The Ebbing Of The Tide

The name of the island was—well, say Nukupapau.

The Indiana sailed from Auckland in December, and made a smart run till the blue peaks of Tutuila were sighted, when the trades foiled and heavy weather came on from the westward. Up to this time Denison’s duties as supercargo had kept him busy in the trade-room, and he had had no time to study his new captain, for, although they met at table three times a day, beyond a few civilities they had done no talking. Captain Chaplin was young—about thirty—and one of the most taciturn persons Denison had ever met. The mate, who, having served the owners for about twenty years, felt himself privileged, one night at supper asked him point-blank, in his Irish fashion apropos of nothing: “An’ phwat part av the wurruld may yez come from, captain?”

There were but the five of them present—the skipper, two mates, boatswain, and Denison. Laying down his knife and fork and stirring his tea, he fixed his eyes coldly on the inquisitive sub’s face.

“From the same God-forsaken hole as you do, sir—Ireland. My name isn’t Chaplin, but as I’m the captain of this rotten old hooker I want you to understand that if you ask me another such d–d impertinent question you’ll find it a risky business for you—or any one else!”

The quick blood mounted up to the old mate’s forehead, and it looked like as if a fight was coming, but the captain had resumed his supper and the matter ended. But it showed us that he meant to keep to himself.

The Indiana made the low-lying atoll at last and lay-to outside. Those on board could see the trader’s house close to, but instead of being surrounded by a swarm of eager and excited natives there was not one to be seen. Nor could they even see a canoe coming off. Denison pointed this out to the captain. Although of an evidently savage and morose temperament he was always pleasant enough to Denison in his capacity of supercargo, and inquired of him if he thought the trader had been killed.

“No,” Denison said, “I don’t think the people here would ever kill Martin; but something is wrong. He has not hoisted his flag, and that is very queer. I can see no natives about his place—which also is curious; and the village just there seems to be deserted. If you will lower the boat I’ll soon see what’s wrong.”

The skipper called out to lower the whaleboat, put four Rotumah boys in her, and then offered to accompany the supercargo. As he was a new man, Denison naturally was surprised at his wanting to leave his ship at a strange place.

“Glad enough,” he said, “the landing here is beastly—lucky if we escape getting stove-in going over the reef. Martin knows the passage well and tackles it in any surf—wish he were here now!”

Captain Chaplin soon took that off his mind. Unconsciously Denison gave him the steer-oar, and in a few minutes they were flying over the reef at a half-tide, and never touched anywhere.

“Why,” said Denison, “you seem to know the place.”

“I do,” he answered, quietly, “know it well, and know Martin, too. You’ll find him drunk.”

They walked up the white path of broken coral and stood in the doorway of the big front room. At the far end, on a native sofa, lay Martin; by his side sat a young native girl fanning him. No one else.

The gaunt black-whiskered trader tried to rise, but with a varied string of oaths lashed together he fell back, waving his hand to Denison in recognition. The girl was not a native of the island—that could be seen at a glance. She was as handsome as a picture, and after giving the two white men a dignified greeting, in the Yap (Caroline Islands) dialect, she resumed her fanning and smoking her cigarette.

“Martin,” said the supercargo, “shake yourself together. What is the matter? Are you sick, or is it only the usual drunk?”

“Both,” came in tones that sounded as if his inside were lined with cotton wool; “got a knife in my ribs six months back; never got well; and I’ve been drinking all the time “—and then, with a silly smile of childish vanity, “all over her. She’s my new girl—wot d’ye think of her? Ain’t she a star?”

All this time Chaplin stood back until Denison called him up and said to the trader, “Our new captain, Martin!”

“By God,” said the trader, slowly, “if he ain’t the image of that – nigger-catching skipper that was here from Honolulu four years ago.”

“That’s me!” said Chaplin, coolly puffing away at his cigar, and taking a seat near the sofa, with one swift glance of admiration at the face of the girl.

In a few minutes Martin told his troubles. Some seven months previously a ship had called at the island. He boarded her. She was a whaler making south to the Kermadecs “sperming.” The captain told Martin he had come through the Pelews and picked up a big canoe with a chiefs retinue on board, nearly dead from starvation. Many of them did die on board. Among those left were two women, the wife and daughter of the chief—who was the first to die. Making a long story short, Martin gave the captain trade and cash to the tune of five hundred dollars for the two women, and came ashore. Pensioning off his other wife, he took the young girl himself and sold the mother to the local chief for a ton of copra.

A week afterwards a young native came outside his house, cutlass in hand. He was a brother of the dismissed wife and meant fighting. Martin darted out, his new love standing calmly in the doorway, smoking. There was a shot, and the native fell with a bullet through his chest, but raising his voice he called to others and flung them his cutlass; and then Martin found himself struggling with two or three more and got a fearful stab. That night the head men of the village came to him and said that as he had always been a good man to them they would not kill him, but they then and there tabooed him till he either killed his new wife or sent her away. And when he looked out in the morning he saw the whole village going away in canoes to the other side of the lagoon. For six months neither he nor the girl—Lunumala was her name—had spoken to a native. And Martin gave himself up to love and drink, and, since the fracas had not done a cent’s worth of trading.

Denison told Martin his instructions. He only nodded, and said something to the girl, who rose and brought the supercargo his books. A few minutes’ looking through them, and then at his well-filled trade-room, showed Denison that everything was right, except that all the liquor was gone.

“Martin,” the supercargo said, “this won’t do. I’ve got another man aboard, and I’ll put him here and take you to Rotumah.”

But he swore violently. He couldn’t go anywhere else. This island was his home. The natives would give in some day. He’d rather cut his throat than leave.

“Well,” said Denison, calmly, “it’s one of two things. You know as well as I do that a tabu like this is a serious business. I know you are the best man for the place; but, if you won’t leave, why not send the girl away?”

No, he wouldn’t send her away. She should stay too.

“All serene,” said the man of business. “Then I’ll take stock at once, and we’ll square up and I’ll land the other man.”

This was a crusher for poor Martin. Denison felt sorry for him, and had a hard duty to carry through.

Presently the sick man with a ten-ton oath groaned, “– you, Mister Skipper, wot are you a-doin’ of there, squeezin’ my wife’s hand?”

“Well, now,” said the captain, quietly, “look here, Martin. Just put this in your thick head and think it out in five minutes. You’ve either got to give up this girl or get away from the island. Now, I don’t want to make any man feel mean, but she don’t particularly care about you, and–”

The graceful creature nodded her approval or Chaplin’s remarks, and Martin glared at her. Then he took a drink of gin and meditated.

Two minutes passed. Then Martin turned.

“How much?” he said.

“Fifty pounds, sonny. Two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Easy to see you’ve been in the business,” mumbled Martin; “why, her mother’s worth that. ‘Tain’t no deal.”

“Well, then, how much do you want?”

“A hundred.”

“Haven’t got it on board, sonny. Take eighty sovereigns and the rest in trade or liquor?”

“It’s a deal,” said Martin; “are you game to part ten sovereigns for the girl’s mother, and I’ll get her back from the natives!”

“No,” said Chaplin, rising \ “the girl’s enough for me.”

She had risen and was looking at Martin with a pallid face and set teeth, and then without a word of farewell on either side she picked up a Panama hat and, fan in hand, walked down to the boat and got in, waiting for Chaplin.

Presently he came down, and said, “Well, Mr. Denison, I suppose, as matters are arranged, you’ll want to land Martin some trade?”

“Oh, no,” said Denison, “he’s got plenty. This tabu on his own business will teach him a lesson. But I want to send him some provisions on shore. By the way, captain, that girl’s likely to prove expensive to you. I hope you’ll put her ashore at Rotumah till the voyage is nearly over.”

“No,” said he, “I won’t. Of course, I know our godly owners would raise a deuce of a row about my buying the girl if I couldn’t pay for her keep while she’s on board, but I’ve got a couple of hundred pounds in Auckland, as they know, besides some cash on board. After I’ve paid that thundering blackguard I’ve still some left, and I mean to put her ashore at Levuka to live until I can take her to her destination.”

“Why,” Denison queried, “what are you going to do with her?”

“Just this: there’s a friend of mine in Honolulu always willing to give a few thousand dollars for a really handsome girl. And I believe that girl will bring me nearly about three thousand dollars.”

For three months the girl remained on board, grave, dignified, and always self-possessed. Chaplin treated her kindly, and it was evident to all on board that the girl had given him such affection as she was capable of, and little knew his intentions regarding her future. With both Chaplin and Denison she would now converse freely in the Pelew Island dialect. And often pointing to the sinking sun she would sigh—“There is my land over there behind the sun. When will we get there?” Laying her hand on Chaplin’s she would seek for an answer. And he would answer—nothing.

After the Indiana had cruised through the Line Islands she headed back for Rotumah and Fiji. The girl came up on deck after supper. It was blowing freshly and the barque was slipping through the water fast. Lunumala walked to the binnacle and looked at the compass, pointing to S.S.W. She gazed steadily at it awhile and then said to the Rotumah boy in his own tongue—“Why is the ship going to the South?”

Tom, the Rotuman, grinned—“To Fiji, my white tropic bird.”

Just then Chaplin came on deck, cigar in mouth. The girl and he looked at each other. He knew by her white, set face that mischief was brewing.

Pointing, with her left hand, to the compass, she said, in a low voice—

“To Fiji?”

“Yes,” said Chaplin, coolly, “to Fiji, where you must remain awhile, Lunumala.”

“And you?”

“That is my business. Question me no more now. Go below and turn in.”

Standing there before him, she looked again in his hard, unrelenting face. Then she slowly walked forward.

“Sulky,” said Chaplin to Denison.

Steadily she walked along the deck, and then mounted to the to’gallant fo’c’s’le and stood a second or two by the cathead. Her white dress flapped and clung to her slender figure as she turned and looked aft at us, and her long, black hair streamed out like a pall of death. Suddenly she sprang over.

With a curse Chaplin rushed to the wheel, and in double-quick time the whaleboat was lowered and search was made. In half an hour Chaplin returned, and gaining the deck said, in his usual cool way, to the mate: “Hoist in the boat and fill away again as quick as possible.” Then he went below.

A few minutes afterwards he was at his accustomed amusement, making tortoise-shell ornaments with a fret-saw.

“A sad end to the poor girl’s life,” said the supercargo.

“Yes,” said the methodical ex-Honolulu black-birder, “and a sad end to my lovely five hundred dollars.”

HICKSON: A HALF-CASTE

“Mauki” Hickson and I were coming across from the big native town at Mulinu’u Point to Apia one afternoon when we met a dainty little white woman, garmented in spotless white. Hickson, touching his hat, walked on across the narrow bridge that crosses the creek by the French Mission, and waited for me on the other side.

This tiny lady in white was a lovable little creature. There was not a man in Samoa but felt proud and pleased if she stopped and spoke to him. And she could go anywhere on the beach, from respectable Matautu right down to riotous, dissolute Matafele, and make her purchases at the big store of Der Deutsche Handels Plantagen und Sud See Inseln Gesellschaft without even a drunken native daring to look at her. That was because every one, dissolute native and licentious white, knew she was a good woman. Perhaps, had she been married, and had she had a yellow, tallowy skin and the generally acidulated appearance peculiar to white women long resident in the South Seas, we wouldn’t have thought so much of her, and felt mean and contemptible when she taxed us in her open, innocent fashion with doing those things that we ought not have done. But she had a sweet, merry little face, set about with dimples, and soft cheeks hued like the first flush of a ripening peach; and when she spoke to us she brought back memories of other faces like hers—far-away faces that most of us would have liked to have seen again.

Just by the low stone wall, that in those days came close down to the creek, the little lady stood under the shade of some cocoanuts, and spoke to me.

“Who is that horrible, sulky-looking half-caste?” she said, jerking her sunshade towards my late companion.

“That is Hickson, Miss Milly,” I said—a very decent, steady fellow, with a white man’s heart.

“Decent! steady! and with a white man’s heart!” and Miss Milly’s pink-and-white cheeks reddened angrily. “How I hate that expression! No wonder all sorts of horrible things happen in these dreadful islands when white men will walk down the road with a cruel, remorseless wretch like Hickson—the man that murdered his sister.”

“You should not say that, Miss Milly,” I said. “Of course that is the common report, spread about by the captain of the German brig–. But that is because Hickson nearly killed him for calling him a nigger. And you must remember, Miss Milly, that I was there at the time. Hickson was our second mate. His sister was killed, but it is a cruel thing to accuse him of murdering her; he was very fond of her.”

“Oh dear! I am so glad to hear some one say it isn’t true,” and the bright eyes filled. “They say, too, she was such a pretty little thing. How ever did she get to such a terrible place as Ponape? Come up and see uncle and me before you go away again. Good-bye now, I’m going to buy a water-bag at Goddeffroy’s.”

I think that Hickson must have guessed that he had formed the subject of the conversation between the little lady and myself, for after we had walked on a bit he said, suddenly—

“I think I’ll go aboard the Menchikoff and ship; she wants some hands, and I would like to clear out of this. Except two or three that have known me for a long time, like yourself, every one looks crooked at me.”

“I think you are right, Hickson, in going away. Samoa is a bad place for an idle man. But won’t you come another trip with us The old man3 thinks a lot of you, and there’s always a second mate’s berth for you with him.”

Hickson’s eyes flashed fire. “No! I’d as lief go to hell as ship again with a man that once put me in irons, and disgraced me before a lot of Kanakas. I’ve got White Blood enough in me to make me remember that. Good-bye,” and he shook hands with me; “I’ll wait here till the Menchikoff’s boat comes ashore and go off and see Bannister.”

Poor Hickson. He was proud of his White Blood, and the incident he alluded to was a bitter memory to him. Could he ever forget it? I never could, and thought of it as I was being pulled off on board.

It was at Jakoits Harbour—in Ponape—that it happened. Hickson and I were going ashore in the long boat to buy a load of yams for our native crew, when he began to tell me something of his former life.

His had been a strange and chequered career, and in his wanderings as a trader and as a boatsteerer in a Hobart Town whaler, he had traversed every league of the wide Pacific. With his father and two sisters he had, till a few years or so before he joined us, been trading at Yap, in the Western Carolines. Here the wandering old white man had died. Of his two sisters, one, the eldest, had perished with her sailor husband by the capsizing of a schooner which he commanded. The youngest, then about nine years old, was taken care of by the captain of a whaler that touched at Yap, until he placed her in charge of the then newly-founded American Mission at Ponape, and in the same ship, Hickson went on his wanderings again, joining us at Tahiti. And I could see as he talked to me that he had a deep affection for her.

“What part of Ponape is she living on?” I asked.

“I don’t know, I’m sure. Here, I suppose; and if you don’t mind, while you’re weighing the yams, I’ll go up to the mission-house and inquire.”

“Right you are, Hickson,” I said, “but don’t forget to get back early, it’s a beastly risky pull out to the ship in the dark.”

We went into a little bay, and found the natives waiting for us with the yams, and Hickson, after inquiring the way to the Mission, left me.

Ponape in those days was a rough place. It was the rendezvous of the American whaling fleet, that came there for wood and water and “other supplies,” before they sailed northward along the grim coasts of Japan and Tchantar Bay to the whale grounds of the Arctic Seas.

And sometimes there would be trouble over the “other supplies” among the savagely licentious crews of mixed men of all nations, and knives would flash, and the white sand of the beaches be stuck together in places with patches and clots of dull red. It was the whalers’ paradise—a paradise of the loveliest tropical beauty, of palm-shaded beach and verdure-clad mountain imaginable; a paradise of wonderfully beautiful and utterly, hopelessly immoral native women; and, lastly, a paradise of cheap native grog, as potent and fiery as if Hell had been boiled down and concentrated into a small half-pint.

It was dark, and the yams had all been brought and stored in the boat before Hickson returned. By the flickering light of a native fire in a house close by I could see that something was the matter with him. His face was drawn, and his black eyes gleamed out like dully burning coals from the thick wavy hair that fell about his temples.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, and the moment he had spoken I knew by the dangerous huskiness of his voice that he had been drinking the native grog.

Staggering into the boat, he sat down beside me and took the tiller.

“Give way, fanau seoli (children o hell),” he growled to our crew of Samoans and Rotumah boys, “let us get these yams aboard, and then I’m coming back to burn the – mission-house down.”

Slowly the heavily-laden boat got way on her, and we slid away from the light of the native fire out into the inky blackness of night. Beyond a muttered curse at the crew, and keeping up that horrible grinding of the teeth common enough to men of violent passions when under great excitement, Hickson said nothing further till I asked—

“Hickson, what’s the matter? Couldn’t you find your sister?”

He sat up straight, and gripping my knee in his left hand till I winced, said, with an awful preliminary burst of blasphemy—

“By God, sir, she’s gone to hell; I’ll never see poor little Kâtia again. I’m not drunk, don’t you think it. I did have a stiff pull of grog up in the village there, but I’m not drunk; but there’s something running round and round in my head that’s drivin’ me mad.”

“Where is she?” I asked.

“God knows. I went to the mission-house and asked for the white missionary. The – dog wasn’t there. He and his wife are away in Honolulu, on a dollar-cadging trip. There was about three or four of them cursed native teachers in the house, and all I could get out of them was that Kâtia wasn’t there now; went away a year ago. ‘Where to?’ I said to one fat pig, with a white shirt and no pants on him. ‘Don’t know,’ says he, in the Ponape lingo; ‘she’s a bad girl now, and has left us holy ones of God and gone to the whaleships.’”

Coming from any other man but Hickson I could have laughed at this, so truly characteristic of the repellent, canting native missionary of Micronesia, but the quick, gasping breath of Hickson and his trembling hand showed me how he suffered.

“I grabbed him and choked him till he was near dead, and chucked him in a heap outside. Then I went all round to the other houses, but every one ran away from me. I got a swig of grog from a native house and came right back.” Then he was silent, and fixed his eyes on the ship’s lights seaward.

I could not offer him any sympathy, so said nothing. Lighting our pipes we gazed out ahead. Far away, nearest the reef, lay our brig, her riding light just discernible. A mile or two further away were three or four American whalers, whose black hulls we could just make out through the darkness. Within five hundred yards of us lay a dismantled and condemned brig, the Kamehameha IV. from whose stern ports came a flood of light and the sounds of women’s voices.

We were just about abeam of her when Hickson suddenly exclaimed—

“Why, sir, the boat is sinking. Pull hard, boys, pull for the brig. The water’s coming in wholesale over the gunwale. Hadn’t you fellows enough sense to leave a place to bale from?” and he slewed the boat’s head for the brig.

She had two boats astern. We were just in time to get alongside one and pitch about two tons of yams into her, or we would have sunk.

The noise we made was heard on the brig, and a head was put out of one of the ports, and a voice hailed us. This was the brig’s owner and captain, W–.

“Come on board and have a cigar!” he called out.

Leaving the crew to bale out and re-ship the yams, we clambered on deck.

Now, this brig and her captain had a curious history. She was, two years before, as well-found a whaleship as ever sailed the Pacific, but by some extraordinary ill-luck she had never taken a fish during a cruise of seven months, although in the company of others that were doing well. The master, one of those fanatically religious New Englanders that by some strange irony of fate may be often met with commanding vilely licentious crews of whaleships, was a skilled and hitherto lucky man. On reaching Ponape the whole of his officers and crew deserted en masse and went off in other ships. Utterly helpless, W– was left by himself. There were, of course, plenty of men to be had in Ponape, but the ship’s reputation for bad luck damned his hopes of getting a fresh crew.

Whether the man’s brain was affected by his troubles I know not, but after living like a hermit for a year, alone on the brig, a sudden change took place in his character and conduct. Sculling ashore in one of his boats—she was a four-boat ship—he had an interview with Nanakin, the chief of the Jakoit’s district, and returned on board with five or six young girls, to whom he gave permanent quarters on board, selling from time to time his sails, whaling gear, and trade to keep his harem in luxury. At the end of a year the brig was pretty well stripped of all of any value; and W– went utterly, hopelessly mad.

The brig’s cabin was large and roomy. The table that had once nearly filled it had been taken away, and the floor covered with those peculiarly made Ponape mats which, by rolling up one-half of either end, forms a combined couch and pillow. As Hickson and I, following the crazy little captain, made our appearance, some four young girls, who were lolling about on the mats, started up, and looked at us with big, wondering eyes, ablaze with curiosity.

Both Hickson and myself—and he had roved throughout Polynesia from his boyhood—were struck by the extraordinary beauty of these four young creatures; so young and innocent in looks; in sin, as old as Ninon d’Enclos.