maoris had cultivated. The silent old bushman, to my astonishment, joined me in my reflections as I stood and gazed on the relic of the once prosperous pah. "' I guess we'll camp here to-night, for it's not too warm these times," he said ; and so we went into the one hut that had withstood the rotting encroaching of time and still had a roof on. The floor was carpeted with weeds and flowers ; even the hollow that had served for a fireplace had burst into bloom ; and as my quiet old comrade, bending by the door, gathered dead scrub and gum wood to make a fire to boil the billy-can water, the wind moaned fitfully through the forest boughs overhead : I fancied I heard the dead Maoris' voices calling and echoing in the forest depths, and the laughter of girls who were long ago dead. 1 As the shadows closed, and sunset left a gleam out west- ward, we sat together. In the corner of the whare the sun- downer had made our beds, so placed by the bushman' s instinct that they were completely sheltered from the draughty weather-side. My comrade, who was so methodical in his habits, and had the night before pulled his boots off and "turned in" punctually at sunset, seemed wakeful and started talking to me. I understood all he said, for I had got used to his pronunciation, odd though it sounded, owing to his having lost all his teeth. I had been playing the violin to him, and as he sat intently listening, with his bearded chin on his hands, I played on, very pleased to find that he appreciated music. First I had played a commonplace jig, thinking that it would appeal to his uncultivated mind more than direct melody. 15ut when I played a melody from some operatic selection he at once lifted his half-closed eyelids and said approvingly : " That's right." I inwardly said to my- self : " He's an ignorant, low old fellow, but there's some- thing in him ; he's got feeling anyway," and I thought of his manner when I buried his dog. I had been reading a little book — I forget the name of it — but it quoted the philos- ophers a good deal, and dealt in such subjects as the human 1 I was told by my comrade that it was the ruins of a pah stronghold that had been attacked by an enemy tribe, all of the defenders having been killed. 151 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY mind and the Universe as it appeared to the senses. As I looked up at the stars I pondered, and, half in earnest and half with an idea of showing the old bushman how clever I was, I said, "All those stars out there are other worlds"; and then I used such phrases as "infinite extension" — a lot of high-toned phrases that I did not understand myself. He listened silently, and that was sufficient. I felt that, though he had no imagination, he would look upon me with wonder in his eyes and think " how clever this youth is." So I rattled on with enthusiasm about the vastness of things and how, but for man's consciousness, there would be no big or little, sight, sound or time, and how the immensity of space was a mighty ocean of nothingness, a fungoid growth, wherein like jelly-fish universes floated in the eternal waters of darkness, and as they twirled and flashed, their sparkles were the stars ! Still he listened ; and with pride I again delightedly attacked his profound inferiority, striving to explain that all material and immaterial things were chimeras of the mind's madness, that crept on shadowy feet through a vast Nothing, which was the Universe ! I told him that he was not then listening to me by the camp fire, but was as the image of myself, an image that I saw at that moment in his wide-open eyes, as he suddenly looked up at me and said : ' ' That'll do ; if there's nothing, then your opinions, and those of all the philosophers, are nothing ! " My hearing seemed to have gone wrong. He mumbled off a Latin phrase ! I knew it was Latin, but that's about all I did know. His grey, deep-set eyes looked steadfastly at me. The lightning rapidity of intuition telegraphed to my brain a startling message, which in human speech would go this way : " Tick ! tick ! your old bushman, whom you think you are teaching, knows more than you think he does ! " Two feelings struggled within me ; one mockingly laughed at my dis- comfiture at being such a fool, and the other smiled with pleasure to find my old man was not one. I quickly re- covered, and in my heart thanked the " fungoid universe " that it was dark, so that the old man could not see my blush ns T dropped my pipe and groped for it in the shadows. 152 Old Maori, said t<> be 105 years old TEACHING AN OLD MAN And then I received another shock ; for he quietly picked my violin up and very quietly started to play ! His fingers were stiff, and the bow once slid over the bridge, but it was very evident that somewhere, back in the past, my mumbling old bushman had been a decent violin -player. Removing the fiddle from the depths of his dirty beard, he said quietly : " That's a French -made fiddle ; not a bad tone either; you can tell that by the curve of the back and the shape. Savez ? " Then he held it up in the moonlight and, moving his wrinkled finger along the fine curves of my violin, laid it down beside me. " You've been a good violin -player in your time," I replied. " Yes," he said, and not a word more did I get out of him, except, as he knocked the ash from his corn-cob pipe, " It's getting late, chappie" ; then with a sigh he lay down in the corner on his bed and almost immediately went off to sleep. He snored vigorously as I lay beside him, quite sleepless. I looked at the outline of his sleeping face, which I could just distinguish by the stream of moonlight that came through the broken wall opposite us. Whether it was because of my just acquired knowledge that he was not an uneducated derelict I don't know, but I fancied the outline of his face looked decidedly refined, notwithstanding the grey, unkempt beard and sweaty grime. Next morning we rose early, and the bushman cooked the breakfast on a fire which he built by the deserted whare's doorless passage ; and as he poured hot tea into a mug from his big billy can, and handed it to me, he placed in it the last remaining bit of sugar, going without sugar himself. I noticed this ; but when I remonstrated he simply said : " Never you mind, chappie ; you' re not as hardened as I am." I tried to learn something of his history, but to all my inter- rogations he was either silent or evasive. One thing I did learn, and that was that he was by birth an Englishman. That same day, after crossing some very rough but wildly beautiful country, we arrived at a homestead where there were several outhouses being built. It turned out to be my comrade's destination. The owners gave him a great 153 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY welcome, took us both inside and in no time had a table laid ready and a good feed of meat and pumpkin for us. They also were emigrant English folk. As we sat at that grand table d'hote a venerable old blind man, who had been a sailor, sat at the shanty door, secured from the blazing sun by the shade of the thickly clustered grape vines, and sang : " Oh, ho ! Rio ! We're bound for Rio Grande." He had retired, in England, from the sea many years before, and was the father of our host, who had sent home for him and paid his passage out to New Zealand. He was a jolly old fellow and, though over eighty years of age, danced a hornpipe and sang, in spite of being quite blind. How his white whiskers and red beak nose tossed as I played the riddle and he shuffled his feet and sang, and the boys from the next homestead, a mile over the slopes, watched with delighted eyes. " Avast there ! Turn to ! " he would say, as he asked for a bit more of anything at the table to eat ; and he loved to say that his rheumatism had given him a twinge on his weather- side, or on his starboard- side or his stern, as he moved his sightless eyes about and swayed, as though he walked a rolling deck, across the shanty floor. The last I saw of my travelling comrade the bushman was when he was sawing poles in two and carefully measuring them with his little rule. Several new outhouses were being built, and his friends gave him a job for a few days. When the job was finished I have no doubt he went off once more on the track, with his home on his back. I never heard why he lived that life, or who he had been away back in the " has been " past, but I took good care after my experience with him not to try and talk philosophy or teach shabby- looking old men. Very soon after I bade the New Zealand " bush-faller " good-bye I went off visiting various townships with my violin and became a wandering troubadour. I grew so well off that I was able to go on, devoid of all worries, and see a great deal of New Zealand's romantic scenery. 154 CHAPTER XIII Matene-Te-Nga— A " Bush-faller's " Camp— A Maori Village— The Canoe Dance — Song of the Night — Mochau's Tale — An Open- air Concert — Violin Solos — The Brown -eyed Girl — Boyhood — Onward to the Past ! I VISITED many places during my wanderings in New Zealand, among them the beautiful Bay of Akaroa, and many other romantic scenes. The New Zealand bush is wild and grand enough, and the Maoris deeply inter- ested me. I visited one aged Maori warrior, called Matene- Te-Nga. Samoan tattooing was nothing compared to the engraving on his big frame. He spoke English perfectly, but said little. He had kind, deep-set eyes and a wrinkled face that was also deeply carved ; indeed he looked like a stalwart bit of brownish Greek sculptural work, covered with hieroglyphics, when he moved with majestic precision. Curves of artistic tattooing joined his stern, straight nose to his chin and upward to his eyebrows. He was the one surviv- ing warrior of a time when New Zealand was a real Maori land, when the beautiful legendary lore of to-day was poetical reality to the land's original race. Matene had fought with the tribes while fleets of canoes were ambushed in the gulf. At Rotorua too I interviewed Maoris in their native pah. They wore but few clothes. The girls and women had good- looking, stoical faces. The Maoris strongly resemble the islanders of the Samoan and Tongan Groups ; indeed so pronounced is the likeness that one cannot help thinking that the two races are allied by blood ties, and probably drifted from New Zealand to the Pacific Isles, or vice versa, ages ago. For several weeks I went off on my wanderings, accompanied by my beloved comrade — my violin. I had still a pound or so in my possession, which I intended to keep for the rainy day that would be sure to darken the blue sky of glorious vagabond- age. So, while the skies were bright, I made my bed in the 155 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY bush, and by the light of the moon read Byron's Poems. I had bought a paper-covered edition of them in Wellington and carried them in my violin-case. Oh ! the romantic splendour of those days and nights, when I drank in the Byronic atmosphere. The glorious illusion of youth, the rosy glamour that is not what it seems and seems what it's not, hung about me, as I sat under the giant karri-trees by the track, or approached the Maori stronghold with Don Juan sparkling in my eyes. On the west coast ranges, North Island, I came across a " bush-faller's " camp. I walked across the slope and in- troduced myself to the solitary occupant, an old Irishman. He turned out to be an interesting and congenial member of the wandering species. His camp was pitched by a creek that led to a lake, the banks of which were surrounded by beautiful ferns, eucalyptus and trees covered with fiery blossoms musical with the moan of bees. As we sat together and sunset touched the lake waters with fire, and primeval silence brooded over the forest, broken only by the weird note of birds, I could easily have imagined that I and my comrade occupied a new continent alone. Parakeets went shrieking across the forest and over the lake ; we only saw their shadows in the still water and heard the tuneless beaks scream as they passed overhead and left a deeper silence behind. I stopped with the " bush-faller " one night. " Good-bye, mate," he said, as he looked up to me with his grateful, round blue eyes and placed my gift in his pocket. He had told me where there was a Maori pah several miles away, and had come stumbling with me through the under- growth for a long way, to direct me to the track that led to the main road. That same evening I came across several old whares by a sheet of water, at the foot of a tremendous range of hills that rolled to the southward. It was extremely hot weather, and, as I followed the track round by the water's edge, I saw the little Maori children paddling by the lake shores as the native women were fishing. On the other side of the lake were several wooden homesteads where some whites lived. I walked into the Maori village, and the children stared 156 CANOE-PADDLING ! stolidly at me as they stood by the shed doors. Presently I came across an old Maori chief sitting under a mangrove. He looked very aged, possibly more so through his face being carved with dark blue tattoo. He spoke English well, and as I approached he welcomed me and said : " Play me your music." I at once sat down by him and began to talk. As we were speaking a crowd of Maori girls came round us, and some men, who wanted to hear me play the violin. The old chief took me into his dwelling. It was strikingly clean. I saw his wife squatting in the corner, reading a book printed in the Maori language. She was a very ugly old woman and when she smiled revealed bare gums that seemed to reach to her ears. Her hideousness intensified the youthful beauty of the Maori girls, who came rushing into the pah while I was speaking to the old man. They were beautiful girls, with the usual fine eyes, and a marvellous wealth of hair that glistened over their bare shoulders and fell to their bosoms. The sight of them reminded me of my pretty Maori girl, who had long haunted my dreams. I stayed near that settlement for several days and attended the rehearsal of a canoe dance. The weird beauty of that scene in many ways recalled memories of the fantastic sights I had seen in the South Sea Islands. One night, when the moon was shining over the lake and forest, the Maori girls came forth from the pah, attired in scanty robes of woven grass and flowers reaching to their knees. Across the forest patch in front of the pah they ran with bare feet, waving their arms and singing a chant in their native language. Then lying down in a row, prone, in the deep grass, they moved their bodies and arms as though to imitate canoe-paddling, all the time chanting a Maori melody. It was an unfor- gettable sight, the moonlight glimpsing over their bodies as the night wind lifted their luxuriant hair. They looked like mermaids paddling in seaweed at the bottom of an ocean of moonlight. All the while the Maori men gazed with admiring eyes. I heard many Maori songs. They struck me as being full of a wild, poetic atmosphere that suggested tribal battles and the legendary sadness of far-off deeds of passion and love. 157 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY I give here a few bars of melody which may faintly express my memory of their music : HUMMING CHORUS, or Whistle, ad lib. Andante moderate). A. S. M. 1st Voice. Espressivo. t |v | I recall the solemn grandeur of the New Zealand bush, the cry of the melancholy curlew in the forest as I tramped along the wild tracks to Rotorua. I had my violin with me, and in the strange perspective of memory I still hear and see the romping, sunburnt bush children rushing out by the bush homesteads to welcome the troubadour who had suddenly appeared. Once or twice I got pretty hard up and had to resort to my violin's appealing voice for help. Not far from a little bush township, by a range of hills that rolled to the westward, I came across another pah, where my fiddle and I were welcomed by the old Maori chiefs, whose blinking eyes lit up their tattooed faces. I remember I was warmly received by that primitive community. It seemed hard to believe that they were descendants of blood- thirsty cannibals as I sat among them and accompanied 158 MAORI MUSIC their songs, songs that breathed tenderness and poetry. The character of their music strikingly resembled Samoan melodies I had heard sung by the Siva chorus girls in the South Sea villages. The following suggests the atmosphere of Samoan or Maori music : — SONG OF THE NIGHT. (Samoan Entr'acte.) Mo lerata Composed by A. S. M. Ped. Ped, Ped. ^ r- SWEfS: £* Ped. -r-r - *-»- m* : t?1: SI- -(P. Jt I I SE Ped. # Pec?. ^^i^^js^^^^^^p^^ Oq: a piaccre. etc. Reproduced by kind permission uf Messrs, Boosey i sens (lower stuck in at each side. Her brown limbs and figure are the perfection of graceful beauty, dressed only in a little blue chemise. She eloped with a ' noble white man " to the Gilbert Isles, and committed suicide when he left her, ere her first-born could creep to her bosom and taste the only milk of human kindness it would most probably have ever known. Earnest-faced Tippo, her sister, sits on the slope. Happy as night with its stars is she, with six little dark, plump children 179 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY with demon-like eyes romping all round her. She has married an uncivilised nigger from Timbuctoo ! O happy girl ! How the natives chided and sneered at her at first for not marrying a great white lord as her sister did ! Beautiful women, and men also, I have met in strange places. I have found them in the hovels and among the scum of life, and sometimes in the palatial home of affluence. Con- victs of New Caledonia in the calaboose or toiling in chains, breathing, yet as dead as dust, with hollow, sad eyes, corpses from La Belle France — my poor brothers ! Old men and women begging by the kerb-side in the far-away civilised Isle of the Western Seas ! The old man in rags, a skeleton on tottering feet, shivering, going down the cold, windy, main road of the lighted suburb, singing, with a palsied old mouth, some song that God composed ere Christ came. He is my beloved comrade ; bury me with him, so that the flowers over us may twine in our dead dust and find mutual sympathy. I have seen multitudes of commercial burglars, wealthy villains, who fought so valiantly to save their own lives that they have received the commercial V.C. for valour — and penniless, profligate angels, fighting side by side in the battle of nations — that battle wherein the bullets cause mortal wounds, though many years pass before they send the bloodless corpses to heaven — or hell. I have seen old, ragged, hideous, long dead women still sitting by the attic's hearth fire, sipping the gin bottle — sweet-fumed opium for their spectral dreams. As they stare at the embers burning in the red glow they see their own girlhood faces smile once more back into their bleared eyes, with remembered beauty, happiness and glorious faith. Old routs too dream somewhere — the men who made the vows to those drunken old women and never kept them — may they sleep well, but never wake ! I have heard the majestic cathedral organ thunder its rolling music to the roof as the beggar passed by the massive, nail-studded door on swollen feet, rubbed his cold skeleton hands together and spat viciously. No food in his body, and his soul — well, why should he worry about his soul ? 180 VIRTUE I have seen the great shocked multitude open their eyes aghast, and heard the tremendous crash, the clatter of the hail of stones, when the voice said : " He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her." O wonderful goodness ! O icy, stony virtue. Ah ! not only in the wild Australasian bush or in the Southern Seas is the great drama of life enacted ; the great drama that makes your heart cold, and the old warm belief become encrusted with icicles, as you dream over the strange lot of the wandering, lost children. I've laid me down deep in the bush to sleep, And wrapt my body in the sunset's blaze. Then wondered why He made sad wings for days To fly away — and all our world to weep. Like to a myriad birds blown round sunset In song, I thought I watched God's careworn Face Brushed by bright wings — the unborn human race Who did not want their mortal birth — just yet I I heard the growing flowers cry in the night, And trees — that whisper of old cherished things. And still the startled, hurried rush of wings — It was the stars sighed out — upon their flight. O Troubadours, O Stars, what sing you of ? O wandering minstrels, is it to God's plan You sing ? — or to the exiled heart of man Who pays with death's blind eyes and cherished love ? But still the children cry upon the plain Beside a grave ; and still the cheerful king Grows fat ; and sad old men say : -' Anything, O God, except to live this life again I "■ 181 CHAPTER XV The Lecturer — The Italian Virtuoso — Disillusioned BEFORE I left New Zealand I secured an engagement to play the violin at a concert hall where the district assembled to applaud the talent of youthful piano- forte players and maidens who had cultivated voices. I was engaged to play violin solos, accompanied by the piano, and to perform suitable tripping melodies for old feet when the parents danced after the entertainment. One night, when I was hurrying back to my rooms after the dance, sick at heart (for, believe me, I do not tell you of my many aspirations and the disappointments of those days), I heard a wheezy voice behind me call : "' Hi ! you, Mr Violinist." I immediately turned, and an old gentleman with a benevolent, cheerful face stood puffing and smiling at me. " Pray excuse my interruption," he said as he bowed ; then he continued : " Ah, my dear boy, you are a real musician and play your instrument as though you have a soul ; you remind me of my own youthful days, when I played the violin, by special command, to Queen Victoria." Hearing this, I at once became inwardly attentive. I had several manuscript songs that I wanted to get published, and no publisher in New Zealand or Australia would look at them unless I paid for the expense of engraving, so, not knowing what influence the old fellow might have, I speedily got into conversation with him — not from ambitious motives only, for he seemed a kind-hearted and intellectual old man, and therefore commanded my respect as well as my hopes. Inviting me into an hotel, he offered me a drink, and seemed very much surprised when I asked for " shandy gaff,'"' which is a mixture of ginger-beer and light ale. I flushed slightly and reordered whisky at his sugges- tion, and, though it tasted like kava and paraffin oil mixed, I 182 CHARITY AND ART bravely took sips of it, while the old chap told me of his violin engagements and the praise accorded him by the musical critic of The Times and by personages in the royal courts of Europe. As I listened, and nodded approval and surprise, I observed him carefully. He was innocent looking, with a cheery round face and eyes that were small, but vivacious and blue ; his hat was neither a tall hat nor a bowler : it had a small rim, which gave it that clerical contour which seems to be worn especially to allay any suspicion that might fall on its owner. I would not reflect upon the appearance of this gentleman so much if it were not that his appearance helped him enormously. I am not going to be hard upon him either ; notwithstand- ing his sins, he was at heart a kindly man ; but Nature had mixed his dough with too much yeast, so that his aspirations to do well rose far beyond the range of his intellect and solid, commercial honesty. This was a fact that helped me con- siderably ; for this commonplace failing of our race, shown in him, put me on my guard in the future and saved me much pain and many misfortunes in after days. I do not mean to be sarcastic in the foregoing remarks, though it may sound like it. I only intend to convey to those who have not experienced much the fact that all individual types of good and bad men you meet in civilised lands are just teachers in the university ; that you must face, if you are not blessed with wealth, and go off to seek it. They give you experience, and make you a critic of your race, so that you can know and appreciate goodness, if in your lifetime you are fortunate enough to meet it. They also teach you to be lenient in your judgment of others, and by compari- sons and pondering over their sins you will recognise your own. Though the old fellow tried to impress me with his great- ness, and praised my many virtues, I instinctively felt that I did not possess them. I also noticed that, though he told me that he had just arrived at Christchurch to give lectures to increase the funds for orphanage children, his fancy waist- coat had been brushed to death and looked shabby. This fact damped both my hopes and vanity ; for I perceived that 183 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY his praise of my violin-playing was inspired by very much the same feeling that made me repeatedly nod polite approval over his erstwhile fame in the royal courts and concerts of Great Britain. In short, we were both hard up for some- thing that we needed, and saw that we could help each other by being polite and awaiting events. I was young, and he was grey and old, and possibly had been a really good man in his day, till the soulful melody of heart-beats, called life, had gradually resolved itself into a minor key, and that drama of grey hairs and a wheezy voice that praised my youthful melodies in that saloon bar off the main road in Christchurch, New Zealand. He fingered about in his pocket, and I at once ordered him another drink, and inspired with bravery, through his shabby waistcoat, I boldly called for shandy gaff and pushed the whisky aside. We were now, by observation of each other's deficiencies, brothers, and though Queen Victoria's praise of his talent still lingered in my memory, I noticed that he gave a sigh of relief as I paid for the next drink, and at once I felt that we were at last equals. I will not weary you with any more details, but on the way home that night he walked beside me, and I agreed to be the solo violinist at the lectures which he was about to give in various halls that he was hiring. I was not to get a specified salary, but was to receive, which was better still, he said, shares in the collection and in the tickets sold, after the bulk of the proceeds had been put by for the New Zealand orphanages. Next morning he called at my rooms at the time appointed. By daylight my clothes did not look as affluent as they did by gaslight. In a moment he noticed this and without any overture said : " Put your hat on, my boy, and come to my tailor's and get fitted out." I was astonished to hear him say this, and, not thinking my prospective abilities in his service might deserve such kindness, my best instincts got the momentary upper hand of those inclinations which are usually the strongest in men who have endeavoured to earn their livelihood by musical accomplishments. So I at first demurred, and then, overjoyed, went with him to his tailor, who lived not a half-mile off. He even bought me india- 184 THE RT. HON. S. MIDDLETON rubber cuffs, and the day before the first lecture came off I looked as well dressed as anyone in the district. On the morning before the first lecture at the Suburban Hall I strolled down the main road and to my astonishment saw my name in large type on big white bills. If I remember aright, this is how the advertisement went : '' Signor Safroni, the celebrated Italian violin virtuoso, has kindly consented to perform at the Orphanage Fund lectures " ; and then followed an account of the lecturer's philanthropic and stirring speeches on behalf of helpless children. At first I felt annoyed at this being done without my permission, for I had a kind of sus- picion that the old lecturer thought more of himself than of the orphan children, and I did not want to be mixed up with anything that was likely to look shady, both for my own self-respect and my youthful principles. I at once sought my new employer and told him, as delicately as possible, that I did not care to be billed as a celebrated violinist from Italy, and, moreover, not so very far off was the very place where I had been playing. ' My dear, dear boy," he said, opening his eyes as though with amazement, " you call your- self a violin-player and are afraid to be billed ; you must be mad ! " " Well," I answered, considerably mollified by the force of his arguments, " your bill says : ' The Right Honourable S. Middleton will take the chair.' How can I be both ? And I know nothing about taking chairs either." " Leave it all to me ; all you've got to do is to play the violin and make money," he said ; and I went off, feeling a little guilty of in- gratitude, for I certainly had a good suit of clothes on, and my expectations, financially, seemed very good. Before the concert night my employer canvassed the streets, and indeed the whole district, and sold some hundreds of tickets. Girls even stood at the mission rooms and church doors and sold his tickets ; they were given special permis- sion by the clergy, because of the noble cause which my employer lectured upon. When I arrived at the hall at the opening hour I saw a vast crowd waiting by the door. The old lecturer was with me and rubbed his hands as we went round to the back i85 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY entrance to prepare for the concert. His personality was of the masterful kind, but, mustering up my courage, I at last said to him : ' Shall I have to take the chair and make a speech ? " — for I was still a little suspicious of my dual personality as an Italian violin virtuoso and the Right Honourable S. Middleton. To my intense relief he patted me on the back and said : ' Play the violin as well as you are able and I will do all the rest." My feelings were relieved, and the thought of how much I should get from the shares of tickets sold cheered me up considerably. Before I proceed I may as well tell you that though he professed to lecture for the benefit of little children and was deeply " religious," for he prayed so fervently before meals that I also prayed, out of sheer respect for his religious earnestness, as far as I knew he never paid one cent to any fund ; neither did he pay for the halls that he hired, nor for the printing of his preposterous bills, nor for anything that became his. There was a special dressing-room in this hall ; it was like a box, and just at the side of the stage door. When the old lecturer was ready he gave the little door-boy twopence and told him to open the entrance to the hall and let the crowd in at the front ; while the professor at the back groomed himself before his little pocket mirror and I combed my hair. My heart began to beat a little faster than usual, for I heard the audience starting to stamp and cheer with impatience just behind the small door in front of me. The old rogue said hastily : "Go in and take the chair and I will walk in behind you." " Perhaps you had better go first," I said, and stepped aside. " No, no," he responded quickly, in his masterful voice, and, not wishing to appear nervous the first night, I took a bold plunge and suddenly appeared before the vast crowd of bronzed faces that made up that New Zealand audience. Had it been an ordinary solo engage- ment I should have had something to do and so have been completely at my ease. But when the vast crowd rose in a body and cheered me, thinking that I had appeared first to make a preliminary speech, ere the great philanthropist 186 POTTED PATHOS lectured about cruelty to orphan children, and all the other lies on his bill, I felt very ill at ease, and could only bow repeatedly and gaze at the little door, hoping my employer would step on the stage. He did not appear, and I think I must have bowed several times after the last clapping hand had ceased among the smiling ladies in the front seats, who were gazing upon me with evident approval, and at last, bewildered, I stooped to open my violin-case. I was about to let the lecture go to the winds and start a solo when suddenly the door opened at the side of me and the pro- fessor stood bowing to the audience. They rose en masse and cheered him, as I nearly tumbled over my violin and sat in the little chair which was the only furniture of the platform. I felt like one in a dream as I sat there twirling my fingers, watching the old fellow as his arms swayed and lifted with his grey head toward the ceiling, and in fervent tones he told the audience that the Right Honourable S. Middleton had been suddenly taken ill, and that I had kindly consented to take the chair, as well as perform solos on the violin. I have found out since that this ruse is a commonplace excuse for a one-man lecture and entertainment ; it saves expenses, and is practised at lectures and concerts throughout the world. He was really a clever professional liar, and the way he held his arms aloft and passionately pleaded for the helpless children touched the audience as though it throbbed with one large heart. It is a memory that I think would make the most credulous nature become sceptical when listening to shabbily dressed men who appeal for charity beyond their own immediate requirements. Though he had bought me a new suit — on credit I found out afterwards — he did not trouble much about his own clothes, but depended on the pathos of his voice and his grey hairs. I felt suspicious of the genuineness of his orphanage appeals, but as I sat there listening to him a sense of intense shame came over me, for I, as well as the whole audience, was touched by the pathos of his phrases and the descriptive figures which he gave of poor little starving orphans that had appealed for bread. Then, with his hands lifted to the ceiling, he held the whole 187 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY crowd spellbound as he described a dying child's last look and words in a London workhouse. As he finished a great sigh echoed through the hall, as though it was one sound from a thousand hearts that were bursting with emotion. His voice ceased and he turned to me, and as I lifted the glass of water to his lips I noticed that he had tears in his eyes ; for his imagination had carried him out of himself and touched him as well as me. Then I stood up and played a solo, after which I extemporised an accompaniment to a sacred song which he sang ; for though he was old and sinful his voice was mellow and sweet. He told me he was the last living member of the Old Christy Minstrels of London, and from his manner and general conversation I still believe that assertion of his was a true one. I asked him once to play the violin, but he would not do so, though he could play the banjo well. I have never been so cheered by an audience as I was that night. I was called and recalled. I do not believe it was so much for my playing, or for the opinion of Italian royalty and the Queen of England on my " wonderful " playing — it was on the programme — as for my being thought a friend of that old lecturer on dying orphan children. For before we played the National Anthem he told them that I had consented to go with him through New Zealand and play solos purely for the sake of helping unhappy children, and that I was to receive no salary. I did not know how true it was when he said that, but I often think how fortunate I was not to have been arrested with him ; for, though I was quite innocent, I believe that we were both liable to penal servitude for giving those charitable concerts. Before the audience dispersed the lecturer made an extra collection, notwithstanding the fact that each member of the audience had paid one or two shillings for admittance, and given sixpence for a programme ! At the hall door, after all was over, he interviewed many of the ladies who sought a personal introduction ; we also received many invitations to call at their homes, and my old employer seemed quite touched by the many sympathetic phrases they poured in his ears. When we were alone he 188 I AM RELIGIOUSLY TOUCHED stood under a lamp-post and counted out the collection, and though I lounged by him, and gave many hints, he did not offer me a portion, so I asked him for my share straight out. He had promised me some money just before the lecture. " I dare not give it to you," he said. " I must first pay for the hall, the printing and the amount due to the orphanage ; then, rest assured, my boy, you shall get your share." Next day he got fearfully drunk, and I became convinced that he was not genuine, though the night before I had left him thinking that I must be mistaken in my suspicions. The very boldness of his bills and his plans would have disarmed older men, and I was then only about twenty-one years of age. I had given my other job up and so, for the time being, 1 was compelled to stick to him. He rebuked me for not saying grace before my meals, and I discovered that he really was religious in the common sense of the term ; we even had arguments together because I would not agree with all he said. He was extremely happy and sang to himself all day, rose at five o'clock every morning and splashed water all over the room as he washed, while I complained and begged for another hour's rest. I felt envious and yet sorry for him, and myself too. When a man dimly realises his abjectness in the flesh he has begun to realise his divinity ; the night of his mind, that was dark, becomes unclouded, and the stars glimmer forth only to sadden him. He does not feel any longer so ready to criticise the dark of his neighbour's mind, which is still happy in that night of intellectual blindness which is such a blessing to men who inherit the heavens through an acute squint. My swindling old employer re- joiced in this squint to an abnormal degree ; he really did believe that he was a pious and good-living man. When I refused to work for him, and told him he was a rogue, he was so shocked that I even relented a little, and took his proffered hand when I said good-bye. He seemed to value my opinions, though he did not agree with them, and I honestly believe that, had he not had his religious aspirations to fall back upon, he would have fallen back upon himself and been a really good man. When he left the district his creditors came down on me, 189 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY and I had a lot of trouble to prevent myself being arrested. The tailor who had supplied my suit of clothes stopped me in the street ; I lost my temper, and we nearly came to blows, and I was almost locked up. Next morning I called upon the tailor and told him the truth ; he apologised for his re- marks and refused to take more than half the money due for the clothes, which I paid him. I never saw the lecturer on orphanages again ; and as it was years ago, and he was old then, I feel that he must have given his last lecture, closed his stage door for ever and gone away. 190 CHAPTER XVI Homesick — Off to England — At Colombo — The Stowaway — Home Again — The Wandering Fever returns — Reflections — Out- bound for West Africa — On the West Coast — King Lobenguela — A Native Chief speaks — The Jungle — King Buloa and the Native Ceremony — An African Caprice — Music — A White Man among Wild Men — Nigeria — A Native Funeral — Night in the Jungle — Gold Mines — The African Drum A BOUT this time I became homesick and tried to find a berth on one of the homebound boats. I eventu- ally secured a job on a tramp steamer, the s.s. P . There was nothing exceptional on the trip except the mono- tony of the ship's routine. We called at Hobart, Tasmania, and after experiencing stiflingly hot weather crossing the Indian Ocean eventually arrived at Colombo. The natives came clambering on board and attempted to take possession of all our portable property. They are a dark mahogany- coloured people, a cheerful-looking folk. All their actions seem to be guided by a strong commercial instinct. Loaded with bunches of bananas, and baskets of oranges and limes, they ran about the decks, bargaining for old shirts and cast- off clothing. Over the vessel's side floated their outrigger catamarans, swarming with dark, almost nude men and women. Swimming in the sea were their children, shouting, ' I dive, I dive," as they looked up to the passengers on deck, who threw pennies into the sea. As the coin reached the water down went their heads and up their legs, as like frogs they all dived down into the depths in a mad race to secure the coveted coin, which is never lost. At the moment when it seems impossible for them to live so long under the water the calm surface of the sea trembles at the spot where the coin was thrown in and up come a score of frizzly heads from the ocean's depth, and the winner holds the prize between his teeth. 191 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY About a week or so after leaving Colombo we entered the Suez Canal. It was night. As the boats enter the canal a searchlight is fixed on to the fo'c'sle head to illumine the narrow waterway that flows ninety miles across the desert. It must be an impressive sight from the desert, the steamer going across like some mammoth beast, with a monster eye in front and the port-holes pulsing light in the iron sides as the steamer moves along. I remember one incident that happened before we passed the canal that night. I was standing by the starboard alley- way dreaming, and watching the stars glittering over the desert, as the engines took the steamer along at about four knots an hour, when a rustling noise behind some barrels startled me. It was quite dark, and the decks were silent, for most of the passengers were asleep. Wondering what on earth could be stirring in the gloom, I leaned forward and saw two bright eyes looking out between some casks, and a soft voice crying out said something to me in a language which I did not understand. It was a pretty little Arab maid, a stowaway, who had crept on board at Ismailia, where we had stopped for one hour. I lifted her up tenderly ; she was as black-skinned as night and only wore a tiny loin-cloth. She raised her bright eyes and was crying ; but I took her along the alleyway and down below, and by kindness reassured her. We gave her a good feed and then, tired out, she fell asleep in my bunk, and I slept on the sea-chests in the cabin. In the morning she danced to us in our berth and caused us great merriment. We sneaked her ashore at Port Said, where she had friends ; she had stowed away so as to reach them. We gave her plenty of food to take off with her, and we were sorry to see her go ; she was only about seven years old ! • •••••••• Three weeks after leaving Port Said we arrived in England and berthed at Tilbury Docks. The atmosphere of primeval lands, shining under tropic suns and glorious stars, faded to a far-off dream as the dull, drab-grey of English skies drenched the wharves and the shouting dock labourers. As the days wore on once again the roaming fever turned my thoughts to the sea, with all the splendour of its grand 192 THE GREAT HARLOT uncertainty, its devilish irony and vicissitudes. Though the glamour of romance had faded, yet my wanderings and turbulent experiences had completely unsettled me ; indeed they had unfitted me for the humdrum commercial exist- ence which I should have had to follow had I made up my mind to settle in my own country, assume respectability, and hide, as beneath a cloak, my inherent vagabond nature. The feathered quill pen at the desk would have lluttered to fly, held by my sympathetic hand. The old wandering fever still gripped me. I was always wanting to be off into the uncertainty, to be buffeting round the capes of unknown seas, exploring for the marvellous unexpected, standing on the decks of imagination, under the flying moonlit sails of glorious illusion, singing wild, mad chanteys over wonderful argosies of schemes that could never be realised ! Yes, to be ashore on some far-away isle, clasping the savage maid in your arms by the coco-palms, gazing in the delicious orbs of the Universe — infinity in beams of eyelight. To breathe the present, yet be alive in the past, far away down the centuries of the modern dark ages ! To walk by primeval forest and tumbling moonlit seas where they break over coral reefs. To rest by camp fires and huts, talking with bush women and men, and girls with sparkling eyes, eyes clear as heaven with her moon and stars. To be back in the splendid aboriginal darkness of — as it was in the beginning. Yet alas ! as I dream the faint, immodest blush of dawn tints the distant sky-line. It is the birth of grief and beauty ; awakening sunrise is agleam in her warm eyes ; her sandals are dipped in fire and the stars are in her hair. Onward she creeps, in the beauty of her maiden nakedness, cloaked in glorious, unreal tinsel and grief. Blushing like a goddess she comes, treading the sky ! The glorious, wonderful harlot — Civilisation ! • •••••••• It \v;is a grey day when I next found myself outbound, going down Channel on a tramp steamer for the Canary Isles and Sierra Leone. I had often wished to go to n 193 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY West Africa, and so, when the opportunity came, I did not hesitate. I will not dwell at any length on the events that preceded my arrival on the West Coast, but will briefly give my im- pression of things as they appeared to me in those days. You cannot, however imaginative you may be, imagine you are elsewhere than on the Gold Coast. The atmosphere of the moist jungle, the barbarian hubbub of excited native voices, the beating of the tom-toms in the far-off villages, the toiling natives, driven by the loud-voiced white overseer of the gold mines, continually remind you that you are in the barbarian paradise of unconventionality. For miles and miles the primeval jungle stretches ; and standing on the hill-tops you can see the far-off native huts looking like groups of peg-tops against the sunset. On the higher slopes, by the gold mines, stand the bungalows of the white men. They are comfortable inside and well furnished, sheltered from the blazing sunlight by mahogany and palm trees. The white men who are employed on the mines loaf about near them and the Gold Coast natives supply their wants. For a brass ring, or a piece of sham jewellery, they can purchase native labour, and for a pound or so buy dusky female slaves, whom they call " Mammies." Virtue is not the most prominent characteristic of Gold Coast natives. As the white men sit in those bungalows by night they can hear the native drums beating far away, and watch the lizards and scorpions slipping across the moonlight of their bedroom walls, and, maybe, hear their comrade in the next bungalow raving in the delirium of fever. Malaria, black- water fever and other things often end the exile's career. At night the living can dream and think of home, and watch from their bungalow doors the little white stones and crosses glimmering in the African moonlight in the hollows where the homesick dead white men lie asleep. Though the gold mines lay all round, gold was not the essential requirement. A bottle of English beer, placed on a post by a bungalow or graveyard, would make a dead white man sit up and grasp it. Missionaries had been on the 194 Sei ii er's 1 l< >\ii.. Gold C< iast THE GOLDEN AGE Gold Coast for years trying to reform the natives, who many of them had embraced Christianity. They often asked us mysterious questions about the white man's land, as though they were puzzled and could not fathom the meaning of it all. They had a faint idea that England was a land of some beautiful Golden Age, where sin was unknown ; otherwise, why did the white men come across the seas to preach to them when the natives were so contented with their lot, and wished the missionaries to hell ? So spoke King Lobenguela. He was a powerful fellow and when he walked looked very majestic, as he trailed his heavy blanket behind him. He lived in a palatial kraal and had a multitude of slaves, who washed his feet continually. He had embraced Christianity, and went off across the jungle to the mission room three times daily, and all day on Sunday. He was a typical specimen of African aristocrat and spoke fairly good English. His one intense wish was to see English royalty, and confer some honourable degree upon them for bringing to his dominion salvation and Sacramental rum, which he drank by the barrel. The one ambition of the chiefs seemed to be to take the Sacrament. There they are out there, with all the old instincts very much the same, notwithstanding the introduction of Christianity. When the white races have educated them, and equipped them with scientific weapons of warfare, who knows ? They may assert their individuality, and strive to get their stolen countries back again. The truth is often spoken in earnest ! It is as well to remember that in those vast African territories many millions of fine native men dwell, with a muscular power and patriotism equal to that of the peoples of civilised lands. The moving finger of Destiny has always suddenly pointed to the hour of mighty events, with an ironical grin at our unprepared consternation. The West African bush-land is the wildest under the sun. Nothing but short bush jungle and vast forests meets your gaze as you wander on from sky-line to sky-line in your caravan, and, as a ship pusses islands on the trackless South Seas, often you pass a native village and hear the tom-toms beating away at their mysterious sound codes. 195 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY In those isolated villages, far beyond the outposts of civilisation, you will sometimes come across a white man who dwells alone with his memories. Sunk to a semi- barbarian state, they live with the natives, who have a deep reverence for them and their superior knowledge. They live on mealie broth and nut milk, and dress in the native style. When the white stranger from far off is seen approaching the native village he is carefully scanned through a telescope by the white exile ere the latter shows himself outside the native kraals. Men of the civilised Western cities do not dream of the sad dramas of life that are hidden away from their knowledge far beyond the outposts of advanced civilisation. London audiences cheer and weep in the theatres as the curtain drops before the footlights over the mock-hero's grief. But oh ! if they knew of the great unknown, the sorrowful dramas behind the awful curtain of reality. While I was on the coast I made the acquaintance of an elderly tourist who was gathering material for a book of experiences. He was extremely fond of music, cheerful, and a keen observer of character. When he proposed to me that I should accompany him on his travels I was very delighted and at once agreed. We went by boat round the coast — he paid all my expenses — and visited a host of villages, finally going as far as Bamban and Krue, and many places whose names I have now forgotten. I remember many incidents of those early days, especially a white- whiskered old chief whose name Avas Tamban. He was about seventy years of age, and had a wrinkled, wise- looking face and a bald pate. He loved to sit by his kraal, wrapped in his big brown blanket, and speak native wisdom. He was dead against the white men, and at heart was a genuine old heathen, and no fool either. Though he pro- fessed to have embraced Christianity, and possessed a Bible, he had sold many square miles of his dominion to white men, over and over again signing the documentary deeds, with many expressions of loyalty and blessings on the great white Queen. It was afterwards found out that he had sold the 196 A HEATHEN'S WISDOM same land to scores of different white speculators, who opened syndicates in London and sold shares to the unwary. When he was in liquor he would reveal the true thoughts that burnt silently within him and longed for utterance. ' Heathen, me ! forsooth, ah ! ah ! measly, white-faced goat!" he would shout when the missionary approached him. * Bring forth the mcalic broth and rum, that I may toast these white skunks speedily to their hell ! ' And saying that he would turn his dark, wrinkled face to the blue tropical sky and lift his war-club, and off rushed his womenkind from the kraal to do his bidding. Then he would turn to the white missionary, who stood with his broad-brimmed Panama hat tilted forward to hide the grin on his lips, and thunder forth, his big black lips fairly flopping with drunken passion : " Who is this white God that you prate about ? Liar ! Show me this one shadow that is better than my fifty gods ! Show me Him, and I will crush Him as I do this struggling flea ! " and say- ing this he pulled his dirty blanket the tighter round him and then held up to our gaze a flea between his thumb and forefinger. Then, with a sneer on his lips and much blas- phemy, he would continue : " Give up my fifty gods and trust to one indeed ! " and then down he would crash his club, as all his old wives, squatting by the kraal, quivered in their skins. " Ah ! ah ! " he said, and his bright eyes winked humorously at the harem queen, a dusky beauty as black and bare as starlit night swathed in a wisp of vapour ; ' pass me the bowl full, fdled to the rim, mind you." Then he would smack his big lips together and mutter : ' Tribes- men, the white man's rum speaks more truth than his God of lies." The foregoing gives a pretty fair example of the real character of those old native chiefs and kings, who still cling to their old beliefs and yet profess Christianity in much the same manner as they do in the islands of the South Seas. My friend and I were always on the move, sometimes riding mikI ;if other limes walking. We tramped along jungle track for many miles and often passed natives who 197 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY came by us in their primitive caravans. We would wave our hands to them and watch them go out of sight ; for the tracks wind along by deep gullies, swamps and impenetrable forest lands. We hired two hammock boys. I was pleased, for they carried my violin and my friend's camera ; also a load of photo plates and curios. South Sea Island heat is wintery compared to the dense, muggy atmosphere of the West Coast. By night a white mist creeps out of the primeval jungle glooms ; and at dawn the sunrise looks ghostly, as it gleams across the glimmering slopes and gullies, and sparkles a blaze of forked chameleon light on the jungle world. Far away the natives are beating the tom-toms in the hidden villages as you walk along like a man asleep and scratch yourself; for each night was a nightmare of restlessness : though we wrapped our feet up and sealed all the holes in our mosquito nets, we did so in vain. The mosquitoes got at us somehow, and their bodies were bloated with our blood long before dawn. Ants, too, abound, and they are as big as half-a- walnut shell, and go moving along in vast battalions, attack- ing friend and foe alike. There are centipedes also, and when one rises from one's extemporised bed they rush off on a thousand legs to hide from the sudden blaze of light. Thick grass ten feet high, and fern-trees a foot higher, grow on the jungle slopes, and at dusk they are afire with crimson and yellowish blooms, tropical orchids and flowers one has never seen before. One evening at dusk we arrived at a village called, I think, Kafolo. King Buloa ruled the dominion, and the priests consulted Ju-Jus. The Ju-Ju is a hideous idol, carved to satisfy the heathenish ideas of the African natives, who still worship wood and stone, as the Islanders did in the South Seas years ago. Polynesian Islanders are educated gentle- men compared with the usual run of West Coast and Nigerian natives. As we crossed the river by a bridge of logs that divided the village from the jungle, we sighted a tiny city of huts. We waved our hands and approached slowly, with a little 198 A KING AT HOME apprehension. The King (or high chief), dressed in an old pink striped shirt, came out of his kraal and welcomed us. His face looked like a black, gnarled tree trunk carved into human shape, till his thick-lipped mouth opened with a smile, revealing three or four remaining teeth. He held over his frizzly head a large white umbrella, a present from some trader, which intensified his dusky shade. Out of the huts under the jungle palms came the ebony-coloured population — good-humoured-looking men, women, girls and piccaninnies. The King invited us into his palace. The skulls of fallen foes ornamented the door. We stepped inside the royal kraal and were somewhat surprised by the comfortable surroundings. Native tapestry, made of fibre and woven grass of various hues, covered the walls, and the floor of the first apartment was hidden by thick matting, on which squatted several ebony-coloured females, who belonged to the royal harem. As we entered they started jabbering and rolling their dark eyes. Chairs and tables covered with matting made up quite a decent amount of furniture, evidently purchased from traders. A Ju-Ju, surrounded by empty gin bottles, stood in the doorway of the next room. It had fierce-looking glass eyes and a face that looked half human and half crocodile. We expressed delight at all we saw, for we were alone there and felt that by being friendly with the chief we were keeping on the safe side. Then the old high chief stood erect and had his photograph taken ; he was as pleased as a child with our attentions. I played the violin to him, and he was greatly delighted as I scraped away ; his eyes glittered with pleasure and curiosity. I made him hold the violin, and he made several scrapes ; his fat lips widened with fright until they reached his ears when the strings wailed. That night, as sunset smudged with a yellowish gleam the misty, heat-laden horizon, and a myriad creeping insects came forth to hum and buzz, Mr T and I graciously accepted King Buloa's invitation to attend a village ceremony. He made signs to us and said, " Much good you like see," wrapped a large brown blanket, red striped, about him, the very sight of which made us perspire, for the heat was terrific, and majestically slinging one end 190 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY over his shoulder walked in front of us, to lead the way to the jungle ballroom. I saw a sight that night which outdid, in grotesqueness and lewdness, anything which I had seen in the South Seas. The royal opera box was a square-rigged set of bamboo poles lashed together with strong native fibre. Mats slung over the cross-bars made comfortable seats, elevated about six feet, whereon Mr T and I sat, and the chief with crossed legs in the middle. Four native girls had just reached maidenhood and had been sold to four respective husbands for so many bullocks. It was the custom to confer on such maidens an honour which, to Western civilisation, was one of great degradation and shame. Afterwards the girls were brought forth to stand in the middle of the cleared jungle, so that the whole tribe could gaze upon them as the festival dancers whirled round them. There they stood before us, revealing a similar timidness to that seen in a young bride at an English wedding. The King started the applause by striking a huge bamboo rod on the side of the primitive opera box as he drank large bowls of palm wine. He was soon drunk, reeled and shouted : " Fu Fu, Ki Ki ! " The glimpsing moonlight streamed through the palms on to the maidens' faces and on to the dark hordes of shrieking natives who whirled around them. Those erstwhile maids stood embracing each other, then unclasped, chanted and clapped their hands in rhythmic motion, and then, to the delight of the assembly, imitated every gross gesture. My friend kept close to me and I to him as the besotted King slipped off his seat and fell on to the next rung, still shouting : " Ki Ki ! " One of the maidens was really hand- some for a negress ; she had fine eyes, full lips and a well- rounded figure of light mahogany colour ; the curves of her body resembled a Grecian bronze. She stood for a moment perfectly still in the moonlight, with one knee timidly cross- ing the other, ere she turned to show her comeliness to the admiring audience ! As they sang the native orchestra crashed away on tom-toms and wooden drums. Some plucked strings that were stretched across gourds ; others 200 AN AFRICAN FESTIVAL blew, with their big black lips, at bamboo flutes. They played out of tune, but the tempo of the primitive strains suited the dance exactly. " Mvu ! Mvu ! ' : shouted the King, and then he made signs that I should play. Without a moment's hesitation I held the violin to my chin and played like a happy barbarian, though my heart thumped with apprehension. Again they danced as I played on, and through my brain flashed reminiscences of my tribal solos in Samoa and else- where. Suddenly the circling ring opened and from a hut close by came the dancers for the second act. By the throne they ran, dressed in grotesque festival costume, painted in hideous lines of white from head to foot. They looked like hordes of skeletons from the tribal cemetery jumping round living maidens. So rhythmically did they whirl, and so fan- tastic was the sight, that they seemed monstrous puppets strung on wires pulled by some mysterious hand in the dark jungle ; for often they would stop perfectly still, and then in the moonlight once more whirl away. How the audience of men, women and children stared and clapped as they squatted on their haunches on mats ; and they encored just as they do in the music halls of London town when the ladies in tights whirl and jump before fascinated audiences. There I sat with T , gasping with curiosity as the King thumped, and playing on, far happier than when, dressed in an evening suit and tight, high collar, I fiddled in city orchestras, playing every night the accompaniments of the poor hits of the day to affected stage voices. Notwithstanding the apparent lewdness, their innocence almost sanctified the smiling scene of dark faces, and I realised that it was but a custom truthfully expressing primeval man's original idea of the beautiful. So we were not shocked, though we drank deep from the whisky flask to steady our nerves ere the head chief sucked at it. The tribe encored me, and I played again. To my surprise they got hold of the wild chorus of the Scotch reels and whirled around, shrieking it ! They had musical voices and, I believe, good cars. The melodies they sang resembled wild laughter in song ; the tom-toms banged and the flutes 201 A VAGABOND'S ODYSSEY screamed between. This is the mirth music as I memorised it: AFRICAN CAPRICE. Laughter. A. S. M. g^ j£fe:ai s /" Vivace. fe=s iS3 .# Tom Toms. m Ip F^XJiJ fcfrfcM3E* T 53 , i . ^e- h « • -if f a if .nftMte- :£z|zzh: Tom Toms. t^j-p^fr* l gg— ^— | etc. Reproduced by kind permission of Messrs. P. Pitman Hart