‘I’m all right, pals,’ he gasped once: ‘this is the thing to strengthen the muscles of the larynx.’
‘Well, you take the cake!’ cried the captain.
‘O, I’m good plucked enough,’ pursued the sufferer with a broken utterance. ‘But it do seem bloomin’ hard to me, that I should be the only party down with this form of vice, and the only one to do the funny business. I think one of you other parties might wake up. Tell a fellow something.’
‘The trouble is we’ve nothing to tell, my son,’ returned the captain.
‘I’ll tell you, if you like, what I was thinking,’ said Herrick.
‘Tell us anything,’ said the clerk, ‘I only want to be reminded that I ain’t dead.’
Herrick took up his parable, lying on his face and speaking slowly and scarce above his breath, not like a man who has anything to say, but like one talking against time.
‘Well, I was thinking this,’ he began: ‘I was thinking I lay on Papeete beach one night — all moon and squalls and fellows coughing — and I was cold and hungry, and down in the mouth, and was about ninety years of age, and had spent two hundred and twenty of them on Papeete beach. And I was thinking I wished I had a ring to rub, or had a fairy godmother, or could raise Beelzebub. And I was trying to remember how you did it. I knew you made a ring of skulls, for I had seen that in the Freischutz: and that you took off your coat and turned up your sleeves, for I had seen Formes do that when he was playing Kaspar, and you could see (by the way he went about it) it was a business he had studied; and that you ought to have something to kick up a smoke and a bad smell, I dare say a cigar might do, and that you ought to say the Lord’s Prayer backwards. Well, I wondered if I could do that; it seemed rather a feat, you see. And then I wondered if I would say it forward, and I thought I did. Well, no sooner had I got to WORLD WITHOUT END, than I saw a man in a pariu, and with a mat under his arm, come along the beach from the town. He was rather a hard-favoured old party, and he limped and crippled, and all the time he kept coughing. At first I didn’t cotton to his looks, I thought, and then I got sorry for the old soul because he coughed so hard. I remembered that we had some of that cough mixture the American consul gave the captain for Hay. It never did Hay a ha’porth of service, but I thought it might do the old gentleman’s business for him, and stood up. “Yorana!” says I. “Yorana!” says he. “Look here,” I said, “I’ve got some first-rate stuff in a bottle; it’ll fix your cough, savvy? Harry my and I’ll measure you a tablespoonful in the palm of my hand, for all our plate is at the bankers.” So I thought the old party came up, and the nearer he came, the less I took to him. But I had passed my word, you see.’
‘Wot is this bloomin’ drivel?’ interrupted the clerk. ‘It’s like the rot there is in tracts.’
‘It’s a story; I used to tell them to the kids at home,’ said Herrick. ‘If it bores you, I’ll drop it.’
‘O, cut along!’ returned the sick man, irritably. ‘It’s better than nothing.’
‘Well,’ continued Herrick, ‘I had no sooner given him the cough mixture than he seemed to straighten up and change, and I saw he wasn’t a Tahitian after all, but some kind of Arab, and had a long beard on his chin. “One good turn deserves another,” says he. “I am a magician out of the Arabian Nights, and this mat that I have under my arm is the original carpet of Mohammed Ben Somebody-or-other. Say the word, and you can have a cruise upon the carpet.” “You don’t mean to say this is the Travelling Carpet?” I cried. “You bet I do,” said he. “You’ve been to America since last I read the Arabian Nights,” said I, a little suspicious. “I should think so,” said he. “Been everywhere. A man with a carpet like this isn’t going to moulder in a semi-detached villa.” Well, that struck me as reasonable. “All right,” I said; “and do you mean to tell me I can get on that carpet and go straight to London, England?” I said, “London, England,” captain, because he seemed to have been so long in your part of the world. “In the crack of a whip,” said he. I figured up the time. What is the difference between Papeete and London, captain?’
‘Taking Greenwich and Point Venus, nine hours, odd minutes and seconds,’ replied the mariner.
‘Well, that’s about what I made it,’ resumed Herrick, ‘about nine hours. Calling this three in the morning, I made out I would drop into London about noon; and the idea tickled me immensely. “There’s only one bother,” I said, “I haven’t a copper cent. It would be a pity to go to London and not buy the morning Standard.” “O!” said he, “you don’t realise the conveniences of this carpet. You see this pocket? you’ve only got to stick your hand in, and you pull it out filled with sovereigns.”
‘Double-eagles, wasn’t iff inquired the captain.
‘That was what it was!’ cried Herrick. ‘I thought they seemed unusually big, and I remember now I had to go to the money-changers at Charing Cross and get English silver.’
‘O, you went there?’ said the clerk. ‘Wot did you do? Bet you had a B. and S.!’
‘Well, you see, it was just as the old boy said — like the cut of a whip,’ said Herrick. ‘The one minute I was here on the beach at three in the morning, the next I was in front of the Golden Cross at midday. At first I was dazzled, and covered my eyes, and there didn’t seem the smallest change; the roar of the Strand and the roar of the reef were like the same: hark to it now, and you can hear the cabs and buses rolling and the streets resound! And then at last I could look about, and there was the old place, and no mistake! With the statues in the square, and St Martin’s-in-the-Fields, and the bobbies, and the sparrows, and the hacks; and I can’t tell you what I felt like. I felt like crying, I believe, or dancing, or jumping clean over the Nelson Column. I was like a fellow caught up out of Hell and flung down into the dandiest part of Heaven. Then I spotted for a hansom with a spanking horse. “A shilling for yourself, if you’re there in twenty minutes!” said I to the jarvey. He went a good pace, though of course it was a trifle to the carpet; and in nineteen minutes and a half I was at the door.’
‘What door?’ asked the captain.
‘Oh, a house I know of,’ returned Herrick.
‘But it was a public-house!’ cried the clerk — only these were not his words. ‘And w’y didn’t you take the carpet there instead of trundling in a growler?’
‘I didn’t want to startle a quiet street,’ said the narrator.
‘Bad form. And besides, it was a hansom.’
‘Well, and what did you do next?’ inquired the captain.
‘Oh, I went in,’ said Herrick.
‘The old folks?’ asked the captain.
‘That’s about it,’ said the other, chewing a grass.
‘Well, I think you are about the poorest ‘and at a yarn!’ cried the clerk. ‘Crikey, it’s like Ministering Children! I can tell you there would be more beer and skittles about my little jaunt. I would go and have a B. and S. for luck. Then I would get a big ulster with astrakhan fur, and take my cane and do the la-de-la down Piccadilly. Then I would go to a slap-up restaurant, and have green peas, and a bottle of fizz, and a chump chop — Oh! and I forgot, I’d ‘ave some devilled whitebait first — and green gooseberry tart, and ‘ot coffee, and some of that form of vice in big bottles with a seal — Benedictine — that’s the bloomin’ nyme! Then I’d drop into a theatre, and pal on with some chappies, and do the dancing rooms and bars, and that, and wouldn’t go ‘ome till morning, till daylight doth appear. And the next day I’d have water-cresses, ‘am, muffin, and fresh butter; wouldn’t I just, O my!’
The clerk was interrupted by a fresh attack of coughing.
‘Well, now, I’ll tell you what I would do,’ said the captain: ‘I would have none of your fancy rigs with the man driving from the mizzen cross-trees, but a plain fore-and-aft hack cab of the highest registered tonnage. First of all, I would bring up at the market and get a turkey and a sucking-pig. Then I’d go to a wine merchant’s and get a dozen of champagne, and a dozen of some sweet wine, rich and sticky a
nd strong, something in the port or madeira line, the best in the store. Then I’d bear up for a toy-store, and lay out twenty dollars in assorted toys for the piccaninnies; and then to a confectioner’s and take in cakes and pies and fancy bread, and that stuff with the plums in it; and then to a news-agency and buy all the papers, all the picture ones for the kids, and all the story papers for the old girl about the Earl discovering himself to Anna-Mariar and the escape of the Lady Maude from the private madhouse; and then I’d tell the fellow to drive home.’
‘There ought to be some syrup for the kids,’ suggested Herrick; ‘they like syrup.’
‘Yes, syrup for the kids, red syrup at that!’ said the captain. ‘And those things they pull at, and go pop, and have measly poetry inside. And then I tell you we’d have a thanksgiving day and Christmas tree combined. Great Scott, but I would like to see the kids! I guess they would light right out of the house, when they saw daddy driving up. My little Adar—’
The captain stopped sharply.
‘Well, keep it up!’ said the clerk.
‘The damned thing is, I don’t know if they ain’t starving!’ cried the captain.
‘They can’t be worse off than we are, and that’s one comfort,’ returned the clerk. ‘I defy the devil to make me worse off.’
It seemed as if the devil heard him. The light of the moon had been some time cut off and they had talked in darkness. Now there was heard a roar, which drew impetuously nearer; the face of the lagoon was seen to whiten; and before they had staggered to their feet, a squall burst in rain upon the outcasts. The rage and volume of that avalanche one must have lived in the tropics to conceive; a man panted in its assault, as he might pant under a shower-bath; and the world seemed whelmed in night and water.
They fled, groping for their usual shelter — it might be almost called their home — in the old calaboose; came drenched into its empty chambers; and lay down, three sops of humanity on the cold coral floors, and presently, when the squall was overpast, the others could hear in the darkness the chattering of the clerk’s teeth.
‘I say, you fellows,’ he walled, ‘for God’s sake, lie up and try to warm me. I’m blymed if I don’t think I’ll die else!’
So the three crept together into one wet mass, and lay until day came, shivering and dozing off, and continually re-awakened to wretchedness by the coughing of the clerk.
CHAPTER 2. MORNING ON THE BEACH — THE THREE LETTERS
The clouds were all fled, the beauty of the tropic day was spread upon Papeete; and the wall of breaking seas upon the reef, and the palms upon the islet, already trembled in the heat. A French man-of-war was going out, homeward bound; she lay in the middle distance of the port, an ant heap for activity. In the night a schooner had come in, and now lay far out, hard by the passage; and the yellow flag, the emblem of pestilence, flew on her. From up the coast, a long procession of canoes headed round the point and towards the market, bright as a scarf with the many-coloured clothing of the natives and the piles of fruit. But not even the beauty and the welcome warmth of the morning, not even these naval movements, so interesting to sailors and to idlers, could engage the attention of the outcasts. They were still cold at heart, their mouths sour from the want of steep, their steps rambling from the lack of food; and they strung like lame geese along the beach in a disheartened silence. It was towards the town they moved; towards the town whence smoke arose, where happier folk were breakfasting; and as they went, their hungry eyes were upon all sides, but they were only scouting for a meal.
A small and dingy schooner lay snug against the quay, with which it was connected by a plank. On the forward deck, under a spot of awning, five Kanakas who made up the crew, were squatted round a basin of fried feis, and drinking coffee from tin mugs.
‘Eight bells: knock off for breakfast!’ cried the captain with a miserable heartiness. ‘Never tried this craft before; positively my first appearance; guess I’ll draw a bumper house.’
He came close up to where the plank rested on the grassy quay; turned his back upon the schooner, and began to whistle that lively air, ‘The Irish Washerwoman.’ It caught the ears of the Kanaka seamen like a preconcerted signal; with one accord they looked up from their meal and crowded to the ship’s side, fei in hand and munching as they looked. Even as a poor brown Pyrenean bear dances in the streets of English towns under his master’s baton; even so, but with how much more of spirit and precision, the captain footed it in time to his own whistling, and his long morning shadow capered beyond him on the grass. The Kanakas smiled on the performance; Herrick looked on heavy-eyed, hunger for the moment conquering all sense of shame; and a little farther off, but still hard by, the clerk was torn by the seven devils of the influenza.
The captain stopped suddenly, appeared to perceive his audience for the first time, and represented the part of a man surprised in his private hour of pleasure.
‘Hello!’ said he.
The Kanakas clapped hands and called upon him to go on.
‘No, SIR!’ said the captain. ‘No eat, no dance. Savvy?’
‘Poor old man!’ returned one of the crew. ‘Him no eat?’
‘Lord, no!’ said the captain. ‘Like-um too much eat. No got.’
‘All right. Me got,’ said the sailor; ‘you tome here. Plenty toffee, plenty fei. Nutha man him tome too.’
‘I guess we’ll drop right in,’ observed the captain; and he and his companions hastened up the plank. They were welcomed on board with the shaking of hands; place was made for them about the basin; a sticky demijohn of molasses was added to the feast in honour of company, and an accordion brought from the forecastle and significantly laid by the performer’s side.
‘Ariana,’ said he lightly, touching the instrument as he spoke; and he fell to on a long savoury fei, made an end of it, raised his mug of coffee, and nodded across at the spokesman of the crew. ‘Here’s your health, old man; you’re a credit to the South Pacific,’ said he.
With the unsightly greed of hounds they glutted themselves with the hot food and coffee; and even the clerk revived and the colour deepened in his eyes. The kettle was drained, the basin cleaned; their entertainers, who had waited on their wants throughout with the pleased hospitality of Polynesians, made haste to bring forward a dessert of island tobacco and rolls of pandanus leaf to serve as paper; and presently all sat about the dishes puffing like Indian Sachems.
‘When a man ‘as breakfast every day, he don’t know what it is,’ observed the clerk.
‘The next point is dinner,’ said Herrick; and then with a passionate utterance: ‘I wish to God I was a Kanaka!’
‘There’s one thing sure,’ said the captain. ‘I’m about desperate, I’d rather hang than rot here much longer.’ And with the word he took the accordion and struck up. ‘Home, sweet home.’
‘O, drop that!’ cried Herrick, ‘I can’t stand that.’
‘No more can I,’ said the captain. ‘I’ve got to play something though: got to pay the shot, my son.’ And he struck up ‘John Brown’s Body’ in a fine sweet baritone: ‘Dandy Jim of Carolina,’ came next; ‘Rorin the Bold,’ ‘Swing low, Sweet Chariot,’ and ‘The Beautiful Land’ followed. The captain was paying his shot with usury, as he had done many a time before; many a meal had he bought with the same currency from the melodious-minded natives, always, as now, to their delight.
He was in the middle of ‘Fifteen Dollars in the Inside Pocket,’ singing with dogged energy, for the task went sore against the grain, when a sensation was suddenly to be observed among the crew.
‘Tapena Tom harry my,’ said the spokesman, pointing.
And the three beachcombers, following his indication, saw the figure of a man in pyjama trousers and a white jumper approaching briskly from the town.
‘Captain Tom is coming.’
‘That’s Tapena Tom, is it?’ said the captain, pausing in his music. ‘I don’t seem to place the brute.’
‘We’d better cut,’ said the clerk. ‘‘E’s n
o good.’
‘Well,’ said the musician deliberately, ‘one can’t most generally always tell. I’ll try it on, I guess. Music has charms to soothe the savage Tapena, boys. We might strike it rich; it might amount to iced punch in the cabin.’
‘Hiced punch? O my!’ said the clerk. ‘Give him something ‘ot, captain. “Way down the Swannee River”; try that.’
‘No, sir! Looks Scotch,’ said the captain; and he struck, for his life, into ‘Auld Lang Syne.’
Captain Tom continued to approach with the same business-like alacrity; no change was to be perceived in his bearded face as he came swinging up the plank: he did not even turn his eyes on the performer.
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson Page 207
