MY FRIEND THE BEACH-COMBER.
"Been in some near things in the islands?" said my friend thebeach-comber; "I fancy I _have_."
The beach-comber then produced a piece of luggage like a small Gladstonebag, which he habitually carried, and thence he extracted a cigar aboutthe size of the butt of a light trout-rod. He took a vesuvian out of acurious brown hollowed nut-shell, mounted in gold (the beach-comber, likeMycenae in Homer, was polychrysos, rich in gold in all his equipments),and occupied himself with the task of setting fire to his weed. Theprocess was a long one, and reminded me of the arts by which the beach-comber's native friends fire the root of a tree before they attack itwith their stone tomahawks. However, there was no use in trying to hurrythe ancient mariner. He was bound to talk while his cigar lasted,thereby providing his hearer with plenty of what is called "copy" in theprofession of letters.
The beach-comber was a big man, loose (in physique only of course),broad, and black-bearded, his face about the colour of a gun-stock. Wecalled him by the nickname he bore {304} (he bore it verygood-naturedly), because he had spent the years of his youth among thecountless little islands of the South Seas, especially among those whichlie at "the back of beyond," that is, on the far side of the broadshoulder of Queensland. In these regions the white man takes his lifeand whatever native property he can annex in his hand, caring no more forthe Aborigines' Protection Society than for the Kyrle Company fordiffusing stamped-leather hangings and Moorish lustre plates among thepoor of the East-End. The common beach-comber is usually an outcast fromthat civilization of which, in the islands, he is the only pioneer.Sometimes he deals in rum, sometimes in land, most frequently in "black-birds"--that is, in coolies, as it is now usual to call slaves. Not, ofcourse, that all coolies are slaves. My friend the beach-comber treatedhis dusky labourers with distinguished consideration, fed them well,housed them well, taught them the game of cricket, and dismissed them,when the term of their engagement was up, to their island homes. He was,in fact, a planter, with a taste for observing wild life in out-of-the-way places.
"Yes, I have been in some near things," he went on, when the trunk of hiscigar was fairly ignited. "Do you see these two front teeth?"
The beach-comber opened wide a cavernous mouth. The late Mr. Macadam,who invented the system of making roads called by his name, allowed nostone to be laid on the way which the stone-breaker could not put in hismouth. The beach-comber could almost have inserted a milestone.
I did not see "these two front teeth," because, like the Spanish Fleet,they were not in sight. But I understood my friend to be drawing myattention to their absence.
"I see the place where they have been," I answered.
"Well, _that_ was a near go," said the beach-comber. "I was running formy life before a pack of screeching naked beggars in the AdmiraltyIslands. I had emptied my revolver, and my cartridges, Government ones,were all in a parcel--a confounded Government parcel--fastened with astrong brass wire. Where's the good of giving you cartridges, which youneed in a hurry if you need them at all, in a case you can't open withouta special instrument? Well, as I ran, and the spears whizzed round me, Itore at the wire with my teeth. It gave at last, or my head would now bedecorating a stake outside the chief's pah. But my teeth gave when thebrass cord gave, and I'll never lift a heavy table with them again."
"But you got out the cartridges?"
"Oh yes. I shot two of the beggars, and 'purwailed on them to stop,' andthen I came within sight of the boats, and Thompson shouted, and theothers bolted. What a voice that fellow had! It reminded me of thatGreek chap I read about at school; he went and faced the Trojans withnothing in his hand, and they hooked it when they only heard him roar.Poor Thompson! "and the beach-comber drank, in silence, to theillustrious dead.
"Who shot him?"
"A scientific kind of poop, a botanizing shaloot that was travellingaround with a tin box on his back, collecting beetles and bird-skins.Poor Thompson! this was how it happened. He was the strongest fellow Iever saw; he could tear a whole pack of cards across with his hands. Thatman was all muscle. He and I had paddled this botanizing creature acrossto an island where some marooned fellow had built a hut, and we kept alittle whisky in a bunk, and used the place sometimes for shooting orfishing. It was latish one night, the botanist had not come home, I fellasleep, and left Thompson with the whisky. I was awakened by hearing ashot, and there lay Thompson, stone-dead, a bullet in his forehead, andthe naturalist with a smoking revolver in his hand, and trembling like anaspen leaf. It seems he had lost his way, and by the time he got home,Thompson was mad drunk, and came for him with his fists. If once he hityou, just in play, it was death, and the stranger knew that. Thompsonhad him in a corner, and I am bound to say that shooting was his onlychance. Poor old Thompson!"
"And what was done to the other man?"
"Done! why there was no one to do anything, unless I had shot him, ormarooned him. No law runs in these parts. Thompson was the best partnerI ever had; he was with me in that lark with the tabooed pig."
"What lark?"
"Oh, I've often spun you the yarn."
"Never!"
"Well, it was like this. Thompson and I, and some other chaps, startedin a boat, with provisions, just prospecting about the islands. So wewent in and out among the straits--horrid places, clear water full ofsharks, and nothing but mangroves on every side. One of these sounds isjust like another. Once I was coming home in a coasting steamer, and gotthem to set me down on a point that I believed was within half-a-mile ofmy place. Well, I was landed, and I began walking homewards, when Ifound I was on the wrong track, miles and miles of mangrove swamp, cut upwith a dozen straits of salt water, lay between me and the station. Thefirst stretch of water I came to, gad! I didn't like it. I keptprospecting for sharks very close before I swam it, with my clothes on myhead. I was in awful luck all the way, though,--not one of them had asnap at me."
"But about the taboo pig? Revenons a nos cochons!"
"I'm coming to that. Well, we landed at an island we had never been onbefore, where there was a village of Coast natives. A crowd of beehive-shaped huts, you know, the wall about three feet high, and all the restroof, wattle, and clay, and moss, built as neat as a bird's-nest outside,not very sweet inside. So we landed and got out the grub, and marched upto the village. Not a soul to be seen; not a black in the place. Theirgear was all cleaned out too; there wasn't a net, nor a spear, nor a mat,nor a bowl (they're great beggars for making pipkins), not a blessedfetich stone even, in the whole place. You never saw anything soforsaken. But just in the middle of the row of huts, you might call it astreet if you liked, there lay, as happy as if he was by the firesideamong the children in Galway, a great big fat beast of a hog. Well, wecouldn't make out what had become of the people. Thought we hadfrightened them away, only then they'd have taken the hog. Suddenly, outof some corner, comes a black fellow making signs of peace. He held uphis hands to show he had no weapon in them, and then he held up his feetditto."
"Why on earth did he hold up his feet?"
"To show he wasn't trailing a spear between his toes; that is a commondodge of theirs. We made signs to him to come up, and up he came,speaking a kind of pigeon English. It seems he was an interpreter bytrade, paying a visit to his native village; so we tried to get out ofhim what it was all about. Just what we might have expected. A kid hadbeen born in the village that day."
"What had the birth of a kid got to do with it?"
"It's like this, don't you know. Every tribe is divided into Coastnatives and Bush natives. One set lives by the sea, and is comparativelywhat you might call civilized. The other set, their cousins, live in theBush, and are a good deal more savage. Now, when anything out of theway, especially anything of a fortunate kind, happens in one division ofthe tribe, the other division pops down on them, loots everything it canlay hands on, maltreats the women, breaks what's too heavy to carry, andgenerally plays the very mischief
. The birth of a child is _always_celebrated in that way."
"And don't the others resist?"
"Resist! No! It would be the height of rudeness. Do _you_ resist whenpeople leave cards at your house, 'with kind inquiries'? It's just likethat; a way they have of showing a friendly interest."
"But what can be the origin of such an extraordinary custom?"
"_I_ don't know. Guess it has a kind of civilizing effect, as you'llsee. Resources of civilization get handed on to the Bush tribes, butthat can't be what it was started for. However, recently the tribes havebegun to run cunning, and they hide themselves and all their goods whenthey have reason to expect a friendly visit. This was what they had donethe day we landed. But, while we were jawing with the interpreter, weheard a yell to make your hair stand on end. The Bush tribe came down onthe village all in their war paint,--white clay; an arrangement, as yousay, in black and white. Down they came, rushed into every hut, rushedout again, found nothing, and an awful rage they were in. They said thiskind of behaviour was most ungentlemanly; why, where was decent feeling?where was neighbourliness? While they were howling, they spotted thehog, and made for him in a minute; here was luncheon, anyhow,--porkchops. So they soon had a fire, set a light to one of the houses infact, and heaped up stones; that's how they cook. They cut you up inbits, wrap them in leaves--"
"En papillotte?"
"Just that, and broil you on the hot stones. They cook everything thatway."
"Are they cannibals?"
"Oh yes, in war-time. Or criminals they'll eat. I've often heard thequeer yell a native will give, quite a peculiar cry, when he is carryinga present of cold prisoner of war from one chief to another. He criesout like that, to show what his errand is, at the border of the villageproperty."
"Before entering the Mark?" I said, for I had been reading Sir HenryMaine.
"The pah, the beggars about me call it," said the beach-comber; "perhapssome niggers you've been reading about call it the Mark. I don't know.But to be done with this pig. The fire was ready, and they were justgoing to cut the poor beast's throat with a green-stone knife, when theinterpreter up and told them 'hands off.' 'That's a taboo pig,' says he.'A black fellow that died six months ago that pig belonged to. When hewas dying, and leaving his property to his friends, he was very sorry topart with the pig, so he made him taboo; nobody can touch him. To eathim is death.'
"Of course this explained why that pig had been left when all the otherlive stock and portable property was cleared out. Nobody would touch ataboo pig, and that pig, I tell you, was tabooed an inch thick. The manhe belonged to had been a Tohunga, and still 'walked,' in the shape of alizard. Well, the interpreter, acting most fairly, I must say, explainedall this to the Bush tribe, and we went down to the boat and lunched.Presently a smell of roast pork came drifting down on the wind. They hadbeen hungry and mad after their march, and they were cooking the taboopig. The interpreter grew as white as a Kaneka can; he knew somethingwould happen.
"Presently the Bush fellows came down to the boat, licking their lips.There hadn't been much more than enough to go round, and they acceptedsome of our grub, and took to it kindly.
"'Let's offer them some rum,' says Thompson; he never cruised withoutplenty aboard. 'No, no,' says I; 'tea, give them tea.' But Thompson hada keg of rum out, and a tin can, and served round some pretty stiff grog.Now, would you believe it, these poor devils had never tasted spiritsbefore? Most backward race they were. But they took to the stuff, andgot pretty merry, till one of them tried to move back to the village. Hestaggered up and down, and tumbled against rocks, and finally he lay flatand held on tight. The others, most of them, were no better as soon asthey tried to move. A rare fright they were in! They began praying andmumbling; praying, of all things, to the soul of the taboo pig! Theythought they were being punished for the awful sin they had committed ineating him. The interpreter improved the occasion. He told them theirfaults pretty roundly. Hadn't he warned them? Didn't they know the pigwas taboo? Did any good ever come of breaking a taboo? The sobererfellows sneaked off into the bush, the others lay and snoozed till theCoast tribe came out of hiding, and gave it to them pretty warm withthrowing sticks and the flat side of waddies. I guess the belief intaboo won't die out of that Bush tribe in a hurry."
"It was like the companions of Odysseus devouring the oxen of the Sun," Isaid.
"Very likely," replied the beach-comber. "Never heard of the parties.They're superstitious beggars, these Kanekas. You've heard of buying athing 'for a song'? Well, I got my station for a whistle. They believethat spirits twitter and whistle, and you'll hardly get them to go out atnight, even with a boiled potato in their hands, which they think goodagainst ghosts, for fear of hearing the bogies. So I just wentwhistling, 'Bonny Dundee' at nights all round the location I fancied, andafter a week of that, not a nigger would go near it. They made it overto me, gratis, with an address on my courage and fortitude. I gave themsome blankets in; and that's how real property used to change hands inthe Pacific."
Footnotes:
{1} From Wandering Sheep, the Bungletonian Missionary Record.
{6} 1884. Date unknown. Month probably June.
{23a} The original text of this prophecy is printed at the close of Mr.Gowles's narrative.
{23b} It has been suggested to me that some travelled priest or conjurerof this strange race may have met Europeans, seen hats, spectacles,steamers, and so forth, and may have written the prophecy as a warning ofthe dangers of our civilization. In that case the forgery was verycunningly managed, as the document had every appearance of great age, andthe alarm of the priest was too natural to have been feigned.
{25} How terribly these words were afterwards to be interpreted, thereader will learn in due time.
{30} I afterwards found it was blue smalt.
{74} I have never been able to understand Mr. Gowles's infatuation forthis stuck-up creature, who, I am sure, gave herself airs enough, as anyone may see.--MRS. GOWLES.
{76} This was the name of a native vintage.
{95} Mr. Gowles was an ardent Liberal, but at the time when he wrote,the Union Jack had not been denounced by his great leader. We have nodoubt that, at a word from Mr. Gladstone, he would have sung, Home Rule,Hibernia!--ED. Wandering Sheep.
{106} From Wandering Sheep.
{124} From Mr. E. Myers's "Pindar."
{128} Poor Figgins always called M. Baudelaire "the Master."
{208} His photograph, thus arrayed, may be purchased at Mentone.
{256} "Lift" is English for "elevator," or "elevator" is American for"lift."
{261} This article was originally written for "Mind," but the authorchanged his. The reference is to Kant's Philosophy.
{265} A similar phenomenon is mentioned in Mr. Howell's learnedtreatise, "An Undiscovered Country."
{283} A chapter from Prof. Boscher's "Post-Christian Mythology." Berlinand New York, A.D. 3886.
{284} Both these names are undoubtedly Greek neuter substantives.
{285a} Lieblein speaks ("Egyptian Religion," 1884, Leipzig,) of "themythical name Jo." Already had Continental savants dismissed the beliefin a historical Jo, a leader of the Demos.
{285b} There seems to be some mistake here.
{287} "Le pierre sorti du soleil se retrouve au Livre des Souffles."Lefebure, "Osiris," p. 204. Brugsch, "Shai-n. sinsin," i. 9.
{304} "Beach-comber" is the local term for the European adventurers andlong-shore loafers who infest the Pacific Archipelagoes. There is a well-known tale of an English castaway on one of the isles, who was worshippedas a deity by the ignorant people. At length he made his escape, byswimming, and was taken aboard a British vessel, whose captain accostedhim roughly. The mariner turned aside and dashed away a tear: "I've beena god for months, and you call me a (something alliterative)beach-comber!" he exclaimed, and refused to be comforted.
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In the Wrong Paradise, and Other Stories Page 23
