THE pirate captain was gone when the schooner2 reappeared off Niué, and a certain ancient mariner3 had taken his place. Things were not quite so exciting on the Duchess under the new régime, but the order which reigned4 on board was something awful; for the ancient mariner had been a whaling captain in his day, and on whaling ships it is more than on any others a case of “Growl you may, but go you must,” for all the crew. The ancient mariner was as salty a salt as ever sailed the ocean. He had never been on anything with steam in it, he was as tough as ship-yard teak, and as strong as a bear, though he was a grandfather of some years’ standing5, and he was full of strange wild stories about the whaling grounds, and odd happenings in out-of-the-way comers of the Pacific—most of which he seemed to consider the merest commonplaces of a prosaic6 existence.
We suffered many things from the cook, in the course of that long burning voyage towards the Line. The Duchess’s stores were none of the best, and the cook dealt with them after a fashion that made me understand once for all the sailor saying: “God sends meat, and the devil sends cooks.” Pea-soup, salt pork and beef, plum duff, ship’s biscuit, sea-pie—this was the sort of food that, in the days before I set foot on the Duchess, I had supposed to form the usual table of sailing vessels8. I fear it was a case of sea-story-books, over again. What we did get was “tinned rag” of a peculiarly damp and viscous10 quality, tea that usually tasted of cockroaches11, biscuit that was so full of copra bugs12 we had to hammer it on the table before eating it, an occasional tin of tasteless fruit (it ran out very soon), and bread that was a nightmare, for the flour went musty before we were out a week, and the unspeakable cook tried to disguise its taste with sugar. Board-of-trade limejuice, which is a nauseous dose at best, we were obliged, by law to carry, and I think we must have run rather near scurvy13 in the course of that long trip, for the amount of the oily, drug-flavoured liquid that the mates and myself used to drink at times, seemed to argue a special craving14 of nature. But à la guerre comme à la guerre—and one does not take ship on a Pacific windjammer expecting the luxuries of a P. and O.
We were not going direct to Malden, having to call first at Samoa and Mangaia. Three days of rough rolling weather saw us in Apia, about which I have nothing to say at present, since I paid a longer visit to Stevenson’s country later on. We had about forty native passengers to take on here for the Cook Islands and Malden. There was nowhere to put them, but in the South Seas such small inconveniences trouble nobody.
I am very strongly tempted15 here to tell about the big-gale16 that caught us the first night out, carried away our lifeboat, topsail, topgallant, and main gaff, swamped the unlucky passengers’ cabin, and caused the Cingalese steward17 to compose and chant all night long a litany containing three mournful versicles: “O my God, this is too much terrible! O my#God, why I ever go to sea! O my God, I never go to sea again!” But in the Pacific one soon learns that sea etiquette18 makes light of such matters. So the wonderful and terrible sights which I saw once or twice that night, clinging precariously19 to anything solid near the door of my cabin, and hoping that the captain would not catch me out on deck, must remain undescribed.
Nearly seven weeks were occupied by this northern trip—time for a mail steamer to go out from London to New Zealand, and get well started on the way home again. We were, of course, entirely20 isolated21 from news and letters; indeed, the mails and papers that we carried conveyed the very latest intelligence to islands that had not had a word from the outer world for many months. Our native passengers, who were mostly going up to Malden Island guano works as paid labourers, evidently considered the trip one wild scene of excitement and luxury. The South Sea Islander loves nothing more than change, and every new island we touched at was a Paris or an Ostend to these (mostly) untravelled natives. Their accommodation on the ship was not unlike that complained of by the waiter in “David Copperfield.” They “lived on broken wittles and they slept on the coals.” The Duchess carried benzoline tins for the feeding of the futile22 little motor that worked her in and out of port, and the native sleeping place was merely the hold, on top of the tins.
“Do you mind the dynamite remaining under your bunk23?” asked the ancient mariner, shortly after we left Samoa.
“Under my bunk?”
“Yes—didn’t you know it was there? The explosives safe is let into the deck just beneath the deck cabin. I’ll move it if you’re nervous about it—I thought I’d tell you, anyways. But it’s the best place for it to be, you see, right amidships.” And the ancient mariner, leaning his six foot two across the rail, turned his quid, and spat24 into the deep.
“What do we want with dynamite, anyhow?” asked the bewildered passenger, confronted with this new and startling streak25 of local colour.
“We don’t want none. The Cook Islands wants it for reefs.”
“Oh, leave it where it is—I suppose it’s all the same in the end where it starts from, if it did blow up,” says the passenger resignedly. “What about the benzoline in the hold, though?”
“Every one’s got to take chances at sea,” says the captain, easily. “The mates have orders to keep the natives from smokin’ in the hold at night.”
And at midnight, when I slip out of my bunk to look on and see what the weather is like (it has been threatening all day), a faint but unmistakable odour of island tobacco greets my nose, from the opening of the main hatch! Benzoline, dynamite, natives smoking in the hold, one big boat smashed, one small one left, forty native passengers, five whites, and three hundred miles to the nearest land!
Well, à la guerre comme à la guerre, and one must not tell tales at sea. So I don’t tell any, though tempted. But I am very glad, a week later, to see the Cook Islands rising up out of the empty blue again. We have had head winds, we have been allowanced as to water, we are all pleased to have a chance of taking in some fruit before we start on the thousand miles’ run to Malden—and above all, we leave that dynamite here, which is a good thing; for really we have been putting rather too much strain on the good nature of the “Sweet little cherub26 that sits up aloft, to keep guard o’er the life of poor Jack,” this last week or two.
If proof were wanted that the cherub’s patience is about at an end, our arrival at Mangaia furnishes it—for we do take fire after all, just a couple of hundred yards from shore!
It does not matter now, since half the natives of the island are about the ship, and the case of explosives has just been rowed off in our only boat, and the blaze is put out without much trouble. But, two days ago!
Well, the sweet little cherub certainly deserved a rest.
Now the Duchess’s bowsprit was pointed27 northwards, and we set out on a thousand miles’ unbroken run up to Malden Island, only four degrees south of the Line. For nine days we ploughed across the same monotonous28 plain of lonely sea, growing a little duller every day, as our stores of reading matter dwindled29 away, and our fruit and vegetables ran out, and the memory of our last fresh mess became only a haunting, far-off regret. Squatting30 or lying about the white-hot poop in the merciless sun—which burnt through our duck and cotton clothing, and scorched31 the skin underneath32, but was at least a degree better than the choking Hades of a cabin below—we used to torture each other with reminiscences and speculations33, such as “They have real salt beef and sea-pie and lobscouse and pea-soup, and things like that, every day on Robinson’s schooner; no tinned rag and musty flour”; or “How many thousand miles are we now from an iced drink?” This last problem occupied the mates and myself for half a morning, and made us all a great deal hotter than we were before. Auckland was about 2,300 miles away, San Francisco about 3,000 as far as we could guess. We decided34 for Auckland, and discussed the best place to buy the drink, being somewhat limited in choice by the passenger’s selfish insistence35 on a place where she could get really good iced coffee. By the time this was settled, the captain joined in, and informed us that we could get all we wanted, and fresh limes into the bargain, only a thousand miles away, at Tahiti, which every one had somehow overlooked. Only a thousand! It seemed nothing, and we all felt (illogically) cheered up at the thought.
Late in the afternoon we came near attaining36 our wish for a temperature of thirty-two degrees in rather an unexpected way. The bottom of the Pacific generally hovers37 about this figure, some miles below the burning surface, which often reaches the temperature of an ordinary warm bath; and the Duchess had a fairly narrow escape of going down to look for a cool spot without a return ticket. A giant waterspout suddenly formed out of the low-hanging, angry sky that had replaced the clear heat of the morning. First of all, a black trunk like an elephant’s began to feel blindly about in mid-air, hanging from a cloud. It came nearer and nearer with uncanny speed, drawing up to itself as it came a colossal38 cone39 of turbulent sea, until the two joined together in one enormous black pillar, some quarter of a mile broad at the base, and probably a good thousand feet high, uniting as it did the clouds and the sea below. Across the darkening sea, against the threatening, copper-crimson sunset, came this gigantic horror, waltzing over leagues of torn-up water in a veritable dance of death, like something blind, but mad and cruel, trying to find and shatter our fragile little ship. Happily, the dark was only coming, not yet come; happily, too, the wind favoured us, and we were able to tack41 about and keep out of the way, dodging42 the strangely human rushes and advances of the water-giant with smartness and skill. At one time it came so close that the elephant trunk—now separately visible again—seemed feeling about over our heads, although the captain afterwards said it had been more than three hundred yards away—and the immense maelstrom43 underneath showed us the great wall of whirling spindrift that edged its deadly circle, as plain as the foam44 about our own bows. Every one was quiet, cool, and ready; but no one was sorry when the threatening monster finally spun45, away to leeward46 and melted into air once more. A waterspout of this enormous size, striking a small vessel7, would snap off her masts like sticks of candy, kill any one who happened to be on deck, and most probably sink the ship with the very impact of the terrible shock.
“One doesn’t hear much about ships being sunk by waterspouts,” objected the sceptical passenger to this last statement.
“Ships that’s sunk by waterspouts doesn’t come back to tell the newspapers about it,” said the captain darkly.
Life on a South Sea schooner is not all romance. For the officers of the ship it is a very hard life indeed. Native crews are the rule in the South Seas, and native crews make work for every one, including themselves. Absolutely fearless is the Kanaka, active as a monkey aloft, good-natured and jolly to the last degree, but perfectly47 unreliable in any matter requiring an ounce of thought or a pennyworth of discretion48, and, moreover, given to shirk work in a variety of ingenious ways that pass the wit of the white man to circumvent49. Constant and keen supervision50 while at sea, unremitting hurry and drive in port, are the duties of a South Sea mate, coupled with plenty of actual hard work on his own account. I have known a case where a small schooner was leaking badly, many days from port, and almost constant pumping was required. The pump broke while in use; and the watch, delighted to be released, turned in at eight bells without having done their spell, and without reporting the accident. The water gained steadily51, but that did not trouble them; and when the mate discovered the accident, and set them to mend the pump at once, they were both surprised and grieved!
“Watch and watch” is the rule on small sailing-vessels: four hours on and four hours off, day and night, except for the “dog watches,” four to six and six to eight in the evening, which create a daily shift in order that each man may be on watch at a different time on successive days. Always provided, of course, that the ship has any watches at all! I have sailed in a Pacific schooner where the crew spent most of their time playing the accordion52 and the Jew’s harp53, and slept peacefully all night. In the daytime there was generally some one at the wheel; but at night it was usually lashed54, and the ship was let run, with all sails set, taking her chances of what might come, every soul on board being asleep. One night the cook came out of his bunk to get a drink from the tank, and found the vessel taken aback. The whole spirit of South Sea life breathes from the sequel. He told nobody! The galley55 was his department, not the sails; so he simply went back to his bunk. In the morning we fetched up off the northern side of an island we had intended to ?approach from the south; having, strange to say, somehow escaped piling our bones on the encircling reef, and also avoided the misfortune of losing our masts and getting sunk.
If there is a good deal of hard work on most schooners56, and something of risk on all, there is also plenty of adventure and romance, for those who care about it. One seldom meets an island skipper whose life would not furnish materials for a dozen exciting books. Being cut off and attacked by cannibals down in the dangerous western groups; swimming for dear life away from a boat just bitten in two by an infuriated whale; driving one native king off his throne, putting another on, and acting57 as prime minister to the nation; hunting up a rumour58 of a splendid pearl among the pearling islands, and tracking down the gem59, until found and coaxed60 away from its careless owner at one-tenth Sydney market prices—these are incidents that the typical schooner captain regards as merely the ordinary kind of break to be expected in his rather monotonous life. He does not think them very interesting as a rule, and dismisses them somewhat briefly61, in a yarn62. What does excite him, cause him to raise his voice and gesticulate freely, and induce him to “yarn” relentlessly63 for half a watch, is the recital65 of some thrilling incident connected with the price of cargo66 or the claims made for damaged stuff by some abandoned villain67 of a trader. There is something worth relating in a tale like that, to his mind!
The passenger on an island schooner learns very early to cultivate a humble68 frame of mind. On a great steam liner he is all in all. It is for him almost entirely that the ships are built and run; his favour is life or death to the company. He is handled like eggs, and petted like a canary bird. Every one runs to do his bidding; he is one of a small but precious aristocracy waited on hand and foot by the humblest of serfs. On a schooner, however, he is ousted69 from his pride of place most completely by the cargo, which takes precedence of him at every point; so that he rapidly learns he is not of nearly so much value as a fat sack of copra, and he becomes lowlier in mind than he ever was before. There is no special accommodation for him, as a rule; he must go where he can, and take what he gets. If he can make himself useful about the ship, so much the better; every one will think more of him, and he will get some useful exercise by working his passage in addition to paying for it.
Here is a typical day on the Duchess.
At eight bells (8 a.m.) breakfast is served in the cabin. The passenger’s own cabin is a small deck-house placed amidships on the main deck. The deck is filled up with masses of cargo, interposing a perfect Himalayan chain of mountains between the main deck and the poop. It is pouring with tropical rain, but the big main hatch yawns half open on one side, because of the native passengers in the hold. On the other side foams70 a squally sea, unguarded by either rail or bulwark71, since the cargo is almost overflowing72 out of the ship. The Duchess is rolling like a porpoise73, and the passenger’s hands are full of mackintosh and hat-brim. It seems impossible to reach the poop alive; but the verb “have to” is in constant use on a sailing-ship, and it does not fail of its magical effect on this occasion. Clawing like a parrot, the passenger reaches the cabin, and finds the bare-armed, barefooted mates and the captain engaged on the inevitable74 “tin” and biscuits. There is no tea this morning, because the cockroaches have managed to get into and flavour the brew75; and the cabin will none of it. The captain has sent word by the native steward that he will “learn” the cook—a strange threat that usually brings about at least a temporary reform—and is now engaged in knocking the copra-bugs out of a piece of biscuit and brushing a colony of ants off his plate. Our cargo is copra, and in consequence the ship resembles an entomological museum more than anything else. No centipedes have been found this trip so far; but the mate-stabbed a big scorpion76 with a sail-needle yesterday, as it was walking across the deck; and the cockroaches—as large as mice, and much bolder—have fairly “taken charge.” The captain says he does not know whether he is sleeping in the cockroaches’ bunk, or they in his, but he rather thinks the former, since the brutes77 made a determined78 effort to throw him out on the deck last night, and nearly succeeded!
It grows very warm after breakfast, for we are far within the tropics, and the Duchess has no awnings79 to protect her deck. The rail is almost hot enough to blister80 an unwary hand, and the great sails cast little shade, as the sun climbs higher to the zenith. The pitch does not, however, bubble in the seams of the deck, after the well-known fashion of stories, because the Duchess, like most other tropical ships, has her decks caulked81 with putty. A calm has fallen—a Pacific calm, which is not as highly distinguished82 for calmness as the stay-at-home reader might suppose. There is no wind, and the island we are trying to reach remains83 tantalisingly perched on the extreme edge of the horizon, like a little blue flower on the rim40 of a crystal dish. But there is plenty of sea—long glittering hills of water, rising and falling, smooth and foamless84, under the ship, which they fling from side to side with cruel violence. The great booms swing and slam, the blocks clatter85, the masts creak. Everything loose in the cabins toboggans wildly up and down the floor. At dinner, the soup which the cook has struggled to produce, lest he should be “learned,” has to be drunk out of tin mugs for safety. Every one is sad and silent, for the sailor hates a calm even more than a gale.
Bonitos come round the ship in a glittering shoal by-and-by, and there is a rush for hooks and lines. One of our native A.B.s produces a huge pearl hook, unbaited, and begins to skim it lightly along the water at the end of its line, mimicking86 the exact motions of a flying-fish with a cleverness that no white man can approach. Hurrah87! a catch! A mass of sparkling silver, blue, and green, nearly twenty pounds weight, is swung through the air, and tumbled on deck. Another and another follows; we have over a hundred pounds weight of fish in half an hour. The crew shout and sing for delight. There are only seven of them and five of us, but there-will not be a scrap88 of that fish left by to-morrow, for all the forecastle hands will turn to and cook and eat without ceasing until it is gone; after which they will probably dance for an hour or two.
To every one’s delight, the weather begins to cloud over again after this, and we are soon spinning before a ten-knot breeze towards the island, within sight of which we have been aimlessly beating about for some days, unable to get up. Our crew begin to make preparations. Tapitua, who is a great dandy, puts two gold earrings89 in one ear, and fastens a wreath of cock’s feathers about his hat. Koddi (christened George) gets into a thick blue woollen jersey90 (very suitable for Antarctic weather), a scarlet91 and yellow pareo or kilt, and a pair of English shoes, which make him limp terribly; but they are splendid squeakers, so Koddi is happy. (The Pacific islander always picks out squeaking92 shoes if he can get them, and some manufacturers even put special squeakers into goods meant for the island trade.) Ta puts on three different singlets—a pink, a blue, and a yellow—turning up the edges carefully, so as to present a fine display of layered colours, like a Neapolitan ice; and gums the gaudy93 label off a jam tin about his bare brown arm, thus christening himself with the imposing94 title of “Our Real Raspberry.” Neo is wearing two hats and three neck-handkerchiefs; Oki has a cap with a “P. & O.” ribbon, and union Steamship95 Company’s jersey, besides a threepenny-piece in the hollow of each ear. Truly we are a gay party, by the time every one is ready to land.
And now after our thousand mile run, we have arrived at Malden.
Malden Island lies on the border of the Southern Pacific, only four degrees south of the equator. It is beyond the verge96 of the great Polynesian archipelago, and stands out by itself in a lonely stretch of still blue sea, very seldom visited by ships of any kind. Approaching it one is struck from far away by the glaring barrenness of the big island, which is thirty-three miles in circumference97, and does not possess a single height or solitary98 tree, save one small clump99 of recently planted cocoanuts. Nothing more unlike the typical South Sea island could be imagined. Instead of the violet mountain peaks, wreathed with flying vapour, the lowlands rich with pineapple, banana, orange, and mango, the picturesque100 beach bordered by groves101 of feathery cocoanuts and quaint102 heavy-fruited pandanus trees, that one finds in such groups as the Society, Navigator’s, Hawaiian, and Cook Islands, Malden consists simply of an immense white beach, a little settlement fronted by a big wooden pier103, and a desolate104 plain of low greyish-green herbage, relieved here and there by small bushes bearing insignificant105 yellow flowers. Water is provided by great condensers106. Food is all imported, save for pig and goat flesh. Shade, coolness, refreshing107 fruit, pleasant sights and sounds, there are none. For those who live on the island, it is the scene of an exile which has to be endured somehow or other, but which drags away with incredible slowness and soul-deadening monotony.
Why does any one live in such a spot? More especially, why should it be tenanted by five or six whites and a couple of hundred Kanakas, when many beautiful and fertile islands cannot show nearly so many of either race; quite a large number, indeed, being altogether uninhabited? One need never look far for an answer in such a case. If there is no comfort on Malden Island, there is something that men value more than comfort—money. For fifty-six years it has been one of the most valuable properties in the Pacific. Out of Malden Island have come horses and carriages, fine houses, and gorgeous jewellery, rich eating, delicate wines, handsome entertainments, university education and expensive finishing governesses, trips to the Continent, swift white schooners, high places in Society, and all the other desirables of wealth, for two generations of fortunate owners and their families. Half-a-million hard cash has been made out of it in the last thirty years, and it is good for another thirty. All this from a barren rock in mid-ocean! The solution of the problem will at once suggest itself to any reader who has ever sailed the Southern Seas—guano!
This is indeed the secret of Malden Island’s riches. Better by far than the discovery of a pirate’s treasure-cave, that favourite dream of romantic youth, is the discovery of a guano island. There are few genuine treasure romances in the Pacific, but many exciting tales that deal with the finding and disposing of these unromantic mines of wealth. Malden Island itself has had an interesting history enough. In 1848, Captain Chapman, an American whaling captain who still lives in Honolulu, happened to discover Malden during the course of a long cruise. He landed on the island, found nothing for himself and his crew in the way of fruit or vegetables, but discovered the guano beds, and made up his mind to sell the valuable knowledge as soon as his cruise was over. Then he put to sea again, and did not reach San Francisco for the best part of a year. Meantime, another American, Captain English, had found the island and its treasure. Wiser than Captain Chapman, he abandoned his cruise, and hurried at once to Sydney, where he sold the island for a big price to the trading firm who have owned it ever since.
This is the history of Malden Island’s discovery. Time, in the island, has slipped along since the days of the Crimea with never a change. There is a row of little tin-roofed, one-storeyed houses above the beach, tenanted by the half-dozen white men who act as managers; there are big, barn-like shelters for the native labourers. Every three years the managers end their term of service, and joyfully108 return to the Company’s great offices in Sydney, where there is life and companionship, pleasant things to see, good things to eat, newspapers every day, and no prison bar of blue relentless64 ocean cutting off all the outer world. Once or twice in the year one of the pretty white island schooners sails up to Malden, greeted with shrieks109 and war-dances of joy; discharges her freight of forty or fifty newly indentured110 labourers, and takes away as many others whose time of one year on the island has expired. On Malden itself nothing changes. Close up to the equator, and devoid111 of mountains or even heights which could attract rain, its climate is unaltered by the passing season. No fruits or flowers mark the year by their ripening112 and blossoming, no rainy season changes the face of the land. News from the outer world comes rarely; and when it does come, it is so old as to have lost its savour. Life on Malden Island for managers and labourers alike, is work, work, all day long; in the evening, the bare verandah and the copper-crimson sunset, and the empty prisoning sea. That is all.
The guano beds cover practically the whole of the island. The surface on which one walks is hard, white, and rocky. This must be broken through before the guano, which lies a foot or two underneath, is reached. The labourers break away the stony113 crust with picks, and shovel114 out the fine, dry, earth-coloured guano that lies beneath, in a stratum115 varying from one to three feet in thickness. This is piled in great heaps, and sifted116 through large wire, screens. The sifted guano—exactly resembling common sand—is now spread out in small heaps, and left to dry thoroughly117 in the fierce sun. There must not be any trace of moisture left that can possibly be dispersed118; for the price of the guano depends on its absolute purity and extreme concentration, and purchasers generally make careful chemical tests of the stuff they buy.
When dried, the guano is stored away in an immense shed near the settlement. If it has been obtained from the pits at the other side of the island, eight miles away, it will be brought down to the storehouse by means of one of the oddest little railways in the world. The Malden Island railway is worked, not by steam, electricity, or petrol, but by sail! The S.E. trade-wind blows practically all the year round on this island; so the Company keep a little fleet of land-vessels, cross-rigged, with fine large sails, to convey the guano down to the settlement. The empty carriages are pushed up to the pits by the workmen, and loaded there. At evening, the labourers climb on the top of the load, set the great sails, and fly down to the settlement as fast as an average train could go. These “land-ships” of Malden are a bit unmanageable at times, and have been known to jump the rails when travelling at high speed, thus causing unpleasant accidents. But the Kanaka labourers do not mind a trifle of that kind, and not even in a S.E. gale would they condescend119 to take a reef in the sails.
As it is necessary to push these railway ships on the outward trip, the managers generally travel on a small railway tricycle of the pattern familiar at home. This can be driven at a fair speed, by means of arm levers. Across the desolate inland plain one clatters120, the centre of a disk of shadowless grey-green, drenched121 clear of drawing and colour by the merciless flood of white fire from above. The sky is of the very thinnest pale blue; the dark, deep sea is out of sight. The world is all dead stillness and smiting122 sun, with only the thin rattle123 of our labouring car, and the vibration124 of distant dark specks125 above the rookeries, for relief.
The dark specks grow nearer and more numerous, filling the whole sky at last with the sweep of rushing wings and the screams of angry bird voices. We leave the tricycle on the rails and walk across the thin, coarse grass, tangled126 with barilla plants, and low-growing yellow-flowered shrubs127, towards the spot where the wings flutter thickest, covering many acres of the unlovely, barren land with a perfect canopy128 of feathered life. This is the bird by which the fortunes of Malden have been made—the smaller man-o’-war bird. It is about the size of a duck, though much lighter129 in build. The back is black, the breast white, the bill long and hooked. The bird has an extraordinarily130 rapid and powerful flight. It might more appropriately be called the “pirate” than the “man-o’-war” or “frigate” bird, since it uses, its superior speed to deprive other seabirds of the fish they catch, very seldom indeed exerting itself to make an honest capture on its own account. Strange to say, however, this daring buccaneer is the meekest131 and most long-suffering of birds where human beings are concerned. It will allow you to walk all through its rookeries, and even to handle the young birds and eggs, without making any remonstrance132 other than a petulant133 squeal134. The parents fly about the visitors’ heads in a perfect cloud, sweeping135 their wings within an inch of our faces, screaming harshly, and looking exceedingly fierce, with their ugly hooked bills and sparkling black eyes. But that is their ordinary way of occupying themselves; they wheel and scream above the rookery all day long, visited or let alone. Even if you capture one, by a happy snatch (not at all an impossible feat), you will not alarm the others, and your prisoner will not show much fight.
The eggs lie all over the ground in a mass of broken shells, feathers, and clawed-up earth. Those birds never build nests, and only sit upon one egg, which is dirty white, with brown spots. The native labourers consider frigate-bird eggs good to eat, and devour136 large numbers, but the white men find them too strong. The birds are also eaten by the labourers, but only on the sly, as this practice is strictly137 forbidden, for the reason that illness generally follows. The frigate-bird, it seems, is not very wholesome138 eating.
It is not in the insignificant deposits of these modern rookeries that the wealth of the island lies, but in the prehistoric139 strata140 underlying141 the stony surface crust already mentioned. There are three strata composing the island—first the coral rock, secondly142 the guano, lastly the surface crust. At one time, the island must have been the home of innumerable myriads143 of frigate-birds, nesting all over its circumference of thirty-three miles. The birds now nest only in certain places, and, though exceedingly thick to an unaccustomed eye, cannot compare with their ancestors in number.
The schooner called on a Sunday, and so I could not see the men at work. One of the managers, however, showed me over the labourers’ quarters, and told me all about their life. There is certainly none of the “black-birding” business about Malden. Kidnapping natives for plantation144 work, under conditions which amount to slavery, is unfortunately still common enough in some parts of the Pacific. But in the Cook Group, and Savage145 Island, where most of the labourers come from, there is no difficulty in obtaining as many genuine volunteers for Malden as its owners want. The men sign for a year’s work, at ten shillings a week, and board and lodging146. Their food consists of rice, biscuits, yams, tinned beef, and tea, with a few cocoanuts for those who may fall sick. This is “the hoigth of good ’atin” for a Polynesian, who lives when at home on yams, taro147 root, and bananas, with an occasional mouthful of fish, and fowl148 or pig only on high festival days.
The labourers’ quarters are large, bare, shady buildings fitted with wide shelves, on which the men spread their mats and pillows to sleep. A Polynesian is never to be divorced from his bedding; he always carries it with him when travelling, and the Malden labourers each come to the island provided with beautifully plaited pandanus mats, and cushions stuffed with the down of the silk-cotton tree. The cushions have covers of “trade” cottons, rudely embroidered149 by the owner’s sweetheart or wife with decorative150 designs, and affectionate mottoes.
From 5 a.m. to 5 p.m. are the hours of work, with an hour and three-quarters off for meals. There is nothing unpleasant about the work, as Malden Island guano is absolutely without odour, and apparently151 so dry and fine when taken from the pits, that one wonders at the necessity for further sifting152 and drying. Occasionally, however, one of the workers develops a peculiar9 intestinal153 trouble which is said to be caused by the fine dust of the pits. It is nearly always fatal, by slow degrees. Our schooner carried away one of these unfortunates—a Savage Island man who had come up to Malden in full health and strength only a few months before. He was the merest shadow or sketch154 of a human being—a bundle of bones clad in loose brown skin, with a skull-like face, all teeth and eye-sockets—he could not stand or walk, only creep along the deck; and he was very obviously dying. Poor fellow! he longed for his own home above everything—-the cool green island, sixteen hundred miles away, where there were fruit and flowers in the shady valleys, and women’s and children’s voices sounding pleasantly about the grassy155 village streets, and his own little pandanus-thatched cottage, with his “fafiné” and the babies at the door, among the palms and oranges above the sea. But the schooner had a two months’ voyage to make yet among the Cook and other groups, before Savage Island could be reached; and Death was already lifting his spear to strike. We left the poor fellow as a last chance on Penrhyn Island, a couple of hundred miles away, hoping that the unlimited156 cocoanuts he could obtain there might do him some good, and that by some fortunate chance he might recover sufficiently157 to take another ship, and reach Niué at last.
The guano of Malden Island is supposed to be the best in the world. It is extremely rich in superphosphates, and needs no “doctoring” whatever, being ready to apply to the land just as taken from the island. As the company are obliged to guarantee the purity of what they sell, and give an exact analysis of the constituents158 of every lot, they keep a skilled chemist on the island, and place a fine laboratory at his disposal. These analyses are tedious to make, and require great accuracy, as a mistake might cause a refusal of payment on the part of the purchaser. The post of official chemist, therefore, is no sinecure159, especially as it includes the duties of dispenser as well, and not a little rough-and-ready doctoring at times.
The temperature of the island is not so high as might be expected from the latitude160. It seldom goes above 90° in the shade, and is generally rendered quite endurable, in spite of the merciless glare and total absence of shade, by the persistent161 trade-wind. Mosquitoes are unknown, and flies not troublesome. There are no centipedes, scorpions162, or other venomous creatures, although the neighbouring islands (“neighbouring,” in the Pacific, means anything within three or four hundred miles) have plenty of these unpleasant inhabitants. The white men live on tinned food of various kinds, also bread, rice, fowls163, pork, goat, and goat’s milk. Vegetables or fruit are a rare and precious luxury, for the nearest island producing either lies a thousand miles away. Big yams, weighing a stone or two apiece and whitewashed164 to prevent decay, are sent up from the Cook Islands now and then; but the want of really fresh, vegetable food is one of the trials of the island. It is not astonishing to hear that the salaries of the Malden officials are very high. A year or two on the island is a good way of accumulating some capital, since it is impossible to spend a penny.
The native labourers generally leave the island with the greatest joy, glad beyond expression to return to their sweet do-nothing lives at home. Why they undertake the work at all is one of the many puzzles presented by the Polynesian character. They have enough to eat and enough to wear, without doing any work to speak of, while they are at home. Usually the motive165 for going to Malden is the desire of making twenty-five pounds or so in a lump, to buy a bicycle (all South Sea Islanders have bicycles, and ride them splendidly) or to build a stone house. But in most cases the money is “spreed” away in the first two or three days at home, giving presents to everybody, and buying fine clothes at the trader’s store.
So the product of the year’s exile and hard work is simply a tour among the islands—in itself a strong attraction—a horribly hot suit of shoddy serge, with a stiff white shirt, red socks, and red tie, bought up in Malden from the company out of the labourer’s wages, and proudly worn on the day the schooner brings the wanderer home to his lightly clad relatives—a bicycle, perhaps, which soon becomes a scrap-heap; or, possibly, a stone house which is never lived in. The company has the labour that it wants, and the money that the labour produces. Every one is satisfied with the bargain, doubtless; and the faraway British farmer and market-gardener are the people who are ultimately benefited.
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1
dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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viscous
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| adj.粘滞的，粘性的 | |
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cockroaches
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| n.蟑螂( cockroach的名词复数 ) | |
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bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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scurvy
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| adj.下流的，卑鄙的，无礼的；n.坏血病 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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16
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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precariously
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| adv.不安全地；危险地；碰机会地；不稳定地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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21
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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24
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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26
cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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27
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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28
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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29
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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31
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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32
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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33
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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34
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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36
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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38
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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41
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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42
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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43
maelstrom
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| n.大乱动；大漩涡 | |
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44
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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45
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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46
leeward
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| adj.背风的；下风的 | |
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47
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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48
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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49
circumvent
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| vt.环绕，包围；对…用计取胜，智胜 | |
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50
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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51
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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52
accordion
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| n.手风琴；adj.可折叠的 | |
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53
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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54
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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55
galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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56
schooners
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| n.（有两个以上桅杆的）纵帆船( schooner的名词复数 ) | |
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57
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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58
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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59
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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60
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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61
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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62
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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63
relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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64
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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65
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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66
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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67
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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68
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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69
ousted
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| 驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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70
foams
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| n.泡沫，泡沫材料( foam的名词复数 ) | |
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71
bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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72
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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73
porpoise
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| n.鼠海豚 | |
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74
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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75
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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76
scorpion
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| n.蝎子，心黑的人，蝎子鞭 | |
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77
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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awnings
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| 篷帐布 | |
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80
blister
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| n.水疱；(油漆等的)气泡；v.(使)起泡 | |
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81
caulked
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| v.堵（船的）缝( caulk的过去式和过去分词 )；泥…的缝；填塞；使不漏水 | |
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82
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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83
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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84
foamless
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| adj.无泡沫的 | |
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85
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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mimicking
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的现在分词 )；酷似 | |
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hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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88
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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89
earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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91
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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93
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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steamship
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| n.汽船，轮船 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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100
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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104
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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105
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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106
condensers
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| n.冷凝器( condenser的名词复数 )；（尤指汽车发动机内的）电容器 | |
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107
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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108
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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109
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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110
indentured
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| v.以契约束缚（学徒）( indenture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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112
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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113
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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114
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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115
stratum
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| n.地层，社会阶层 | |
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116
sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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117
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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118
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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119
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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120
clatters
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| 盘碟刀叉等相撞击时的声音( clatter的名词复数 ) | |
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121
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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122
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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123
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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124
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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125
specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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126
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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127
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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128
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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129
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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130
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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131
meekest
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| adj.温顺的，驯服的( meek的最高级 ) | |
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132
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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133
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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134
squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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135
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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136
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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137
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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138
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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139
prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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140
strata
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| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
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141
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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142
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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143
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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144
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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145
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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146
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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147
taro
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| n.芋，芋头 | |
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148
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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149
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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150
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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151
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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152
sifting
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| n.筛，过滤v.筛( sift的现在分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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153
intestinal
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| adj.肠的；肠壁；肠道细菌 | |
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154
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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155
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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156
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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157
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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158
constituents
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| n.选民( constituent的名词复数 )；成分；构成部分；要素 | |
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159
sinecure
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| n.闲差事，挂名职务 | |
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160
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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161
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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162
scorpions
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| n.蝎子( scorpion的名词复数 ) | |
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163
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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164
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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