THE MAROON


Of the beauties of Anaho books might be written.  I remember waking about three‚ to find the air temperate and scented.  The long swell brimmed into the bay‚ and seemed to fill it full and then subside.  Gently‚ deeply‚ and silently the Casco rolled; only at times a block piped like a bird.  Oceanward‚ the heaven was bright with stars and the sea with their reflections.  If I looked to that side‚ I might have sung with the Hawaiian poet: 

Ua maomao ka lani, ua kahaea luna, Ua pipi ka maka o ka hoku.  (The heavens were fair, they stretched above, Many were the eyes of the stars.)

And then I turned shoreward, and high squalls were overhead; the mountains loomed up black; and I could have fancied I had slipped ten thousand miles away and was anchored in a Highland loch; that when the day came, it would show pine, and heather, and green fern, and roofs of turf sending up the smoke of peats; and the alien speech that should next greet my ears must be Gaelic, not Kanaka.

And day, when it came, brought other sights and thoughts.  I have watched the morning break in many quarters of the world ­it has been certainly one of the chief joys of my existence; and the dawn that I saw with most emotion shone upon the bay of Anaho.  The mountains abruptly overhang the port with every variety of surface and of inclination, lawn, and cliff, and forest.  Not one of these but wore its proper tint of saffron, of sulphur, of the clove, and of the rose.  The lustre was like that of satin; on the lighter hues there seemed to float an efflorescence; a solemn bloom appeared on the more dark.  The light itself was the ordinary light of morning, colourless and clean; and on this ground of jewels, pencilled out the least detail of drawing.  Meanwhile, around the hamlet, under the palms, where the blue shadow lingered, the red coals of cocoa husk and the light trails of smoke betrayed the awakening business of the day; along the beach men and women, lads and lasses, were returning from the bath in bright raiment, red and blue and green, such as we delighted to see in the coloured little pictures of our childhood; and presently the sun had cleared the eastern hill, and the glow of the day was over all.

The glow continued and increased, the business, from the main part, ceased before it had begun.  Twice in the day there was a certain stir of shepherding along the seaward hills.  At times a canoe went out to fish.  At times a woman or two languidly filled a basket in the cotton patch.  At times a pipe would sound out of the shadow of a house, ringing the changes on its three notes, with an effect like Que lé jour me dure repeated endlessly.  Or at times, across a corner of the bay, two natives might communicate in the Marquesan manner with conventional whistlings.  All else was sleep and silence.  The surf broke and shone around the shores; a species of black crane fished in the broken water; the black pigs were continually galloping by on some affair; but the people might never have awaked, or they might all be dead.

My favourite haunt was opposite the hamlet, where was a landing in a cove under a lianaed cliff.  The beach was lined with palms and a tree called the purao, something between the fig and mulberry in growth, and bearing a flower like a great yellow poppy with a maroon heart.  In places rocks encroached upon the sand; the beach would be all submerged; and the surf would bubble warmly as high as to my knees, and play with cocoa-nut husks as our more homely ocean plays with wreck and wrack and bottles.  As the reflux drew down, marvels of colour and design streamed between my feet; which I would grasp at, miss, or seize:  now to find them what they promised, shells to grace a cabinet or be set in gold upon a lady’s finger; now to catch only maya of coloured sand, pounded fragments and pebbles, that, as soon as they were dry, became as dull and homely as the flints upon a garden path.  I have toiled at this childish pleasure for hours in the strong sun, conscious of my incurable ignorance; but too keenly pleased to be ashamed.  Meanwhile, the blackbird (or his tropical understudy) would be fluting in the thickets overhead.

A little further, in the turn of the bay, a streamlet trickled in the bottom of a den, thence spilling down a stair of rock into the sea.  The draught of air drew down under the foliage in the very bottom of the den, which was a perfect arbour for coolness.  In front it stood open on the blue bay and the Casco lying there under her awning and her cheerful colours.  Overhead was a thatch of puraos, and over these again palms brandished their bright fans, as I have seen a conjurer make himself a halo out of naked swords.  For in this spot, over a neck of low land at the foot of the mountains, the trade-wind streams into Anaho Bay in a flood of almost constant volume and velocity, and of a heavenly coolness.

It chanced one day that I was ashore in the cove with Mrs. Stevenson and the ship’s cook.  Except for the Casco lying outside, and a crane or two, and the ever-busy wind and sea, the face of the world was of a prehistoric emptiness; life appeared to stand stock-still, and the sense of isolation was profound and refreshing.  On a sudden, the trade wind, coming in a gust over the isthmus, struck and scattered the fans of the palms above the den; and, behold! in two of the tops there sat a native, motionless as an idol and watching us, you would have said, without a wink.  The next moment the tree closed, and the glimpse was gone.  This discovery of human presences latent overhead in a place where we had supposed ourselves alone, the immobility of our tree-top spies, and the thought that perhaps at all hours we were similarly supervised, struck us with a chill.  Talk languished on the beach.  As for the cook (whose conscience was not clear), he never afterwards set foot on shore, and twice, when the Casco appeared to be driving on the rocks, it was amusing to observe that man’s alacrity; death, he was persuaded, awaiting him upon the beach.  It was more than a year later, in the Gilberts, that the explanation dawned upon myself.  The natives were drawing palm-tree wine, a thing forbidden by law; and when the wind thus suddenly revealed them, they were doubtless more troubled than ourselves.

At the top of the den there dwelt an old, melancholy, grizzled man of the name of Tari (Charlie) Coffin.  He was a native of Oahu, in the Sandwich Islands; and had gone to sea in his youth in the American whalers; a circumstance to which he owed his name, his English, his down-east twang, and the misfortune of his innocent life.  For one captain, sailing out of New Bedford, carried him to Nuka-hiva and marooned him there among the cannibals.  The motive for this act was inconceivably small; poor Tari’s wages, which were thus economised, would scarce have shook the credit of the New Bedford owners.  And the act itself was simply murder.  Tari’s life must have hung in the beginning by a hair.  In the grief and terror of that time, it is not unlikely he went mad, an infirmity to which he was still liable; or perhaps a child may have taken a fancy to him and ordained him to be spared.  He escaped at least alive, married in the island, and when I knew him was a widower with a married son and a granddaughter.  But the thought of Oahu haunted him; its praise was for ever on his lips; he beheld it, looking back, as a place of ceaseless feasting, song, and dance; and in his dreams I dare say he revisits it with joy.  I wonder what he would think if he could be carried there indeed, and see the modern town of Honolulu brisk with traffic, and the palace with its guards, and the great hotel, and Mr. Berger’s band with their uniforms and outlandish instruments; or what he would think to see the brown faces grown so few and the white so many; and his father’s land sold for planting sugar, and his father’s house quite perished, or perhaps the last of them struck leprous and immured between the surf and the cliffs on Molokai?  So simply, even in South Sea Islands, and so sadly, the changes come.

Tari was poor, and poorly lodged.  His house was a wooden frame, run up by Europeans; it was indeed his official residence, for Tari was the shepherd of the promontory sheep.  I can give a perfect inventory of its contents:  three kegs, a tin biscuit-box, an iron sauce-pan, several cocoa-shell cups, a lantern, and three bottles, probably containing oil; while the clothes of the family and a few mats were thrown across the open rafters.  Upon my first meeting with this exile he had conceived for me one of the baseless island friendships, had given me nuts to drink, and carried me up the den “to see my house” ­the only entertainment that he had to offer.  He liked the “Amelican,” he said, and the “Inglisman,” but the “Flessman” was his abhorrence; and he was careful to explain that if he had thought us “Fless,” we should have had none of his nuts, and never a sight of his house.  His distaste for the French I can partly understand, but not at all his toleration of the Anglo-Saxon.  The next day he brought me a pig, and some days later one of our party going ashore found him in act to bring a second.  We were still strange to the islands; we were pained by the poor man’s generosity, which he could ill afford, and, by a natural enough but quite unpardonable blunder, we refused the pig.  Had Tari been a Marquesan we should have seen him no more; being what he was, the most mild, long-suffering, melancholy man, he took a revenge a hundred times more painful.  Scarce had the canoe with the nine villagers put off from their farewell before the Casco was boarded from the other side.  It was Tari; coming thus late because he had no canoe of his own, and had found it hard to borrow one; coming thus solitary (as indeed we always saw him), because he was a stranger in the land, and the dreariest of company.  The rest of my family basely fled from the encounter.  I must receive our injured friend alone; and the interview must have lasted hard upon an hour, for he was loath to tear himself away.  “You go ’way.  I see you no more ­no, sir!” he lamented; and then, looking about him with rueful admiration, “This goodee ship ­no, sir! ­goodee ship!” he would exclaim; the “no, sir,” thrown out sharply through the nose upon a rising inflection, an echo from New Bedford and the fallacious whaler.  From these expressions of grief and praise, he would return continually to the case of the rejected pig.  “I like give plesent all ’e same you,” he complained; “only got pig:  you no take him!” He was a poor man; he had no choice of gifts; he had only a pig, he repeated; and I had refused it.  I have rarely been more wretched than to see him sitting there, so old, so grey, so poor, so hardly fortuned, of so rueful a countenance, and to appreciate, with growing keenness, the affront which I had so innocently dealt him; but it was one of those cases in which speech is vain.

Tari’s son was smiling and inert; his daughter-in-law, a girl of sixteen, pretty, gentle, and grave, more intelligent than most Anaho-women, and with a fair share of French; his grandchild, a mite of a creature at the breast.  I went up the den one day when Tari was from home, and found the son making a cotton sack, and madame suckling mademoiselle.  When I had sat down with them on the floor, the girl began to question me about England; which I tried to describe, piling the pan and the cocoa shells one upon another to represent the houses and explaining, as best I was able, and by word and gesture, the over-population, the hunger, and the perpetual toil. “Pas de cocotiers? pas de popoi?” she asked.  I told her it was too cold, and went through an elaborate performance, shutting out draughts, and crouching over an imaginary fire, to make sure she understood.  But she understood right well; remarked it must be bad for the health, and sat a while gravely reflecting on that picture of unwonted sorrows.  I am sure it roused her pity, for it struck in her another thought always uppermost in the Marquesan bosom; and she began with a smiling sadness, and looking on me out of melancholy eyes, to lament the decease of her own people. “Ici pas de Kanaques,” said she; and taking the baby from her breast, she held it out to me with both her hands. “Tenez ­a little baby like this; then dead.  All the Kanaques die.  Then no more.”  The smile, and this instancing by the girl-mother of her own tiny flesh and blood affected me strangely; they spoke of so tranquil a despair.  Meanwhile the husband smilingly made his sack; and the unconscious babe struggled to reach a pot of raspberry jam, friendship’s offering, which I had just brought up the den; and in a perspective of centuries I saw their case as ours, death coming in like a tide, and the day already numbered when there should be no more Beretani, and no more of any race whatever, and (what oddly touched me) no more literary works and no more readers.