From the deck you step down into the cockpit, which is our open-air drawing-room. It has seats all round, nicely cushioned, and we sit or lie there most of the day. The compass is there, and the wheel, so the man at the wheel always keeps us company. Here, also, is the companion, and at the bottom of the stair on the right-hand side is the captain’s room.
Straight ahead is the main- or after-cabin, a nice bright place with a skylight and four port-holes. There are four sofas that can be turned into beds if need be, and there are lockers under them in which our clothes are stored away. Above and behind each sofa is a berth concealed by white lace curtains on brass rods, and in these berths we three women are laid away as on shelves each night to sleep.
There is a table fastened to the floor in the centre of the cabin, covered with crimson Utrecht velvet. The sofas are upholstered to match, and the carpet is crimson Brussels. There is one large, heavy swivel-chair, and opposite the entrance is a mirror let into the wall, with two small shelves under it. On each side of this mirror is a door. The one to the right leads, through a small dressing-room with a fixed basin, to Lloyd’s cabin, and beyond that again is the forward cabin, or dining-room. The door to the left opens into another small dressing-room, and beyond this is Louis’s sleeping-room. It is very roomy, with both a bed and a sofa in it, so that he will be very comfortable; and at night, when we are all in bed, all the port-holes and skylights and doors are left open for the sake of air.
The dining-room has a long table and chairs, two mirrors at the end, and between the doors a very ugly picture of fruits and cake. Louis would fain cover it up if we could spare a flag with which to do it. Two doors at the further end lead to the pantry and galley, and beyond these are the men’s quarters.
Clearly, the boat was good enough, although it seems rather unfair that the gentlemen aboard got their own cabins, while the women slept on what appear to have been glorified bunks. It soon became evident, however, that the big question was whether the charterers were up to snuff: upon arriving in San Francisco to inspect the Casco, it became clear the Stevenson entourage was also subject to close scrutiny from Doctor Merritt. He had no great need for money, but he truly loved his yacht and had no wish to charter her to undesirables. The Stevenson party was not promising. In addition to the gawky, frail bohemian author, there was his mother, well into her seventies, and Fanny Stevenson, already greying and prone to bouts of hypochondria (just prior to departure, she claimed she had throat cancer). Hardly a promising bunch and, initially, Dr Merritt was sceptical as Margaret Stevenson noted:
He had heard that Louis had a mother, and was not at all sure of allowing an old woman to sail on his beloved yacht, so he insisted on seeing me before he left. When I came in I found a very stout man, with a strong and humorous face, who sat still in his chair and took a good look at me. Then he held out his hand, with the remark, ‘you’re a healthy-looking woman! ‘ – so I am to be allowed on board, as he thinks I am good for a seven months’ trip. But he added, ‘The yacht is the apple of my eye, – you may think your husband loves you, but I can assure you that I love my yacht a great deal better, and I am just afraid that you will run away with her and never bring her back. Remember, if you do, I’ll be after you with a revenue cutter, and when I catch you … !’
Despite this reassuring interview, it is telling that Dr Merritt, having cast a cursory medical eye over the collection of skin and bones that was Stevenson, made Captain Otis stow aboard the Casco all that was required for a burial at sea. He was, however, convinced that the famous writer was a reasonably knowledgeable sailor. Thus, all was settled and the Casco was chartered for the princely sum of $500 per month plus all expenses incurred during the trip. Stevenson was able to justify this hefty outlay as he had signed a deal to have his letters from the Pacific serialised in the US and Britain.
The route settled on would take the vessel first to the Marquesas, then thread through the Paumotus to Tahiti, from thence to Hawaii and then, presumably, back to San Francisco. In doing this, Stevenson followed almost precisely the path that Herman Melville took through the Islands aboard various whaling vessels back in the 1840s. Whether this was deliberate or not is unclear. Certainly Stevenson would have consulted with Captain Otis who would have probably encouraged this route, as it is the most seamanlike way to take in these islands. A couple of decades later Jack London’s Snark made the mistake of visiting Hawaii first (see London’s chapter) and then endured a tortuous passage across to the Marquesas, battling unfavourable currents and contrary winds along the way, so perhaps plain common sense dictated the route. Still, all of this lay in the uncertain future as the Casco turned her back on San Francisco and was towed out to sea by the tug, Pelican. The Pacific does not always live up to its name and immediately the Casco was out in the open ocean, she was exposed to the huge boisterous ground swells that come rolling across this great stretch of water. The women on board were greatly alarmed, with Margaret noting that, ‘Even the mountains of the coast, were shut out entirely. Our vessel seemed very small among those enormous waves, and I felt nervous when I saw how she heeled over; however, I was told it was all right.’
The Casco was actually in her element and made a number of fast runs in these rollicking conditions, for she was a flyer and the long, rolling swells married to a fresh beam wind would have ensured she skimmed the ocean like a bird on the wing. That said, her low freeboard would have meant she was a caution in a heavy sea, and she frequently put her rail under, scooping up gallons of water at a time. Stevenson was a natural sailor exhilarated by the freedom and speed of the flying yacht and the fresh, clean sea air, ‘better than wine’ as he wrote at the time. He clearly did not suffer from seasickness, unlike his wife, who was constantly ill during rough weather.
Out in the great expanse of the Pacific, all would have felt vulnerable. No doubt the fulcrum of the ship was Captain Otis, the bluff, flinty sailor who they were all relying on to get them to the Marquesas safely. Otis had long harboured a desire to cruise the South Seas, but he was far from delighted when he first surveyed his motley crew. He did, however, profess a liking for Stevenson’s Treasure Island and was fast coming to admire its author. He gives a fascinating insight into Stevenson when he recounted their first meeting:
To say that I was favourably impressed with the great author would be stretching the truth – Imagine a man of medium height, so painfully thin that his clothes seemed a burden to him, his brown hair falling to his shoulders around a face of deathlike whiteness, but alight with the most fascinating brown eyes I had ever seen. It took me some time to discover Nature’s purpose in giving the man such an unusual pair of eyes; but I finally determined that they were indicant of strength of character, accompanying absolute fearlessness. This discovery created so deep an impression on my mind that I forgot for a time the startling physical weakness of the man. But as soon as I was alone the thought returned to me with some force, that before sailing I had better make the necessary arrangements for his death at sea; in fact, as I looked him over in my mind, without the tonic of his sustaining eyes, I did not believe it would be possible for him to make the trip and return alive. But there was one thing that I liked about him from the first: he never referred to his calling in his conversation – never talked shop to strangers; one might have taken him for a lawyer, or a secretary, or a musician, or a man of any other occupation, if you depended upon him to enlighten you.
There seems to have been a mutual respect between the pair. It is possible the author saw something of his curmudgeonly but well-meaning father in this man who was later used as the template for the rather fractious, opinionated old Captain Nares in his book The Wrecker. This cordiality between Stevenson and Otis was very important, for, in the cramped environs of a yacht, there was little room for friction between captain and owner and Stevenson was essentially the owner of the Casco for the duration of the cruise. The ladies liked him far less, and he did little to ingratiate himself to Margaret when, on being
asked by her if he had read any of Stevenson’s novels he replied that he had read Treasure Island and this made him disinclined to read any more. Margaret was mortified but her son, who heard the exchange, came up and congratulated him on his frankness. It is possible that Otis’ bluntness contrasted well with the many sycophants Stevenson must have encountered as a successful novelist.
When assessing Otis, you must also understand how annoying it is for a skipper who constantly finds guests interfering and getting in the way and there are a number of references to his irritation with the ladies. Fanny is admonished for talking with the helmsman and distracting him, the ladies are constantly nagged about leaving the portlights open, which let in water if the yacht heeled over excessively. Perhaps Margaret notes the most revealing exchange thus: ‘Fanny said to the captain one day, “What would you do if Mrs. Stevenson were to fall overboard?” And the captain, who loves a joke, solemnly replied, ‘Put it in the log!’
Otis also had other worries; he was concerned at how shorthanded he was in the heavy conditions. Indeed, had he fallen overboard, the remainder would have been in quite severe straits, as there were no other competent navigators aboard. Thankfully, he held on tight and on the fifth day out the Casco was treated to the stirring sight of a British windjammer running full and bye before the breeze and racing along at 15 knots and more. The vessel overhauled them and then vanished sail after sail below the horizon, a beautiful interlude to the tedium of an ocean voyage.
By day nine, the Casco was still flying before the breeze, breasting the feathery swells with joyous abandon. As a matter of fact, she was right on the edge of a severe cyclonic storm and Otis must have been deeply preoccupied with what to do next. He knew from all the signs in the weather that he was either on the extreme eastward or westward edge of the storm and must turn away to avoid it. Make the wrong decision and he would plunge the Casco into the heart of this fearsome adversary. Otis rolled the dice and turned west, running before the breeze setting every stitch of canvas that he dared carry.
As luck would have it, he made the right decision and the Casco sailed serenely on. Approaching the Marquesas, however, the schooner received a true dusting down at the hands of these unpredictable waters when she was almost overwhelmed by a white squall, which caught the crew unawares, as Otis later recalled:
The squall, which was as black as a black cat, first passed the yacht to leeward; when well off the quarter, it suddenly turned and came down upon us, like the dropping of a cloak. All whips were let go, and the wheel was put hard down; but before the Casco could be brought into the wind, she was struck and knocked down until the wind spilled out her sails, and the edge of the house was under water, with the sea pouring over the cockpit in a torrent. It looked dangerous for a while, and I can imagine that those below, except, perhaps, Stevenson, must have been in a pretty tremor.
Stevenson put it in even more picturesque, if somewhat incomprehensible, terms when he wrote: ‘We cam’ so near gaun heels ower hurdies, that I really dinnae ken why we didnae athegither.’
Make of that what you will. The big plus side of the trip so far was that it was doing Stevenson’s health the absolute power of good and never has the term ‘a new lease of life’ seemed more fitting than in his case. He was clearly the most comfortable and robust traveller aboard the Casco and was also thoroughly enjoying himself. His final reward was the first sight of land at 5am on 28 July 1888. He described the moment beautifully:
The first experience can never be repeated. The first love, the first sunrise, the first South Sea Island, are memories apart and touched a virginity of sense. On the 28th of July 1888 the moon was an hour down by four in the morning. In the east a radiating centre of brightness told of the day; and beneath, on the skyline, the morning bank was already building, black as ink … the customary thrill of landfall heightened by the strangeness of the shores that we were then approaching. Slowly they took shape in the attenuating darkness. Ua-huna, piling up to a truncated summit, appeared the first upon the starboard bow; almost abeam arose our destination, Nuka-hiva, whelmed in cloud; and betwixt and to the southward, the first rays of the sun displayed the needles of Ua-pu. These pricked about the line of the horizon; like the pinnacles of some ornate and monstrous church, they stood there, in the sparkling brightness of the morning, the fit signboard of a world of wonders.
The land heaved up in peaks and rising vales; it fell in cliffs and buttresses; its colour ran through fifty modulations in a scale of pearl and rose and olive; and it was crowned above by opalescent clouds. The suffusion of vague hues deceived the eye; the shadows of clouds were confounded with the articulations of the mountains; and the isle and its unsubstantial canopy rose and shimmered before us like a single mass. There was no beacon, no smoke of towns to be expected, no plying pilot. Somewhere, in that pale phantasmagoria of cliff and cloud, our haven lay concealed …
Thence we bore away along shore. On our port beam we might hear the explosions of the surf; a few birds flew fishing under the prow; there was no other sound or mark of life, whether of man or beast, in all that quarter of the island. Winged by her own impetus and the dying breeze, the Casco skimmed under cliffs, opened out a cove, showed us a beach and some green trees, and flitted by again, bowing to the swell. The trees, from our distance, might have been hazel; the beach might have been in Europe; the mountain forms behind modelled in little from the Alps, and the forest which clustered on their ramparts a growth no more considerable than our Scottish heath. Again the cliff yawned, but now with a deeper entry; and the Casco, hauling her wind, began to slide into the bay of Anaho. The cocoa-palm, that giraffe of vegetables, so graceful, so ungainly, to the European eye so foreign, was to be seen crowding on the beach, and climbing and fringing the steep sides of mountains. Rude and bare hills embraced the inlet upon either hand; it was enclosed to the landward by a bulk of shattered mountains. In every crevice of that barrier the forest harboured, roosting and nestling there like birds about a ruin; and far above, it greened and roughened the razor edges of the summit…
It was longer ere we spied the native village, standing (in the universal fashion) close upon a curve of beach, close under a grove of palms; the sea in front growling and whitening on a concave arc of reef. For the cocoa-tree and the island man are both lovers and neighbours of the surf. ‘The coral waxes, the palm grows, but man departs,’ says the sad Tahitian proverb; but they are all three, so long as they endure, co-haunters of the beach. The mark of anchorage was a blow-hole in the rocks, near the south-easterly corner of the bay. Punctually to our use, the blow-hole spouted; the schooner turned upon her heel; the anchor plunged. It was a small sound, a great event; my soul went down with these moorings whence no windlass may extract nor any diver fish it up; and I, and some part of my ship’s company, were from that hour the bondslaves of the isles of Vivien.
This was Nuku Hiva, in the heart of the Marquesas Islands, a beautiful island first visited by Captain Cook in 1774. Nuku Hiva is fourteen miles long and ten miles wide. It is dominated by a ridge of mountains; great verdant pinnacles of rock which plunge down to the waters’ edge. Most agree that the anchorage of Anaho – once so favoured by whaling ships as a watering place – is one of the most beautiful anchorages in the South Seas. This was where Herman Melville had embarked upon the adventures related in Ty-Pee. Stevenson’s long romance with this intricate maze of islands began here; he capered around this paradise barefoot, and was delighted with his early encounters with the local population, noting in a letter to a friend in London that:
From this somewhat (ahem) out of the way place, I write to say how d’ye do. It is all a swindle: I chose these isles as having the most beastly population, and they are far better, and far more civilised than we. I know one old chief Ko-o-amua, a great cannibal in his day, who ate his enemies even as he walked home from killing ‘em, and he is a perfect gentleman and exceedingly amiable and simple-minded: no fool, though.
The climate is delightful; and th
e harbour where we lie one of the loveliest spots imaginable. Yesterday evening we had near a score natives on board; lovely parties. We have a native god; very rare now. Very rare and equally absurd to view.
The next two weeks were spent exploring the island and paying the inevitable visit to Melville’s Ty-Pee and Happar valleys. The few colonials were fascinated by the famous author and one later described him, ‘He used to go about barefoot, with his trousers and singlet-sleeves turned up, and never wore a hat’; and, ‘most every one thought he was a little crazy.’
In turn, Stevenson was largely repelled by the colonial whites and equally fascinated by the native population; delighted by almost everything about them apart from the sight of cannibal feasting places. These were a bit too much for his sensitive nature and he noted that, ‘To consider it too closely is to understand, not to excuse, these fervours of self righteous old ship captains who would man their guns and open fire in passing, on a cannibal island.’
While all of this exploring was going on, Captain Otis was wrestling with the Casco, which seemed far more at ease upon the rolling seas than the sheltered harbour and kept threatening to drag her anchor into the steep cliffs and jagged pinnacles of lava that surrounded the anchorage. After several days, she did indeed drag and it was only swift action that prevented her becoming a total loss. It was doubtless a relief to her captain when the anchor was hove up and departure was made. The relief was, however, short lived. The Casco was bound for the nearby island of Hiva Oa and endured a miserable passage, as Stevenson noted:
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