Part 1 (2/2)
The young apprentice was one of a type that commercially was not worth a tinker's dam. If he were a party to any scheme connected with finance, one could safely predict that that scheme was predestined to complete failure. But in the imaginative world Hillary could be p.r.o.nounced a decided success.
It was the same wherever he went. The old sea-boots on the shelf of the seaport's slop-shop danced a jig on some s.h.i.+p far at sea; the oilskins swelled to visionary limbs as sailormen opened their bearded mouths and climbed aloft, singing the chanteys that he could distinctly hear as he placed his ear to the shop's dirty window!
The silk, blue-fringed chemise hanging on a nail by the oil lamp clung, as he gazed, to the limbs of some laughing girl; fingers travelling down the yellow keys of the second-hand piano mysteriously strummed out some melody that told of the briefness of life, youth and beauty. This poetical weakness was a veritable Old Man of the Sea on his back. But still, he was no fool, and, like most of his type, he could be strong where most men are weak.
As he turned round and looked on the desolate scene, and stared at the sunset out at sea, his face expressed an emotion that words cannot describe. The parrots rose in a glittering cloud as he stood their meditating, gazing on the small burial ground that he had suddenly stumbled across. It was where a few white men had been buried on the lonely beach-side, miles from the towns.h.i.+p. The crosses of coral stone were sunken very deep, the names nearly oblitered. ”What a G.o.dforsaken, tragic place,” he muttered as he read:
TO THE MEMORY OF BILL LARGO, BOATSWAIN DIED JUNE 3RD 1860
SPEARED BY HEAD-HUNTERS IN TRYING TO SAVE s.h.i.+P'S COOK-THIS STONE IS RAISED BY THE CREW OF THE S.S. ”SALAMANDER” BOUND
FOR CALLAO
Everything seemed tragic in those parts. For as he wandered along the beach a voice startled him as a weird face suddenly poked out of the mangroves:
”Noice even'ng, matey?”
”Yes,” responded the apprentice as he looked into the face of a sun-tanned remnant of a white man who stood by a fern-sheltered, thatched den. It was only old Adams, an ex-sailor, leading his Mormon-like existence. He was a kind of Solomon Island aristocrat of independent means. He was apparently attired in a wide-brimmed hat and beard only, for the climate is muggy in the Solomons. He _did_ wear thin cotton pants, but they were so drenched with perspiration that they clung to his legs like a skin. He borrowed a s.h.i.+lling from the apprentice, shot a stream of tobacco juice seaward, then entered his hut, but before slamming the door behind him he looked back and said: ”I'd git back to me s.h.i.+p if I was you; the Kai-Kai chiefs are on the b--taboo lay round 'ere, and they'd give their ears for that curly mop of yourn!” The door slammed. Once more Hillary was alone. As he walked away he could distinctly hear old Adams swearing at his four wives, who was apparently rus.h.i.+ng round the hut looking for his clean s.h.i.+rt. They were dusky women, probably the daughters of tribal kings, and had given their birthrights to Adams so that they could be the wives of a n.o.ble papalagi. Such was the queer, mixed population of that solitary locality where the apprentice mooched along. And Rokeville, the sh.o.r.e towns.h.i.+p, was not much more dignified; but what it lacked socially was amply made up for by its Arabian-Nights-like atmosphere. Its one street, a silvery track made of coral dust, went winding down to the sh.o.r.e. And when the full moon peered over the ocean rim, touching with dim light the feathery palms that sheltered the tin roofs of the scattered coral-built houses, it looked like some staged faery town of a South Sea isle. Often by night some strange-rigged s.h.i.+p would hug the coast-line for hours while its crew of blackbirders crept ash.o.r.e and kidnapped native men and women from the villages. Before dawn that stealthy craft had sailed away, crammed up to the hatches with cheap labour for the plantations and heathen seraglios of nowhere. By day things looked as real as possible. There was nothing faery-like about Parsons' wooden grog shanty, that stood, sheltered by three tall palms, at the head of the towns.h.i.+p. Through its ever-open doorway by day and night pa.s.sed the German, Scandinavian, Norwegian and Yankee sh.e.l.l-backs, who drank strong rum at the bar, banged their fists and narrated their Homeric deeds.
That shanty was the commercial centre and stock exchange of Bougainville. It was haunted by about a dozen nondescript, aged Chinese, Dutch and j.a.panese seamen who wore pigtails, pointed beards or scraggy whiskers: on the brightest tropic day _they_ succeeded in adding a touch of romance to the sh.o.r.e landscape, for when rum was scarce they leant their ragged backs against the palm stems and looked like old figure-heads from Chinese junks and Spanish galleons stuck up on end, till they spoilt the picture by pulling their tangled beards as they spat seaward. They also drank rum and existed, apparently, by watching the white seahorses charge the purple-ridged line of coral reefs that made the natural pier of that seaside resort. Consequently the young apprentice preferred the wild scenery of the mahogany forests and the blue lagoons where the brown maids dived, to the mixed society of that delectable towns.h.i.+p. To him there was something fascinating, almost poetic, about the mahogany-hued Papuans and Polynesians. But his ideals quite saved him from falling in love with a brown maid. And it must be confessed that the Solomon Isles was not an Olympian locality, where dwelt cold, pa.s.sionless h.e.l.lenic beauties, and many a dusky Nausicaa and luring Circe had tempted bold sailormen to destruction by their songs and demonstrative exhibitions of their charms. But some of the maids were innocent enough, for as Hillary wandered by Felisi beach he caught sight of a tiny Polynesian baby girl. She was busy pulling wild flowers that grew amongst the thick tavu-gra.s.s. Her tiny body shone with a hue like a new Australian sovereign as sunset bathed her little figure with its hot light. Her alert, savage ears heard the apprentice's footsteps in the scrub. Just for a moment her thick curls tossed and sparkled among the tall fern-gra.s.s as she sped away into the forest as though she quite expected a white man to shoot her at sight!
”I wonder what I'll sight next; why, it's like some fairy spot,” Hillary murmured as he watched the child disappear. Then he climbed over the reefs till he came right opposite the sh.o.r.e islets, where the natives swore their G.o.ds danced under the stars.
At this spot there happened to be a wide lagoon, and on the still waters, just where the mighty banyans leaned over and made a delightful shade, floated a canoe. ”The very thing!” Hillary exclaimed. In a moment he was paddling about on the lagoon in the small primitive craft.
Strange birds shrieked over his head, their crimson and blue wings flas.h.i.+ng along as they resented his intrusion into their lovely solitude. Some had eyes like sparkling jewels and long, hanging coral-red legs and feet.
”What a bit of luck! I could paddle about here for ever!” was his comment as he swished the paddle, turned the prow of his canoe and went off full speed down the narrow creek-like pa.s.sage that led to the wider stretch of water inland. ”It's like being alone on an uninhabited island,” he thought. Suddenly a hush came over the waters. Only the solitary ”Kai koo-seeeek!” of a parakeet disturbed the silence. So still was the water of the lagoon that he seemed to float about on a mighty mirror. The huge b.u.t.tressed banyans reflected in the deep, clear water by the banks hung upside down, twisted shapes in an abyss of blue. He could even discern the flock of shrieking, sky-winging lories as their images went wheeling silently over the wooded heights, so clearly was the forest fringe reflected in the depths.
”Good Lord!” he gasped, as he stared on that shadow-world; and no wonder, for on the rim of the hanging cloud, high over the leaning trees of the reflected sky, sped an ornamental canoe! Its paddle was swiftly curling, like a fast-flying bird's wing. He nearly upset his small craft, so great was his astonishment, for, looking towards the bend where the banyans hid the expanse of inland water from view, he saw that the reflected figure in the canoe was real.
It wasn't the canoe but the paddler that made him exclaim. ”It can't be an apparition with those hibiscus blossoms stuck in her hair,” he thought as he rubbed his eyes and stared again. The blue robe, open low at the neck, was the apprentice's only excuse for his ridiculous idea in thinking that a beautiful princess of some unknown white race had suddenly appeared on the lagoon. She softly dipped her paddle and, shattering the blue sky and twisted boughs with one blow, came speeding towards him!
”Am I awake?” he muttered. She had waved her paddle, welcoming his presence as though she had known him for years. At first he hesitated, thinking that one word, one sign of recognition from him would make her vanish back into her native skies. But at length he too lifted his paddle and waved most enthusiastically!
As Hillary came closer he saw that there was sorrow in the girl's blue eyes, as needs there must be, since Beauty is Sorrow's legitimate child.
A far-off gleam shone in them and glinted in her hair, which tumbled down to the warm white curves of her neck and round to her throat.
It was the pretty _retrousse_ nose that looked so human.
Hillary took a deep breath and gazed again.
”Fancy meeting you here!” he said as in his embarra.s.sment he pulled his dirty kerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face to hide his confusion; then, remembering, he hastily replaced the rag-like kerchief in his pocket.
”Fancy meeting you!” said the girl as she gave a silvery peal of laughter.
The young apprentice's heart began to thump. He stared into the girl's eyes as though she had mesmerised him. A wild desire thrilled his soul as she leaned forward, still paddling softly as she returned his gaze.
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