HE LOG OF NAHK YALE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY THE LOG OF THE SNARK THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK ¦ BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS ATLANTA ¦ SAN FRANCISCO MACMILLAN & CO., Limited LONDON > BOMBAY • CALCUTTA MELBOURNE THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltp. TORONTO Jack and Cluirmian London THE LOG OF THE SNARK BY CHARMIAN KITTREDGE LONDON Nmb fork THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1915 All right* restrvtd Copyright 1915 By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY Set up and electrotyped. Published, October, 1915 To MY HUSBAND who made possible these happiest and most wonderful pages of my life. LIST OF ILLUSTEATIONS Jack and Charmian London Frontispiece FACING PAGE The Oaken Frame of the Snark 26 Her Trick at the Wheel ^ Jack Harpooning I 50 Wada's Dolphin J The Beach at Taiohae 1 »„ Marquesan Tattooing / ' Marquesans Dancing 102 Human Hair Dancing Dress, Turtle Crown, and Old Men's Beards 1-122 The Nature Man in Street Costume } Snark at Tahiti Double Canoe, Bora Bora \- 156 "Porpoises!"Off for Tahaa with Tehei 1 17a Pahia, Bora-Bora J From left to right: Vaega, Mrs. London, Mr. Morrison,") Tuimanua I gnf, Off Manua f zuu Upolu J }224 Lava-choked Graves \ okq Pa Williams Samoa / Graves 1 Lava Pouring into the Sea, Savaii / } 3W J Houseboys at Pennduffyrn 1 328 A Dream of the Southern Seas / Samoan Fale Bush Woman, Tana ]¦ 275 Taupous, Samoa Port Resolution, Tana The Skipper, "After Suva" }. 304 The Puzzled Monkey-Brow LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS A Tambo Canoe House 1 oeg Mangrove J A Kingpost and a King 376 Ugi 400 The Impact of Civilisation 1 4oq Houseboys at Pennduffryn J ' GuadalcanalThe Squall off Lord Howe J. 454 A Cannibal Venice } } Snark Careened at Meringe The Rembrandt Skipper [ 480 A Polynesian Prince THE BEGINNING It was all due to Captain Joshua Slocum and his Spray, plus our own wayward tendencies. We read him aloud to the 1905 camp children at Wake Robin Lodge, in the Val ley of the Moon, as we sat in the hot sun resting between water fights and games of tag in the deep swimming pool. Sailing Alone Around the World was the name of. the book, and when Jack closed the cover on the last chapter, there was a new idea looking out of his eyes. Joshua Slocum did it all alone, in a thirty-seven-foot sloop. Why could not we do it, in a somewhat larger boat, with a little more sociable crew? Jack and I loved the water, and a long voyage was our dream. He and Roscoe fell at once to discussing the scheme, the rest of us listening fascinated. This was a few months before we were married. "Say we start five years from now," figured Jack, who always seems to be making plans for a tangible eternity. "We'll build our house on the ranch and get the place started with orchard and vines and livestock, at the same time going ahead with boat-drawings and building a yacht to suit. Five years will not be too much time." Then, privily, he asked what I thought of it. Too good to be true, was what I thought; but why wait so long? We'd never be younger than we were, and, besides, what was the good of putting up a home and leaving it for seven years? — seven years being the time roughly calculated to carry out our far-reaching plan. I won the day. And the boat. She should be ketch-rigged, like the Eng lish fishing boats on the Dogger Bank. We had never seen viii THE BEGINNING a ketch, but knew that for our purpose it combined the virtues of both schooner and yawl. There should be six feet of head-room, under flush decks unbroken save by com- panionway, skylights, and hatches. The roomy cockpit should be sunk deep beneath the deck, high-railed and self- bailing. There should be no hold, all space being occupied by accoutrement, and engines — one a seventy horse-power auxiliary, and one five horse-power to spin out electric lights and fans. Forty-five feet should be her water-line, with a length over all of fifty-seven feet. She should draw six feet, with no inside ballast, but with fifty tons of iron on the keel. There should be used only the strongest and best materials of every kind — a solid, serviceable deep-sea craft, the strongest of her size ever constructed. But we counted without the Great Earthquake of April 18, 1906. The vessel was already begun, and the iron keel was actually to have been cast the night of April 18. Fol lowing that date, what we did not suffer from damage to other property, was inflicted by post-earthquake conditions which made our shipbuilding triply expensive and incom prehensibly protracted. Everybody and everything went mad; and it was nearly a year after the delayed laying of her doughty keel that the yacht, unfinished, unclean, her seventy horse-power engine a heap of scrap-iron from the ignorant tinkering that had been done to it, sailed from California for Hawaii, manned, or unmanned, by a more or less discouraged crew, whose original adventurous spirits and efficiency had been sorely dampened by the weary post ponement of departure dates. The final one was set behind an extra week-end by a ship chandler who libelled the yacht because he was afraid he would not get his last bill paid, the while Jack was settling accounts right and left aboard the boat, one pocket full of gold and silver, the other con taining check-book and fountain pen. However, Jack and I were undaunted, if sad and puzzled, and all those months of waiting worked hard to meet the THE BEGINNING ix expenses of incredible mismanagement, going about drown ing our disgust in libations of poetry, such, for instance, as : Or, "We must go, go, go away from here; On the other side the world we're overdue." "You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind, And the thresh of the deep-sea rain ; You have heard the song — how long? how long? Pull out on the trail again!" I am sure we ought to thank Mr. Kipling for contributing largely to our undauntedness. The naming of the yacht was not the least of our diffi culties. Friends were prolific with Petrels and Sea Birds; they even dared White Wings and Sea Wolves, not to men tion Calls of the Wild. Jack recalled Mr. Lewis Carroll's The Hunting of the Snark, and held that name up as a warning inducement for better suggestions. Such were not forthcoming, and when we sailed for Hawaii, the elliptic American stern bore the gilded inscription: SNARK San Francisco Now the way my Log came to be written was mostly due to Jack. Be it known that he detests letter-writing, although a more enthusiastic recipient of correspondence never slit an envelope. His friends consider him sheerly selfish, but I can vouch that he is very busy. At any rate, when I decided to keep a typewritten diary, to be circulated in lieu of indi vidual letters, my husband hailed the scheme with acclaim. And here it is, my journal — the one accurate, continuous story of the adventures of the Snark, from San Francisco Bay to the Cannibal Isles. Chabmian Kittredge London. Aboard Yacht Roamer, Sacramento River, January, 1915. J ... To burst all links of habit — there to wander far away, On from island unto island at the gateways of the day." THE LOG OF THE SNARK THE LOG OF THE SNARK Aboard the Snark, Pacific Ocean, Thursday, April 25, 1907. IT is too good to keep any longer, this joy of living that is beginning to make itself felt aboard the Snark. For an hour I've been dangling my feet over the edge of the life-boat lashed on the deck to windward, watching the purple water swash in and out of the lee scuppers. Our midday meal is finished, concocted by Martin and myself (Martin has been and still is a little worse off from sea sickness than I), and we are all comfortably lazy. And speaking of the joy of living as felt aboard the Snark, it is a matter of degree. Martin has not yet come to feel it; and Tochigi, our alleged cabin-boy, has succumbed to the effects of mai de mer with the characteristic abandon of the Asiatic. He can't or thinks he can't lift a finger, and as there are many fingers necessarily to be lifted in the manage ment of the ship, he is very much needed in our midst. But the water is purple, and I am recovering from my seasickness, which seemed quite violent to me, but was in reality a mild attack. Roscoe and Bert have had no nausea, but a heavy lassitude has taken the place of ordinary seasickness. The five-horse-power engine is pumping ' ' juice ' ' into the storage batteries, our dinner is settling in the most encouraging manner, the life-boat is being packed with staples of diet, for emergency, the deck has been hosed down — al though Jack was the only one with energy enough to make a start at it; and, joy of joys, the Snark, under mainsail, staysail, jib, and flying-jib, is steering herself night and day. This is a great relief, because several hours at the wheel, keeping the course (south by east), is very monotonous, as 3 4 THE LOG OF THE SNARK well as tiring to the untried spine. But we keep a wary eye upon the compass, and of course set regular watches at night. We have been out only three days from Oakland wharf and all the souls who waved us farewell and fair weather; but there is so much to tell. To begin with, the water is purple, and such purple ! Jack and I took a trip out to the end of the bowsprit this afternoon, and sat for a long time watching our little white ship cleave the amethyst flood. Afterward we lay over the stern-rail, looking at the red- gold rudder dragging through the purple. Do you remem ber that gorgeous picture by Maxfield Parrish, ' ' Sinbad the Sailor ' ' ? The colours we have seen to-day rival its oriental splendour of indigo and gold and purple. Just this moment, reminiscent of our sally out on the bow sprit, I glanced that way. Behold Jack ! arrayed in Jimmie Hopper's famous blue-and-gold sweater, gazing again at the purple water under the bow; Jimmie Hopper's first 'Varsity sweater, which we flew at our mast-head when we left Oak land. This morning Jack called to me, "Hurry on deck — the ocean is alive with Portuguese men-o'-war!" My first thought was one of alarm; next I wished Jack, would say "water" instead of "ocean" — the latter sounded so remote. (Tou see, in my inner consciousness I am still on land.) Then I oriented myself, took a good look at the "mighty wet," the "prodigious damp" that encompassed us, and be gan to shake the land-dust out of my brain. The fearsome Portuguese men-o'-war turned out to be pretty, jelly-like bits of life- — turquoise-blue, transparent organisms, each with a milky, finny sail hoisted to the breeze. The sea was float ing countless myriads of them, and we hauled one or two aboard in a canvas bucket, finding them no less beautiful at close range. Then the gunies. (I said there was much to tell.) First day, one guny; second day, two gunies ; to-day, four gunies. And they will eat anything but orange-peel. A human be- THE LOG OF THE SNARK 5 ing is the only animal that has sense enough to make use of orange-peel — though he disguises it pretty thoroughly be fore he finds it palatable. A guny — in case you don't happen to know — looks like a dark-grey, overgrown seagull, until he essays to fold his wings upon the water. Then there is a difference. I say "tries" to fold his wings, because each attempt appears to be a brand-new experiment, each experi ment rivalling the last in awkwardness. Once folded down, the three-jointed pinions do not always seem to sit comfort ably, whereupon the bird fusses around and re-settles them until, possibly, another bird has eaten what he was after. These are the birds that get seasick when they are captured. I'd like to see something seasick besides a human being. And I'd like to see Tochigi make even a feeble attempt to be something else than a corpse. It cannot be possible that he enjoys seasickness! He was ever a willing worker. But do not think for a moment that watching gunies and Portuguese men-o'-war and purple seas have been my only occupations. I have cleaned up the greasy, filthy, littered floors of the engine room, the bathroom, two staterooms, and, with poor sick Martin's help, the cabin. I did not think I could stay so long below; but the mess was unbearable, al though it did not seem to bother any one but Jack and me. You should have seen my hands these three days. But I have made merry with much soap, strong ammonia, and as little precious fresh water as was practicable. Now I feel more like a white woman. Have I said anything about the weather? It would not do to leave the weather out of a Log. We anchored off the Alameda Pier the day we bade Oakland good-bye, Monday, and spent the night there under starry skies. The next day was overcast ; Wednesday was overcast ; Thursday, to-day, is overcast, and we have had no observation. Our patent log registers about seventy-five miles for the past twenty-four hours and now, at five o'clock p.m., we are swinging along in a fresh breeze, still overcast, a faint silver sunset on the grey horizon. 6 THE LOG OF THE SNARK Later. — They are rigging up a topsail to put speed on the yacht, and Bert has climbed the mainmast to straighten out something. He is a goodly sight, clinging high, his bare, powerful arms working at the swaying masthead. The extra sail is making the boat drive faster, but something is wrong with it, and although adding to our speed, it is so horribly ill-setting that Roscoe is promptly taking it down. And oh ! it's great, this rush of wind and wave — a wonderful new life, all the working of this little world of plank and iron and brass and canvas. And if I can feel enthusiasm while my stomach is still wavering between belt and throat, fancy the enjoyment to come. At sea, Friday, April 26, 1907. This has been a very exciting day. Listen : Jack shaved, and I washed my face and hands. If you are inclined to smile at our simple pleasures and excitements, stop and con sider if it is really funny for a water-loving crowd to go without washing for forty-eight hours or so. I love to wash my hands. Ordinarily I wash them a thousand times a day, more or less. So imagine the black filth and oil and grease and the seasickness that could make me more contented to sleep and wake in grime than to make a fight for cleanliness. I hope that I may never again be so soiled and unkempt. However, there's nothing like being adaptable. It is what makes a trip around the world. I further celebrated to-day by manicuring Jack's and my own nails. It took me all of three hours. If I move too rapidly, I'm liable to lose my latest meal. I am having my turn at the prevalent lassitude, lying in the life-boat for hours without ambition enough to open my eyes. The crew seems to be demoralised. Work doesn't go on. There is no system about anything, and this spirit is contagious. Jack is growing restive, but has not yet interfered. Some piece of work on deck is begun, and never finished, and the gen eral lack of interest is astounding. The sky is overcast, for a change, and winds are variable. THE LOG OF THE SNARK 7 Eighty miles have been left behind since yesterday noon. We are beginning to wonder about all the fish Jack promised us, for we have not seen a single one. Jack trolls, but has no luck. There is not even a flying-fish, the herald of the king, which is the dolphin. The Portuguese men-o'-war still escort us, and an occasional guny easts a shadow on the deck. Oh! for a sunny day. These cloudy skies are indescribably depressing. They are not heavy clouds — every now and then the blue breaks through or a bit of sunlight straggles down, only to withdraw again behind the pall. I can see my first stormy petrels, Mother Cary's chickens. (Note. If I make any mistakes, please remember that I am calling things by the names that are given me by those aboard who have either sailed the seas before, or have read extensively about the sea. Now, I don't know whether yon sable scav engers are yclept gunies or gonies. No one, upon being pressed, can help me out. I can only go my phonetic way — even the dictionary fails me. Jack and Roscoe pronounce it goo-ny, and "guny" is as near as I care to come to that. There is nothing so valuable as a husband upon whom a woman can shirk her responsibilities.) Tochigi came to life to-night while the rest of us were trying to consume a shifting dinner (except Martin, who peered jealously down from his bunk-shelf at the table he had furnished and of which he could not partake) — Tochigi, I say, came to life and feebly piped over the edge of his bunk: "Mr. London, I think I could take my watch to night." Of course we knew he couldn't — he was weak as a whisper; but it was encouraging to hear him offer, he had so utterly succumbed up to then. While the rest of us who are seasick are alternately working and sloughing off our nourishment, he refuses to leave his bunk except for the last- named exigency (which has become rather attenuated by now), and meanwhile his cabin- work lapses and conditions below are unspeakable. If I looked at it all with land-eyes, I know I could not stand it. But I brought an extra pair of eyes with me, for it doesn't always pay to observe too 8 THE LOG OF THE SNARK closely. I have earnestly tried to ease the disorder below, but cannot keep abreast of the accumulation; besides, it makes Jack indignant to see me do it. The aforesaid joy of living is considerably dampened by the demoralisation aboard. We had a three-handed game of Hearts before eight, this evening, after which I took my watch, from eight until ten. The moon showed occasionally, in a sickly, unwilling sort of way, and the sunset ought to have been ashamed of itself. At sea, Saturday, April 27, 1907. This also has been an exciting day, but in a different way. There was a steady increase in wind, with the accustomed overcast sky, until it was blowing what the men called ' ' half a summer gale," although to me it seemed far more than that. In the morning we sat in and around the cockpit for a while, very jolly, talking about the colour of the water and the size of the swells and the sailing qualities of the yacht. A boat is as absorbing a topic as a horse, for lengthy discus sion. Little did we dream what we were to learn about her before the day and night were gone. You see, when a boat is built, no matter upon what lines or by what rules, no man knows what peculiarities may show up. Boats are as un certain as babies. It is too dreadful. Let me take my time. As the wind kept on freshening, sail was shortened and two reefs were put in the mainsail; and finally Jack and Roscoe decided that it would be best to heave to for the night so that all hands could have some sleep, rather than set long watches for the wise ones or to trust the steering to the green hands — as it was a case of running before the wind with a little rag of a flying-jib if we sailed at all. Toward night the weather looked very nasty indeed (I knew I'd have a chance to report some weather), the waves seemed enormous to me, the Snark rolled and pitched, water running deep across her deck, water sloshing around below THE LOG OF THE SNARK 9 and squirting up through the floors, water squeezing in through the buried side and into the galley stores and all over the dishes and stove. But the boat acted well in the heavy seas, until it came to putting her through the paces of heaving to. Heaving to means bringing a vessel's head up into the wind, the sails being trimmed to hold her that way any length of time. This means safety so long as a sail stays on a boat. Now, listen well; the Snark refused to heave to. Not all the efforts of three men for hours and hours could make her heave to. She simply wallowed — and most creditably wal lowed, it must be confessed — in the trough of the sea, but would come no farther into the wind. Fortunately the gale did not increase, nor was it cold. But oh, the hills and valleys of the ocean! There may be real storms for the Snark somewhere on the wide ocean of our adventure; but the waves this day loomed quite large enough on my new horizon. If they had been really big waves, we, rolling there in the trough, might have been turned over and over, with only a stray life-preserver left floating upon the boundless briny to tell that the Snark had been lost with all on board. And, of course, the wind might have blown harder, and the worst might have happened, with the yacht acting as she did. The final thing to be done, in a case like this, or in any ex treme case, is to put out a sea anchor, a contrivance of can vas and half-hoops that is warranted to hold to the wind the head of 'most anything that floats. So our sea-anchor was rigged up. And it failed. Then Jack and Roscoe stood by the mizzen and talked it over with serious faces. They had tried everything, every possible combination of sails that they could think of, and failed to bring the yacht up nearer than eight points into the wind, which means that we were rolling in the trough, as I have said. The men talked it over, wondered at the incredible fact of the failure, and could solve nothing of the wonder. I wish I had a picture of the three, in the pale grey moonlight that drifted through the flying clouds, leaning over the forward weather rail 10 THE LOG OF THE SNARK watching the sea-anchor. It will be with me always, that grey scene, the three darker grey forms in oilskins, the heads in sou 'westers, leaning at the same angle, hanging upon the success of that sea-anchor. There is no explaining these things that happened this day. I can only tell the facts and leave folk to wonder as we wonder. All these hours I stood in the cockpit hovering over the compass, wheel hard down, watching vainly, oh ! how vainly, for the yacht to round up into the wind, and at the same time marvelling that some of the grey seas which brimmed to the very lip of the rail did not come aboard and whelm us. I remember, some years ago, figuring out that I was too old to die young ; but this grey night, especially after I went to bed in my rubber boots, I caught myself dwelling on the con clusion that I was too young to die ! The other day I was bending over the stern watching the rudder trail golden through the purple water, when the mizzen boom unexpectedly jibed over. (This purple water will be the death of me yet.) I was in imminent danger, but knew nothing about it until Jack cried "Mate! come back! Come back! Quick!" At the same time he grabbed me and jerked me over a coil of rope and the rail into the cock pit. I might have been badly injured by the swift-swinging tackle. I can see Jack's face as he pulled me in. One sees many things in faces at such moments. The wheel needed his undivided attention to avert a possible smash-up of every thing on deck ; but the man left the ship to save the woman. "There are many boats, but only one woman," he briefly summed it up. At sea, April 28, 1907, Sunday. It is not physically restful to sleep in one's sea-boots — nor mentally restful, what of one's reasons for so sleeping. There is a sense of responsibility every moment of every night, let alone a night like last night. And little of a sailor though I am, I cannot help sharing this sense of responsibil- THE LOG OF THE SNARK 11 ity. Jack bears the heaviest share, of course ; and it is not to be wondered at, when you consider that outside of himself our only sailor is a bay-yachtsman. We ran before the wind all last night, and learned another thing about the Snark — that she can run beautifully, even if she can't — or won't — heave to. (Certain sage acquaintances of ours in San Francisco, for some unexplained reason wagged their heads over the lines of the Snark and said that in the very nature of things she would never be able to run. Why they thought so, or why they thought they thought so, they seemed unable to say. But I wish they could have seen her race that breeze last night.) Jack, Roscoe and Bert divided the hours into three watches, for I was not expected to steer in such a sea, nor did I care to attempt it. Four-hour watches are anxious stretches for a tyro in an ugly wind and sea. Coming on deck this morning, I stopped in the companion- way to watch my man at the wheel. His face, framed in the sou'wester, was toward me; but his big sad eyes were turned aside to the bitter sea. Four hours and more he had stood there guiding his boat of disappointment, his boat that will not heave to in a storm, that will not even mind that last resort, the sea-anchor — a boat that would be a death-trap on a lee-shore. But as the day wore on and the wind blew more gently, and the waves went down a bit, and the sun came out and made the water purple, every one grew more cheerful. De vices, to be worked out in Honolulu for correcting the terrible fault of the boat, were thought out and discussed, and we were able to make jokes at one another's expense, and to mourn over Aunt Villa's Christmas fruit-cake, made months before the voyage, and upon which somebody put a heavy box in the engine-room the night before. I remember going down into the dark and swash and saving a huge chunk of the shattered goody, and trying to feed it to the hungry, toiling, heart-sick men on deck. There had been no dinner, no hot coffee, nothing but disappointment and a damp bed. 12 THE LOG OF THE SNARK Martin was very ill, and gazed down from his bunk with lack-lustre eyes. I don 't know what is the matter with him. It is not all seasickness; but the seasickness is so blended with other things that one cannot name his trouble. Prob ably he has the grippe in conjunction with the seasickness. During the trouble in the night, Martin heard Jack mutter something about "Twenty-five thousand dollars gone to blazes," or words to that effect, and somehow gathered that the Snark was about to go down with all hands. But even this dismal prospect did not in the least jog his apathy. Tochigi continues bunk-ridden, and the pig-pen situation below abates no jot. Jack has an accession of disgust and discouragement whenever I try to ameliorate the awfulness — says it's a little too much to have his wife doing the work of two men. So I do things surreptitiously, although it is rather hard to be surreptitious in such close quarters; and then I wax philosophical again about the filth, and the futility of one small woman trying to keep abreast of the accumulation. At this point I climb the greasy, sooty, slip pery companionway of beautiful but disguised teak, and seek surcease from sordidness in the cockpit where Jack, Roscoe, and Bert are discussing the weather. (Jack can be found at the wheel, steering and reading, any hour of the day after his morning work is finished. No one ever sug gests relieving him.) Then I forget the desperate dirt in the exhilaration of the speed we are making, reeling off the knots at the rate of ten an hour and sometimes eleven. A knot is eight hundred feet longer than a land-mile. So figure out our speed when the Snark is walking along in a fair wind. Other times three knots will be the tale of the gay little patent log over the stern; but even so, that is seventy-two knots in the twenty-four hours. We sailed beautifully to-day. We must do justice to the yacht's fine points, even if she is treacherous and may drown us all. Jack says he never heard of a sailing vessel that would not heave to, although some steamers are so con structed that they are obliged to heave to stern-first. Her THE LOG OF THE SNARK 13 failure to do what was expected of her last night was a fitting culmination to all the distress of the building— the unaccountable delays, the frightful waste of money in material and worthless labour, down to the attachment on our sailing day, for $242.86, put on the boat by that wretched old ship chandler, Sellers, who did not even first send over his bill. And Jack had paid him thousands of dollars in the preceding months, and was waiting for all final bills to come in for settlement before he sailed, waiting with pen and checkbook in one pocket, and another pocket full of gold. And now think of his feelings, after all his troubles, to find that his own boat is the only one he ever heard of that refused to perform the important and necessary function of heaving to. He declares it is enough to make a man turn to wine and actresses and race horses, to be so thwarted in his clean and wholesome scheme to gain pleasure. I shall try to persuade him to stay by the ship ! The sea is not a lovable monster. And monster it is. I thought a great many thoughts about it last night, those hours I studied the binnacle or watched the men make their fight. It is beautiful, the sea, always beautiful in one way or another; but it is cruel, and unmindful of the life that is in it and upon it. It was cruel last evening, in the lurid low sunset that made it glow dully, to the cold, mocking, ragged moonrise that made it look like death. The waves positively beckoned when they rose and pitched toward our bit boat labouring in the trough. And all the long night it seemed to me that I heard voices through the planking, talking, talking, endlessly, monotonously, querulously; and I couldn't make out whether it was the ocean calling from the outside or the ship herself muttering gropingly, finding herself. If the voices are the voices of the ship, they will soon cease, for she must find herself. But if they are the voices of the sea, they must be sad sirens that cry, restless, questioning, unsatisfied — quaint homeless little sirens. 14 THE LOG OF THE SNARK At sea, Thursday, May 2, 1907. If something does not occur soon, my log's items will be reduced to: No fish, light breeze, large swells, growing warmer, Martin and Tochigi improving, also bill of fare, like wise appetites. We had a little variation, however, on Mon day, the 29th, when Roscoe took his first observation. We found ourselves in 31° 15' 21" North Latitude, 126° 48' 8" West Longitude, with 120 knots to our credit in the preced ing twenty-four hours, in a fresh northwest breeze. About sunset on the same day we sighted a full-rigged ship several miles off. She crossed our bows and disappeared in the twi light, sailing a west by south course. That night, Martin being very ill, I took his watch as well as my own — four hours on end. And when I did go below, I could not rest, for the wind was lively, and I had a sense of responsibility during the watches of the green hands. My worry is a reflection of Jack's, which is based on the fact that our crew seem to regard this voyage as a mere picnic on the breast of an unruffled lake. Jack has sailed deep water before; and while standing the same watches as the others, he has the entire responsibility as well. The other day he called all hands aft and gave them a very short and very mild lecture on system and discipline aboard ship. He had made no sign, but as no one had displayed any ambition to improve the appearance of the boat, above or below, he thought he would try a little talk. It will probably be resented in the long run ; but things could not go on as they were. My eight-to-ten night watches are a never-ending joy. Such gaudy fan-rays of sunset, and such distorted moonrises, the weird light mingling with the phosphorescence in the water ; and I often lie over the stern rail looking down at the rudder leaving behind a "welt of light" like a comet's tail. The little waves break and crumple in wild-fire, and every thing is a wonder. One thinks calmly and simply these hours alone at night upon the ocean. Artificialities and conven tions and the strains of ordinary life are remote and trivial. Jack is at work on a boat article, entitling it ' ' The Incon- THE LOG OF THE SNARK 15 ceivable and Monstrous." It deals with the outrageous cir cumstances under which the Snark was built, following the earthquake and fire; and it deals with the worthless work and materials that were given us for our money. For in stance, the "gooseneck" on the main gaff has broken short off. It took three men two hours to substitute another gooseneck, which had to be worked out of a spare gaff that belongs to another sail. Half an hour after it was tried, it snapped. This being the last one we had, the gaff was lashed to the mast with rope — and in this trig and seamanlike shape shall we enter the port of Honolulu, like a sea-bird paddling along with a broken wing. Now please take note that both of these wrought iron goosenecks were made to order. I wonder what the maker had against us! And never for a moment do we forget that our staunch little ship will not heave to. A year ago to-day, Jack and I set out upon a long horseback trip up the California coast. It just came over me, sitting here in the midst of the wide ocean — the feel of the sweet country, the perfume of mountain lilac, the warm summer-dusty air. What a life we live, and how we do live it while we live it! At sea, Friday, May 3, 1907. This is the northeast trade-wind with a vengeance. The Snark is sailing before it, with a regular but heavy roll that made me stuff a pillow between my body and the ship 's side last night before I could get any sleep. Bert has had a cold dip under the bowsprit, and now, in a red bathing suit and a scarlet Stanford rooter's hat, is helping Roscoe put to rights the "boatswain's locker." Our deck, what of desultory scrubbings and much sea-swashing, looks fairly respectable. Jack got Tochigi up and put him at the wheel, and the enforced exercise made a great improve ment in his condition. Martin is able to cook an occasional meal, and jn fancy's, flights serves up many delicacies of the 16 THE LOG OF THE SNARK deep, such as sharks, whales, and dolphins. Because the vegetables that came aboard in Oakland were almost entirely worthless, our cuisine is mostly garnered from tins — and the bean-bag. Saturday, May 4, 1907. We are bowling fast into the Torrid Zone, into Hawaiian weather. I am sitting on the rudder-box, steering with my feet while I write. Oh, this water, and this brave trade wind. The big sapphire hills of water, transparent and sun-shot, are topped with dazzling white that blows from crest to crest in the compelling wind. Just now a huge swell picked us up and swung us high, and the merest little fling of salt spray was in our faces. The Snark is what sailors call a "dry" boat. And she sails easily, without jerks or bumps. Along comes a blue mountain that looks like disaster; and we slip over it and down into the blue abyss on the other side, without a jar — just a huge, rolling slide. And ever the strong sweet wind blows from behind, sending us forward to the isles of our desire. The steering-compass has become a part of my conscious ness, sleeping and waking; and I often go amidships and hover over the big Standard Compass. I think in terms of "south by west," and "south half west," and other expressions that were Greek to me a month ago. I can "luff her up," too, when the men are aloft fixing something. And I can box the compass. Jack calls me various jolly names, such as "The skipper's sweetheart," "The Cracker jack, " "Jack's wife," and I swell with pride and feel very salty indeed. And I am reminded to mention that when we call each other "Mate," this has no connection with boats, but is an interchangeable nickname. Monday, May 6, 1907. To-day is the first time I have felt that we are actu ally bound for Polynesia, and all backward thoughts are swinging round to the goal. The boys have the big chart THE LOG OF THE SNARK 17 stretched over the book-ease in the cabin, with our course, so far travelled, marked upon it. It looks a staggery course, for we let the yacht steer herself much of the time, under short canvas, to save being continually at the wheel ; and we are not in the least hurry. If the mizzen were hoisted, and some one at the wheel all the time, there would be a differ ent story, for the Snark can walk right along with half a chance. She shakes her heels pretty well even as things are, with a heavy load and crippled mainsail, her staysail and two jibs. The sky has been clearing, and we are able to dry a little of the dampness below. I wonder if we shall ever get things running with any discipline. No one seems to care. Roscoe came on the voyage as sailing master, but he doesn't take charge ; which laxness demoralises the rest. My fitful night marish sleep is troubled with trying to get the crew to do something, or of trying to get the Snark away from San Francisco. Waking, I put my hands to all sorts of strange tasks, to see if it will not encourage the others. Even Tochigi, now well on the mend, cannot seem to realise that this is home, and that the same round of duties obtains on a boat as in a house. But we shall get harmony out of it all yet. Thursday, May 9, 1907. Another item of the Inconceivable and Monstrous: Day before yesterday, when the men tried to set our spinnaker for the first time — the beautiful wing of speed that stretches overside — an important piece of wrought iron on the boom threatened to give way. So we shall have no spinnaker to shorten our time to Honolulu. The deck has been washed! — I do not say scrubbed, or swabbed, because dripping a few pailfuls of water over the planking is neither scrubbing nor swabbing, nor will it re move the accumulated dirt. I should not have known the deck was being washed except that my decklight was open and I was slumbering thereunder when the deluge came. 18 THE LOG OF THE SNARK Jack and I have decided that although we wish we were a little younger than we are, we are glad we are not too young. Extreme youth must be the trouble with the rest (barring the sailing master, who is sixty), for the spirit of adventure seems far from them. While Jack and I are on deck or out on the questing bowsprit, enjoying the glorious sun and flowing air, watching for the life of the deep and congratulating ourselves on the mere fact of living, the others stay in the dim and musty cabin, reading or talking or sleeping, or just sitting listlessly with idle hands. It must be that we knew what we wanted, Jack and I, and are get ting what we knew we wanted. We have sailed well in a fair wind to-day, with a big sea, and followed by some spike-tailed grey and white birds called "boatswain birds," because of their hoarse, exhort ing cries, which are supposed to resemble those of the ordi nary ship's boatswain — pronounced "bo's'n," of course. Jack has begun a new article, to be entitled "Adven ture." It deals with the numberless and varied individuals who applied for berths in the Snark for this world-voyage. This day ended with a wild tropic sunset that lingered for a long while — a sunset of brilliant white and silver, with only faint suggestions of gold and red, and great broad rays flaring up from the horizon, fanwise. It was nothing like any land sunset we ever saw, and when the sun had dropped below the crinkly horizon, a copper streak persisted, for nearly an hour blending a ruddy tinge with the dull purple of the water. At sea, Friday, May 10, 1907. Ominous black clouds pressed down upon the seascape during my watch last evening, and there was such an ac cession of brave trade wind and so imminent a rainsquaU that I called Roscoe to take the next watch instead of To chigi. Nothing alarming happened, only an exasperating rolling of the sea. And they say to me, "Wait until you're in a gale, sometime, and see what real rolling is!" I am THE LOG OF THE SNARK 19 waiting, as I am waiting for the promised dolphins and bonitas. Tired out trying to get a morning nap, I joined Jack at the wheel before six. It was my first sunrise at sea, and the great morning sky was a whirl of tinted clouds poured over with melting sunshine, a glossy sapphire satin ocean reflecting the glory. And we saw a fish, we did, we did! — and it was a flying-fish. If you don't believe me, ask Jack. He saw two. He shouted, "Flying-fish! Flying- fish!" and went right up in the air. Now the fish-line is trolling for dolphin, for there should be dolphin where are flying-fish. Later in the day Jack enticed me out to the tip-end of the bowsprit, with a heavy sea rolling. I must frankly admit that I felt shaky climbing out, my feet on a steel stay only a few inches above the crackling foam, and my hands cling ing to the lunging spar itself. But the end was worth the pains, and it was wonderful to watch the yacht swing mag nificently over the undulating blue hills, now one side buried in the rushing, dazzling smother, now the other, the sunshot turquoise water rolling back from the shining, cleav ing white bows, and mixing with the milky froth pressed under. We gained such manifold impressions of the boat from our vantage at the end of the bowsprit. Now the man at the wheel would be far, far below us, a great slaty moun tain rolled up behind him, and the uneven horizon high in air; now he was 'way above us, sliding down that same mountain. But he never overtook us, for about that time we were raising our feet from the wet into which they had been plunged, and were holding on for dear life as the Snark' s doughty forefoot pawed another steep rise. But this day has not been all gladness. I did the initial suffering, and Jack suffered vicariously. He knew noth ing about it until, following me below to play a game of cribbage, he found me sitting on the floor at the foot of the companion-stairs, unable to speak a word. Before me sat Roscoe, watching me curiously. Above us, Martin eyed me suspiciously, and ventured tentatively, "Now, in Kansas, in 20 THE LOG OF THE SNARK my family, the women cry when they hurt themselves like that." J couldn't cry — it hurt too much. I am not very heavy, perhaps a hundred and fifteen pounds; but this weight behind one small elbow- joint, in a six-foot fall, is no light matter. My rubber soles were wet, slipped on the top step, and I touched nothing until I landed below, on that right elbow. No, I shed no tears — then. But when I was alone at the wheel, under the stars, I wailed right woman like. At sea, Monday, May 13, 1907. The "Inconceivable and Monstrous" has cropped up again. The bottom dropped out of the bean-pot, right in the oven, when said pot was simmering a delectable mass of frijoles, tomatoes, onions, garlic, Chile peppers, and olive oil. My great earthen bean-pot, my noble bean-pot, my much-vaunted bean-pot, has gone to pot! Whoever heard of a bean-pot cutting such capers? I leave it to anybody. But nothing commonplace ever happens aboard the Snark. Why, the very particular universe in which she moves is of an uncommon variety — a dual universe, in short. You may not have heard: but Roscoe is making the voyage on the inside of the earth's crust, while the rest of us (barring Bert, who is on the cosmographical fence) have a strong be lief that we are progressing upon the outer surface of the globe, with an ascertained astronomical system surround ing us. Either Roscoe will have to find a hole through which to climb to our stratum, or we shall be obliged to crawl through to his warm kennel; and I don't know which event is the more unlikely. No, there is nothing common place about the Snark or her voyage. It wouldn't sur prise me to see the water canary-yellow and the sky bright green. I forgot to tell about the dolphins. There aren't any. But there are plenty of flying-fish. This is a fine sunny day, and I have been steering for an hour and a half while I write, to give the others a chance to do the deck-work. Everybody is in good health, but THE LOG OF THE SNARK 21 without animation or ambition or pride in the yacht. When they are not making listless bluffs at working on deck, they continue to sit below, dully wondering when we will reach Honolulu. I believe Jack and I are the only ones who do not care how long the trip lasts. We are happy in the sailing and the health and life and beauty of everything about us, and one hour is as another for pleasantness. I re joice to observe that Jack has unconsciously resumed his wonted light-foot gait, which I call his "merry walk," and his smile is like a sunbeam. Yesterday I had a little lark all by myself, sitting on the lee rail and dabbling my feet in the warm gurgling water overside^ Next time I'll wear a bathing-suit. Jack de clined to join my refreshing gambols, saying that he would go in all over when he chose to get wet; but he trained a cautious eye upon me, for it would be decidedly inconven ient to pick up a "man overboard," especially if that man were a woman who knows little about keeping afloat in rest less water. At three o'clock we went below and answered a huge bunch of mail, Jack dictating to me through the narrow doorway that separates our rooms. We got the work done quite comfortably. The sunset last evening claimed us for an hour, as we lay on the fore-peak hatch, heaving upon the mighty lungs of the ocean. It was the first time the sun had sunk into the sea instead of into banks of clouds. It dropped slowly through rainbow mists, a dull orange ball that we could gaze upon to the last without straining our eyes. The big night-purple waves rose and broke against it, turning slowly to ashen-rose in the shell-rose light that followed the setting. But no matter how pale the tints of the tropic world, they are very simple and crude. With the loveli ness of the day-ending still in my soul, I took the wheel at eight o'clock, and was thoroughly enjoying the rhythmic solitude when I was jarred rudely from off my blissful plane by the appearance of a bald head in the engine-room hatch-way and a querulous and accusing voice demanding, 22 THE LOG OF THE SNARK "How on earth do you expect anybody to sleep when you're making that noise?" I was singing! And it is not out of place to mention that only those near to us by marriage or blood are privileged so to break in upon our raptures! Wednesday, May 15, 1907. This is the most perfect morning yet. And it isn't so merely because I have had two good nights of sleep ; the sea disk is of deepest sapphire, the trade-wind clouds, lying low and puffy on the horizon and straggling up here and there into the blue, are the real trade-wind clouds we have been looking for so long, while a not-too-dense white cloud follows the face of the sun and tempers the heat. We are sailing along well on a comparatively smooth sea, in the gentle but steady trade-wind. At nine the course was changed to "W.N.W. true, to clear Maui by 25 miles." Jack looks like a picture of a sailor, at the wheel, in a suit of white sailor-togs, against a classic watery back ground. Bert is going over everything on deck with a brush, and the deck itself is being washed. (I am glad there is some activity on deck, for last night, leaving the wheel in a sudden rainsquall to put the cover on the boat swain's locker which had been carelessly left open, I nearly broke my neck over a sack of coal that has been lying for days across the one available gangway on deck.) Martin is planning a big platter of spaghetti and mushrooms, Italian style, and Tochigi is cleaning up below. My flannel sailor- clothes are towing overside (this is the way we launder), and when they come up, clean, and have hung in the shrouds until dry, they shall be wrapped carefully and packed away until such time, how long hence, and where, who knows ? as they may be needed in a cooler clime. Yesterday, although only 88°, we suffered from the heat. We are well over half way to Hawaii. A few scaly scales were found on the deck this morning, attesting to our having been boarded by one or more flying- THE LOG OF THE SNARK 23 fish, but nothing was on our hook. But yesterday, while Jack and I were working hard below, there arose a great yelling on deck for us to come up. Which we wasted no time in doing, for news is scarce these days; and there, to leeward, we saw a goodly school of fin-back whale. I am reading Isabella Bird Bishop's Hawaii. It was written long ago, but is splendid live stuff, being her let ters written to England from the Islands. I am also study ing our Planispheres, in order to familiarise myself a little with the changing skies. Jack told me to watch for the Southern Cross, and last evening when I came on deck to take my watch, there it was, just as it looked on the Plani sphere, and I realised I had been looking at the constella tion for several nights, without knowing. I must confess that I had expected something larger and more bejewelled. But it is a very good, bright little cross, and is going to mean much to me. Later. Bert has blossomed resplendent in white trousers and a blue shirt. He washed his face and shaved yesterday, saying in extenuation ( ! ) that he had not looked in the glass for a week, and didn't realise how unkempt he was. Martin is almost well, and furbished up his camera this afternoon. Jack wrote in the morning, and dug at naviga tion later on. I wrote letters, did some typewriting, and actually got out my sewing. I did not realise how dark the backs of my hands were from sunburn until I saw them against the fine white linen. But for a wonder my face and neck are not much tanned. The setting of the sun, the blossoming of the new moon in a bright rose afterglow, and the coming of the stars, are a feast of beauty each evening. That growing silver of a young moon was so brilliant last night that it bewildered my sight, and I could not avoid seeing two crescents. Jack brought up his sextant and took some observations, during which he remarked icily that he did wish I could manage to call that fine and beautiful instrument something besides a hydrant. 24 THE LOG OF THE SNARK Lat. 20° 56' North, Lon. 152° 52' West. At sea, Thursday, May 16, 1907. Our trade-wind died down to the faintest breathings in the morning, and this afternoon it is so calm that we have little better than steerage-way. At this rate we shall not see land to-day as we had hoped. I worked below for hours in my stateroom, writing letters, typewriting, and reading, for once finding it cooler than on deck. With decklights and skylights open, it is nearly always cool below — a very encouraging thing to look forward to in the tropics. And if our electric plant ever works satisfactorily, we shall be in clover. This coolness of the Snark' s interior is one of the few things about that much-sinned-against craft that are not Inconceivable and Monstrous. So much luck may be Inconceivable, but I don't like to call it Monstrous. It might be tempting fate. But we faced it again this afternoon, the Inconceivable and Monstrous, all done up in a blue and green package seven or eight feet long in the shape of a shark, attended by his fleet of black and white striped pilot-fish. Bert saw it first. He had been bathing from the stays under the bow sprit, and no sooner had he regained the deck than he saw the dorsal fin of the shark cutting the surface a short dis tance away. Jack immediately baited a hook of the proper size with a goodly chunk of fat from our best boiled ham, from which Martin happened to be carving slices for sup per. And that tempting bait, that superfine — for sharks — morsel of salt pork was smelled by that shark, and that Inconceivable, Monstrous, Epicurean shark even jauntily scratched his back upon the light rope that trailed the hook ! Now, who ever heard of a shark that would not rise to salt pork, or sink to salt pork, or, at any rate, be interested in salt pork one way or another? It's in all the books and on the tongues of all the sailors, that salt pork is the un failing bait for shark. Perhaps it isn't exactly Inconceiv able that this particular fish may have been gorging him- THE LOG OF THE SNARK 25 self to repletion before he sighted us; but it is certainly Monstrous that the first fish we have seen on this strange, uneventful voyage (barring flying-fish and whales), should be a shark, and that this particular one should refuse super fine salt pork. It is on a par with the Snark refusing to heave to. That still rankles; I cannot forgive her. It would rankle worse still if this calm should prove to be the forerunner of a real gale. We even had a cold supper served aft, that we might keep an eye on that disagreeable, ungrateful scavenger that wouldn't scav. — I've got it! I've got it! That shark was a scavenger, of course, and a mere scavenger would not know first-table ham if he saw it ; and he would therefore be suspicious of it, of its smell and its taste. I know there ought to be some explanation, and perhaps I have found it. A lovely, colourful sunsetting, a shining silver sickle in the afterglow, a little studying of the constellations, and my watch began, a beautiful watch except for the fact that the tops of the brass binnacle lamps are hot, and I laid the ten der palm of my left hand on the port one. Then I called for some kitchen soap and plastered the palm with it. How I do hurt myself ! Why, I have to go around with my right elbow bandaged in a salt-wet towel, and cannot use the arm. Therefore I am black and blue from violent contact with various articles on the crowded boat. It is more difficult than one would dream to adjust, physically, to this moving base. There is a new feel about everything, with this closeness to land. We seem suddenly to have a place in the universe, a character of our own. We have had nothing all these weeks with which to compare ourselves, ourselves as a boat. We have been alone of our kind, with no one to see that we existed. This is almost as good as annihilation, isn't it? But now we seem about to take our place once more in a known world. On a big ship, carrying hundreds of per sons, it is different; the many souls form a community, and the unrelated character of the vessel is not so conspicuous. 26 THE LOG OF THE SNARK We are so very, very little; the daily surprise is that we know where we are at all, that we can do aught but drift, a mote in a sunbeam. Lat. 21° 23' North, Lon. 154° 13' 45" West. At sea, Friday, May 17, 1907. In a thin kimono I joined Jack at the wheel to enjoy the sunrise with him. It is delightful to be so safely careless about warmth of clothes, in this blowing air. We sneeze oc casionally, for old-time's sake, but there is no cold in the head to follow. There were some showers in the early hours, with calm afterwards, but we are picking up a little breeze, enough to steer by. Nothing but clouds on the horizon; no land. There is a familiar high fog overhead that makes me homesick ; but I think I am homesick for the Islands. While Jack and the boys were taking a bath to-day under the bow, clinging to the bob-stay, Roscoe and I poured brine over each other's heads, aft by the cockpit. This was after we had soaped our hair. I haven't been able to do up mine since; and now, while I write, I am steering and drying my locks after a fresh-water rinse. Tochigi made some candy yesterday, rice boiled in mo lasses. The rice remains brittle, as do the brown beans that are added. Tochigi 's success made Martin ambitious, and we are waiting for the molasses confectionery he is making while he bakes. His bread is very good, by the way ; and he has easily learned to make the simple yet difficult graham bread. I don't know who is going to pull that mo lasses candy. Martin thinks he should be exempt, having made it ; besides, he is too busy. Roscoe also says he is busy. Jack is writing, and can't; and the nice, round, burned circle in my palm prevents me from volunteering. Bert has announced that he can, but that he doesn 't want to — sun burned hands being his excuse. I think I can see Tochigi pulling the candy for the crowd. Later. At last, our first land! After supper, Jack and I were playing cribbage on the fore-peak hatch, before going THE LOG OF THE SNARK 27 into the bows to watch the sunset, when he shouted ' ' Land ! ' ' at the same time pointing over the starboard bow. Oh, it was exciting! Our first island, faint and far, hardly dis tinguishable from the clouds around it. And the best about it is, that it is just where it ought to be (if it is the Island of Maui), ten thousand feet high and a hundred miles away, which would prove our observations to have been correct. Everybody began to climb. " Martin- Johnson-Discovering- Hawaii" hung in the shrouds, while Bert, having attained the head of the mainmast, came sliding precipitately down the jib-stay — rather a risky undertaking, we thought, until he explained to us that he had practised it in California. Tochigi deemed it unnecessary to climb a few feet the better to observe a 10,000 foot mountain. Tochigi has the wis dom of the East in his gentle head. I remember what a paradise Jamaica looked, one New Year's morn when we saw it rising out of the Caribbean Sea. But this is different; now we are adventuring in a little boat of our own, and one could almost wish no charts had ever been made of the region in which we now are, and that we were discovering it for ourselves. Aboard the Snark, off Island of Maui, y Hawaiian Islands, Saturday, May 18, 1907. Coming on deck at six for my sun-bath, I could not even say good morning to my Mate at the wheel, so exquisite was the greeting. I looked south right at the snow-hooded sum mit of mighty Mauna Kea on the Island of Hawaii, rising 14,000 feet out of the sea. The clouds must have lifted only that moment, for Jack, scanning the horizon, had missed seeing the island ; so we enjoyed it together, a dream of white and blue opalescence. It was very thick to the southwest, but soon Maui broke through, and the naviga tors were able to verify their calculations. Haleakala is on Maui — the greatest extinct volcano in the world, with a crater measuring over twenty miles around. It is impossible 28 THE LOG OF THE SNARK to describe my sensation when I look at those bulking blue shapes cleaving up through the summer sea, as we sail. It is all wonder, a mystery of beauty and delight. Double watches were kept on deck all last night. If this were Maui, we were of course too far away to lose sleep worrying about running into anything. But a sailor can not be too careful. There is always the chance for a mis take, and there was much studying of charts in the grimy little cabin of the Snark. Everybody has been strenuously occupied this morning in keeping the ship afloat. We want variety of experience; but when our cook pokes his head up the companionway and protests that the floors below are all awash, the owner of the vessel strives without delay to reduce the order of the day to the ordinary commonplaceness of existence. Bert had forgotten to close a seacock in the engine room, and the water was rushing in. The five-horse power engine was immediately switched off to more important work than the deck-washing that was going on when Martin gave the alarm, and Bert felt around for that seacock and closed it. How amusing it would have been to go down with all on board, in sight of our first land. And as likely as not the life-boat could not be got overside in ease of need, as Roscoe has had no drills. The flying-fish are large and fat to-day; but still no dol phin. Tochigi, cleaning deck-lights and skylights, found in a nook on deck one small, very much over-ripe flying-fish. This is a rather deferred (!) item, but it isn't my fault. It shadows another item, however, that certain portions of the deck have not been investigated in the deck-wash ing. Later. A busy afternoon typing this Log, rendered diffi cult by the rough sea, which has increased to the biggest swell we have had on the whole voyage — probably the re sult of some gale to the northward. There is plenty of wind now. Jack has changed the course to N.W. by W., to clear Molokai, lying low and sad among heavy clouds, THE LOG OF THE SNARK 29 under a drowning moon. Roscoe 's optimistic brain does not consider the change of course necessary, but Jack's brass- tack judgment says we could not clear Molokai on the other course, with this wind holding all night, and for the first time since San Francisco he, as captain, has over-ridden the sailing master with a positive command. Aboard the Snark, off Oahu, Hawaiian Islands, Sunday, May 19, 1907. Jack set double watches again last night, Tochigi and I taking the first, from eight until twelve. It was eerie, watching forward in the grey light of the moon struggling through the murk, and ever and again I would seem to see land looming close ahead, only to find it was the huddling dark clouds on the horizon. I would stay there for an hour, then relieve Tochigi at the wheel and send him for ward to watch. At 5:30 this morning, Jack jibed the boat over, and I came on deck, to find the Island of Oahu, upon which is the city of Honolulu, right ahead. As we sailed nearer, the land looked very familiar, accustomed as we have been to pictures of it. The waters are deserted; it does seem as if we ought to sight some sort of a vessel, so near to Honolulu. Such an incidentless voyage — although I for got to tell that I found one flea the other day. Where he had been hibernating I do not know. And this morning a horsefly came aboard. The sea is transparent ; one can see into illimitable depths of sun-shot blue. And of all the Inconceivable and Mon strous things yet, here we are drifting toward the reef of Oahu in a dead calm. The trades are supposed to blow here almost the year around, especially at this season. But we have had unusual variable weather all the way. Oh ! for the big engine now — we could be in landlocked Pearl Harbor in a couple of hours. Of course, if the engine were in commis sion, there would be plenty of wind. It could not be other wise. Don't try to convince me that anything reasonable!' 30 THE LOG OF THE SNARK could attend the workings of our venture. Last night it was blowing briskly, and then the wind cut off short, and here we are turning round and round under cloudless sky and blazing tropic sun, wondering why it is not hotter. It is only comfortably warm, and this does not seem reasonable, either. Perhaps I am crazy. Still off Oahu, Hawaii, Monday, May 20, 1907. We drifted past the growling reef, inside of which we saw little fishing-boats sailing at sunset; past Makapuu Head, and past Diamond Head, that beautiful sentinel of Honolulu; and now, while we slip smoothly along toward port, I will tell the rest of yesterday's experiences. The horsefly, I think, is the only special excitement I have men tioned. After the midday meal we succeeded in hooking a guny — don't doubt me, I saw it with my own eyes, and the others will bear me witness. He knew salt pork a mile away. It was a funny sight, that guny with the hook caught in the downward curve of his upper beak, coming toward us against his will. He measured six feet from wing-tip to wing-tip, and was a thing of great beauty, with marvel lously feathered, triple- jointed pinions of cloudy warm- brownish grey. His brown eyes were large and sagacious, more like a dog's than a bird's, and he used them, too. He was angry rather than frightened, and not especially vicious, although he did manage to get hold of Bert's trousers and a small pinch of Bert. But when we tethered him on deck, the Inconceivable Monster would not be seasick as is the wont of captured gunies. We finally cut him loose, un hurt, and when he went over the side he awkwardly sub merged, something to which he was evidently not accus tomed, for he could not raise his wet wings high enough to fly. Just then we picked up a fan of wind and the dis tance between the stern of the Snark and the stern of the guny lengthened rapidly, the bird paddling for dear life, head-over-shoulder like a coyote. While we had him on deck THE LOG OF THE SNARK 31 we noticed an old break in one of his legs, and two birdshot holes in his web-feet. He must be a regular old war-horse, and deserving of his liberty. Then we glimpsed a big freight steamer going southwest ; and there was quite a sociable time in the late afternoon, with numerous things to discuss — the flea, the horsefly, the guny, the steamer, a flickering breeze, and one lone Portuguese man-o'-war. And then there was the summer isle before us with promise of rest from perpetual movement, and lure of velvet green mountains and valleys. Jack slept beside the cockpit during my watch, indeed all night until his own watch. The reef with its white-toothed breakers could not have been more than a mile and a half away, and the calm was absolute, the current fortunately setting us on past danger. At ten o'clock, I told Tochigi, who was sitting in the cabin studying, to go to bed. I felt anxious and knew I should not sleep if I went below. Twice the Snark, with her wheel hard down, turned com pletely around. I was disgusted, and remembered when a smaller yacht did the same thing with me in the bay of San Francisco, in the Doldrums off Angel Island. How I watched that line of reef in the misty, elusive moonlight. Imagine four hours at the wheel, eyes riveted on the round, small, vital compass, heart aching for it to indicate some control of the boat. The only rest for the eyes was to strain them on the dark shore until it blurred, or try to pierce the mysterious gloom of the horizon for lights. It was tense business; but in the midst of it, worried and lonely as I felt, I caught myself thinking how happy I was. And now, a word aside. In shaping up the Log of the Snark for publication, I am forced to see that the enthusiastic book I have written, cov ering five months' land travel and experience in the Ha waiian Isles, has no place in a ship's log. Labour of love though it has been, the recounting of all those happy days of glamour in our first landfall must find itself between 32 THE LOG OF THE SNARK other covers than those of a sea diary. I must pass by the month in Pearl Harbor — Dream Harbor, Jack called it; the subsequent blissful tent-and-surf life at Waikiki; our days in saddle and camp through the crater of mighty Halea- kala ; that amazing week spent in the Molokai Leper Settle ment; the trip on horseback through the Nahiku Ditch country on Windward Maui, with its hair-raising old chief- trails and hair-breadth swinging bridges over great water falls — all those vivid hours of living shall have a place to themselves elsewhere, together with tribute to our friends, the Thurstons, and their friends, who helped us to know Hawaii off the much exploited "tourist route." Aboard the Snark once more, after months of work on her engines in Honolulu, and repairs in Hilo on that same work, we set our faces to the sea again, answering its clear call as we answered it in California in April; as we shall want to answer it, I am sure, in all the months of all the years. Lat. 15° 8' North, Lon. 151° 30' West. Aboard the Snark at sea, Hilo, Hawaii, to Marquesas Islands, Monday, October 14, 1907. A week ago to-day we sailed away from Hilo, Hawaii, on our voyage to the Marquesas Islands. So began the second chapter of our boat-adventure. It is six months since we left San Francisco Bay for our voyage around the world, and what of the many delays connected with completing the yacht and repairing her wrecked engines (wrecked by in competent workmen), we have spent far more time in Ha waii Nei than originally planned. We cannot be sorry, however, for we had a glorious time all through. But here we are at sea again, with our first port of call, Honolulu, hundreds of miles behind us, and our next, the Marquesas, thousands ahead of us — unless this head-wind and sea shift and let us get on our proper course. South 28° East it is, THE LOG OF THE SNARK 33 while we sag south, due south, and at times even west of south. Everything is dove-grey, sky and sea, and there are occa sional warm showers. I am tucked snugly away in a corner of the deep cockpit, while the little Snark steers herself by- the-wind as successfully as ever she did before it. Herr mann de Visser, the Dutch sailor, is sitting near by sewing canvas, pushing the huge sail-needle with a "palm" on his hand. And Herrmann is singing "The Last Rose of Sum mer" in Dutch, in a wonderful light baritone that makes me feel selfish in being the only listener. Incidentally, Herrmann, a small black rain-hat on one side of his head, looks as if he had just fallen out of a Rembrandt canvas. But Rembrandt van Ryn never designed that tattooed bal let-girl on Herrmann's short and powerful right forearm — a figure that any muscular movement of the arm makes dance amorously. Martin Johnson, sole survivor, so to speak, of the original crew that sailed from California on the Snark, has come into the cockpit, and is rigging up an electric light exten sion for me to see by when I read to Jack on watch. There's a brown-skinned cook in the galley now, and Martin is flourishing in our midst as engineer and electrician. Martin has made good, and he is the only man who was aboard the Snark when we left the States, who was not chosen from the ranks of our intimates. Captain James Langhorne Warren, our Virginia master, is sitting to leeward of me for the purpose of smoking a cigar — and bless us all if it isn't the first he's smoked since we left Hilo! You see, the captain hasn't been feeling equal to anything stronger than cigarettes during the past week. We have lost all false pride about seasickness, we of the Snark. We have been hopelessly, disgracefully sick, all of us, except Herrmann, who seems to enjoy remarking at irregular, inconsiderate intervals, "I do not know vot xsasick iss." It is comforting to a captain-discouraged yachtsman like 34 THE LOG OF THE SNARK Jack to see the way Captain Warren runs things. The boat has never looked so orderly; never were commands obeyed so promptly ; never was such forethought shown in keeping everything ready for emergency — for the expected unex pected. For instance, last Wednesday night, the 9th, looked squally and strange, after a most remarkable sunset which made our sensitive barometer oscillate; and before dusk Captain Warren and Herrmann had everything on deck in readiness for possible trouble during the dark hours — movable articles lashed securely, ropes in perfect work ing order. After all there was no blow; but if there had been we would not have been caught napping. That great sunset was a miracle of colour. Who ever heard of vivid peacock blue in the sky? But it was there; and such turquoise and green and gold, in an Oriental riot of gorgeousness. Then the air became so flooded with living rose that we all looked as if we had been feasting on roses and the elixir of youth. To-day Jack has done his first writing since we left Hilo. A six-days' vacation is an unusual thing for -him. Also, he has inaugurated a general setting-to-rights below, as to con tents of drawers and lockers, clothes, and so forth. I am unable to join in the perfumed revel, as a very few minutes below are enough to convince me that I am not yet quite myself. Our new cabin-boy, Nakata, shipped at Hilo, is very dif ferent from the aesthetic and poetic-looking Tochigi of the first voyage. Nakata 's hair far more resembles a roughly- used shoebrush than the glossy "football bang" that crowned Tochigi. But Nakata, little plebeian that he is, has the body of a brown cherub and a smile that is inextin guishable. He seems to have more teeth than the rest of us, and shows them on all occasions except when he is asleep. Also, he brushes them sedulously for just fifteen minutes every morning. When he slumbers, his funny little face is tired and drawn, for he has been and still is quite seasick. But he never gives over. No matter what his qualms, when- THE LOG OF THE SNARK 35 ever he is spoken to he bobs up with his everlasting jack-o'- lantern grin and benevolent interrogative "Yes-s?" Wada, the Japanese cook, is more Indian than Japanese in appearance, and so far has proved just an ordinary, greasy sea-cook, his dishes a sad contrast to Martin's imagi native cuisine. But Martin and I are slowly getting him into our ways. Our prolonged stay in Hilo was a trial to us all. This was not the fault of Hilo, nor of the very dear people who entertained us there. The irk and strain was from enforced delay — the dreadful condition of our 70-horse- power engine, which had to be gone all over again in Hilo, at an expense equal to the outlay in Honolulu, although our "friend" 'Gene (sent for from San Francisco), while knowing better, assured us that the engine was in good con dition at that time. But that is of the vanished yester day; and now Martin, in 'Gene's place, is devoting himself to preventing a recurrence of the conditions brought about by the latter 's neglect. And so we go sailing along this grey-and-gold late after noon, involuntarily looking up now and again for a return of the splendid dolphins that played with our hook around the stern this morning. You will remember how utterly dead was the ocean those four weeks from California to Ha waii, except for one school of hump-backed whale, and a few, a very few flying-fish, and one small shark off Maui, that had not sense enough to bite at boiled ham. Why, this morning there was kaku for breakfast — that's the Hawaiian for it — a fish with long eel-like body and sharp head and a jaw fitted with rows of fine white teeth. But don't let me deceive you. This was the first fish ever caught aboard the Snark at sea. Dolphins — they are like all the living rainbows of the aquarium at Honolulu wrapped in azure. They are all the colours of all the skies that ever were, with touches of solid green as green as solid earth. Brilliant as peacocks, and a thousand times — 36 THE LOG OF THE SNARK — Oh, this is too much excitement for seven persons ! A thousand porpoises are about us, the captain is on the bow sprit wielding a harpoon, while Martin tugs at the line set for dolphin, over-stern, and — there ! the fish has carried away the hook. The fabulous blue dolphins are swimming alongside; sunny-green porpoises are darting with in credible swiftness all around and under the white yacht, leaping clear out of the water, singly and in twos and threes, like colts over hurdles. Our ocean is alive at last with the beauty and motion of the people of the sea. There's a white and gold sunset now, like a flight of angels in the western sky; and before the stars come out I am going to sit and dream for a little space of the beauti ful world and of the swift sleek forms of vibrant colour I have seen this day. Lat. 14° 53' North, Lon. 152° 7' West. At sea, Tuesday, October 15, 1907. There's a subtle change in the atmosphere aboard ship this morning. Nakata, showing an unusual number of teeth, even for him, summed it up in two words : ' ' Seasick pau!" which last word, translated from the original Ha waiian, means finished, done away with, gone, past, elimi nated — all the blessed meanings that should predicate that dread subject. Fortunately, Nakata was not only voicing his own ecstatic state, but that of the company in general. I proved my own recovery by making the regulation four at the breakfast table below, for the initial time this voy age. When I came on deck after breakfast, the captain and Herrmann dropped their work (the sewing of canvas into ventilators, or "windsails"), to rig up a little awning over the cockpit, so that I might write in comfort, out of the glare. It is nine o'clock, and Jack has just gone below to write his thousand words of the novel under way. (I cannot call THE LOG OF THE SNARK 37 the novel by name because the author hasn't been inspired as promptly as usual in his choice of title.) The hero, Mar tin Eden, has been waiting to make his first love to Ruth all this week the author has been under the weather. Jack slept on deck last night and looks a happy, healthy, blue-eyed young sailor this morning, in white ducks, the broad-collared shirt open at his tanned throat. Before we sailed from Hawaii he threatened to have his hair clipped very close for the voyage; but my pleading "Oh, not too short, please, please!" at the door of the barber-shop in Hilo, saved perhaps an inch. The present neat closeness is rather becoming than otherwise. I am so happy. All the rough edges of the first week at sea are smoothing down, and the spirit of our surroundings is getting into our blood. The wave-tops are silvered with flying-fish. One leaped out just now, cutting the air like a steel sickle, all of a foot long — the largest I have seen. And where there are many flying-fish, one may look for dolphin. Herrmann didn't catch the fish for breakfast this morning that he prophesied last night in the second dog watch, and for which Jack promised him a bag of "Bull Durham. ' ' The 5-horse-power engine (which we call the ''sewing- machine" because it runs so easily since it was broken and mended in Hilo), is pumping electric "juice" for lights and fans, and Martin's six feet of height are under deck, which means that he is going over the big engine and putting his engine-room to rights. Herrmann is relating some choice bit of personal history to the captain, of which I just now caught the information that somebody lived "four miles off the bay from." The cook, coming on deck from the per spiring galley to dry his shirt, is commenting to the world at large upon the moustache he has raised during the past week; and Nakata is making up for lost time by washing and polishing everything in the cabin, occasionally bobbing up to smile happily at the universe. Jack whispered to me this morning what he has not yet 38 THE LOG OF THE SNARK suggested to the others: that if this adverse wind and sea continue, he may decide to cut the Marquesas Islands from our route and head direct for Tahiti. We sail and sail and get nowhere on the present course. Who has said "miracle hours after sunset"? Last night, quitting the talkative group around the cockpit during the second dog-watch (six to eight), I went for'ard alone into the bows, curled myself up in a big coil of sun-bleached hawser on a water-tank, and took a little trip to the moon. The sky had cleared of all but fleecy wisps of cloud, and a gleaming half -moon and a few rare stars hung in the shin ing rigging. "What dreams may come" when one is all alone on a flying prow, among the moon and stars, with the sweet wind filling the wings of speed ! But the dreams can not be told, for they are thought in a language that was whispered to us when we were very young, while listening to tales of Karl in Queerland — and to only the very young is it given to translate the language. I slid back down a moonbeam to the deck very quickly when a dolphin at least three feet long leaped his length out of the water on the lee bow; but I couldn't get any anglers' enthusiasm out of the crowd aft. They were too filled with comfort and moon light. Jack joined me after a while, and we sat on a tank to leeward, close to the water, holding to the fore-jib-sheet, watching the pearly full-rounded canvas, while glistening spray swished over the weather bow above us and wet our faces. It was the loveliest night I have ever seen at sea. The memory of it belongs between the pictured covers of a book of fairy-tales. Then came nine hours below, of which I slept eight; and now the wholesome reality of the day is as beautiful as the fitful unreality of the night. Herrmann has drifted into "The Last Rose of Summer" again, and I cannot work while he sings. To do so would be to scorn one of the good things that bless my life. There is a really Caruso-like quality in some of his middle tones. And while I am think ing about the ease with which he handles his untrained voice, THE LOG OF THE SNARK 39 he airily switches off into a spirited rendition of "La Pa- loma" in Dutch, with an appropriate catch and swing that make me wonder if the tattooed lady on his forearm is danc ing to match the music while he plies his needle. Alternating with bouts of cribbage we read up a few sheaves of late San Francisco papers, jerking ourselves rudely from this Pacific solitude, this desert of oceans, back into the crowded world of cities from which we have fled. Why, if we were cast away in this part of the Pacific, we should stand practically no chance of being picked up. It is out of the travelled way. It was something to think of, as I lay on a strip of duck on the deck, too ill to do any thing but watch the veils of cloud drawing across the sky. The world was a round blue ball swathed in clouds like a jewel in white floss, covered by a blue bowl. Not a thing in sight but blue water and blue and white sky; and through the silent picture our white-speck boat moved upon her quest for palm and coral and mountain-isle and pearls and strange simple peoples. We are all the world, we of the Snark, so far as the rest of the world is concerned — unless a sail should break the line of the horizon, when we would become only a hemisphere ; but no sail pushes up out of the blue of this painted solitude. But accidents will happen. On Friday morning, the 11th, in the early hours some bolts worked loose in the steering- gear, and when I came on deck the captain and Herrmann were arms-down-to-shoulders in the casing around the rud der-head, heaping maledictions in several languages upon the man or men who planned and executed this casing so that it could not be got into except from the top. The teak cover, upon which the steersman sits, is the only movable part of the box enclosing the steering-gear ; whereas the en tire upper half of the box should be made so that it could be lifted. Just another instance of the outrageous mistakes that were perpetrated on the poor little Snark. There had been a stiff squall the night before, too, and it was fortunate the bolts did not come loose then. It would have been 40 THE LOG OF THE SNARK cheaper in the long run if Jack had given up his regular work during the building of the yacht, and done the over seeing himself. Our winds have been fairly fresh, but not steady, the best part of the week. The days have been pretty warm, and I find the coolest spot to be on -the cockpit floor, where I spend hours trying to read or write, or merely watching the colours under closed eyelids. That amusement is always left, when one hasn't energy enough for other exertion. Some days the wind blew harder and the seas piled high, hissing hungrily toward us, usually missing and going astern, but sometimes striking ponderously and snapping their white teeth over the rail. The rougher nights were hard on me, as my bunk, on the starboard side, came in for all the jarring weighty blows of water when the hull rose and fell in the trough. One languid diversion during the days of our uselessness, was the discussion of who would gather the first quart of pearls in the South Seas. It rather lames the controversy, however, when I insist that the rest shall give all their quarts to me. Lat. 14° 4' North, Lon. 152° 56' West. At sea, Wednesday, October 16, 1907. There was dolphin for breakfast this morning — a heavy, steak-like sort of meat. Herrmann got it last night with the granes, an awful devil 's-pitehfork sort of implement. And just as Herrmann landed his dolphin — Jack mean while shouting for me to come and see its wondrous tints in the moonlight — I landed my cockroach, the second horror of its kind caught aboard the Snark. The dolphin was about two and a half feet long. The cockroach about one inch. It was a good night's catch we made — mine, I thought, being the more important. Another and larger dolphin was struck with the granes, but tore itself loose; and this morning the poor pretty creature is swimming faithfully if rather indiscreetly alongside, its wounds gaping THE LOG OF THE SNARK 41 snow-white under the brine. We are not sailing fast enough to catch dolphins on the hook. They are too clever to bite at anything they have time to observe is not the real flying-fish. j "Who hath desired the sea, the sight of salt water un-. bounded" — oh! we had a feast of Kipling last evening in ' the cockpit, until half past nine, when Jack and I went for ward to enjoy the moonlit bow again. The water was un usually placid, with a fair breeze, and we were making some headway, E.S.E. by the compass. Shadowy forms of dol phins slipped luminously past in the dark flood and like a whisper of the Far East came the voices of the two Japanese tucked away in the life-boat for the night. Perhaps the unearthly charm of our bow may grow commonplace some day; but not yet awhile. Slowly we're getting everything into working order. Yesterday I started putting to rights my stateroom lockers, carelessly packed on leaving port. Writing is going for ward, the captain pursues his unostentatious navigation, the wonder of the ocean-world is becoming incorporated into our every-day consciousness, and the Snark sails on, the Snark sails on. Herrmann is like to burst with pride, for he has caught all the fish so far. This morning he displayed a small fly ing-fish that he found on deck, one of an unusual variety with four finny wings instead of two. These fish dash blindly over the rail in the darkness and fall to deck stunned. Just now, stitching away at a jib that was dragged and torn under the forefoot the other night, Herr mann is relating how he skated one hundred and ten miles in a day, from one town to another, on the canals in Hol land. One day he explained to Jack why he never saves money. There was a time when he had three hundred dol lars in bank in New York. Off the Horn the main hatch of the ship he was in was smashed in a storm, the ocean poured in, and for a while it looked as if the vessel would sink. But in all the smother of darkness and water, 42 THE LOG OF THE SNARK obeying orders from the desperate captain and mate, Herr mann's ruling thought in the very face of death was one of regret that he had not drunk up that three hundred dol lars in the last port! Upon reaching Seattle he had his money telegraphed to him from New York, and wasted no time in spending it. As Captain Warren has it, "Money's no good except for the fun you can buy with it." Lat. 13° 36' North, Lon. 152° West. Thursday, October 17, 1907. There are two factors in sea-voyages that I cannot recon cile to advantage, namely, lack of exercise, and three meals a day. To be sure, there is a sort of passive exercise in the mere motion of the boat — continuous, and tiring until one gets used to it, but not sufficient, in my case at least, to offset a hearty diet. I have always bewailed the absence of some sort of exercising-bar on the boat ; and all the time one has been staring me in the face and eyes every time I de scended the companion-stairs, in the shape of the brass handle-bar at right angles to the side-bars. So now when I go below I usually "chin" that bar thrice. Last evening, while having a cup of bouillon in the cock pit in lieu of supper below, I listened to Herrmann's story, as he polished away at Jack's set of surgical instruments, of how he left Holland in wrath ten years ago, to return no more to the bosom of his family. It appears that he was skipper of his father's boat (a ketch-rigged vessel, by the way, like the Snark), carrying small cargoes in the North Sea and on the coasts of England and Denmark. One Christmas Eve, Herrmann came from Rotterdam, where his vessel happened to be, upon urgent invitation from his family. He arrived at dinner-time and found his parents and his brothers and sisters with their guests around the table. Some relative, a clerk in an office, commented dis agreeably upon Herrmann's clothes. "He told me as I shouldn 't come mit my father 's house to dinner in the clothes THE LOG OF THE SNARK 43 as I was. My clothes ben all right, blue English sweater and good pants. So I got awful mad for him, and I told him I could buy all his clothes a t'ousand times ofer, as I ben getting much money." More words passed, and Herr mann, who I gathered had been feeling somewhat convivial when he arrived, finally "got too mad" and landed across the festive board on his antagonist's countenance. Herr de Visser reprimanded his son for this breach of etiquette and peace. This proved too much for Herrmann's "mad." He rose in outraged dignity and left the parental roof for ever. "And I told my father he would nefer see me more," Herrmann concluded, in a tone of mixed pathos and de fiance. "But your mother?" I asked. "Oh — she cried much; she felt very bad." Then I: "Why don't you write to her, Herrmann, some day ? It wasn 't her fault. ' ' His delft-blue eyes looked past me across the sea. "It iss too late," he said, softly. "She iss dead two years. ' ' Lat. 12° North, Lon. 151° West. Saturday, October 19, 1907. It was bathing-suits and bucketfuls of salt water this morning before breakfast. I assuaged some of my yearn ing for exercise by hauling in the canvas bucket, after which I replenished wasted tissue with a fairly stout breakfast. Wada is doing nobly with the cooking. He goes on his independent way, to the best of his ability, until some suggestion is made, whereupon he devotes himself to learning a different way. We feel so very husky, drying our bathing-suits on us in fresh breeze and sun. The particular northerly wind our skipper has been whistling for, sprang up last evening in the dog-watch, after a day of calm that looked suspiciously like the Doldrums (far north of the Equator as we are), and during which we ran our crippled big engine for an 44 THE LOG OF THE SNARK hour or so. But the crank-bearings heated badly, and we flapped on the rest of the day by sail, but didn't flap far. With the wind came a smart shower, and we hung out some of our clothes to wash. Sitting around the cockpit afternoons, reading Melville's fascinating Typee and Robert Louis Stevenson's and his mother's books on the Marquesas and Tahiti, we long more than ever to get forward into the South Sea. And it is a wonderful thing we are doing — full of romance and colour. Even while we are being held back from the Line by this calm, we have with us beauty rare and unforgettable. The calm ocean is a disc of sapphire encircled by a rim of clouds. Once, watching that wounded dolphin which still follows us, we noticed that the smooth blue water, through a trick of light, seemed to be dotted with bluer pools — something like the effect of oil on water. But the calm is gone, and now we are travelling on our course, east by north ; and it is cool and fresh in the shade of the cockpit awning. Jack called to me the other day and said he had some thing to ask of me — that, every time I came on deck, I should look around over the water. "This is a lonely sea, Mate, and there might be some poor devil in distress." I told him I rather thought I already had the habit of look ing around the horizon a great deal. "Yes; but make it your duty to do it every time you come on deck." Well, men have been lost for the lack of a dutiful eye in this re gard, and I'm going to be very watchful. I'm afraid Herrmann isn't quite equal to some of Jack's jokes. The latter announced lately that he wanted Martin and Herrmann to do two things for him on this trip around the world — Martin at some time to get a baby monkey for roasting, and Herrmann, for the same purpose, a baby can nibal. Martin reports that Herrmann said to him with an aggrieved expression, "I couldn't shoot a little baby!" THE LOG OF THE SNARK 45 Lat. 11° 7' North, Lon. 150° 33' West. Sunday, October 20, 1907. This was a morning to put the fear of Nature into the heart of a tyro at sea-going. I came on deck at seven, after what had seemed to me a rough night, and found the cap tain at the wheel, closely watching a black sky ahead, Herr mann shortening sail, and all preparations being made for trouble. Then one of the teak top-doors of the companion- way descended upon my head and I went below for a few minutes to nurse my wrongs. There are plenty of ways to get hurt in squally weather on a small vessel. Yes terday accidents were rife, a cut finger apiece for Martin and Herrmann, and for me a thumb jammed in a heavy water-tight-compartment door. Next, the mizzen was taken in, and the motion gentled down a little. After breakfast we ran well into the squalls of rain, and the men soaped their bodies and washed their clothes in the rain-water that stood in the slack of the can vas boat-covers; while Jack and I had a novel bath in the curtained cockpit, rain coming down on us and dripping from the mizzen boom also. The only complaint just now is that after our thorough soaping the rain stopped and we had to put on our clothes without rinsing off the lather! Dry bathing-suits are the clothes, however, and when it rains again we'll take another wetting. The captain said he guessed a bucket of fresh water could be spared for com pleting my shampoo. He holds every one else down close when it comes to using our water store. I am very econom ical, though — for I try to realise what it would mean to be out of water at sea, and this promises to be a long voyage. A very little water, with a drop or so of strong ammonia, goes a long way toward keeping one clean. It was great fun bathing in the rain — you haven't any idea how something unusual like this varies the monotony of seafaring, however pleasant that monotony may be. Now, at ten o'clock, the weather has moderated and the 46 THE LOG OF THE SNARK sun is trying to come out. There is a great amount of movement, however, and none of us feels any too well. Per sons who are going to be seasick ought to be broken in with a gale immediately upon sailing. The best I can do this morning in the way of work, with any degree of comfort, is to lie in my bunk and use a pencil. I had hoped to get at Jack's typewriting, but the very thought makes my nar row walls revolve. I am so glad they are even approximately white walls, — though even now, after two thorough coats of white enamel paint, old Captain Rosehill's salmon-pink coat ing shows through. Captain Rosehill was Roscoe 's suc cessor, and served as harbour captain while the Snark was in Hawaii. We have learned something startling. Yesterday Jack was reading in the South Sea Directory the report of an old- time mariner concerning the difficulty of fetching the Mar quesas and Society Islands, from Hawaii, on account of ad verse wind and sea. He went so far as to hint at its being practically an impossible traverse. So we are on the way to doing something impossible, are we? Well, we have started, and it is easier to think of the impossibility of the trip for other people than for ourselves. We have just got to make the Marquesas. Lat. 11° North, Lon. 149° 50' West. Monday, October 21, 1907. Two weeks ago to-day we left Hilo, figuring on three or four weeks for our passage to the Marquesas. Yesterday Captain Warren remarked that it might be fifty days yet before we see them. A Hilo friend's anxious questions, at parting, as to whether we really expected to reach our destination, will probably recur to her mind several times before our arrival is listed. Most persons seem unable to comprehend that we are not deliberately suicidal. It's hard sailing this morning, in a big sea with steady wind. Yesterday we seemed to be sailing ; there was abun- THE LOG OF THE SNARK 47 dance of movement, but it was mostly up and down — a troubled cross-sea and strong head-wind. Just after the stormy sunset and sudden twilight yester night, the moon showed dead ahead, a burning copper disc melting its way through a wall of lead. Then happened one of the amazes of the sea. Out of the turmoil of wind and mounting waves, out of the whirling chaos of the low overtaking sky, we sailed right through the leaden wall into a night of perfect tranquillity, lit by an incredible burst of moon and stars. It was a revelation, this peaceful ocean and dry north breeze and sparkling firmament. It was like the shifting of colossal scenery in some marvellous spectacle. The stars were too large and. bright to be anything but tinsel and electric light; the sky was far too purple for a real night-sky, and the billows of woolly clouds too massy and tangible to be mere vapours of sea-water. Lat. 9° 45' North, Lon. 136° 17' West. Monday, November 4, 1907. Death is farthest from one's thoughts these pleasant, busy days of semi-calm, when there is just breeze enough to slip us along slowly over the smoothly rolling flood. We are complete in our little working-world; the domestic ma chinery cogs along much the same as in a land-home. There is little danger of any one falling overboard unless he is attacked by vertigo, and we are in a live world in which death, I say, does not occur to our minds. But when, after such days, and placid evenings spent in the starlight with music and singing and poesy, one is startled into conscious ness at midnight by being let down suddenly against the bunk-rail, and the further sensation of going on over, end lessly, endlessly — then death is the first flashing thought. It might not be so to one in the open, on deck ; but a closed forward stateroom, in a small yacht, is a trap. It may mean death by drowning, or, what is worse, sharks. Sharks are no myth in this populous Pacific^— as the jaw of a young 48 THE LOG OF THE SNARK six-footer, drying its twelve rows of fine saw-teeth on the mizzen pin-rail, grimly attests. It all darted through my brain when the squall smote, and I went over the rail of my high bunk and landed on the five-by-two floor with an agility I would not have thought possible. Theretofore I had always taken off the rail before climbing carefully down. I turned on the electric bulb, cleared up fallen things as best I could, got on my clothes somehow or other, all the while wondering if the boat would ever right. My heart was beating in my throat with the suddenness and manner of my awakening ; while my head told me I was not needed on deck, in spite of an urgent desire to get out from under, for I knew that every man was up and doing. A woman may be a very small item in the way of usefulness in stress at sea; but there is always something to be done, and after our careless days of placid weather things below had not been wedged in as tightly as usual. I was glad to get out and up on deck in the driving smother. I "tooted" to Jack, while groping my clinging way to the wheel, and tried to satisfy my curiosity as to what was happening — which is asking too much with regard to a tropical gale in the dead of night. A sailor cannot see, he can only feel; and what he feels is a powerful gust that puts the vessel over and keeps her down, while he takes in sail and wonders what is behind the awful blackness to wind ward. So when I said to Jack at the wheel, "What is it?" he could merely answer, "I don't know." No one knows. It is black, it is blowing like a gale but it may be only a rain-squall, over in ten minutes. One thing gratifies me: Jack and the skipper never try to reassure me at the expense of their own veracity. I begged this of them at the start. So I get the best there is to be had of their frank opinions. I want to know, and I ought to know ; and they treat me in this1 respect as ' ' one of the boys." So Jack "didn't know"; all he was sure of was that with the sudden onslaught of the wind he awoke in the life-boat, THE LOG OF THE SNARK 49 aware of Captain Warren streaking past him to the main- boom tackle, for the squall had burst in the opposite quarter from a light breeze that had been filling the sails. The celerity with which Jack must have landed from his bed on the canvas cover of the boat amidship, into the cockpit and to the wheel, is partially told by a huge rent in the nether garment which adorned his person at the time, and which I have just finished repairing. Nakata was steering when the squall smote, and immedi ately spoke to the captain, asleep on deck alongside. The captain is quick as lightning, and had things straightened out in no time. Fortunately the Snark is stiff, and shows no signs of turning turtle ; so that while the man at the wheel eases her along in the violent puffs of wind, the others have time to handle the sails without fear of capsizing. When I came up, Martin and Herrfcann were taking in the flying- jib and sails and Jack was succeeding in keeping the yacht before the wind. How I love men, and the work men do! Jack, keen at his task of steering in the squall — the sturdy little wheel flying under his hands; the men forward hold ing on by their eyebrows while they took in the jib ; the cap tain everywhere; Nakata, cheerily fastening down the weather-skylight and taking bedding below — men, men, all brave men, doing their fighting work in the world. And death receded into dim distance with the interest and excitement of our little battle with the forces of out-doors, as the small Snark buckled down to carrying every thread of her working canvas, which was re-set shortly when the wind grew no worse. The captain's voice broke warmly as he spoke of the way she did it, and the way she minded the helm. He is very emotional. Why, the other day when he had that shark on the hook over the stern, I thought he would weep with excitement and disappointment for very fear that Herrmann would not slip the bowline over the creature 's tail in time. He was afraid the hook alone would not hold it. The squall blew itself out shortly, leaving us a good sail- 50 THE LOG OF THE SNARK ing-breeze, and we went below and finished our sleep. But such an experience clinched what old sailors tell of the treachery of these latitudes, where the wind slaps out of unexpected quarters at unexpected times, and in the night at least no man knows what lurks behind the darker dark to windward. . . . Captain Warren, sitting at the wheel, nods appreciatively at what I have written. Although personal death does not press upon us in pleas ant weather, there is doom all around for the lesser things, swift and pursuing. For four days countless myriads of small fish resembling mackerel have been leaping and glinting around the ship, driven by tireless enemies below, and meet ing pain and disaster at the surface from the ravenous young gunies scanning the deep from above. It is some thing like the tragedy of the flying-fish caught between dolphin and frigate-birds. Of this an old chronicler of the sixteenth century writes: "There is another kind of fish (the flying-fish) as big almost as a herring, which hath wings and flieth, and they are together in great number. These have two enemies; the one in the sea, the other in the air. In the sea, the fish which is called the Albacore, as big as a salmon, follow- eth them with great swiftness to take them. This poor fish not being able to swim fast, for he hath no fins, but swimmeth with the moving his tail, shutting his wings, lifteth himself above the water, and flieth not very high. The Albacore seeing this, although he have no wings, yet giveth a great leap out of the water, and sometimes catcheth him ; or else he keepeth himself under the water, going that way as fast as the other flieth. And when the fish, being weary of the air, or thinking himself out of danger, re- turneth into the water, the Albacore meeteth with him ; but sometimes his other enemy, the sea-crow, catcheth him be fore he falleth." Jack has been taking a hand this morning in the carnage, or trying to, getting out some of the pretty tackle we used to unpack so gleefully at Glen Ellen when the orders were Her Trick at the Wheel Jack Harpooning Wada's Dolphin THE LOG OF THE SNARK 51 filled from the East. But the fish were too busy with the other form of death to be caught by this lure of bright steel and colour. We have fared better in the matter of wind during the past two weeks. On the 22d, at 4:30 p.m., a squall came up that sent us spinning along at six knots during the following hour, in the right direction; and the second day following, good winds started that kept us well on our course for several days. Everybody aboard is happier when the Snark is holding her own, especially the captain, upon whom a dead calm has a very bad effect, and during which his temper is short and his language, on the side, when I am not supposed to be within hearing, is hardly elegant. It is a splendid sight, a rain-squall coming over the water in the daylight. It resembles a dust-storm or low rolling hills — fairly smoking along; and when the dust of the rain arrives you do not run for shelter, but just stand and enjoy the warm drenching. This morning Jack and I stood by the weather shrouds forward, watching it come from the north east, the nearer waters broken by leaping fish. We are in the Doldrums now, variable winds and frequent showers, whereas in the Variables there was more wind and less rain. The horizons are dreams of cloud-beauty on the still days ; or, toward late afternoon when a light breeze sends us smoothly ahead, we may see low-lying clouds of blue, the clouds themselves blue, and out of the low pillowy clouds on the horizon will puff up bursts of white that tint through with rose and gold as the sun goes down, while we sit with faces glorified by the rose of the west and the wine of the sunset sea. Lat. 9° 37' North, Lon. 135° 18' West. Tuesday, November 5, 1907. It has surprised me, as we have drawn nearer to the Equa tor, that it has not been warmer. ' ' Stark calm on the lap of 52 THE LOG OF THE SNARK the line " as we are, the heat is not distressing. Of course, one would not choose to be in the sun for long at midday; but there has been nothing unusual about the temperature. To day, however, is quite hot enough for an introduction to the Line. A hat and green visor scarce shade one's eyes. I was fairly blinded just now when I took up some linen things to bleach on the launch-cover. Head and eyes ache from the brassy glare, and I am going to take better care of them and wear a hat oftener, although I love the warm colour of the sun-burn on my hair. Keeping clothes from mildewing and yellow-spotting is a ceaseless responsibility, and deterioration of silk is appalling. A large portion of Nakata 's time is employed in taking on deck and returning below our bedding and wearing ap parel. Just now I am burning an electric extension in my crowded closet-locker, to offset the dampness, while a mass of holokus and other summery garments is on my bed bene fiting by sunshine that filters through the deeklight. There is one compensation, however, for the trouble of over hauling, and that is the pleasure of handling pretty things. My every-day garb on the boat is of a kind that, while com fortable and even picturesque (according to Jack), makes me appreciate the sight of more feminine and dainty pos sessions. You see, the grime of San Francisco has not yet quite worn from our ropes and tackle ; and after completely ruining one silken bloomer-suit I said "Never again," and adopted pajamas, rolled up at knee and elbow, as Jack wears them. In such a suit of white, black-figured, with a piratical touch of red at waist and neck, I go my free and barefoot way. As for the crew, they seem to take everything I do as a matter of course, without comment of eye or lip. I am not the first observer in the world who has noted that most persons long to be something for which they are not fitted by nature. Nakata is no exception. His desire is to be a blond, and he waxes ecstatic over my burned locks. " Bee-2/M-ti-ful, Missisn!" he cries innocently, his gaze lin gering on my hair as I brush it in the sun. Now he is wild THE LOG OF THE SNARK 53 with a bird-like delight over my suggestion that we bleach his stiff black poll. I am equally keen for the lark, but there is no peroxide aboard. Martin, I think, has leanings toward brigandage, judging by the desperately evil look he attains by wearing a blue-and-white bandana around his head in lieu of a hat. He has lost overboard some eight hats and caps since we left San Francisco, and is now reduced to a bandana, and his precious Baden-Powell, and he is afraid of losing that. I do not know in what character Jack would be scintillating, if he could find the scarlet bathing-suit he is hunting for — a new one bought in Hilo ; but it has dis appeared, either tucked away as things aboard the Snark are too often tucked away and lost to all intents and purposes, or else stolen before we sailed. Our shelf-copy of The Sea Wolf is gone, too, and a book-proof copy of The Iron Heel. And neither Jack nor I has a sou 'wester — both stolen, as far as we can judge. I wear the captain's, at his urgent solicita tion, although it is not fair to him, and Jack goes around in his old rummage-sale Tarn o' Shanter, the age of which is beyond guessing. As for me, I am posing as the happiest and luckiest girl in the world, and it is an easy role. Now let me tell about that six-foot-five shark we caught — the first ever landed on the Snark. The captain got it with a salt-pork-baited hook over the stern; Herrmann slipped a bowline under it, and then shot it in the head several times. But it died hard, thrashing on the deck a long time after the men got it inboard. Of course, it was hung up and photographed — strange, vicious monster, with eyes like a cat, yellowish, slit-pupiled, and with a cat's disinclination to give up the fight for life. It still thrashed about even after most of its internal economy had gone overboard. I never have heard a description of the eye of a shark, and its resemblance to the feline optic struck me instantly. "The tiger of the sea," to be sure — why, it ought to have cat's eyes. This shark of ours was a specimen of the man-eating variety, with twelve fearsome rows of saw-edged teeth. The meat of the shark is good and sweet, and not dry ; but sailors 54 THE LOG OF THE SNARK do not care for it — probably because of their hatred of its propensity for human meat. But sharks have annoyances of their own, one of these being a black sucker — remora — that clings to it as a sea- anemone clings to a rock, a marine vermin that can hardly be soothing to the shark. The longest we pulled off was about ten inches. The clinging-muscles of the slippery pest are under its head, under the jaw, if it can be called a jaw. At first we thought these parasites were young sharks. So tightly did they stick, that it was almost impossible to pull them loose while they lived. And now all that is left of our first shark are the jaws, drying on the pin-rail, and the vertebra, strung at the mizzen-masthead. There were many dolphins swimming around us the morn ing we got the shark, Saturday, the 2nd — an orgy of colour in the sun-shot azure of the water. It was one of the days when the water is pale sapphire through which the sun-rays focus deep down in long slanting funnels of quivering golden light. The shark was attended by dozens of its black-and- white striped pilot-fish, and there were several bonitos around also. Later. A small shark is following us this afternoon, but in a listless fashion that indicates a full stomach. It chased a big dolphin out of the water, and the pursued fish took a shoot of at least seven feet over the surface — a curving blade of flashing blue. The first Portuguese men-o'-war that we have seen since we left Hilo, have shown up lately — one day a solitary little silver sail, and the next day myriads. Just here I am re minded of the "nature-fake" discussion that is raging in the United States. It appears that Mr. John Burroughs has incurred the displeasure of a correspondent of the Outlook, by stating that "the Physalia, or Portuguese man-o'-war, has a kind of sail in its air-sack that helps it sail to wind ward." The irritated correspondent jumps back with: "It does nothing of the kind; it cannot sail to windward, THE LOG OF THE SNARK 55 and it never did ; it drifts to leeward. ' ' But another critic out-Burroughs Mr. Burroughs, as follows: "The physalia has three masts, all square-rigged, and in windward work easily lies within three points of the wind. Going large he runs under bare poles. In the Bay of Barataria I have often seen a squadron of these Portuguese men-o'-war with stunsails set, beating to windward to get the weather gauge on a Spanish omelet, then furling every thing and running down the wind to their less active victim. The nautilus has sails too, only it is barkentine-rigged, and in running sometimes sets a lower f oretopsail. " One day, when the men were overhauling the fore-peak, eight infant rats, with their mother, were killed. We hoped they were all settled, but since then traces of another have been found. Probably it comes into the galley at night for water, as there is none handy anywhere else, all tanks being of galvanized iron, with no seepage. Captain Warren says that aboard ships a rat will gnaw almost through a water- cask, contenting itself with the moisture oozing through, rather than letting the water out freely and losing it all. We have been practising with our rifles this afternoon — the first time I've had a gun in my hands since the heavy rifle on Molokai, when I hit the target at two hundred yards. To-day we were trying at pieces of wood and cans on the water. Perhaps, before the day is over, Jack will have a* chance at the shark. Try as we may to forget the inexcusable blunders in the building of the Snark, and the persons who are inexcusably responsible, things hitherto unknown keep creeping out to make us more than ever sick of commercial civilisation. The men who sailed with us from San Francisco insisted upon the honesty of those who betrayed us in the building of our boat — even insisted in the face of evidence to the contrary as strong as what came to light yesterday morning, when Captain Warren found the deck-beams forward of our staterooms, where they were not likely to be discovered, to 56 THE LOG OF THE SNARK be pine instead of the fine oak beams that were ordered and paid for in the east and delivered at the shipyard. To be sure, many a good ship's deck-beams are pine; but that is not the point: the shipbuilders substituted beams that cost about $2.50 apiece, for beams that cost us about $7.50 apiece. What became of the oak? But this is not the worst. The bitts forward, upon the strength of which de pends our safety when at anchor, is a ghastly bluff. About one quarter of it reaches as it should down to the bottom of the boat; the other three quarters are supposed to go down to the bottom of the boat — but do not. A magnificent great beam of oak to look upon — it stops short at the deck, a farce, another heart-breaking reminder of the way the "honest" men treated us in the States. The rotten wrought iron — it still goes back on us, here and there; the deck- planking full of butts, ordered without butts and paid for accordingly; the pitiful futile engine. But I haven't told about the engine. After paying out five hundred dollars more in Hilo on repairs to it, now, after working it at half- speed (it would go no faster) for perhaps a couple of hours altogether since we sailed a month ago, the engine is pau, and cannot be used again until another machine-shop is handy, which will not be until we reach Papeete, Tahiti. Even the engineer in Hilo, our last hope, let us go out to sea with an engine he knew for a joke, and with some new faults of which he did not tell us, although he knew them, according to Martin. Why Martin did not give us the bene fit of his information, I do not know. From the engine room at intervals comes a heavy sigh. It is certainly appropriate, and quite affecting, even if it is produced by a metal valve ! It is an expensive valve, by the way, installed in Hilo, doubly expensive because it is a failure. Ah, well — cold world and warm friend, it has been all one to Jack and me where the building of the Snark is concerned. But we have each other and the fair sky and water all about us, and we are alive and living in spite of them all. THE LOG OF THE SNARK 57 Lat. 9° 4' North, Lon. 134° 15' West. Wednesday, November 6, 1907. Have I said before that we are over half-way to the Mar quesas? — and already a month at sea. There are potatoes for four more days; and with the potatoless prospect arise vague longings for fresh taro, and poi, cocoanuts, and bread fruit ! We shall be glad enough to welcome land and trees and growing things. But Jack and I are not in the slight est sense bored by the long passage — we haven't time to do the things we want to do. The captain frets and chafes sorely, however, although after a particularly crusty spell, he usually laughs at himself and explains again what it means to a captain to have a vessel held back. We thought we had made an important discovery. It seems that the mackerel fishing-grounds of the world have been practically deserted of late years, and no one knows where the fish have migrated. Here, in this lonely part of the Pacific, we began to think we had solved the problem. But the books tell us that mackerel are not to be found far from land, so this boiling sea of fish through which we have been sailing cannot well be mackerel, but is more likely to be the skipjack and young bonita — both related to the mackerel, however. Also, the ex treme shyness of the supposed mackerel toward our hooks, tallies with that exasperating characteristic of the skipjack, as noted in the book of reference that we dug up. Our little library is of unending use and joy to us. It being too wet to box after breakfast this morning, Jack read aloud to us all, — Joseph Conrad's Youth, a masterpiece of which he and I never tire, many times though we have read it. I, at least, can appreciate it much better than I could before my acquaintance with the sea. Books and stories about the sea and sea-going bring the world closer than ever about me, as I touch more intimately, day after day, the life of the sea. Captain Warren swears by Con rad. — a sailor vouching for the capable work of another 58 THE LOG OF THE SNARK sailor. And speaking of the captain reminds me of an in cident that occurred yesterday which made a great impres sion upon me. Our little arsenal has rusted in spite of present care-taking, having got a bad start during 'Gene's regime, and the guns jammed yesterday, after the first few shots. Jack was firing his Colt's automatic pistol, and it jammed. The empty shell would not eject, nor would the loaded magazine come out. I was watching his efforts to straighten out the thing, and the captain could see I was nervous lest there be an explosion in Jack's pre cious hands, although I declare I made little fuss. So the captain begged Jack to let him experiment, adding some thing about its not being so important a matter if anything happened to his own hands. It was said quite as a matter of course — the captain of a boat taking as a matter of course the first risks in all things. Jack did not relinquish the pistol, and I was immensely relieved when the magazine finally yielded and came out. But I shall not soon forget the captain's words and intention, and told him so later on. He looked pleased, and said simply, "Mr. London's hands are worth more than mine." Everybody had a good time to-day, for there was plenty of incident. The captain hooked our first bonita, a small specimen about fourteen inches long, dark changeable blue on top and all delicate mother-of-pearl and rose under neath. Being a dry fish, it was relegated to a chowder for supper. Jack did not finish his chapter of the novel this forenoon, because, soon after he had gone below to write, after inspecting the bonita, we spied a turtle not far off. Captain Warren wore ship and made for the bow sprit, dropped down upon the martingale back-rope, calling meanwhile for a line to put around his body, while he should fasten another rope around the turtle, after which we were to haul them both in. He did that once before, he says, and shows a scar from the turtle's bite. But he did not go overboard this time, for we drifted to the left of the creature. Waking from sleep, it paddled astern, bobbing THE LOG OF THE SNARK 59 against the starboard side of the boat, heavy with a meal off a dozen small-fry. Over the stern the captain hung on to the granes that Herrmann put into the turtle's shell just back of its head, while Jack shot his automatic rifle into the head. Herrmann and Martin were frantically hunting for the harpoon, which was not where it belonged, strange to say! Only one barb of the granes had caught in the shell, and the captain had his hands full to keep from losing the catch. Herrmann could not manage to stick the harpoon where he wanted it, so he put a rope around himself and dropped overboard, passed the turtle up and was him self hauled in. One doesn't feel quite happy with a fellow voyager overboard in these waters, I can tell you. One never knows when a shark may be loafing just under the keel, dozing lightly and alert for anything that looks like a meal. Like our shark, the turtle was attended by pilot-fish. Handling a sea-turtle is a thing to be done gingerly; for besides the vicious mouth with its sharp beak inside in lieu of teeth, he has a thick strong claw on each flipper. And when a turtle is dead, he isn't dead; you can't trust him — he is worse than a shark. A story is told of a turtle-shell hung on a tree, with only tail and head left attached. A sailor put two fingers into the mouth, and the "abysmal brute" beak closed and the sailor left his two fingers therein. The dissection of this creature, which is "neither flesh, nor fish, nor fowl," but resembles all three, was worth see ing. I wonder sometimes how I can watch these bloody operations. But I want to see, I want to know; and these good reasons brace me up. The most remarkable thing I saw in the interior of this turtle was the canal leading to the stomach, which canal was lined with yellow spikes like those of a sea-anemone. Nothing that is swallowed can return to the light unless the swallower wills. Captain Warren is drying this curiosity in the sun, and says it is going to make me a purse ! Our turtle measured three feet from nose to rear end of shell, the shell itself being twenty- six inches long. The tail alone was about ten inches. 60 THE LOG OF THE SNARK During the catching, there happened a thing of wonderful beauty. Twice, a brilliantly coloured dolphin, at least six feet in length, leaped high and shot out over the water, twisting and turning in the air before falling on its side with a loud splash — just having a good time enjoying its life and strength. There were many dolphins swimming close around us at the time, as if curious about the turtle, and we saw a four-foot albacore, resembling the bonita, only many times larger than any bonita we have come across. Schools of tiny skipjacks swam under the yacht, and a small flying-fish came aboard. Jack's old promises are being abun dantly surpassed. It is an unending happy dream of youth and romance, this idling over the face of the waters, taking anything and everything that comes along, as a matter of course, rain or sunshine, cloud or wind, pleasure and danger; and it is all pleasure. Lat. 6° 45' North, Lon. 134° West. Friday, November 8, 1907. Captain Warren is trying hard not to be short and glum in this near-calm, in which the only fan of air that blows takes us more to the south than we care to go as yet — easting being what we must make in order to gain the Marquesas. But Jack and I are most cheerful, with our work and read ing, sparring, playing intense games of cribbage and "ad- mirin' how the world is made." The turtle has been served up in various forms, each bet ter than the last — broiled, fried, soup-wise, and in chowder ; and the end is not yet. . . . Last night a slim new moon came out above heavy slate-blue clouds after sunset, and under the clouds glowed a dull-gold horizon, while the sea was all a pale purple flushed with rose. If my sunsets grow tiresome, forgive me. They are so lovely that it seems I must speak of them. This morning the ocean reminds me of a great round aquarium, the rim wrought with frosted filagree of clouds — a bowl of THE LOG OF THE SNARK 61 blue water wherein the fish leap clear as if trying to escape. But the bowl has a cover of palest blue, and there is no escape. Monday, November 11, 1907. To-day a new element entered into our romance — the ele ment of raw, red, brutal sailor-life that lands- men and -women read about in books. And it has left me sad and sick and with a cruel sense of disillusionment. I have al ready hinted at the emotional disposition of the Snark' s present skipper ; but I did not dream that I was preparing my readers for the horrid thing that happened this after noon. It is like a nightmare ; only, when I look at the ugly cut on poor Wada's blanched face, with the purple-bruised eyes swollen almost shut, I know again the sickening reality of this new page in the Snark' s Log. The captain's moroseness had been increasing steadily and probably he had reached the stage when he had to take it out on somebody. He chose the smallest man on board. Warren has a cleft in the top of his skull that he says was dealt him by a crazy ship's-eook; but after to-day's experi ence I don't mind hazarding that maybe that cook was not crazy. And here's what occurred: This morning at breakfast the captain suddenly remembered a box of honey some one had given him at Hilo. He also remembered having sub sequently seen this box in the galley, and now asked Wada sharply why he had not served the honey with our hot- cakes these many mornings. Wada, very flustered and small in the voice, answered haltingly that he had never seen the box. He was commanded to produce it immediately, but failed to locate it. Then the captain, half rising from the table, cried in a voice shaking with rage, "You find that honey, or I'll show you how to find it!" His fury was out of all proportion to the occasion, and much out of place at table, to say the least. After breakfast, Wada, with drawn face, and assisted 62 THE LOG OF THE SNARK by a silent but sympathetic Nakata, searched through locker after locker, in galley and in cabin; but, presumably through the very forgetfulness of fear, he did not happen on the right locker. After lunch, which passed off rather constrainedly under the lowering looks of the captain, there was a general air of uncomfortable expectancy aboard ship. In the afternoon, while Jack was steering and reading aloud to me in the cockpit, there came through the galley decklight the sound of a one-sided conversation in the trembling, un controlled tones of Captain Warren. Nakata was hovering on deck with the longest face we had ever seen on him. Few words reached us ; but there followed a thudding pause that turned me faint. Then the captain came on deck, and his hands were bloody — I know I can never look at them again without thinking of it ; and he was followed by a shrunken, blinded little brown man whose entire face was a red smudge. I did not look again, for I felt somehow that along with the pain Wada was suffering, there was pride and a shrinking from observation. So I looked at Jack instead, and something in his eyes told me the happening would never be repeated. The captain came aft with his brutal hands; and would you believe it ? — he had so relieved himself that he was now all apology for making a scene, and further, his voice broke sympathetically over the "punishment" he had been obliged to give Wada. The cook had ordered him out of the galley, and of course it was a captain's right to go anywhere he pleased aboard his command. Martin had heard and seen everything through the glass window in the wall between galley and engine-room. The captain, Martin told us afterward, who is twice as large as Wada, had blocked the galley door with his person, and demanded "that honey." Wada, scared out of his wits, said it was not on the boat. The captain started to enter, threateningly, and Wada, in the last extremity of terror, said, "Don't you come in my galley." Which is where he made his big mistake, for it was just what Warren had THE LOG OF THE SNARK 63 tried to frighten him into, so he would have an excuse to take the boy by the throat with one hand and smash in with the other. There was no escape in the confined space, with the stove behind. Wada was stupid, granted— for the honey was found later — but he was terrified, and not intentionally mutinous or impudent; and his punishment was entirely disproportion ate to his offence. This is not a merchant ship nor a tramp steamer; it is a pleasure-boat, and such extremes are un called for. Poor little Wada ! That evening I was alone in the life boat, when he crept on deck. I called him to me and asked him if the cut on his forehead was painful. He answered in a dead, level voice that it was not, but that his throat ached. I noticed that he was hoarse. He seemed to grieve most over the possibility of a scar, for he said he had never been in trouble like this before. He thought a scar would be a sort of disgrace. "Cap'n big man — just like hit little baby when he hit me," he said with a sigh. Lat. 8° 30' North, Lon. 131° West. Wednesday, November 13, 1907. I am sitting on a new corner seat in the cockpit, at seven bells in the evening ; Jack, Captain Warren and Martin, are perspiring over a game of poker in the cabin; Herrmann is on the rudder-box holding the boat to her course, southeast one-half south, in a fair wind that has been blowing since three o'clock, to our delight. Upon my assurance that it will not bother me in the least, Herrmann is singing "The Last Rose of Summer, ' ' although I have discovered that the tale he carries to our familiar air is not the one we know, being a recital of a Dutch Maud Muller who scorned the rich suitor, preferring her poor but honest yokel. To the northeast, in an otherwise clear and moonlit sky, a low black thunder-cloud is spitting intermittent flashes of 64 THE LOG OF THE SNARK steely lightning that make my electric light yellow by con trast. It is too lovely a night for me to be stuck in an ar tificially lighted corner ; but this has already been a day full of neglected work, and if I wait too long to write what I see, the freshness and colour will go out — like the life and colour that went out of a dying dolphin Herrmann landed yesterday. I was sleeping late, and Jack tiptoed in at 8:30, not wanting me to miss this first dolphin caught in daylight. It took me just about two minutes to get on deck, and even then the living peacock-blue was gone, all but speckles of it dotting an iridescent green. This in turn shaded out of a dark blue line underneath, which soon faded to glossy white. Most of the dolphins we see in the water are of all shades of bright blue, passing into emerald green ; and to-day, through some light and shade effect, they ap peared to be broadly striped with black and green and blue. They are the chameleons of the deep — except that their colours are not protective; they shame everything else in air and sea. This fish measured over three feet. Although we have seen them twice this length, the captain says this three-footer is the largest he ever caught. As with the sunsets, I must be pardoned for recurring to the dolphin, so beautiful a thing he is. We have been surrrounded by enormous ones these days of calm. Imagine a vision of luminous azure deep down in transparent dark sapphire water — why, we drop everything to watch. The turtle shell, towed close astern, brings various sorts of inquisitive fish around us when the water is calm. To-day Jack and the captain classified our charts — some already used, some unnecessary ones, to be returned to Cali fornia, and the ones for the future put into the order in which we now expect to need them. After these days of turning around and around in calms, or fighting head winds and currents and getting nowhere, we are fired with fresh ambition to follow the islands shown by the charts. Big drops of warm rain are blobbing all over the page as THE LOG OF THE SNARK 65 I write; but they cannot put out my covered light, so I don't mind them. Poor Martin has been wrestling with defective plumb ing in the bath-room ; also with certain faults in the engine- room electrical apparatus. His opinions as to the integrity of the people dealing in ship chandlery are undergoing a transformation, now that he must keep in order these faulty things. ' ' The darn things were only made to play with, ' ' he complained, looking ruefully at an inefficient pump-handle that had been defying all efforts to make it do its work, and that had finally broken short off. Lat 8° North, Lon. 129° 42' West. Thursday, November 14, 1907. Not much sleep these hot nights, for the "juice" that runs the cooling fans gave out a few nights ago. About 4:30 this morning the wind freshened to a strong squall that called for all hands on deck to take in flying-jib and mizzen. How it does pour in these squalls! The big stinging drops seem to shoot from the clouds rather than fall, with a drive that sends them through oilskin. But it is such cleansing rain. The ropes grow whiter after each deluging ; and I love to feel the water run off my slicker and drench my bare feet. It is so cheering to hear the brave bright voices of the men through rain and dark, reassuring us as to their safety. One could go overboard so easily at night in a big sea and not be missed for a time; and even if he were missed im mediately, how pick him up in the gloom and noise and confusion ? I am more or less painfully aware of the many places aboard a small craft upon which one can "bark" his anatomy. I would better say "her" anatomy, since I have a more than ordinarily brilliant faculty for decorating my self with bruises that vie with the lunar rainbow in smothered tones of violet and orange. I am particularly 66 THE LOG OF THE SNARK conscious of such abrasions after a rough night. I recoil in sleep from a wicked encounter of my temple with a sharp- cornered pigeon-hole on a locker-door by my head, only to receive the full weight of my descending body on the flat tened end of my poor sun-tender nose against the bunk- rail, as I turn, assisted by a violent roll of the boat, for con solation to the other side of the bed. Oh, it is not at all funny — until I come to tell about it, when I have to laugh even if it hurts to laugh. I am minded of the solicitous old sea-dog who warned Jack by letter that it was not safe to take a woman outside the Golden Gate in a boat of the Snark' s size; that we would be bruised over our "entire persons, unless the boat be padded, which is not usual." I'll give him the satisfaction of knowing that I am pretty much bruised over my ' ' entire person, ' ' but that I am grow ing hardened both in spirit and muscle. Every one aboard knows when I hurt myself; but I really think I make less outcry than of yore. I would be willing to wager a good round sum that more than one reader of my tale of bumps and humps will say that my husband is a brute to risk me on such a voyage — unless he wants to lose me. But to all such I make reply that they should just see me if he tried to leave me behind. However, I think I must have been inspired when I suggested, in America, that we take the trip before we were any older ! No woman but an idiot would embark on a round-world voyage in our fashion without sundry flutters and misgiv ings. I did not worry very much about trouble or danger ; but at first I could not help being a little nervous sometimes in the sizable seas through which the little Snark would thread her way with that impudent adventuring nose of hers. But now, except when shocked awake from a dead sleep, I take the pawing and clawing, lurching and bounding over the bucking seas, quite as part of the day's work. This is not to minimise the possibility of the awful things that could happen to us and may yet happen to us, for the sea is a cruel, unlovable monster of caprice and might ; but now my THE LOG OF THE SNARK 67 accustomed nerves are beginning to dread nothing less than the worst. We are all becoming more and more a part of the boat. We take less conscious care of ourselves near the rail — but we are actually more cautious than ever, in a finer and more intelligent, if more subconscious way. . . . Think of the mails that must be waiting for us at Papeete, Tahiti. It will be six weeks next Monday since we sailed from Hilo ; and it struck me with a pang the other day, that before long, dear ones at home may be saddening their days with apprehensions for our fate — and life is so short, and terrors of this kind shorten it, if life be measured by heartbeats of happiness. It is bad enough for people to think of us out in this cockle-shell, without the agony being piled up by "overdue" press reports. Our obituaries may even now be in preparation in newspaper offices where news is scarce! Jack says this is probably the longest single stretch we shall ever have. Where we should be logging one hundred miles a day at the least, we are only doing a few. Take yesterday: we made thirty knots on our course, and I don't know how many off our course ; and this morning after the squall, which kept us on the course, the wind broke off and we are now fighting slowly northeast with plunge and splurge, in a big short sea, making very little headway. It is a comfortless movement, too. We are past getting sea sick now; but I for one am not quite at rest in the region of my solar plexus. After making the acquaintance of the tropic cockroach, the centipede, and other unsympathetic co-dwellers in this vale of tears, a woman's heartfelt desire is to keep them from possessing the household. My household is a boat, with all sorts of attractive nooks and damp lockers and dark corners for insect or reptile. No centipedes have shown up ; plenty of time yet for them to come aboard with island fruits. But after several days' vague curiosity about cer tain black husks in the graham bread, it was discovered that 68 THE LOG OF THE SNARK the flour was alive with weevils and black bugs. Well, there 's no use being too squeamish ; but Jack, horrid thing ! said he had noticed a distinct change for the better in his physical well-being, as if, forsooth, he had been living on a fresh-meat diet ! — Ugh ! the flour was carefully sifted and sunned on the skylight to-day — don't think for a moment that we wasted it overboard. We are too far from land to do anything so unwise. It is an even chance, now, which port we fetch first, Nuka-Hiva in the Marquesas, or Papeete in Tahiti. When the wind is contrary, which, when there is any wind at all, is usually the case, there is talk of our being unable to make the required slant to the Marquesas, the chance being that we shall be lucky if we can lay a course that will not miss Tahiti. I rather wish it would be Tahiti first, in order that we might pick up our mail sooner; then, granting a fair wind east, to run back to the Marquesas, taking in Tahiti again and later mails on our westward way. There is cer tainly nothing cut-and-dried in our calendar — we do not even know where we are bound! But we '11 let go our anchor in some lovely haven this side of the "Port of Missing Men." Sometimes I think of the women of my New England fam ily, scattered from their home-Maine throughout the South, in New York, and Philadelphia, and Boston, who in their time have gone abroad in ships with their master-mariner husbands, travelling for years, until some swift disaster widowed them, stranded and desolate. In the town of' Searsport, Maine, where some years ago I visited a beautiful white-haired cousin with the look of loss in her eyes — in Searsport there are some eight hundred inhabitants, the majority of whom are widows of sea captains. And it seems strange that I, born and reared in the opposite corner of the Union, should be out adventuring to strange lands my self with a man who loves to sail the sea. How much closer I shall ever be to those women of my father's family. . . . The other morning, lying late, I heard the captain THE LOG OF THE SNARK 69 say he had never seen so many fish in his life. During the day I learned what he meant. They were mostly bonitas, cresting the waves with their flashing silver bodies, the water boiling and seething with them as they darted and leaped — countless thousands of them. . . . Nakata is learning much English ; but once in a while he shows preferences for words of his own coining above those taught him. For example, yesterday I told him to clean the blades of my electric fan, which pick up all sorts of fluff out of the atmosphere. The small heathen (who is a Christian, by the way !) told Herrmann that he was going be low to clean the wind! Lat. 7° 52' North, Lon. 126° 36' West. Monday, November 18, 1907. I gave up trying to sleep below without the electric fan, and have spent my third night on deck, forward, under the bow of the life-boat. Sailing softly along before light airs, the nights have been lovely, moonlit, with no squalls. Herrmann cannot be brought to see that it is quite the right thing for a woman to sleep on a hard deck with no mattress ; but I am entirely satisfied with my yielding spread of many-folded, clean canvas, a duck coverlet and a comfort able pillow ; and if my feet grow chilly, there 's a poncho to pull over. It is a novel picnic to turn in under the moon, face and body softly swept by the palpable, flowing wind — air that one drinks rather than breathes. And when I rouse and lift my head to look in the waking eye of dawn, I truly wonder where I am, and glance momentarily into the airy rigging above with a sense of lacking weight and substance, of being part and parcel of myth and mystery. The face of morning is very beautiful, bending over the flushing sea. — Think of our little white boat, floating lone liest of all boats, in this desert of celestial colour. It is adventure, pure and simple; it is enrichment of one's most precious store of imagination. . . . We stood last night 70 THE LOG OF THE SNARK after supper, Jack and I, leaning over the launch and gazing spellbound at a sunset of forms and hues so grotesque and crude, contrasts of rawness and garishness so rude, that our senses were shocked. The simplest pigments were used to limn the picture, greens and blues and pinks ; and from the basic flaunting gold there shout out great spreading rays of rose and blue. A cloud-genii, inky black, developed in the centre, and as the colours deepened around, long cloud-capes on the horizon sent up strange forms like in sane, toppling mountains. It was exciting, tonic, jarring blood and brain like an electric bath or a burst of cannonad ing or anything unusual and shocking. Something made me face to the east as if to seek peace for the eye. The op posing vision was untouched by the spirit of the first. A cold silver moon hung in a sky of dove, over a sea of silver- grey, all softly luminous but as wanting in colour as grey can ever be. To change to this calm desolation of grey and silver was as if to turn from a gaud-tricked, painted woman to see a grey nun standing. November 19, 1907. Whenever there is any good fishing over our rail a sort of tacit holiday obtains, affecting all hands but the cook. Yet our brown chef revels in the sort of work entailed upon him by our catch. Three hundred pounds of sea-meat hap pened on our deck the other day. "Fish market," Nakata unctuously commented; while Wada, squatting on his bare heels, dexterously carved a seven-foot shark, sharpening the knife on its hide now and again. In addition to the shark there were some dolphins varying from three to four feet in length, and several bonitas larger than any we had yet seen. The sport began with Martin hooking his first fish — a ten- pound bonita that put up a game fight and came aboard glowing with angry colours as bizarre as our sunsets — a painted fish if there ever was one. Raining and blowing though it was, Martin hied him to the end of the bowsprit find promptly caught a five-pounder of the same species, THE LOG OF THE SNARK 71 that looked for all the world like an elongated soap-bubble, blown from Paradise, if Paradise can fling off anything so exquisite. Martin hooked one smaller bonita, which exactly fitted Wada's eye for a baked stuffed fish. Jack knocked off work for a while and came up to try his luck, but his success was reserved for larger game. The bonitas shot along near the top of the water, straight and true and brightly gleaming, like steel shuttles weaving a prodigious fabric of grey and white. Jack had no sooner returned to his work again, when ' ' Shark ! ' ' was the shout on deck, and I reached the stern in time to see the tiger of the sea with his yellow cat-eyes turn leisurely on his side and swallow bait and hook, the captain yelling meanwhile for Jack to come and have the fun of pulling it in. But Jack was not going to spoil a sentence for any second shark, and came up a moment later to empty his shot-gun into the head of the furiously struggling monster. It was not so game as our first shark, giving up both the conscious and the unconscious fight much sooner. Jack offset all his hitherto unsuccessful sport when the dolphins began to bite that same afternoon. For several days the birds that hunt flying-fish had been scarce, and we had noticed an absence of the latter. For this or some other reason the dolphins were hungry, and we hung over the rail and watched the orgy of colour they made in the calm blue underneath as they would sniff at the bait several times, suspiciously, and finally, reassured, catch it up next time they shot by. Every one but Nakata and I pulled in a dol phin. I didn't try, and Nakata failed. Jack caught two, and Martin two, and Jack's larger one turned out to be an inch longer than any other, measuring four feet seven inches, and weighing twenty-six pounds. He played it for three quarters of an hour with rod and reel, and a small hook baited with flying fish. It passed through indigo and tur quoise to the most brilliant luminous gaslight-green, and, when finally landed with the help of the granes, faded into fairest gold all over, then quickly spotted with electric-blue. 72 THE LOG OF THE SNARK Some dolphins came aboard a hard, bright white, immedi ately changing to other tints ; others arrived in pale blue, or pale green, or both, and no two went through the same suc cession of colours. They are unbelievably beautiful. Since this big catch, different ways of putting fish on the table have kept Wada's ingenuity busy. They have been baked and stuffed, with tomato dressing; boiled; broiled with a rasher of bacon; have made excellent chowder; and this morning dolphin fritters made their bow, nicely light and done in olive oil. And the roe is a great delicacy. Wada is beginning to look like himself again, but for a nasty healing scar between the eyes. The captain keeps a wary eye on the cook, as if fearing treachery; but Wada goes his way unconcernedly. One big dolphin swallowed four expensive hooks from off a white wooden lure in the form of a fish, but gulped another baited hook presently, and when Wada came to clean the fish he discovered the lost hooks. We do not want for incident these days. What of the weather, the sunrises and sunsets, the extreme loveliness of the reflecting liquid expanse round about, the squalls, calms, winds fair and foul, there is endless novelty; but it is life- incident, or the scarcity of it, that pitches excitement high when anything new in this line turns up. We are all like children at a circus parade. Herrmann, with the murder ous granes poised for a cast at dolphin or turtle, his face alive with earnest attention, is a model for a sculptor of old-country types — to be wrought in bronze; the captain, breathless and with quivering voice, hanging to a line around a shark, the Japanese emitting little barbaric squeals and cries of delight, Jack talking fast, with his eyes shining, and I tumbling over the main-sheet to a place of vantage — oh, I can assure everybody that it is exhilarating! One day lately we sighted a small white sea-porcupine about eight inches long, bobbing calmly on the long swell, head and tail extended, like those of a turtle. Its arched white back glis tened with wicked spikes. We tacked and tacked in order THE LOG OF THE SNARK 73 to pick it up, straining our eyes to keep track of it ; but the wind was too light, and we failed. We saw another turtle last night, but missed it. These turtles are unusually far from land, I have learned. To offset our very unstimulating record for speed on this traverse, we contemplate the fact that, so far as we know, no other yacht has ever travelled the course at all. Jack has resumed his navigation again in earnest ; and on the 15th, Friday last, took his first chronometer sight on this cruise. Herrmann is much impressed, and wonders why we employ a captain! We have taken up Saleeby 's fascinating work, The Cycle of Life, which Jack found he could not be selfish enough to read by himself ; so, several times a day, while I stitch away on summer lingerie, or embroider, he reads aloud to me of the sufficient wonder of the ascertained fact and the rela tivity of all knowledge, worked out in beautiful clear style in chapters under such headings as "Swimming," "Cricket," "The Living Cell," "Song," "Fratricide," "The Destiny of the Horse," "The Green Leaf," "Atoms and Evolution" — all related in a way that makes one glow with enthusiasm over the universe that is and the particular brain-cells of the man who can present the- conclusions of science in such enchanting form. . . . Our course staggers tipsily over the chart, but we are going to get in cahoots with the southeast trades some day, and now, having accomplished the requisite east ing, we are sure of the Marquesas if we can be sure of any thing in this capricious ocean. As the Snark buckles down each day to her work, we discuss our future plans for that region indefinitely termed the South Seas, and have about made up our minds to try for the Paumotus, of "infamous reputation" for danger, as Robert Louis Stevenson says — the Dangerous Archipelago of old-time navigators. Jack has spent to-day 's holiday in overhauling all his fish ing-tackle — coils of line, coarse and fine, shining reels of different makes and sizes, hooks of roughly murderous or of 74 THE LOG OF THE SNARK finely cruel aspect, elegant rods of varying degrees of slen- derness and polish, dainty nets of white or yellow; and the spoons of steel and mother-of-pearl and gay pigments are fit to make an angler's fingers twitch. One lure represents a curving silver minnow, cunningly armed with wicked hooks. After boxing this morning we had to borrow a pail from the galley for our bucketing, for on Saturday Martin, open-mouthed over the stern while the captain held the shark, deliberately let go the canvas pail he happened to be holding; and later in the day, hauling up a galvanized iron pail full of water, the rope parted and a second container was lost. Herrmann is now manufacturing a new canvas bucket, having finished my windsail, which even as I write is conveying cool draughts of air down through an open deck-light. Lat. 6° 45' North, Lon. 125° 36' West. Monday, November 25, 1907. There is something wholly exasperating about the weather this morning; and as it was the same all of yesterday and last night, our nerves are a bit on edge. The wind blows briskly from the wrong direction, sending us east by north, when we want to go southeast ; and we are bucking the head- sea that has certainly been no novelty on this long passage — forty-nine days to-day. You cannot move without bump ing something, in this contrary motion; and when a big swift roll comes, things slide and fall in all directions. Just now, among a shower of articles set loose by a vicious surge of the yacht, one book struck the floor with such force that it slid right out of its binding, and it was not flimsily-bound either. My pocket-diary took a trip across the deck, poised in the very teeth of the scupper, and the instant after Jack rescued it a wave washed in where it had been. There has been little sunshine for several days, and, on account of wet weather, less opportunity for open decklights; so our staterooms and lockers have a disagreeable odour of stale- THE LOG OF THE SNARK 75 ness and mouldiness. The air is sultry, and I had a surpris ing attack of prickly heat this morning. This is the first day I have felt as if I would rather sight land than not; then I appreciate that if it were not for my work with which I never catch up, and my desire to make the most of my un interrupted time, I might be tainted with Captain Warren's impatience. Altogether, I feel very much like breaking my cheer and being real cross for a spell! But what's the use? I know, when I come right down to "brass tacks," as Jack says, that I would rather be here, on this buffeted boat, in this up-ending head-sea, than in lots of other states I can think of — say on an abused and stumbling horse, riding over a bad road, in another person's ill-adjusted saddle, under a hot sun; or, to come nearer home, I'd rather be in present circumstances than in those of last Wednesday, the 20th, when we found ourselves short of water, with no prospect of rain and with only twenty days' rations left. But the unpleasantness of that prospect, which I am using to offset to-day's irk, was mitigated somewhat by the interesting touch of danger. A taste of sea-peril of this kind has a thrill in it — something new to go through and to think of afterwards, provided, of course, that there be any after wards. There was an element of romance, somewhat dimmed by humour, in the spectacle of the galley-pump, shackled with steel handcuffs against the possibility of the cook drawing more than his allotment of water for cooking purposes. We experienced a hitherto unknown sense of miserly vigilance over our quart-bottles filled to last twenty- four hours, and hung up in shady places. The threatened water-famine affected us according to our several natures. Martin was seized with an aggravated thirst and consumed his quart in the forenoon. To bring home to him the consequences of his unbridled license, we compared our plenty with his want by trickling our own sup ply loudly and ostentatiously from varying heights into our glasses. As for Jack, he drank moderately, and had a little of his allowance left the following morning. I was 76 THE LOG OF THE SNARK not driven into excess by imaginings of a future parched throat; indeed, I was less thirsty than usual — although I am not prepared to say how much of my lack of desire was affected by the discovery that there was a flavour of kero sene in my bottle. At night, however, Jack let me have some of his hoarded store in exchange for some of mine for his morning shave. Naturally, no provision for washing en tered into the regime, each scheming the disposal of his single quart as he saw fit. I tried ammonia in salt water, and it was an improvement over salt water plain ; but I did not put any of this mixture on my face. I cleansed that mirror of my soul with cold cream, and judged my coun tenance to be the cleanest of the ship's company, as I saw no one else making any sort of shift to wash. The cook was given seven quarts of water for general use in cooking only, and employed this so discreetly as to put chocolate or coffee on the table at all three meals, whereas we had expected none for at least one of the three. Herrmann was inclined to survey the whole proceeding as a joke, which called forth a few serious remarks from Captain Warren, who is the only one of us who really knows the terrors of thirst. . . . Jack and I added a great picture to our brain-gallery on Thursday. Alone in the cockpit, we watched our men rig up the large deck awning, tilted up at the sides, the centre breadths lowered at the forward end over a tub set' on the skylight, while a funnel was stuck into the opening of the 'midship tank to catch all gleanings from the awning in event of rain. For the sky had clouded and the wind freshened from N.N.E., and squalls, white squalls and black, curtained the horizon. The awning rigged, our men rested ; and the picture we saw was of three of them leaning at about the same angle on a boat, watching for rain — un consciously straining forward toward the thing desired, one mastering thought bringing them together in one bodily expression of that thought. They leaned a long time, motionless, absorbed, unaware of our scrutiny or our ap- THE LOG OF THE SNARK 77 preciation. And those eluding squalls lifted and fell and glided like marionettes on a revolving stage, leaving us dry, until about midnight. Between then and daylight about one hundred gallons were poured into the 'midship tank. And by Saturday, for it rained on and off till then, as much water was stored as before the shortage was detected. You have been wondering at our sudden discovery of this shortage of water? (Bang, rattle, snap! the flying- jib has just carried away. The only advantage of this is that the boat doesn't paw quite so wildly with her headsail off.) But as I was saying. In a sudden squall Tuesday night, during the hoisting of the spinnaker-boom, in some way the faucet on the port bow tank was turned, and not before morning did we discover our loss. Investigating the other tanks, on deck and below, it was also found that somebody had miscal culated in a former inspection, and we found ourselves facing a serious predicament. We might have drifted around in these doldrums for an indefinite time without rain. To-day we are still three hundred and seventy-nine miles north of the Equator, with a current setting us eastward. The barometer is normal. I often think of the Stevensons in the Casco, sailing from San Francisco to the Marquesas in the eighties. ... 3 p. m. Jack is popping away at some snowy pink- billed bo's'n birds that are flying very close, crying sharply to one another. A rummaging for lost possessions has been going on in the cabin, and Jack's red bathing-suit came to light along with other missing articles. And speaking of losing things : when one loses them on land, there is always the possibility of recovering them ; but at sea, when a thing is overboard, there is a finality about it that is positively startling. That canvas bucket, for instance — the new one can never take its place, and we know we shall never see the old one again. It is oscillating somewhere in the deep, pressed equally from above and below, there to stay until 78 THE LOG OF THE SNARK dissolution disposes of it into the primordial ooze. And the granes broke away the other day; also a white silk necker chief with a red border, that floated astern for a time, then suddenly disappeared — probably into the maw of a dolphin. Evidently it did not please his palate, for it came up promptly. . . . Nakata is a thing of joy to all hands — except to Herrmann, who cannot understand the boy's amused incom prehension of his queer Dutch-English. Herrmann care fully explains technicalities of steering to Nakata, who bends his oriental brows in strict attention to language he wots not of (although he is learning our English fast) and then promptly brings the vessel say up into the wind. This sometimes perilous experiment fetches the long-suffer ing and exasperated Hollander aft on the jump, to explain with augmented ambiguity of speech, that that was what he had expressly explained to him not to do. I myself have failed in one glaring particular, to elucidate something to the cabin-boy, namely, that "sir" is not the accepted manner of addressing a lady. Perhaps my pajama knee-breeches are to blame ; but when, to my call, he cheerily responds, "Yes, sir!" I know, by his correction to "Yes, man," that all my care in pointing out the contraction of madam has gone over his bristly black head, and that he is still puzzled as to why he should say "Yes, man!" to a woman. He also insists gently but firmly upon calling the cockpit the coekroom. There is something fascinating about him, his ready smile, his cheerfulness, his temperamental happiness — like some wild thing of docile instincts. His frank expectance of kindness, as expressed in his winning bearing, bring him goodwill all round. The captain has to hide his face repeatedly, for the sake of dignity and disci pline, at some evidence of frisky humour on the part of the little brown mannikin with the homely face that his smile makes beautiful. . . . Sometimes down through the open skylight, as we The Beach at Taioliae Marquesan Tattooing THE LOG OF THE SNARK 79 sit at work in our cubby-holes, come fragments of conversa tion that hint of a different state of affairs on board the Snark from that of old — hint of discipline, and continued discipline. One doesn't hear all; but the other day the captain's voice cut out: "Do I mean it? Wha' d 'you sup pose I give an order for, if I don't mean it?" But there's plenty of friendliness among the men, although it doesn't do for a minute to allow a sailor, who has lived on law and order aboard ship all his life, to become lax on a boat as small as ours. Herrmann is so extraordinarily susceptible to praise or notice that he quite loses his head if we approve any little act of his, and begins to suggest improvements in everything around with an originality and fearlessness that is rather discomfiting. After he has been called down by the master, he is perfectly lovely. ... A week ago we began economising on fuel by hav ing cold suppers; but there is a small burner aboard, used for melting solder, upon which Wada manages hot drinks and occasionally rice and curry, or soup. Our table is a raised skylight, and thus we have a chance to see all of the sunset. On Tuesday, the 19th, in some cider we unearthed aboard, we celebrated the second anniversary of our marriage. I wish we knew who sent it to us so we could return thanks. Jack waxed reminiscent and regaled the others with anec dotes of our honeymoon in Cuba and Jamaica. And — well, here we are, out together hunting the thrills of new experi ences with as much vigour and enthusiasm as ever, and no abatement in sight. Jack has the delightful characteristic of always wanting to share everything in which he is interested — his amuse ments, his books, or the thing he is studying. He explains to me his advancing steps in navigation ; he reads aloud to me ; he wants me to feel the tug of his fish on the line; and he draws all of us together to re-read, aloud, some book he knows will give pleasure. Sunday forenoon, having done 80 THE LOG OF THE SNARK more than his usual "stint" of writing the previous day, he took a holiday and read Conrad's Typhoon aloud, to the delight of the sailormen. And so, a unity of good spirit is preserved aboard, because one man is fond of sharing knowledge, the acquirement of which is the business of his life. There is one of Jack's pleasures, however, that I cannot share with him, what of a congenital lack. This is his beard. He is "letting his face rest" for a week, and as I cannot appreciate the rest it gives him to let his whiskers grow, it makes me restless to contemplate his rough chin and jaw. And I take less delight in any sudden and un foreseen juxtaposition. But I consented to let him raise this mat, upon his promise that I may take his picture just before he shaves. ... On Wednesday last, Jack landed a thirty-pound dol phin, one of the finest we have seen — all exquisite variations of abalone and gold and blue, green and rose. We tried to capture a big skate that bothered around for hours, attended by two white baby sharks and a lot of pilot fish. But the monster flopped away finally with its black wing-like pro pellers. Wada hooked one of the infant sharks, less than two feet long, which cooked up into the best baked fish we have had. The bonitas are easily fooled these days with a small white rag on the hook, which is jerked ahead to simulate a flying-fish. Friday, the 22d, the boys had eighteen bonitas on deck at one time. Jack added a good-sized dolphin, and the collection was hung on a pole reaching clear across the deck amidship, from shroud to shroud, a flying-fish dangling at one end, the bonitas grading up to the big dolphin at the other end. Since then bonitas are caught for the keen sport only, and thrown immediately back. They are a hunger- cruel spawn. The instant one is hooked, his mates make a rush for him. Many a fish, even dolphin, brought aboard, shows healing wounds from great mouthfuls that have been taken out by its enemies, many of them among its own kind. THE LOG OF THE SNARK 81 The stomach of a fish usually tells the story of this con tinual fight for existence. It is a wonderful sight, in a squall at night when the vessel is racing over the water, to behold in the depths shoals of bonitas slipping along whitely in the phosphorescence, their flight in perfect relation to the speed of the boat, so that they look like pale stones seen in the bed of a stream. By day, their backs show like swift olive-brown shadows, until they turn their gleaming sides up to the light. Two of the latest catches weighed twenty-five and twenty-four pounds respectively — chunky, fat fish. Lat. 6° 2' North, Lon. 125° 30' West. Tuesday, November 26, 1908. Referring again to our fishy satellites, last evening while we were listening to Typhoon in a flood of rosy light, the water pink, the clouds bright pink, and the sky of startling blue, an enormous dolphin was playing about, leaping clear and falling loudly on his side, over and over again, adding to the evening radiance his flash of blue-white — his colour- mood for the moment. When a dolphin has felt the tear of the hook, and got away, or when he has carried the hook off, he leaps and flashes through the air, recklessly shak ing himself, landing on his side or his back with a crash, with all the mad abandon of a colt in the breaking yard. . . . The wind has gone nearly into the southeast and it now looks probable that we may be picking up the trades. There is a good-sized sea and swell running, and it is hard to adjust one's movements to the lunges of the boat when she takes a header into the abyss or is flung from the crest of one big wave only to fetch up smack against the next. But the little Snark noses her way pretty wisely in the labyrinth of heaving hills, and no small vessel could ride more easily than she. . . . Something very reassuring and encouraging oc curred just now. The flying-jib was not replaced after 82 THE LOG OF THE SNARK carrying away, and we sailed all night without it. This morning the jib-sheet was unhooked, and the jib also hauled in, after which the mainsail was lowered, to put in a new lace-line^ — the rope that laces the head of the sail to the gaff, and which had worn through during the night. Jack was bringing the yacht up into the wind to ease things for the men working on the mainsail, and all at once the good thing happened. The Snark was right up in the wind, prac tically hove to, under staysail and mizzen, in light wind, and with a moderately heavy sea kicked up by the blow that had preceded that light wind. And she would not heave to that night coming from San Francisco to Hawaii! But why? Why? That is our everlasting query. The captain says it is ridiculous to think she would not heave to; we agree with him, perfectly. But she did refuse, just the same. As Jack says, "I don't believe it — I only saw it." — How one learns to love a boat. I am beginning to appreciate how sailors feel about ships, no matter what hap pens, never quite admitting even to themselves that the vessel is at fault. Captain Warren swears more and more heartily by the Snark the more he sees of her performances. . . . And now, at 9 :50 a. m., every visible sign points to our being in the southeast trades — the blue, white-capped sea running with the wind, the wind itself, the "wool-pack" clouds. All at once I am willing and even anxious to reach the islands — to see land again, mountains, bays and safe an chorages; to eat fruit, and fruit, and more fruit — bananas, guavas, oranges and lemons and limes, yams, breadfruit, taro. . . . We have all bet a dollar each with Jack, who wagers that we shall see the Marquesas by December 12; but it begins to look as if he may win. . . . Martin developed a roll of film for me yesterday, and spilt his hypo on the bathroom floor; but he went right on developing where the fluid deepened in the leeward corner. This morning, asked the cause of the peculiar odour, Nakata enlightened us with: "Mr. Johnson . . . he . . . yester- THE LOG OF THE SNARK 83 day . . . make come kodak-medicine!" " Nakata 's latest" is a sort of daily newspaper. I verily believe that if the Snark went down with all hands, our last conscious picture would be of Nakata 's toothy smile, and the last sound in our ears would be the pasan of sheer exultation of being that this child of Japan lets out whenever anything happens, whether of good or ill. . . . During these weeks under the tropic sun I am sur prised at my lack of deep sunburn. To be sure, I am less white ; but considering that I seldom wear a hat, only shad ing my eyes with a green visor, this freedom from tan is re markable. Herrmann remarked quite innocently one day that the only man aboard who was not burned was Mrs. London. But my hair is burning — a gorgeous red and yel low, without apparent loss of gloss or moisture. It is "Oh-h-h-h fteawtiful nice!" according to the exuberant cabin-boy. Lat. 5° 41' North, Lon. 126° 2' West. Wednesday, November 27, 1908. My birthday — and we are celebrating with a true south east trade. We have logged one hundred and two knots in the twenty-four hours, and now, at 4 :30 p. m., are smok ing along on a course of south by west. Jack and the captain are grinning and chuckling like schoolboys over a chart of the Marquesas and Paumotus, spread between them on the rudder-box, while the captain reads aloud "Hostyle Inhabitants" over and over, printed against tiny dots of islands in the Paumotu cluster. Jack has just looked up, in answer to my question, with "It's a hundred to one now that we'll make Nuka-Hiva all right. We're on the home stretch — " " — And a short home-stretch — excuse me, sir!" interrupts the captain, with shining face. They both agree that eight or ten days "at this lick" ought to bring us to port. Martin popped a land-famished face over the boat swain's locker a moment ago, and asked what I was smiling about. And I am willing to admit that I am now frankly 84 THE LOG OF THE SNARK satisfied to exchange these longed-for days of all work and no fresh fruit, for a different programme. Also, I want a level place to sleep on for a spell, where I can present the unwinking eye of sleep to "Policeman Day" for about ten hours at a stretch. I have had but one uninterrupted night in fifty-two. I inaugurated my birthday's entrance by catching two large bonitas, landing one of them unaided; also I hooked a good-sized dolphin, but lost my head and forgot to ' ' play ' ' him, so he broke the hook and streaked for parts unknown. Jack was hugely elated over my catch — the first time I have tried. Once, I caught six mackerel in Penobscot Bay; and, unmentionable years before, I bent-pin-hooked thirty-five minnows, without bait ! This is the extent of my fishing ex perience. Dolphins and bonitas are with us in gleaming hordes to-day. The Snark is flushing the flying-fish for them, most of which seem to be four-winged, like dragon-flies — dragon-flies of the deep, sailing down the wind. — It is continual slaughter, and they are a cruel lot, these big fish; but by what manner of reasoning cruel? What other food than their own kind is provided for them by beneficent na ture? And when they are haled aboard by their unwilling mouths, straining and resisting, staring horribly with lid- less eyes of fright, it all lines up in one's mind as a game — a game wherein men and fishes and beasts destroy to live. And war of man or war of fish or beast, it is all of a piece with the game. Jack harpooned three dolphins to-day, using the harpoon in lieu of the lost granes ; but it is not the proper weapon for them, do'es not go easily into their firm bodies, and they get away. But they doggedly stay with us, recognis able by their scratches, as intent as ever upon damaging smaller and weaker ones. Last evening at supper time there was the worst rain squall we have ever weathered. It came from two direc tions — or rather they did, for two squalls struck at about THE LOG OF THE SNARK 85 the same time, one from the weather quarter, one from the weather bow. Below, holding the dishes from spilling into our laps, we knew only that the Snark stayed down a long time; but the captain, coming to supper — it was over quickly — said it was our stiffest squall yet. Earlier in the day I had my most disagreeable experience on the voyage. I had settled before the typewriter in my state room. Everything was lovely — the windsail pumping cool ness down through the open skylight, the decklight open, with a poncho spread on my bunk to catch any chance spray that might come down; I had just typed "Chapter XXX" at the head of a page with four carbon copies under it — and then the deluge. My newly cleaned and oiled machine was drenched with salt water, inside and out; the water ran down my draw-tables into the packed lockers beneath the bunk; a gallon or so fell through the decklight on to the poncho, and I was quite forlorn with water. I felt like a quenched candle, and went about dispiritedly soaking up the brine with cloth and sponge, while it took Martin the best part of two hours to get the devastating salt water off the typewriter and the works carefully oiled. Just to show how quickly rust forms in this climate: Jack had shaved in the morning (and I did not get that photograph, after all!) ; and being called on deck suddenly, asked me to lay the soapy safety-razor on his bunk. Within two hours red rust was on the blade. Lat. 1° 18' North, Lon. 127° 30' West. Friday, November 29, 1907. The only thing that roused me at seven this morning, after a disturbed night, was a dash of cold water that sent me shooting feet-first out of my canvas covert alongside the cockpit — the dryest place I had been able to select this breezy weather. It was a second dose, the first having caught me just after I went to sleep, about ten, when the lee-quarter failed to dodge the edge» of a wave going 86 THE LOG OF THE SNARK obliquely astern. That time I got it on the head, and slept damp. Herrmann has hung me a canvas stretcher between cockpit rail and weather rail, with a tent-like protection from the spray. It was very rough, angling across the big seas; and the jaws on the mizzen-gaff, which are chewing away at the mast till the chewed section is in splinters, rubbed skreakily all night, the bell in the cockpit keeping up a doleful rhythm like a fog-bell. For all our bobbed-off little craft with her barnacled copper and her small sails wrought for ease of handling and comfortable sailing, we logged seven knots during the night, and this morning, at ten, we have covered one hundred and twenty knots since noon yesterday — and still humming. Captain Warren is keeping the vessel off a little, for the comfort of Jack writ ing below, so that he can have the weather skylight open and the windsail working. But think how wonderfully "dry" the Snark is. The few instances I have cited of water com ing aboard, are all I can remember — a pretty good record for these many weeks in squalls and rough seas. Oh, yes — one other instance : last evening Jack and I were perched up forward on the windy weather bow of the launch, dodging flying spray and drinking deep the flowing trade, while watching the everlasting miracle of bright fishes darting so effortlessly and swiftly. Finally came a monster swell that the Snark decided to have a little fun with at our expense. She rose like a hunter at a fence and then descended, the wave curving back and down from her bow, but the wind flinging the heavy spray upward. Jack's feet preceded his body up the rigging, while I, farthest from the rigging, hanging to a horizontal steel stay back of my head, raised my own feet and escaped some of the drenching. I wish I had a picture of the pair of us. The bulk of the water went below, all over the set dinner table, on the leeward seat in the cabin, on my bunk, a gallon or so piling up in the floor- corners. But these infrequent splashings are nothing com pared with the sweeping a "wet" fast yacht endures, where there is no comfort 'on deck, because of water, and none be- THE LOG OF THE SNARK 87 low for closeness of air. Why, the Stevensons were kept in the cabin for days at a time when the Casco was doing her best paces. We are about one hundred and fifty miles from the Line, as we go — about ninety as the bird flies ; and to-morrow we hope to cross — into the South Sea at last. The weather is actually cool. The books tell us that the southeast trades are cooler than the northeast. Fancy the charm of verify ing this and that item in the old books — especially in such a little travelled section of the globe. The fishes are unusually beautiful this morning — to the leeward the bonitas showing red like autumn leaves in a torrent. Sometimes they display a streak of this glowing crimson underneath when they are brought to deck, but never before have I seen them so red in the water. It is some thing to live for, once to behold, near the close of day, an upstanding wave between you and the sun, transparent blue, green-topped, white-tipped, sun-shot, and glinted through with rainbow shapes of the sea. . . . Inconceivable and Monstrous, again! Yesterday Captain Warren ordered the topsail set. So far on the voy age it had never been set. It was promptly dragged forth from where I had been sleeping on its folds for many a night. Herrmann was aloft in the hot sun for quite a while, making an unsuccessful effort to get it set. Finally the captain took a climb, for something was radically wrong. Then the trouble was made plain. When it was discovered, in California, that the mizzen-mast had been stepped too far forward to allow for the mainsail, instead of re-stepping the mizzen-stick (which should, by all that is right and hon est, have been done), the mainsail had been cut down and the topsail left as it was — to match a mainsail that no longer existed so far as its original size was concerned. This is the second time on the voyage it has been set, and we now realise why Roscoe took it in so hastily the first time. (Right here, a bonita close by leaped his length into the air, got his flying-fish, and we saw him with the rainbow half 88 THE LOG OF THE SNARK swallowed, as he tumbled ingloriously back into the water tail-first.) Lat. 8° 11' South, Lon. 138° West. Aboard the Snark, South Seas, Thursday, December 5, 1907. There is one incident in human affairs that it is safe to say never fails of interest, never palls. Perhaps it is the only one — but I will hot go that far. The raising of land on the horizon is the one thing that induces a thrill even in the most experienced — from the very connoisseur of trav ellers to the oldest sailor afloat. It seems to me that I have centred in my soul all the fascinated, illusioned expectation of all peoples in all days under similar conditions; for to morrow is the day when we confidently hope to see land, the first in nine weeks, come Monday next. It seems as if I can hardly wait for the loom of it ahead. How will it look? Will it be floating in the blue and gold of sunset, or will it show hazily in the blazing afternoon? — or mayhap in the pearl and rose of dawn? "The first love, the first sunrise, the first South Sea Island, are memories apart and touch a virginity of sense. ' ' Thus Robert Louis Stevenson. We crossed the Line last Saturday, November 30, in longi tude 128° 45' — which was even a little better than Captain Warren expected; and immediately we fell in with such cool temperature that I promptly caught cold. It doesn't sound probable, I know, that right below the Equator I caught my first cold in months ; but I 'm the one that caught it, and I ought to know. We had planned to do some weird stunts to celebrate crossing the Line ; but it turned out a very busy day in one way and another, in which there seemed no place for pranks. I copied ninety pages of Jack's manuscript, for one thing — work I had neglected for other work. We must have tripped up against Neptune somewhere, however, for I found yellow whiskers that looked very much like rope-ravellings, on the stays under the bowsprit. THE LOG OF THE SNARK 89 While I write, lying under the life-boat for shade, the men are trying to lure a big shark that is sniffing around. He is of a size to make one glad of a few planks between. The waves are a-hiss with leaping bonitas fighting for some food they have run into, any unlucky one that hap pens to get bitten being immediately devoured by the rest. We have not seen a single dolphin since the day before we crossed the Equator. "They dropped us cold!" said Mar tin. The bonitas and flying-fishes alone have been sliding with us down the bulge of the earth since we topped the rise, at the rate of one hundred and forty miles a day. Night and day, night and day, everywhere we turn, the countless purplish-coppery bodies of the blood-mad destroyers keep us in sight while we thresh out the flying-fishes for them. Ah, but I forgot the Wiggler! He lives and moves and has his being under our keel, wriggling out occasionally to take a snap at a passing bonita, like an irascible little back yard terrier. He is about a foot and a half long, and of a whitish green — a sort of suppressed hue, showing like a cel lar-plant among gay flowers when he lines up against the sun-blazoned bonitas. On Sunday, the spinnaker was set, and as we begin gliding ahead at a seven-knot clip, in the wake we saw our Wiggler, left a little astern on one of his ex peditions out from under. He was making the run of his life to catch up. We yelled and hooted affectionate encour agement — he was doing such a plucky and manful sprint, nearly wagging his tail off. "Go it, you son-of-a-seacook ! " " Come on, now, once more ! That's it!" "You'll make it, keep up the fight !" were heard from various quarters of the stern rail. Presently it seemed as if the chase were lost. The only way we might have helped him was by throwing him a line — with a hook on it. Martin saw him next day, however, as much at home as ever; but he surely had his fins full to make up the speed handicap caused by that spin naker. . . . We are betting heavily as to who will first see land. I am pledged for all of forty cents among my ship- 90 THE LOG OF THE SNARK mates. It cannot be more than a hundred miles dead ahead ; but the sun is in our eyes, and it is not a 14,000 foot Sand wich Island mountain we are looking for — only one of 2800 feet. We are going to lose our dollar bets to Jack, for the date we wagered on fetches up to the 12th, one week from to-day. Jack is sitting on the weather rail, with his feet in a pail of fresh water — unwonted extravagance. He has not had a shoe on these two months, and is trying to coax his feet into shape for the trial that awaits them, who knows? — maybe to-morrow. In order not to waste his golden hour, he is reading, and also, at intervals, shooting bonitas with his 22-Winchester automatic rifle. I wish I had known him better before I married him! — just listen to this: Yester day I said, "I don't feel like typing to-day." "Don't do it on the boat then," urged Jack kindly. "Don't type until you get to Ttpe-e ! ! ! " . . . There have been many heralds of the land about us the past two days — various kinds of birds, with gunies and boobies among them; bo's'ns, and smaller white birds, flut tering by twos, like love letters in the wind against the blue sky. There are small black birds, too, and brownish grey ones, neither of which we know. The South Seas — think of it, we are sailing, beautifully sailing, over the very waves of that storied region of islands of strange form and composition, peopled by strange men of unspeakable customs. But we are not in time — the devastat ing civilising years have preceded the Snark venture, and we can only see the islands themselves with little trace of the people who roamed them of old. What of Melville's Valley of Typee now? But listen: When I wander through Typee, a few days hence, I am going to people it to suit my fancy ; I am going to see the chiefly Mohiva and kind Kory- Kory, and the matchless Fayaway, and all their beauteous straight-featured tribe. I alone may see them, but see them I will ! The other day I read a book by Edwin Somebody-or-other, THE LOG OF THE SNARK 91 in which he tells with casual cleverness of his meanderings among the islands of the South Seas, and in his chapter on the Marquesas, especially devoted to the Island of Nuka- Hiva, he does not once mention Typee. Can it incredibly be that he never heard of it? It is all very well to romance about the fantasy of the South Sea Islands; but my imagination persists in rioting in fields of cabbages and onions, potatoes, cauliflowers, and luscious tomatoes ; in taro patches and fabulous banana- and cocoanut- and breadfruit-groves. Captain Warren's desire carries him closer, into the chicken-coop; while Martin is content to dream merely of the nests — one dozen variously prepared eggs being his first order. . . . There are no more spectacular twilights; the days have grown much longer than they were on the other side of the hill. And the sunsets do not compare with those of the Variables and the Doldrums. But the sailing is wonderfully lovely — the boat rocking, rocking, on waves that pursue from astern and overtake and propel us, spinnaker and mainsail winging us straight toward the setting sun. Nor are the water and skies so gorgeous as we found them above the Equator ; but any lacks of this sort are offset by the "silver-winged breeze" that blows from the right di rection, and every hour of the day I am thankful for the change from past exasperating, bone-racking, flesh-bruising head-seas and -winds. Here everything is with us — wind and billow, fair days and nights. ... I am curled comfortably in a hollow of the life-boat cover, shaded by the mainsail, and the swinging of the boat is so restful — not a jar, nothing but soothing curves and un dulations of movement, ever rocking forward and sidewise, but imperceptibly making five knots an hour in the light but steady wind. We are in the sun's highway, a broad and glittering stretch directly before. We must be absorbing the gold as well as the miles, for there is none of it in our wake. . . . We often try to picture different friends, suddenly trans- 92 THE LOG OF THE SNARK ported into our midst aboard the Snark, and wonder how they would comport themselves. With no experience of the sea it would be remarkable if they saw anything beautiful in earth or heaven. The roll would attend to that. The smallness of the boat, the nearness of the water, and particularly the size of the waves, would about wreck a nervous woman for the time being. The very middle of the yacht would be the only livable place for her, as being farthest removed from certain destruction over the awful rail. Now, I am not making sport of anybody. I can pro ject my viewpoint far enough to put myself in the other fellow's mind under such a strain. I have been here a long time and it is only comparatively lately that I have felt quite secure, free from nervousness and sickness. . . . We have finished Saleeby's book, and are now read ing Ball's The World's Beginning. Astronomy helps me to new appreciation of this world we are circumnavigating, and of the whole universe of worlds and suns. At night, before turning in, we lie in the lifeboat a while, Jack and I, and study the Southern skies, sometimes dropping below to scan our planispheres; and last evening we had a feast of me teors, that streaked long trains of light across the sky. Nightly a poker game obtains in the second dog watch, and the only monotony in it that seems to strike Jack and Martin is the way the captain wins and continues to win. He usually does it with a royal flush in his face and say a pair of sixes in his hand. He has had a run of luck that deserves greater scope. There is always one perfectly contented soul in our party, no matter what happens, and that is our inimitable cabin boy. At dinner to-day I asked him, "Are you happy, Nakata?" "I, happy? — oh-h-h, Missisn, v-e-r-r-y happy — yes, ma'am." (He has mastered the "ma'am" at last.) "But why happy, Nakata?" I pursued. He threw back his head to look up at the sunlight through the companionway, smiled seraphi- cally and said with pure sweetness: "Oh, ev-e-r-r-y -thing, Missisn ! ' ' THE LOG OF THE SNARK 93 . . . The only thing with which I can compare my state to-night, is my Christmas Eve sensations of old time. I am sure there must be a stocking of mine hanging up some where on the boat, and that there is going to be something nice in it when I wake. Lat. 8° 47' South, Lon. 139° 44' West. Aboard the Snark, in channel between Ua-Huka and Nuka-Hiva, Marquesas Islands, 3 :30 p. m., Friday, December 6, 1907. " Can't you see it? — can't you see it, Cape Martin right ahead there in the west, and Comptroller Bay just around the point ? — Comptroller Bay, into which the Valley of Typee opens, where Melville escaped from the cannibals. Then another and dimmer headland, beyond which is Taiohae, where we shall anchor at sunset if the fair wind holds. Captain Warren picked up Ua-huka (Washington Island) ' at daylight, and the first I heard, awakening under the life boat, was Herrmann up the mainmast calling down. But so sure was I of my full stocking, and so very sleepy, that after rising half-way and seeing nothing, I subsided for another nap. I had been up at a little past three, looking at the Southern Cross — the first time below the Line. When I did finally turn out, I saw a volcanic island of beautiful form and proportion, grey-green and shimmering in the morning radiance. We sailed toward it, passed it, and now it lies astern, touched with the sunset. The island looks as if it has had a drouth, for its steeps are as yellow with dried grass as California's in the autumn, with here and there a hint of dull green. . . . This has been a full day. I was bound and deter mined that I should not be caught arriving at Taiohae with a lot of back work on hand on the typewriter — in spite of Jack's vile pun on Typee; so I copied a chapter of his novel, sacrificing our daily reading ; closed up a lot of letters with the advice that we were coming into port (against the pos sible sailing of some vessel from Taiohae immediately after 94 THE LOG OF THE SNARK our arrival), and did a thousand little things for shore-going. After lunch Jack and I went forward with our rifles, and shot at the numerous birds fishing in the olive current of the channel. It was my first shooting at moving objects, and, considering that the aiming was from a plunging boat, I didn't do so badly, for I got three boobies on the wing, two or three more that were just rising, and ruffled the feathers of others. Also, I struck a bonita, which instantly up-bellied, and as instantly disappeared among its ravening brothers. I tried porpoises, and they immediately grew shy and came seldom to the surface. And we fired at a small whale, but it quickly sank out of danger. . . . Now we are nine miles from Taiohae Bay, and with the glasses can just pick out the two Sentinel Rocks guarding either side of the entrance. The headland features I have already mentioned are on the southern side of the island, the northern coast stretching far to our right. Cape Martin reminds me of the castled outlines of Wyoming, with a natural tower standing atop the abrupt black head of the promontory. The face of the island toward us, the east side, seems ruggedly bluffed; and above, fold on fold of vol canic green mountains range back and up to the highest point of the island, 3890 feet. Perhaps that is the farther wall of Typee Valley that we can just glimpse beyond those first bluffs. It seems to me I never wanted to see a place as I want to see Typee. All sorts of business is going forward, while the yacht slides steadily nearer. The captain studies the coast with his binoculars ; Martin is putting finishing touches of green paint and aluminum paint on the rejuvenated launch-engine. (It had been about given up by Martin until Jack got out the books and made a suggestion that, when applied, set the machinery going merrily.) Herrmann, the while trying to explain how it happened that in Honolulu he had bought both his sea-boots for the same foot, is scraping wood — teak, pine, oak, on yacht, launch, and life-boat ; Wada steers ; the spinnaker has just been taken in, and, the wind hauling, THE LOG OF THE SNARK 95 we have jibed over. The sturdy anchors are in readiness to let go when we come to our resting-place, and I'll warrant the skipper knows exactly where the red-marked lead-line is. Jack is stretched out beside me on the life-boat cover, reading, and, I think, dreaming a little. When he was a small boy he happened on Melville's Typee, and promptly thirsted for Marquesan exploration. Years later, after one trip to sea,% he tried to ship as cabin boy on a sailing vessel bound for these islands, but failed to secure the berth, for he thinks the captain must have seen desertion in his eye. But here he is, and here am I, lucky enough to be the partner of his realised adventure; although for his sake I wish he could have fulfilled his desire when the dream was young. . . . The little Snark! She seems to be reaching out eagerly, after sixty days of unremitting motion, for her shelter under the land. Consider — for six times ten days we have never been still one moment. I am afraid the imminent level repose that threatens will disquiet more than soothe, until we readjust. 5 p. m. The captain is now thinking of putting in at Comptroller Bay for the night, for squalls are closing in around us and dimming the sunset light that we depended upon for conning into Taiohae harbour. I rather hope we do go into Comptroller. It would be enchanting to wake in the morning with Typee Vai spread out before us. We are surrounded by untold myriads of sooty little sea- swallows with white heads and sweet piping voices. As we curtsy past Cape Martin, its striking profiles change from moment to moment, and we can see green trees that look like Hawaiian kukui, trooping up the shallow erosions. Aboard the Snark, Taiohae Bay, Nuka-Hiva, Marquesas Islands, Saturday, December 7, 1907. 10 a. m. It is a cyclorama of painted cardboard, done by an artist whose knowledge of perspective was limited. The walls in- 96 THE LOG OF THE SNARK closing the green, still water in which we ride at anchor, the pinnacles and bastions half-way to the rugged scissored sky line, the canyons and gorges, sun-tanned beaches, grass-huts under luxuriant plumy palms, and the rich universal verdure — it is all painted boldly on upright cardboard. There is a rift in the amphitheatre, toward the sea, and on either side the entrance, booming surf breaks upon the feet of the two Sentinels of tilted strata, crowned with feathery trees. It is an astounding scene, and cannot be compared with any place I ever saw. The mirrored effect of the atmosphere on the perpendicular mountains is not unlike that on Winward Oahu in Hawaii; but the form and lines of the landscape round about this bay surpass anything in my book of memory pic tures. The entrance looks very innocent this morning in a sunny calm; but it did not appear so harmless last evening, our waning daylight shut off by a blinding rain-squall, just when it seemed indispensable that we should see clearly in order to make our way around the eastern Sentinel. The captain had finally decided to try for Taiohae. The distance across the mouth of the bay is only seven cable-lengths, and it is necessary to hug the eastern side, because the equatorial cur rent sets over toward the west shore of the bay, and with only light fans of air, there is liability of going on the rocks. It was tense and delicate work. Every one was on deck, Jack at the wheel, Herrmann standing by the three headsails, Martin and Wada obeying general orders, and Nakata haul ing in the lead-line for the captain after each cast. And over it all was the trained intelligence of the captain, whose was the responsibility of the Snark and the lives on board. He stood in the bow, before we entered the harbour, with straining eyes on the fading outlines of the East Sentinel, close by which lay safety, and praying that the wind would hold. But it held only until we rounded the rock, then swept on seaward past the entrance, leaving us to fare as best we might with current and tide, rocks and surf. The spinnaker was taken in and the mizzen set, and each man returned to THE LOG OF THE SNARK 97 his post, ready for prompt obedience. I longed to be a man, to take some active part ; but they don't let me do much — and besides, there are plenty of men to handle the boat. (Why, the picturesque 500-ton bark lying yonder carries only eleven men, while our ten-ton yacht has six all told. ) I was fascinated with the working of the Snark. The cap tain's questions, "How is she now?" or "How is she head ing?" were rapid and frequent; and Jack, eye on binnacle, busy with instant replies and instant compliance, had no chance for extraneous observation. Muffled in oilskins, I sat on the cockpit rail, and posted him on what I saw — the looming rocks close at hand, the white-toothed breakers snap ping hungrily and loudly, and the vague suggestion of the dreaded western shore. Captain Warren commanded my respect. His head was clear, and he seemed high-strung in a way that only refined his certitude of judgment and action. Much though I have absorbed of knowledge of the sea, in relation, at least, to our particular craft, I was open-mouthed at his quickness of perception. I knew, of course, how care fully he had "crammed" the sailing-directions, and how sharply the chart was reproduced on his brain; and these things, coupled with his practical experience, were sufficient to satisfy my reason ; but it was wonderful just the same — as man is wonderful in everything that raises him to primacy over the brute earth-forces. By and bye we picked up the "fixed red light," hung at ninety feet, described in the Directions, and had some thing tangible to steer by. We fanned in, tack upon tack, with the mere breathing of the mountains to give us steerage-way. The Snark responded faithfully to the hand on her helm when there was the faintest air to make it pos sible. The near water was very still, and sometimes the only way we could tell that we were inching ahead was by the slight passing riffle against the boat. The bay is very deep along its sides, so we had no especial worry except for the current. Once or twice we seemed to be drifting toward the west, for the sound of the surf from that direction came 98 THE LOG OF THE SNARK clearly. Then suddenly a big light flared out in the murk ahead, although try as we would with our glasses we could not make out whether it was on land or vessel. But as we approached our anchorage, there were other and less disquieting sounds in our ears than breakers. Down from obscure heights drifted the querulous bleating of kids, which I bewildered into more distressful tones by answer ing them in kind. And then a cock crew cheerily, and another, while the venerable blat of a patriarchal goat hushed the timorous young. The breath from the darksome steeps came down fragranced with spice of flowers — the yellow cassi loved of wasps, which distils perfume far and wide. At quarter before ten we dropped anchor in nine fathoms, having passed the entrance at about 7:30. You cannot imagine what a feeling of utter rest followed the rush of the anchor chain through the hawsepipe — the sea-song of adventure. We found ourselves unexpectedly tired, and although we slept in the warm below on account of rain, we slept profoundly. I know I did not turn over in seven hours. I was awakened by voices on deck, and coming up found that Mr. Kreiech, the German trader who has charge of the Taiohae Branch of the Societe Commerciale de l'Oceanie, had called. I could see him going shoreward, a big figure stand ing in an outrigger canoe paddled by scarlet-breeched Marquesans. ... It seems rather odd, as the morning wears on, that no one else comes out — only one indolent native has had curiosity enough to approach — a well-featured brown fellow. We sent him in search of bananas, and he wanted five francs for one bunch. He accepted half of that with perfect con tentment ; and then we all fell to and stuffed inordinately on this first fresh fruit in two months, and agreed that we had never eaten bananas before, so luscious were these. As we have seemed to be in no danger of interruption from the beach, we have gone ahead with our work as usual — in the cockpit, shaded by the awning. Little flaws of wind, THE LOG OF THE SNARK 99 pollen-scented, flurry down upon us from the pictured walls of the amphitheatre, that are slowly taking on a less artificial aspect — losing nothing of their exquisite beauty, but becom ing more earthly and approachable. The water is not clear — rather a dull olive-green, deepening into rich blue toward the mouth of the bay. Outside, we can see the channel white- caps racing past the Sentinels. . . . After lunch we climbed reluctantly into our "store clothes," shoes being particularly odious. I had in my mind's eye pictures of several provincial white women, wives of the traders, and arrayed myself with care in brown linen with a touch of red scarf and corals — a "neat but not gaudy" effect that was destined to be appreciated solely by our own crowd and Mr. Kreiech and his assistant Mr. Rahling, to say nothing of the silver-laced old French Marechal who looked over our ship *s papers ; and to be wondered at by the natives. There were apparently no white women on the beach. But later on, when we inquired if there was any one in the place who would board Jack and me, Mr. Kreiech recommended a Mrs. Fisher, and we learned that besides herself there were her daughter and a niece, a French school teacher, and the Sisters at the Mission. We were also informed that fruit, eggs, fowls, vegetables, and nearly everything else that we have been hungering and thirsting for, are extremely scarce — almost out of the question, in fact. However, when mak ing arrangements with Mrs. Fisher for two meals a day, she assured us that good limes and oranges are plentiful; that fowls can be had occasionally, for a reasonable price ; that the mangoes are beginning to ripen, although the breadfruit season is not yet; and that cocoanuts are abundant. There were also hints of fresh-water prawns, fish, wild goat, water cress, and tomatoes, but no potatoes — the last importa tion from California being exhausted. Mr. Edwin Some- body-or-Other misled us by his glowing description of the lavish and automatic supply of everything edible in Nuka- Hiva. There is a French bakery, glory be, where crusted loaves are made at frequent intervals. This is a welcome 100 THE LOG OF THE SNARK surprise — an excellent cross between French and Italian bread. But let no toddy-thirsting mariner be deceived as to this chaste strand. Whiskey is taboo in the Marquesas, although rum and wines and absinthe can be purchased at the Societe store. This afternoon we decided to rent the only available cot tage. Imagine our gratification when we learned that it was the old club-house where Robert Louis Stevenson frequently dropped in during his call at Taiohae. In one corner of the large main room is a sort of stationary stand, where drinks used to be mixed. The house is now owned by the Societe; and before promising it to us on any terms, Mr. Kreiech had to negotiate with exceeding deliberation with the native couple who live there as caretakers. No one here ever makes the mistake of doing anything on time or in haste, and the man who tries to rush the natives is the man lacking fore sight. But Mr. Kreiech is evidently destined for success with the kanakas, for the elderly pair are to move into the de tached kitchen, and we shall take possession of the cottage to morrow. Jack and I could easily in ten minutes move all their belongings — a bedstead and bedding and a few gar ments hanging on nails; but twenty-four hours is not con sidered too much notice to allow. We saw these two old per sons at the store at five o'clock, at which gala hour the work men gather on Saturday afternoons to be paid off. Practi cally the entire population of the village drops in socially — a pitifully dwindled community in these latter years. The woman from our cottage is constantly attended by an enormous puarka (hog), given her by the captain of the Norwegian bark. She fondles it as if it were a beloved dog — although I could not help wondering if her affections were not slightly gustatory in character. And we saw her pitch viciously into a Norwegian sailor who waxed too familiar with her pet. Jack and I sat on a big drygoods box on the veranda of the little store, dangling our happy heels against the sides, THE LOG OF THE SNARK 101 and stared and were stared at by the natives, while we munched and sucked some villainous striped candy that Martin bought. Here were our first Marquesans — and hardly a pure-breed among them! The blend is baffling in many cases — Spanish, Portuguese, German, French, Corsican, Italian, English, American. One little girl with snapping black eyes and curly hair was pointed out as a true Mar quesan specimen; but some one contradicted the assertion with the statement that her mother was half Irish. She had been "given away" as Hawaiian children are passed along, and lives in terror of the short temper and long arm of her adoptive sire. When these people are displeased or contemptuous, they express their feelings mainly by writhing their mouths into the most astonishing contortions; and whenever our female caretaker emerged from the crowd, facing our way, her shapely lips wore an expression that led us to believe she was not altogether enthusiastic about our impending occu pancy of the cottage. She moved restlessly here and there, attended by the enormous pink puarka, reminding us of some one trying to force an objectionable relative into society. She has been a beauty, this old aristocrat of Nuka-Hiva, and most persons might envy her straight features and beautiful eyes. She wears the old-time tattooing on face and hands, the latter looking as if blue-lace mitted. The Marquesans were famed for the fineness of their tattooing. The language of smiles is efficacious here as in Hawaii — more so, in fact, for these Marquesans are far less sophisti cated folk than the Hawaiians. Walking from the little wharf to the store to-day on first landing, we passed a building where half-naked natives and Scandinavian sailors from the bark were chop ping copra (the dried meat of the cocoanut) with spades, preparatory to sacking it for export. Other natives, brawny fellows wearing only a red and white loin-cloth (pareu), carried the filled bags out through the surf to a lighter which was towed to the bark by her small boat. The men, chopping 102 THE LOG OF THE SNARK on the floor of the dark room piled high behind them with the copra, composed a striking picture. Fair sailors and dark natives, all shining with sweat, they bent to the work, and we would catch curious tattooed faces with savage features, peering from out the gloom at the strangers. We fell1 in with the captain of the bark while we were looking on, and he explained the work. We were immediately struck, upon landing, with an ominous narrowness of chest and stoop of shoulders among the natives, only a few showing any robustness. And the ex planation came from moment to moment in a dreadful cough ing that racks the doomed wretches. The little that is left of the race is perishing and it is not a pretty process. The men and women are victims of asthma, phthisis, and the sad "galloping" consumption that lays a man in two months or less — to say nothing of other and unnameable curses of dis ease that "civilisation" has brought. And as for children — there are very few born any more. A handful of years have made a fearful change in the Marquesas, the islanders going down before disease so rapidly that to-day, for instance, only nineteen able-bodied men can be mustered in Taiohae for ship-loading. It is only the infusion of outlander blood that holds the fading population at all. The women wear the holoku of Hawaii — in Marquesan eueu, in English Mother-Hubbard — the men being variously habited in overalls with bright striped net shirts, or merely in the pareu, a large square of red, or blue, blotched with bizarre designs in white or yellow — an English importation. Everybody, of all ages and both sexes, smokes cigarettes of strong native tobacco rolled in a spiral of dried leaf, or bamboo strip, or cane. The women are disappointing as to looks; but we have to remember that it is a far cry to the days of Herman Melville, who spoke of the Marquesan race as being the handsomest and fairest of the South Sea islanders — that the women would compare favourably with "the beauties of Europe." 'We had a glimpse of the hus band of the old care-taker, and he, too, has the fine straight Marquesans Dancing a Tahitian hula to Hawaiian music on an American phonograph THE LOG OF THE SNARK 103 nose, well-sculptured mouth, with large and well-set eyes, and the marvellous tattooing. Mr. Kreiech vouches for the pair as being of the purest Marquesan aristocracy. Taiohae, Sunday, December 8, 1907. Owing to the requisite delicacy in handling the old couple, we were obliged to sleep aboard again last night, and with our men returning from the shore at all hours there was not much sleep. It was quite novel, for once, for Jack and me to be alone together on the Snark. We spread a mattress on deck and lay on our backs looking up at the sparkling stars and a thin new moon that trembled on the edge of the sky. The warm tide rippled along the sides of the boat, the surf droned soothingly in the distance, and the balmy air was filled with drifting scents of flowers and cocoanuts. My thrumming ukulele fretted the wild kids, and their drowsy plaints came down from the steeps. Then the whole firma ment was blotted out with sudden clouds and the face of the tropic night completely changed. I went below; but Jack chanced it in the life-boat cover, and later on I found him fast asleep in a pool of rainwater. Once up this morning and the cobwebs brushed out of my brain, I was glad of another morning afloat in the incom parable harbour. We were lucky enough to arrive in time for a very important event in Marquesan circles. One Taiara Tamarii, a part-Hawaiian part-Marquesan familiarly called Tomi, was to hold a great feast commemorating the first anniversary of his mother's death. On such occasion, an important ceremony is to erect a cross upon the grave. But over against this pious symbol, the feature of rarest in terest is a procession of the natives bringing in roasted pigs for the feast, imitating the days not so far gone when success ful warriors returned with the bodies of their vanquished foes. The host himself, the huge and burly Tomi, was waiting when we went ashore, together with Mr. Kreiech and Mr. 104 THE LOG OF THE SNARK Rahling and the captain of the bark. We strolled along the wide green beach road (if road it can be called where never rolls a wheel), past Mrs. Fisher's picturesque tumble-down cottage, on up a gently rising stony trail, over brooks and by scattered grass houses built on ancient pae-paes described by Melville — high platforms of stones laid by dead and gone Marquesans. The natives of to-day have neither the am bition nor strength to pile such masonry, and so they squat upon the stages of their forefathers. Now and again we were overtaken by hurrying natives who had some part to perform in the festivities or who were carrying articles for the feast. One wild-eyed, strapping young woman, reckless with drink that she had obtained somehow, attracted our attention by her exasperated attempts to pick up a battered accordion that kept dropping out of her bundle. Although she fell repeatedly, any offer of help was fiercely resisted. We passed one hut before which lay spread a half-dozen roasted porkers, done to a turn and awaiting transportation to the house of Tomi. Finally we came within hearing of a barbaric rhythmic harangue in a woman's high strong voice, and were told it was a chant of welcome, the burden being that the occasion was made perfect by our presence. Fol lowing the wild sound, we turned, full of tingling curiosity, into an enclosure containing a spic and span new cottage built above a high open basement. To the right, through the trees, we could see the welcoming chantress — a swarthy, elderly creature with a certain lean, savage beauty, ham-wise upon a corner of a noble pae-pae that supported a grass hut. We were made very much at home by Tomi and his family, who received us in a half-shy, affectionate way. His wife had a refined, well-featured face, while his youngest daugh ter, a girl of twelve or thirteen, was a veritable beauty of any time or place. We were soon out of doors again, seeing what we could see. Martin and I worked our cameras energetically, for never was there such incentive. Behind the house was a THE LOG OF THE SNARK 105 long arbour of freshly plaited palms, under which, upon the ground spread with leaves, the natives were to eat their puarka and poi-poi. There were mighty wooden bowls of this poi-poi, which is a thick and nutritive paste made from • breadfruit, instead of from taro as in Hawaii. Breadfruit , poi-poi is buried in the ground for an indefinite period, that used on this occasion having been entombed for years. I surreptitiously poked my finger into one grey mess in a huge hand-hewn calabash, but I did not like the taste so well as the taro poi. Scores of merrymakers moved or sat about the grounds, women gossiping in groups and inhaling endless numbers of cigarettes of the acrid native tobacco, naked pickaninnies tumbling in the grass or sucking sections of fresh young cocoanut, while to and fro stalked Tomi's brothers carrying more calabashes of kao-kao (food) on their polished shoulders — magnificent brown savages girdled in scarlet, and over these bright cinctures ordinary leather belts in the backs of which were stuck murderous knives. Altogether fourteen huge cocoanut-fed hogs had been roasted whole in the ground among hot stones. These hogs were laid, four or five at a time, in a savoury row near the arbour. Tomi's brethren drew their long knives with a flourish and fell to carving the steaming meat, meanwhile surrounded by yearning, sniffing dogs of all mongrel breeds under heaven. As soon as one lot was carved, another lot was brought. The two biggest brothers willingly posed for us, once bearing a greasy pig on a pole between them, and again with the great wooden bowls of calabashes upon their glistening shoulders. There was a sudden alarming change in the music. We ran to the front of the house, not to miss anything, where an old woman was loudly mouthing a rude and protracted cry that was much too sinister and menacing to be pretty, and made creepy sensations down one's spine. There were answering warlike cries in men's voices from a distance among the trees. The exchanging calls, like tom-toms and 106 THE LOG OF THE SNARK war-drums, split the calm air ; weird and ghastly questionings seemed to be in the voices of the women, and incommunicable horrors of suggestion in the resounding replies from unseen bearers of victorious burdens. It was not a long procession that wound into view through the palms and twisted burao trees and past us to the rear of the house; but it was led by a king's son, and as the slow, ominous double-file came on, he repeatedly turned to it with exhorting vociferations that called forth a howling clamour of assent to some ungodly proposition. The men carried long leaf-swathed bundles, each bundle slung high on bamboo poles between two bearers. It was comforting to be assured that the packages were only pig wrapped to resemble long-pig — which term is too mortuarily obvious to need explanation. But the actors in the tragedy entered with such zest and lack of shame into the spirit of the seeming, that we were led to speculate upon how many years, if left to themselves, it would take them to lapse into their old habits of appetite. I hate to spoil the vivid, savage picture ; but the anachronisms were too funny to leave out. For instance, one man sported a top hat above a tattered rag of a calico shirt ; several wore ludi crous derbys of the low-crowned "Weary Willie" variety, and the king's son (who, by the way, was none other than the man who wanted a dollar a bunch for bananas the day before), shone in decent ducks and a native straw hat. But we had. to be satisfied, our willing imaginations eliminating the comedy and grasping the beauty of the entirety of the scene, while Tomi 's brawny half -nude brothers, carrying the biggest bundle of leaf-wrapped flesh, made up for any dis crepancies. In spite of the anachronisms in costume, there was a tremendous sense of unreality about the whole pro ceedings. Upon the instant the procession appeared, several old vahines began jumping stiffly up and down like electrified mummies, their arms held rigidly to their shrivelled sides — after the manner of the "jumping widows" described by Melville — and emitting the most remarkable noises that ever THE LOG OF THE SNARK 107 came from human throats. This they kept up during the passing of the procession, and it seemed that their function was to announce the readiness of the feast — not to spoil the appetites of the guests, as a fastidious diner might have suspected. But no epicure, however outraged, could have quarrelled with the collation to which we were bidden. There was but one disappointment — to our sorrow we were specially honoured by eating in the house, at a table, with all the im plements of an effete civilisation. We bowed to the inevi table, but with secret rebellion in view of that palmy banquet outside on the ground. Our dinner was course-served by the cook himself, a slim Marquesan, and he certainly was a chef to remember. We had fresh-water shrimps, big fellows tasting like New Eng land lobster; wild chicken (descended from the domestic ones brought by old-time ships) boiled in milk squeezed from the meat of cocoanuts, and delicately flavoured with native curry and other spices ; roast sucking-pig, as fine and white as spring fowl; for salad, they gave us water-cress, crisp and succulent ; and there were potatoes, real Irish potatoes, come all the way from San Francisco via Tahiti, French-fried and with a flavour of homesickness. We were not served with poi-poi, but our old favourite the taro was there, to my utter gratification. Absinthe was passed around before eating, and California wine, white and red, flowed during the meal, fol lowed by a sweet French champagne. Mrs. Fisher and I were the only women at the board; while outside on the veranda, in fine white eueus, with their black locks flower-crowned, the more pampered of the native women had their goodies, unavoidably reminding one of a dusky harem. Now that I am having a chance to observe, I think one might discover more beauty among the women here were it not for the shocking manner in which they wear their hair, white women as well as natives — brushed straight back from the forehead and hanging in a braid behind. Such a fashion is trying to the most lovely face. 108 THE LOG OF THE SNARK We were a long time at table, during which there was op portunity to study the heterogeneous company from the head of the board. On my right, next to Jack, came Mrs. Fisher, then Captain Warren and Martin, by whom sat the ship-carpenter from the bark, a huge grizzled Scandinavian with bearded mouth and dull and introspective eye — a Viking in size and form, but with all the fire gone out. At the foot of the table was the captain of the bark, a man with nose and mouth that deserved better eyes for company, a nose severely Greek, a mouth sensuously so, but the eyes just ordinary Scandinavian blue eyes, set too near together and remarkable for nothing but their insignificance. On my left, next Mr. Kreiech, our diffident host, Tomi, sat beside one of his eight brothers, and next following was old Mr. Goeltz, father of Mrs. Fisher. The mate of the bark, a medium sized young fellow with a homely, amorous face, came next to Mr. Rahling, who completed the circle. Dinner was diversified by considerable exercise, for we must run to the windows to see the hula-hulas of the natives, who would nearly kill themselves laughing at the untrans latable sentiments of the songs. These were accompanied, of all things, by an accordion, that had a habit of sighing pro foundly at the end of each stanza. Then there was much mirth and banter over the swift sneakings for home of certain men carrying large portions of puarka. It is the custom that each guest may take home whatever of his allotment of meat he does not consume on the spot. One furtive kanaka trying to get away unobserved with what looked to be a whole hog in two sections slung each on the end of a bamboo pole, was detected and hooted out of sight. We were told that this man always departed early with all he could lay his hands on. It was a wild afternoon that followed, dance upon dance, until it became an orgy. The hula-hula here is largely Tahitian, and is faster and briefer and less graceful than the Hawaiian hula, while the music has not the charm of the Hawaiian. In fact, we heard only one air to-day, played on THE LOG OF THE SNARK 109 the accordion; and the only virtue it had was that it made the men and women dance. Everybody danced, everybody applauded. Even I had to join in a waltz with the two captains, much to the amusement of the natives. Sailors from the bark shook a leg or so to keep the fun boiling. At the height of the prevalent madness, the old bow-shouldered Viking, who had been gazing heavy-lidded and vacuously at the scene with an' idiotic expression on his pendant lip, without warning sprang up like a monster marionette, and crashed into the middle of the suffering floor in a mighty hornpipe. Pandemonium broke loose, everybody yelled and screeched with delight, until the giant was suddenly smitten self-conscious and dropped foolishly into his chair ; but later, when Martin, who was having the time of his life, took a whirl in the hula-hula (with great credit to himself), the old man could not hold still any longer. After wiggling his great feet for a little while, he essayed another hornpipe, and wound up in an angular hula-hula that brought tears to our eyes. I know I never laughed so in my life. The clutter of dogs in the house greatly enhanced the orgaic spirit of things. Jack and I sat dangling our feet from the high window-sill, and wondered if we knew where we were this time! The windows opening on the porches were crowded with shining dark heads wreathed in white flowers, and when I begged for a wreath I was soon crowned with a fragrant circlet of tube-roses, or such they most nearly resembled, twined with glossy green leaves. But to the natives the most deeply significant event was the photographing of Tomi and his family before the impos ing white-painted, black-decorated wooden vault entombing the dead mother, with the new cross planted in front. It is nothing out of the way here to inter the dead in the house- enclosure. Martin posed the group and took the picture, but there was difficulty in getting all the subjects to look serious at the same time. Tomi wore not the ghost of a smile, not he ; he knew what was what. But the majority of the long line 110 THE LOG OF THE SNARK of relatives signally failed in gravity, with disastrous results. While this was going on, the old ship-carpenter awoke once more from his lethargy and tried to dance with the women; but he was evidently not accustomed to handling anything so fragile, and they refused to dance more than once with an uncouth giant who stupidly bruised their wrists. We were somewhat delayed in our farewells by Martin, who at the last moment engaged in a particularly brilliant hula- hula with half a dozen of the men. At length he was torn unwillingly away and preceded us down the rocky path way, a Bacchanalian tilt to his leafy coronet, a shoe in either hand to rest his feet, and a worshipful vahine on each arm. Jack also carried his shoes, which he had taken off as soon as he reached Tomi's. I kept mine on, although I was not en tirely happy; but the stones were many and sharp and I considered I was choosing the lesser torture. The homeward walk included many stops and rests, and it was an intense relief to strike the soft green turf of the main road. This lovely thoroughfare is called the Broom Road, after the drive way so-named in Tahiti. Mrs. Fisher says "Broom Road" means a road which many feet have brushed in passing. That woman bids fair to be a mine of interest and informa tion, and we are congratulating ourselves upon having her take us to board, especially as she is the only one here who can or will do this. We are going to be very happy in our independent fashion in this clean little house with its big living-room and closet, an ample veranda for sleeping and working, and best of all a concrete bathing place out-of-doors under a shed connected with our side door. There is room in the house for the Victor and all its records, and word of the talking machine has already gone forth so that there are many peepers through our vine-clad fence. Monday, December 9, 1907. We slept eight unbroken, dreamless hours last night in makeshift beds on the porch — at least I did ; Jack never sleeps THE LOG OF THE SNARK 111 without fantastic dreaming. The quiet did not disturb us in ,!' theTeasE We were lulled by the musical purr of the little surf only a few rods away, and the patter of warm raindrops on the banana leaves in our garden. But just as we were losing consciousness, the soft night-sounds were rent by a chorus of Gargantuan laughter — horrible, raucous, as from the throats of insane Titans. The splintered turrets of the mountains fairly reverberated to the astonishing orgy of noise. This morning we learned that the goblin chorus had issued unaided from the throat of a diminutive and entirely amiable jackass that grazes untethered about the village. The air of Nuka-Hiva is pure and sweet, with frequent showers that cool it deliriously — and it is certainly warm; but perspire as one may, there is no great discomfort if one dresses sensibly. I am going to wear kimonos and my Hawaiian holokus, without strictures of any sort in the way of belt or sash. It's early to bed and up early in this tropic Elysium, with dejeuner about ten and dinner somewhere around five. There are no stated hours for any functions of living. So before seven this matchless morning I sat me down in the long grass under a giant-leaved banana tree, with a pan of golden-rosy mangoes and a sharp knife, and plunged into the preparation of a luscious breakfast. Plunged is an excellent word, although dived might be better, for one cannot dally with the gracious mango without getting pretty well up to the elbows in its squashy ambrosia. I shall not tell how many mangoes Jack ate, nor how many oranges, nor how much lemonade he drank in addition. Such oranges ! Except for seedlessness, the finest California oranges are no better. While Jack wrote at a table in the middle of the big room, I fussed about making the cottage homelike with our be longings, Nakata watching me out of the corners of his eyes to learn points about housekeeping, the while he unpacked and furbished our saddlery ; and the sight of the comfortable pigskin Australian models made me smile at the memory of Mr. Rahling's pained look when I declined his kind offer of a 112 THE LOG OF THE SNARK side-saddle on a ride that Mr. Kreiech suggested for the after noon. No comment was made; but methinks I am about to learn that the dusky women of this green isle are still in the clutch of the feudal ages. At ten, Jack and I, both in kimonos, under a pongee para sol, strolled up the green boulevard, and the cut of our garments caused much whispering and giggling among the loafers as we passed. Whatever Mrs. Fisher may have thought, she kept it to herself, and went cosily about the laying of a small table in her cool front room. But we pro tested vigorously when we found she had not planned to sit with us, for we were looking forward to talking with her. We had our way in the end; and while we stowed away a meal that was an earnest of our being well looked after by her, Mrs. Fisher told us vividly of her life. She has been in the South Seas for thirty years, although born in San Francisco of German and English parents. She married in Tahiti at fifteen, and, besides most of her eleven children, she has buried husband and mother. Being a keen observer, with strange things to observe, she is ripe with knowledge of the islands and their inhabitants, both white and brown. Weird were some of her tales of both colours. In spite of a life of unusual trouble and hardship, she is wonderfully young looking. She has a striking profile and carriage, her rather austere expression relieved by a pair of irresistible dimples when she smiles. By noon we were in the saddle. Our horses were small black stallions, full of mischief from lack of exercise com bined with natural cussedness. I was unwarned, and mine began by variously rearing and kicking all over the road, with sudden shying slides down the banks to the beach, and wild leaping runs over precarious foot-bridges that spanned nasty gullies. Thank goodness he did not know how to buck. It was about the only thing he did not do, however, to get me off ; but I managed to stick, and at length he decided that he wanted to follow the party. We fell into line, a small but THE LOG OF THE SNARK 113 turbulent cavalcade, horses snorting, neighing, kicking, fight ing, but sure-footed as goats, and gentle of gait when they chose to have any gait. I have read of the surety of these Marquesan ponies, but the writers neglected to mention their beauty. The original stock came over from Chili, and has bred true in form and spirit, though not in size. They are firm bodied, shapely beasts, with slender legs, small trim hoofs, fine coats, and beautiful heads. They are also hardy, although they do not know hay and grain, and are merely turned out to forage in the jungle. The object of our ride was to inspect an ancient god that is doomed to voyage over-seas in the black hold of the Nor wegian bark, provided a way can be devised to transport it through the intricate jungle. Our trail lay northeast, and imagine my delight when they said this was the way to Typee, and that to-morrow we should start out on the same is path to the fabulous valley. I was too busy at first with my India-rubber steed to appreciate our surroundings; but presently he grew weary of tearing up the landscape to over take that merciless rider, the Norwegian captain, and I was able to look about. On either side of the trail, as far as eye could penetrate, were the splendid ruins of ancient pae-paes terraced up the hillsides in tangled jungle of blossoming burao that strewed the earth with brown and golden bells. (This is the same tree as the hau of Hawaii.) Some of the nearer stone platforms carried most picturesque little grass huts ; but we saw very few natives, probably because there are very few left to see. It is mournful, all this grandeur of wasted masonry, left in solitude by a wasted race. But it was a lightsome forest, for all its old associations. Sometimes we rode in a mist of golden silk-cotton growing on a tree that is like a delicate drawing of straight lines and right angles, with scant and lacy foliage and bursting pods of cotton depending from its cane-like branches. Among the burao trees we also saw the lauhala of Hawaii, which is like wise used here for hat-plaiting and basketry. There is a 114 THE LOG OF THE SNARK lack of wild-flowers in Nuka-Hiva; indeed, almost the only flowers we saw were those of the burao, and the flame- coloured flags of the flamboyante tree. We tied our now submissive horses a mile or so up the trail, and plunged on foot into the denser woods and up among a world of moss-grown pae-paes. The stillness was intense, a waiting solitude that made one listen and look for the unex pected. You could fancy faces and contorted limbs in every gnarled burao, or shadowy forms crouched along fallen mossy trunks; and it seemed sacrilege to tread the springy undergrowth, for surely it had risen from the dust of forgotten Druids. There was a mute sacredness in the forest that was in no wise destroyed when, after a panting climb, we came in sight of the ungodly idol that we sought, leaning moss-clothed and isolate against an old and broken tree. And the god was a goddess, after all — Tataura, the rotund deity of fecundity, to whom childless brown women prayed in the long ago. Our dream was broken when the German trader and the soulless Norwegian captain fell to wrangling over ways and means for transporting the quaint image to the beach, and stuck their iconoclastic knives into the soft red stone to see whether it might not be of a consistency for sawing to advantage. We glimpsed a stealthy brown figure, almost naked, lurking near, watching the intruders into his ancestral wood, in his eyes a blending of modern agnosticism and the superstition of yesterday, with a tinge of suspicion and regret. Jack and I left the two white men haggling over the fallen immortal, its almost obliterated heathen face seeming to grin sarcastically. We wandered down through the twisted temple of out-doors, touched by the romantic hillside where once lived a laughing, careless people, beautiful to look upon and dwelling in amity and abundance — when they were not out besieging or being besieged by the dwellers of other hill sides and valleys. The two men overtook us down the trail, and on the way THE LOG OF THE SNARK 115 home we turned off to visit a mineral spring that supplies irreproachable drinking water to the fastidious in Taiohae. Our caretakers are to keep us with full jars at the cottage. The captain forged ahead and tore through the trees, I close after, supposing he knew what he was doing — and he did, but it was not the right thing to do. I followed him over a place that I would have disliked to attempt on foot. He forced his poor horse down the boulders with savage un- serupulousness, and it was too late for me to withdraw, although my doughty little stallion tried to recover on the brink. I was angry, and took pains to explain the situation to Mr. Kreiech when he came up on foot, having tied his horse somewhere like a sane man. Jack had been drawn over that boulder as I had been, and neither of us wanted Mr. Kreiech to think we were accustomed to abusing horses. Of course we had to claw out the way we descended, for there was no other way. At the spring, the water of which had a pleasant mineral tang, we were treated also to a draught from cocoanuts which a native opened with his long knife. These Marquesan cocoa- nuts are much superior to the Hawaiian ones in sweetness and richness of water and meat. They are picked young and full of the delicate-flavoured water, and the delicious meat is soft enough to eat with a spoon. On the home stretch the irrepressible Norwegian raised general havoc in our ranks by wickedly whooping by down hill, and Jack's small stallion promptly bolted. Mine took after him in turn, and I could only trust to his tiny nimble feet, for there was no checking him. So I made the most of the mad descent, which was exhilarating if risky. By the time we drew up at Mrs. Fisher's at the foot of the hill, Jack's saddle was on his horse's neck, and it was a mercy the horse was not overbalanced to a fall. . . . Such an appetite ! And what a dinner ! Mrs. Fisher has engaged as cook the man who set the feast at Tomi's yes terday, and he seasons his dishes most toothsomely. There is 116 THE LOG OF THE SNARK a combination of fine French cuisine and native cookery that keeps us hungry to the end and looking forward to the next meal. We asked Mrs. Fisher and her household down to hear the phonograph in the evening, and passed the word along to others as we leisured on foot back to the old clubhouse. They turned out in force, flocking to our garden with smiles and bashful laughter, then disposing themselves here and there, sitting or standing around on the grass inside the gate, as well as on the broad green beyond, while some crowded on the porch where Jack was working the Victor. The women were nearly all in white, the men in ordinary suits of white duck or blue drilling, or in brilliant pareus. I wore a holoku, which pleased the women ; and I went among them and tried to make them feel at ease, for they were very diffident with me at first. I, too, sat in the grass, laughing with them and trying to learn their words — one, in particular, maitai, mean ing good, being worked most successfully in a hundred eon- notations. And they in turn put fragrant wreaths of rich white flowers about my neck and upon my head, patting my hands and smiling appreciatively like lovable children. — Poor things! Over and under and all about their mirth- making is the coughing, coughing, a running accompaniment to everything they do; and they continually soothe their racked lungs with the strong native tobacco. Roaming among our guests outside the gate, I found lying under a flamboyante tree in the moonlight an old Corsican beachcomber with white hair and beard. He would not come inside, indicating that he could enjoy the music better where he was. How did he happen to come to this place, and, more remarkable, why did he stay on ? I wonder what his thoughts were, listening to music from the outer world, there in the short grass under the flamboyante tree in the moonshine. Some one has whispered leprosy. This may explain him. The men proved better listeners than the women, who, after their first curiosity about the "man in the box" had worn off, fell to chattering, chattering, till even Sousa 's baton THE LOG OF THE SNARK 117 could not command clamour enough to drown them. Once in a while some kanaka, interrupted in his own racket by the superior clatter of the vahines, by hissing loudly restored a brief general silence. And all the time, out on the bay, fairy-like in the moon shine floated the quaint old grey bark with her painted ports, and the tiny white-speck boat that brought us to this lovely isle — four thousand miles to cover a twenty-one hundred mile course. But she did it ! she did it ! And there she lies these pleasant days, resting until she is called upon to bear us on over the purple seas, through the pearl lagoons of the Dan gerous Archipelago, to Tahiti — Papeete, the "Paris of the Pacific, ' ' on, on, endlessly, the receding horizon our goal. It is all wonderful and unreal, here in the midst of it; and my heart is full of marvel at the beauty of life, my life, although at my pitying feet in the grass the poor fading creatures of this fair land lie coughing their lives away, pathetic aliens of no true race, waifs of the drift of many and incongruous bloods. Against our door-post an old tattooed savage leans, squat ting on the floor, his eyes dumbly agog at the talking-machine ; in front of him, chin in hands, sits a degenerate of French- Marquesan stock, with a fine and delicate face marred by a look of concentrated foolishness in the great brown eyes. Mrs. Fisher sits straight and white and still, eyes fixed and far-dreaming, while on her long-tried knees sleeps a grand child. And woven into the picture is a score or so of dogs, more oddly-bred than the people who tolerate them and cuff them by turns. Some departed Great Dane has left his gold-striped coat stretched upon many a strange frame, and the lineaments of a pug-dog mock at one from the shoulders of a hound sans pedigree. ... At a little after ten we told our friends "pau," which is current here as in Hawaii to express the end, the finish, and, to the blare of La Marseillaise, the men and women trooped away singing. Then a. great black cloud rose from behind the mountain 118 THE LOG OF THE SNARK and covered the moon ; and in the darkness we found the way under our lacy canopies of mosquito netting, and drowsed off to the staccato of big rain-drops on giant banana-leaves, to dream of Typee Vai on the morrow. December 10, 1907. The plan had been to get away at five for Typee, but when that birdlike hour dawned it seemed that Jack and I were the only ones who had taken it seriously. No one else had made any preparation. We got away at half -past ten. But it did not matter — nothing matters in this leisure-land. There were six besides ourselves — Captain Warren, Mar tin, and the Norwegian skipper with two native girls he had asked to bring. And last, and very important, was Nikko, an Easter Islander whom Jack had engaged as guide. The Norwegian had offered, as he had once before made the trip ; but we preferred a resident of Nuka-Hiva, and Nikko knows his adoptive island thoroughly. With my husband's entire approval I had concluded, in view of a hard ride through all sorts of country on a skittish horse, to discard skirts altogether; so I sallied forth booted and spurred and in khaki riding breeks — of course to find the native girls, arrayed in voluminous eueus, lounging in roomy side-saddles. Take- my word for it that they betrayed more surprise and disapproval than I did. The bark captain had the ride very much to himself, because he was the only one who had no consideration for a horse, albeit his was a fine animal, borrowed at that, from one of the women. The rest of us struck a humane pace and stuck to it, while he raced over the rocks regardless of rise or declivity, his poor brute dripping rivers and quivering with exhaustion. I rode my little stallion Jacques, and Jack's mount was a sure-footed ' ' buckskin ' ' gelding. Martin, had he but thought of it, might have assisted his tiny bay mare with his own long legs, for they could easily touch the ground. But Cap tain Warrefc's clbs&knit figure just suited the stdcfcy, wicked THE LOG OF THE SNARK 119 little stallion that had been allotted him. It set its will against his at the start, but the stern-jawed mariner prevailed through a course of cajolery, heeling, and thrashing. Jack and I laughed ourselves weak during the first half hour. The morning was fresh and sparkling, but the sun, touch ing the purple peak-tips with gilt, soon let loose its whole golden flood into the valley, and we were glad of a cool breeze to the summit. Such a gallery of incomparable pictures! First, the beach with its frilly surf, the vessels rocking in the wind-crisped water beyond, and yet beyond the blue flashing sea. Then the coloured palisades about the bay, sprayed with rainbows from little waterfalls born of a night's rain. On the landward side we were greeted by palm-vignetted sketches — here a warm-brown grass hut with its warm-brown dwellers smiling kaoha to us as we swept by; or the old grey-white mission with its peaceful garden where a cowled priest tended his flowers ; and we passed the ha'e (house) of the dead Queen Vaeheku, spacious and imposing by contrast with the dwell ings along the Broom Road. Then we plunged into the wooded trail where opened ferny vistas and the golden cotton brushed our faces with morning dew. It was familiar going for a time, with a memory of the forsaken red goddess in the enchanted forest; but presently we were beyond our ken and following our guide up-mountain — a mile behind the flying Norseman and his unfortunate charger. We crossed shady streams and drank deep while the horses breathed, and ever we fought our way up, until we came out upon a rocky ridge and turned to look back upon one of the loveliest visions in the world. Such green, such unbroken emerald verdure — the valley a great round green-lined nest, dotted with feather of cocoanut ; with little white birds, two by two, floating dreamily in the void. The sides of the nest, the wonderful mountains, shimmered in a tinted mist, and far down in the silver horse-shoe of the bay the boats lay tiny and toy-like. As in a chart spread out before us, we saw the twin Sentinels, and lying mistily on the horizon the violet islands of Uapo and Hiva-oa — "Yonder Far." We 120 THE LOG OF THE SNARK could even glimpse the ragged edges of the western wall of Comptroller Bay. This reminded us of our objective, and we turned once more to the ascent. Just as the encircling walls of the valley below looked too diaphanous to be real in the blowing blue vapours, so even the perpendicular cliffs close at hand looked unreal. This magic atmosphere idealises everything, far and near. Our last pull out of Taiohae Valley was on a zigzag trail, some sections of which were narrow and steep enough to re call the Molokai pali, and we rested the horses frequently and enjoyed the ever-widening panorama growing beneath. Much of the trail was smothered in a slender though sturdy cane-growth, and we were warned not to cut ourselves on the green blades. This must be the cane that so discouraged Mel ville and Toby in their flight from the Dolly. The bank on the upper side was mossy and a-wave with familiar ferns, one variety resembling the stag-horn of Maui in Hawaii, al though without its vicious thorny attributes. We saw a ripe guava, just one, and that was hollowed out by bird or rat. There was an abundance of guava-scrub, but the fruit season is young. On the top of a bank level with our eyes, we found a Liliputian wild passion vine bearing the most fragile lavender blossoms, miniatures of those we know at home. The whole land was solidly green, valleys and glens, moun tainsides and summits, broken only by chance scarry cliffs upon the bald faces of which clung desperate contorted palms. We peered ghoulishly at a huge rocky funeral-crag near the divide, where corpses, embalmed so that even the eyeballs remain intact, are said to be hidden. Shall I ever be able to explore such a place? I let my opportunity slip at Keala- kekua Bay, Hawaii (where Captain Cook died), because they said the sun was too hot for me to climb the face of the tomb- honeycombed cliff. And there's not the ghost of a chance on Nuka-Hiva. It has been tried, with most unsatisfactory results, by some of the white residents here in times gone by. They could not get even a whiff, so to say, of their loathsome quarry. The native carrying their camping things became THE LOG OF THE SNARK 121 suspicious, found some significant tools in the outfit, and re fused flatly to have anything to do with the expedition. And of course he didn't keep still about his find; so that ever since it has been considered unhealthful by the whites to make any attempt to scale the frowning monument. We now emerged upon more or less of a table-land, and galloped along high breezy ridges from which fell away on either hand a world of hills and wild fruitful valleys ; while ahead, beyond the last ridge, rose the farther wall of Typee. A little way on we discovered that we were at the very head of Hapaa Valley, whose inhabitants were the fiercest enemies of the Typeans in Melville's time. To-day the green gloom of the deep pocket is unbroken by hut or smoke or human form. Not one man is left to point out past glory of con quest nor triumphant feast of pale, grim long-pig. Melville spelled it Happar, and the spelling of Typee should rightly be Taipi; but Typee it will always remain for the wander- luster. To make our travelling more perfect, the sky had some what overcast, and just enough sun broke through at inter vals to throw lavish swaths of light and shadow across the tremendous landscape, while we went in cool comfort. When Nikko pointed out the head of Typee Vai far to our left, my sensations were all I could wish. There in the midst of stern mountain bulks, black in the shadow, just where the deserters sixty years ago perilously let themselves down into the valley, was the waterfall described by Melville — a dis tant shaft of purest white, still as a pillar of marble. And very likely the long, embowered pathway down which we gained the floor of the valley is the very one by which Toby escaped from the man-eating tribe. Near the head of the valley we could see the white welt of the trail to Hatiheu angling up ravines and erosions. One of our native girls came from Hatiheu, granddaughter of a chief, and part French. She is an indolent, insolent-eyed creature, and as neither she nor the other girl seemed in clined to be sociable, we soon left them to themselves. 122 THE LOG OF THE SNARK The only other striking feature on the opposite wall of Typee was a sloping enclosure of several acres, overcrowded to bursting with breadfruit and cocoanut. The walls looked to be of piled stone, and we could not doubt that this was one of the walled groves made so much of by Melville. And the valley itself — one cannot be surprised that its olden visitor thought it extraordinary and had no words to tell of its extreme loveliness. Deep in the heart of the moun tains it rests, an inexpressible wilderness of greenest green, threaded by a beautiful river fed by cataracts at its magnifi cent scowling head. The mountains of Nuka-Hiva are not very high, but have all the character of greater mountains and make grand effects among the shifting, tumbling cloud- masses. The length of Typee I should judge to be about seven or eight miles by two broad, and the valley opens into nothing less lovely than the bay of its own name, the mid most of the three arms of Comptroller Bay. Melville saw much of Typee blossoming and fruiting abundantly under savage cultivation ; but I cannot think the general view is any less overwhelming in our day, with its mad riot of vegetation. It is when one walks in the old paths and comes close to Typee that the change hurts. It is as if a curse had fallen upon it — spreading over it a choked jungle of burao, damp and unwholesome, on the edges of which, near the river, unkempt grass houses stand upon the lordly pae-paes of decayed affluence. And the people ! Where are the beautiful women and the splendid men who loved so sweetly in their happy land? Look for them you must — for Fayaway and her maidens, clad in white tapa cloth; but what you see is a wretched thing dragging toward you in bedraggled calico, her face discoloured and blotched with leprosy, her very existence a shame to mankind and the sun. Melville estimated some two thousand warriors in Typee Vai; now there are perhaps a dozen vilely-bred men and women whose cross-strains alone have kept them alive, de clining as they are in disease and misery. Human Hair Dancing Dress, Turtle Crown, and Old Men's Beards The Nature Man in Street Costume THE LOG OF THE SNARK 123 We unsaddled and tied our horses by an ancient stone enclosure, and Nikko carried the lunch down by the river. We came to our first ease of elephantiasis in a hideously deformed young native with a face smacking strongly of Chinese. He brought us cocoanuts for our lunch, and for which we paid him. His feet were literally elephantine — the leg swelled until the toes were no more conspicuous than those of an elephant. The man wore a deprecatory ex pression, as if he would apologise for his unlovely exist ence. We were extremely annoyed, as we sat under the trees by the stream, by myriads of the diminutive black flies, called nau-nau (pronounced now-now), that have bothered us some what in Taiohae. Mrs. Fisher had warned us against allow ing them to sting us, as the bites, after lying dormant for days, almost invariably fester and continue to fester. She urged me to wear long sleeves and gloves. To-day the pests settled in clouds, getting into the food and robbing us of peace. Later on, when Jack and I took a swim in a pool of the river, which we tried to think was ' ' Fayaway 's lake, ' ' we were obliged to keep under water to escape the flies; and when poor Jack, going out first, essayed to dress on the bank, he was beset by such numbers that he was beside himself, and his language not at all pretty. I placidly treaded water and chaffed up at him from my comfortable seclusion. But he got back at me. When I tried to clothe myself, omitting all towelling for the sake of speed, the vengeful man stood by and made remarks when I went quite, quite mad in my efforts to get things on without imprisoning the clinging tor mentors. Perhaps I deserved my punishment ; but he needn't have been quite so mean ! After lunch I remembered my promise to myself that, once I was on the spot, I was going to people Typee Vai to suit my imagination. So I stole away up the hillside, past an immense pae-pae bearing a filthy hut, and struck a damp pathway that led into the burao thicket. I walked on and on, but the trail seemed to lead nowhere, so I gave up and 124 THE LOG OF THE SNARK retraced. This moist, unholy jungle has possessed the land. I saw nothing of special human interest except a big mossy stone that gazed dimly sphinx-like out of what may have once upon a time been pictured eyes. Baffled, I tried the up-river path. This was better — really exquisite in fact. The way was smothered in sunny trees and shrubbery and the most alluring little pathlets tempted away from the riverside into a happy tangle of growing things. One could easily imagine a phantom Fay away playing there at hide-and-seek. I saw a ripe warm orange lying under its tree, and pounced upon it, catching at the idea of having one golden apple out of the lost Eden. It was a capital orange, too, even if hot. There was another ruddy ball on the slender tree, but I let it hang. I wan dered on in the steaming tropic air, under the blue flame of the noonday sky, and found the going fair and my dream good. The valley rang with bird-calls, although Melville made a point of the absence of birds, and they must have been imported later on — along with the nau-nau! Jack was asleep under a tree upon my return. Before long we were in the saddle again, with only one horse-fight to mark our departure. After I had mounted, my coal- black steed rose to his full height per hind legs, and de scended upon the mounted Scandinavian, raising a consider able lump on the man's knee. Then we started back the way we had come, but, instead of crossing the river to the home-trail, kept to the left, galloping through a grove of the biggest banana trees we have ever seen. A scant hand ful of natives peeped apishly at us from under the giant leaves. Climbing to a pass leading out of Typee, we gazed down upon the tan beach where Melville escaped to the ship 's boat. Two men were fishing in the river where it met the bay, and we caught the gleam of their silver quarry lying on the sand. Now came a joyful surprise. Typee had depressed us with its desolation; but here, the other side of a low hill, we dropped into a little vale that looked more as Typee THE LOG OF THE SNARK 125 must have in her hey-day. This was Hooumi Valley (pro nounced Ho-o-oo-me). Melville never mentioned it in his book, and, since he was zealously guarded from approach ing the mouth of his own valley, undoubtedly knew nothing of it. Still, judging from the accessibility and smallness of Hooumi, its people must have been counted among the Typeans, for such a small contingent could not have held out against the powerful valley proper. Melville probably saw the people of Hooumi among the others, and included them in his two-thousand estimate, while ignorant of their actual headquarters. It is a bit of aboriginal fairyland, this Hooumi. We raced along, following the windings of its blue stream, many a turn taking our breath away with the beauty it unrolled. The prospect was one of plenty, the "profitable trees," breadfruit, bananas, eocoanuts and the like, growing pro fusely on every hand. The breadfruit is magnificent, re minding one of the jewelled trees in the story of Aladdin, for the very leaves, broad and indented, glisten like polished gems, while the large fruit, sometimes round, sometimes oval, is studded with emerald knobs. Once we rounded a broad bend, where a healthy, hearty savage, gleaming like copper in the westering flames, fished ankle-deep in pebbly shallows; again, we came upon a still elbow of the stream in which a perfect grass hut, with all its trees and background of wooded hill, was reflected ; or there flashed upon us a straight stretch of road, striped with tree- shadows, and opening up the lofty shoulder of a jagged crag, tipped with sungold; and once I drew up abruptly, having almost missed, in sheer enjoyment of my horse, one of the prettiest sights in the valley — a particularly well pre served pae-pae by the roadside, supporting a ruined grass house shaded by three plumy palms of varying heights and angles, and one justly proportioned breadfruit tree that laid its purple shadow distinctly upon the tessellated plat form. A grass hut is the very quintessence of savage pic- turesqueness. 126 THE LOG OF THE SNARK We fetched up at the mouth of the valley in a little vil lage of native huts and one small frame house built on a modern pae-pae in a grassy enclosure. It might have been more romantic for us to put up in native fashion; but we were quite willing to forego that pleasure and accept Nikko 's arrangements, what of our aversion to centipedes and such things — although, if grass house it had been, well and good. One's lust for the outlandish chills somewhat in face of sharing bed and board with unpleasant crawling vermin of elongated aspect and with bites up their sleeves. Upon riding into the yard, Jack and I were entirely absorbed in a young man who moved about as one in posses sion, without affectation, and with a dazzling smile in mouth and eyes whenever he met our gaze. His face was not hand some, except as his ready smile made it so; it was the body of him that stayed the eye with its complete symmetry of line and proportion. And more than beauty of form was the carriage of it — never did a Prince Charming bear him self with more regal grace. With all his thewy masculinity there was a flowing softness of line and motion that led away from any thought of iron muscle; but later on, when he jack-knived himself up a cocoanut palm that our sailor- eyed men pronounced all of a hundred and twenty-five feet high, we saw the steel sinews of him, the deep lungs, and the control. It was an astonishing thing he did: merely walked up that swaying column on all-fours, and descended similarly, backward; and when he reached the ground and walked past us with his inimitable port, he was only breath ing quickly, as a man after a short run might do. Now 1 come to think of it, he was the only being in the village whom we did not hear cough. It seemed ill fitting to offer a young god from Olympus a franc for braving a mere cocoanut palm ; for one grows used to such irregularities of circumstance, although I must not forget that this royal-bodied youth did not even look toward us for approval or for the money that had been promised. He approached only when bidden, naked in his perfection THE LOG OF THE SNARK 127 save for a scarlet cloth, and received double the prize with the manner of a victor in the athletic field taking his re ward as his due and no more, pleasantly without servility. Indeed, he did not even look at the coins in his hand until he had swung with leisurely dignity across the green to where the cooks were busy, and there we saw him laugh like a pleased boy while the men congratulated. Later on, this Marquesan Adonis was fairly commonplace in blue overalls and a net shirt; but he could not disguise walk or smile, and whenever he appeared, Jack and I followed with our eyes. You see, he meant old Typee to us, for he was neither half-caste, nor sick. Excepting the fisherman in the stream, he was the only specimen we saw who approximated the Typean of Melville and the other old chroniclers. Everything in the neighbourhood was in a bustle over our feasting and lodgment. A dozen men were preparing kao-kao in a large half -open shed in which we saw a reminis cent wooden trencher the length of a man, and wondered if there was a resident in the village old enough to remember its grisly use; while other men dug a shallow pit in which the sucking puarka was to be roasted whole, and Adonis went about the preparing of that goodly item. We sat on the ground leaning against a plaited side of the shed, enjoying the yielding turf under our tired limbs and long draughts of the incomparable cocoanut. Every living thing eats cocoanut meat in Nuka-Hiva — fowls, pigs, men, dogs, women, horses, cats and birds. So we amused ourselves seeing how near the domestic livestock would come to take our cocoanut from us. The horses nearly drove us out by their voracity — and speaking of horses: although it is not much above fifteen miles to Hooumi from Taiohae, they are hard miles, and one would have thought our ani mals would enjoy a rest; but from the instant the saddles were removed there was a continuous vicious engagement among the stallions that kept every one on the lookout lest he be run down. My Jacques' first offence was to walk up to Jack's inno'Cent horse and deliberately bite a generous 128 THE LOG OF THE SNARK mouthful out of the soft part of the back, which cannibal outrage he twice repeated before nightfall. And Jack does so hate to ride an animal that has the slightest scratch under the saddle ! It would take too long to go into the details of how a pit is prepared, so that when the pig is wrapped in leaves and laid among hot stones it becomes roasted as the natives like it. Suffice it that our puarka was thus buried, piled with leaves, and the whole covered with earth ; whereupon a long, lean dog that had missed no jot of the proceedings, composed himself to sleep on the warm grave. It takes these people endless times as long to do anything as it does white men. Most white men, I should qualify, for the Norwegian captain never knows his mind two min utes and backs and fills with staggering rapidity when any kind of decision has to be made. I cannot see how he com mands a ship. He had been vociferating sixteen times in every fifteen minutes during the latter part of the journey and while we were getting settled in camp, that he would not stay over night ; he had stated positively the day before that he could not go at all, and this in reply to no special urging; he had been largely to blame for our tardy start, and whenever any hitch occurred, he would roundly abuse Nikko — Nikko, who was our guide, not his. But to get back. The dilatory methods of the native cooks made it quite imperative to assuage our appetites with fruit and cocoanuts; and, strange to say, so great a void was there that we were in no way daunted when we dropped cross-legged on the cottage porch and surveyed the banquet. We leaned against our saddles and saddle-bags and partook of boiled breadfruit that we knew was the real thing at last. I cannot name the flavour of this substantial comestible ; but I can say that the man who described it as tasting like sour potatoes and cheese and turpentine and kerosene must have had accidents in his kitchen. Lake the taro, which it re sembles in excellence only, it is a noble vegetable — or fruit we must call it, I suppose, since it grows on a tree ; and I am THE LOG OF THE SNARK 129 quite sure that if I had to live entirely on breadfruit or taro, or both, I should not miss bread or potatoes. They set breadfruit poi-poi before us, and very good it was, with its tart flavour ; but I think we shall never like it as we do the taro poi. There was a big bowl of fowl de liriously boiled in the pressed milk from the meat of cocoa- nuts, and we added Taiohae bakery bread that we had brought in a sack. There were eggs, nicely soft-boiled, and the Hatiheu princess and her friend, who had warmed to ward us by now, affably demonstrated how to eat certain small chunks of fish from the fingers, first dipping into a slightly fermented cocoanut sauce. For wine, we quaffed from fresh cocoanut flagons. Home is sweet, to be sure; but I wish Marquesan cocoanuts and breadfruit grew in my kitchen garden! The women of the place were very shy with me for a while. I do not think they have seen many white women, for all the European blood that pales their own faces. Be sides, there was the difficulty of my trousers to be got over, and I cannot wonder at their corner-comments and embar rassed smiles. After dinner we were invited into the main apartment of the two-roomed house, where we sat in a circle on a spotless, polished wooden floor, and were offered absinthe for a liqueur. A bit of French helped us along, and the Scan dinavian, besides his English, knew a little Marquesan from the Hatiheu girl, so we did very well. I noticed the sew ing machine that books all mention as the invariable piece de resistance of South Sea Island well-to-do homes — indeed there were two, and the fresh red calico eueu worn by our hostess showed that the machines were not allowed to rust. This lady had kept in the background until now, and we found her very handsome, of a big, sumptuous, Hawaiian type. One thing I was determined to find out — if there was any of the old tapa cloth left in this forsaken country. The mis tress of the house looked a likely person to ask; and she 130 THE LOG OF THE SNARK went into the other room, nodding her head. After an anxious time for me, out she came with a nine-foot roll of pure white fabric, undoubtedly made many years ago from the breadfruit bark, for no tapa of any description is made by the Marquesans now. This piece exactly answered Mel ville's description of the clothing worn by the maidens, and it was in good condition. It was the only good white piece we were able to obtain, all the rest being deep cream and of coarser fibre. Dear me — if Fayaway came to Typee now she would have to array her loveliness in a red calico wrap per. But the daughters of Nuka-Hiva are quick to emulate a new style. Already, in Taiohae, I have noticed the luxuriant locks of several swarthy damsels going topward in imitation of my modest chignon. Perhaps, who can tell? one visiting Hooumi a few years hence may find the leaders of fashion promenading in khaki riding breeks! But I cannot allow myself any kind of a joke at the ex pense of these dying Hooumians. Although this little com munity was more prosperous and sanitary than what we saw in Typee, it is not saying much, as we soon found when the news of our tapa purchase went out and the women began to bring in the sheaves of their foremothers. The lame, the halt, and the blind, the asthmatic, the consumptive — shyly and painfully they came and laid their faded bundles at our feet, eagerly watching our discriminating eyes, some gasping for breath, their sunken chests rattling. One woman in particular, a half-breed, had the prettiest French face imaginable, "pale as the milk of cocoanuts," with big soft brown eyes that lighted up when she saw our approval of her creamy fathoms and the money Jack held out to her. And all the time the poor soul was fighting for breath, her hands often clutching the air. When she went from us, Jack and I looked at each other silently, for we could hear a long way off the involuntary groans from her ruined lungs. And her father — where is he? Who might he be? For a thoughtful moment the universe was "jangled, out of tune." THE LOG OF THE SNARK 131 We collected quite a bale of rare old tapa, accepting only the best. I suppose we saw about all there was left in the valley, and it was not much. As far as I can discover, this white and cream tapa was the only kind made by the Mar quesans. The patterns and warm colours of the Hawaiian and Samoan sorts were unknown here. Before bedtime, we two stole off for a little look-see about the beach. There was an air of happy excitement even in the moonlit woods, for foreign visitors are very infrequent and the village was out and a-whisper with our com ing. Aside from the witchery of shining strand and the shadowy woods, we saw nothing of special interest except a long, graceful whaleboat that lay wrecked and rotting in the rank grass. The rest of the party had decided to return to Taiohae at six next morning, for our captain had work aboard the Snark, and the other skipper was near the end of his lading and must get back. Jack and I planned to take our time in order, if possible, to pick up some wooden bowls and other curios. We secured one small but beautifully-grained bowl, or calabash, this evening. We were allotted the one small room off the large one, and found on the immaculate floor three spotless white pillows, stuffed with silk-cotton, and a white bedspread. It would be interesting to know where the lady of the house learned her civilised cleanliness. We laid our heavy oilskin saddle- slickers, for mattress, and turned in under the white counterpane. 'Outside on the porch a string of natives of both sexes and all conditions slept side by side, heads to the wall. I say slept, but it is only a manner of speaking. There was a clamour of coughs, wheezings, expectorations, and conversation more or less desultory — principally less, for just as I would decide they were at last dead-o, and com pose myself for that coveted end, somebody would break out again, the whole chain catching like a pack of firecrackers. Our invasion being their latest topic, we knew we were the 132 THE LOG OF THE SNARK subject of debate. At last they quieted, and we succumbed to the liquid lullaby of the little surf. Wednesday, December 11, 1907. I opened my eyes at seven this morning. Jack was stand ing inside the porch window. He seemed to be disagreeing with a native outside who held up a dark, oscillating object in both hands. Jack turned away as if he had lost interest, whereupon the thing was flung on the window sill in a curly heap. "Goatskin?" I inquired. For reply, Jack gathered up the dusky fleece and dropped it into my lap. Involuntarily I shrank from it. Goatskin ! It was human hair — long, thick, wavy, the seal-brown matted strands curling tawny at the ends. The eerie locks were deftly gathered on a band of woven cocoanut fibre, and the dancing-skirt, the hula-hula fringe, stood confessed. All very beautiful ; but when one was assured that undoubtedly this garnered wealth of hair had been shorn from the heads of human sacrifices that had been cooked and eaten by their captors, the lightsomeness of romance dimmed somewhat. I handled the ghastly trophy gingerly, but with a determina tion that it should not escape the "Snark room" we mean to build at home ; and a little later a bargain was struck. The curio would have been cheap at any cost, for it is a priceless memento of a vanishing race. The lethargic Hooumians were aroused at last. Acquisi tiveness was the order of the day. Their hoarded ancestral treasures were snatched from mouldy seclusion and showered on the sunlit pae-pae. While the bartering was on, much counsel was offered to each seller by his companions. Chil dren mixed with the chattering, coughing crowd, and an oc casional yelp attested to some skinny dog having been landed by a flipper-like savage foot. A pair of armlets to match the hirsute hula-hula skirt came to light, and the eager villagers all tried to explain at THE LOG OF THE SNARK 133 once that there should also be anklets, but that none were to be found. We felt like paleontologists reconstructing an antediluvian monster — but instead of bones we had only hairs to go by. And speaking of hairs, we made another lucky find in several of the "old men's beards" that Stevenson describes as so precious to the Marquesan heart. These are thin grey fringes about a foot long, stiff and grim, and are worn on the forehead, held by a brow-band and thrust starkly upward. The asthmatic French-faced girl glided toward us with seraphic smile and shining upraised gaze, bearing in her two hands a crown of carved yellow turtle-shell, thick and beau tifully spotted, the curving sections held together by deli cately plaited threads of cocoanut fibre. King or priest, we could not find out whose had been the head or heads that once bore this rare ornament. Each piece is carved differ ently, with fine workmanship, and we shall probably never know the meaning of the figures wrought into the shell. Perhaps to the present generation they are meaningless. That the crown is old, is shown by the condition of the cocoa- nut sennit, as well as the firm dirt-incrustations in the shell. We were shown how to fasten the "old men's beards" inside the circlet, and the effect was startling enough. The pretty crown-bearer proved a good business woman, and did not cheapen her wares by showing them all at once. Once the curio had become ours, she brought out another, a brow-band of porpoise-teeth and beads. This did not appeal so strongly, although in the eyes of the natives the porpoise- teeth rendered it far more valuable than the turtle-shell crown. They pressed close in their efforts to explain the dis tinction. But it was the woman who won. She was so sweetly wistful, that we bought it mainly to see her smile again. Then we turned to the calabashes (kokas) that had been collected for our inspection — bowls, great and small, of heavy mid wood, hard as stone. Nothing we had seen in Hawaii could excel these old Marquesan vessels. To be sure, they 134 THE LOG OF THE SNARK were not polished; but it was easy to discern, through the grime of many years, the splendid graining of the wood and its possibilities for a shining surface. Our only difficulty was how to carry them, and we wanted them all; but our quandary was simplified by finding that most of the biggest were undesirable on account of cracks; so we compromised on three that were perfect, and a lot of small ones, some round, some oval. We gave our hostess all the bread that remained — a coveted delicacy — and Nikko used the gunny sacks for packing the calabashes on his horse, while Jack and I carefully stowed in our saddle-bags the smaller and more fragile things. I shall never cease to regret that we could not manage that long-pig trencher from the cook-shed. By now it was time for breakfast, and we fortified our selves with eggs, bread, bananas and cocoanuts. After which we strolled about with the kodak for a last look at the village. At half past nine we were mounted and bidding farewell, and oh! it was a joyous jaunt across the island. Hooumi thrilled with bird-voices and river-songs in the green-and-gold forenoon, while Typee lay sleeping her long, long sleep, her sombre head wrapped in a grey cloud-pall. We sat a little space looking our last on the great, silent picture, before leaving it forever. "Don't try to take it," Jack advised, as I trained my tiny camera on the splendour of Typee Vai. "You will be disap pointed — it will be only a blur." But I snapped it all the same, thinking that even a blur of Typee would be better than no record. When we reached Mrs. Fisher's about noon, our horses fresh and lively, we found that the others, who left Hooumi three hours ahead, had beaten us in by only fifteen minutes. At first we could not understand. But it turned out that the captain of the bark had forced the pace until his horse gave out in an hour, and the others, nearly as badly off, were held up waiting for it to recover. Martin was indignant, because try as he would to hold the rest, he was obliged to Overdo his own horse to some extent. V- THE LOG OF THE SNARK 135 . . . While we were faring to Typee, the nineteen labourers of Taiohae were bringing the red goddess down the moun tain. It is a significant fact that no Marquesan would touch it, which leads one to conclude that of the total of able- bodied workmen of Taiohae, not one is a real Marquesan. And there were murmurings on the beach that day — impo tent and spiritless protests of the old blood against this desecration of its hoary wood. So the maternal Tataura was toted down out of the jungle and deposited whole and unharmed in the rickety old bark's hold. . . . This evening we dropped in to see Mr. Rahling in his pretty cottage smothered with vines and flowers — one yellow bell-shaped blossom, called by the natives epuua, rioting everywhere. He came out from a little workshop next his bedroom, and at our request took us in to see what he had been doing. Among other cleverly wrought articles, he had carved several saddle-trees out of the hard mio wood — excellent models of the McClellan type. There were also two side-saddles. "Nothing to it!" declared Jack. "You must sell me a saddle-tree." And we added this to the rest of our Marquesan curios. But never fear but this saddle, although of the nature of a curio, will be rigged up some day and see good use on the home ranch. Mr. Rahling also parted with a little red god of stone and two small calabashes; then to our delight we found a pair of human hair anklets which he was willing to forego, although he had no idea where he could duplicate them. Indeed, both he and Mr. Kreiech are astonished at the num ber of valuable things we have secured, insisting that they did not know they still remained on the island. Returning home, we walked in upon the two old thor oughbreds, sitting a-ham before the collection of heirlooms we had haled from Hooumi. They Oh'd and Ah'd lugu briously when we added the red god and calabashes and anklets to the mound, then rose sighing and went to their own quarters. Poor things — it is a wrench for them to see the last of their relics going into the hands of pale inter- 136 THE LOG OF THE SNARK lopers, although we, at least, are not unmindful of their sen timent. But of all the outlandish trophies from our Typean quest, none holds the grisly allure of the hair skirt and its ac companiments. More than one head must have fallen to furnish such abounding tresses. Those of the skirt are all of two feet in length, and piled thick, layer upon layer, so that the least movement produces that oscillation I had noticed on the window-sill. We try to vision the unholy rites wherein this ghastly garmenture was worn. Thursday, December 12, 1907. This is the day upon which the Snark 's company had wagered it would see Nuka-Hiva. So we have been paying Jack his ill-gotten dollars. His judgment was six days better than ours ; and thinking over the happenings of the past six days, we are mightily glad of it. Taiohae may be a quiet place; but we somehow find our selves beset with engagements of one sort or another. Jack wrote all this morning on his novel, which he will name Suc cess, while I typed in another corner of the porch. When we went to Mrs. Fisher 's dejeuner at eleven, she showed us a pair of beautifully carved dark-brown calabashes which her father, Herr Goeltz, had sent over for our approval. We "approved" promptly, and they were ours in no time, as they were the handsomest things of their kind we had ever seen. Herr Goeltz also sent word that he had more of these, as well as other curiosities, if we cared to pay him a visit across the way, which we shall do to-morrow. We had promised to go aboard the bark this afternoon; and, after a siesta on our shady veranda, went out in the ship's boat with the captain. That man is so good looking, and has such charming moods, that we could like him wholly were it not for his inhumanity to horses. There is strong romance to me in old ships, especially in such a setting. We climbed up the side ladder and found THE LOG OF THE SNARK 137 ourselves in the rickiest vessel imaginable. The topmasts had a raffish cant that made one think apprehensively of Pau- motan hurricanes. Decks were unkempt, ropes looked risky ; even the "absinthe-minded crew" had a gaunt, uncanny, unfed appearance. Our movements on deck were impeded by frightened and fragrant goats running at large, together with the vociferations of an unseen litter of lusty puppies added to the weird din. We moused around the mouldy quarters of the vessel, peering into bilgy holes and weevily stores, and then went below, where I sat in a cushioned nook of the really cosy little cabin of Norwegian pine, the walls of which the captain had himself decorated with fleur de lis picked out in aluminum paint. We drank smooth French beer and swapped yarns for an hour or more — at least the men did, and I listened. Captain Warren was somewhat gloomy, for this very morning he fell down the bark's com- panionway and all but broke his ribs, and a bigger baby than an injured sailor is hard to find. Jack got some Norwegian pine and several Asiatic pilot books in exchange for superfluous manila hawser from the Snark. This skipper runs his ship very easily, it would seem. Parting with a pilot book or a volume of sailing direc tions means nothing to him. Short a 1908 Almanac, he is too careless to copy a few pages from ours. Why, he has actually allowed his chronometer to run down, and it looks as if he intends to go to sea day after to-morrow with out setting it by ours ! But he's a man for a' that, for who but he flared the big light for us the night we crept feeling our way into the harbour ! We took him over to the Snark. Our men were holyston ing the deck — the .first it had ever received. Herrmann met us with his Mona Lisa smirk, and almost burst with pride over the new whiteness of the deck. He seemed much impressed with the change my "shore clothes" made in me, and commented respectfully, not for the first time, on the lack of tan on my complexion. But on this occasion he quite eclipsed himself. He broke out heartily : 138 THE LOG OF THE SNARK |Y <' "I tell you, there is of only one white man aboard the P Snark, and that's Mrs. London!" And the goose did not know why we laughed. Herrmann had permission to take Jack's Mauser out for goats yesterday. He made a day of it, and has been busy ever since explaining in detail the various reasons why he did not bring home any game. Mr. Rahling was on the wharf when we landed, swimming Jacques in the deep water alongside. Seeing the horse in the water reminded me that our men noticed a shark near the yacht the other day. I had thought of taking a swim every morning off the pier, but this changed my mind. Friday, December 13, 1907. No matter how hard we work, it is rest to live in this tran quil house. In one corner of the viny porch a chapter of the novel is being finished, in another my eternal typewriter clicks; while at the fence awed voices murmur, as Tomi's daughter Tahia explains the writing-machine. Tahia means ' ' above the rest, ' ' and this little brown-eyed girl of fourteen is certainly the superior of her playmates in beauty and in telligence. She has been allowed to come close to the won derful machine that manufactures books (more amazing, I do believe, than the talking-box), and feels very important. I go on typing while they stand a few feet away whispering under a whisper, fearful of disturbing. Then they steal away on their bare, fan-like feet, with a soft kaoha in thanks and good morning. The natives are very considerate of our privacy, never making themselves nuisances in any way. While we are busy with our end of the work, refreshing ourselves ever and anon from our pitcher of orange-nectar (we have thirty -five oranges squeezed every morning) , Nakata goes about learning the ways of a white man's house, al though the makeshift manner in which we are living is not the best of training. Aside from the routine of the Snark, the little man is innocent of European habits — with the ex- THE LOG OF THE SNARK 139 ception of one, fine washing and ironing. What a boon in ' J the South Seas! Jack's white crepe shirts and my sheer' *-> lawns and linens — they're all one to Nakata. The seaward aspect of our Elysium showed a trifle ruffled this morning, a heavy swell sending an unusual surf on our brown shingle, where the men loading lighters with the last of the bark's copra cargo were having a lively time. The southeast trade, the tua-to-ha, is blowing briskly, with the same twist to the north 'ard that gave us fair wind here from above the Line. We added to our knowledge of South Sea kao-kao at break fast to-day, in the shape of roasted fei — pronounced fay-ee. It resembles a plantain in appearance and tastes like a hardy, substantial banana, though less sweet. The natives are espe cially fond of it. From Mrs. Fisher's, accompanied by her purring, tailless eat, we crossed over to Herr Goeltz 's. He met us on the tottering, trellised veranda, on his grey head a faded black velvet cap trimmed with yellowed lace, on his sunken frame a nondescript suit, trousers tied in at the ankles to keep out sandflies — the nau-naus. (Jack and I are already wishing we had been more careful.) The old man led us into the dim and dusty twilight of his cobwebby castle — a fairly com modious house of five rooms. I at once became lost, poking around in the musty corners, into spidery cabinets brought in old ships from Germany; old albums; baskets of shells and green cat-eyes from Samoa, and cupboards of beautiful china and heavy old French porcelain. Our eagle-faced host, sharp and keen of wit for all his eighty-two years, while showing us about talked upon a score of topics. One of these was his cruise through the Paumotus on the Casco as Stevenson's pilot; another was his noble Polish family, u for estray though he be, he has a title all his own. He brought out several more of those fascinating carven bowls of wood, concerning one of which, a symmetrical oval laced with intricate traceries, he told us a creepy tale. Without going into the sanguinary particulars, you may take it that 140 THE LOG OF THE SNARK the blood of two white skippers has been drunk from this ornate receptacle; and, if history be true, their fate was far too good for them. For instance, one of these captains, among other atrocities in return for the goodwill and royal hospitality of the natives on one of the islands in the group, presented the chief with a wholly rotten whaleboat that had all the seeming of staunch newness, what of shining paint and gay trimmings. That captain had the bad luck to be wrecked at the self-same place a few years later. If you don't believe it, we'll show you the bowl! Herr Goeltz had disposed of the bulk of his possessions long before we touched at Taiohae, which made us wish we had been earlier. However, it took half a dozen to carry away the spoils of our forage. I had often noticed the green-trimmed porcelain with which Mrs. Fisher set the table, and it turned out that she had borrowed it from her father, who had the remainder of the set. Such tureens! Such platters, and such great plates! Said Jack, with a small amused smile at the "pictured corners" of his mouth: "I think we could use the whole set, couldn't we?" It is very nice to be treated like a small daughter occa sionally, and thereupon we fell to counting the pieces to see what was missing. The dishes had been often borrowed and some of them broken; but there was a goodly array left. Mrs. Fisher came over during our despoiling, and, while glad to see her father making a little money, she could not hide the sadness in her eyes at the last family treasures going the way of the rest. I added some delicate teacups; then there were a couple of old ivory fans, and a pair of fine conches. We also found some thick round heis (wreaths) of small yellow-and- white landshells, and a true (?) piece of the elm, or what ever the tree was, that grew over Napoleon's grave at St. Helena. We were tired and warm upon reaching home, and, piling our burden in a corner of the big room, retired to the con crete bath and sat reading for an hour, the water up to our THE LOG OF THE SNARK 141 chins. It would be hard to eclipse our schemes for comfort. Stevenson doesn't mention this rude tub. Think what he missed. His description of the club is: "A billiard-board, a map of the world on Mercator's projection, and one of the most agreeable verandas in the tropics." We are heartily ready to indorse this last, even in advance of any other ex perience in verandas under the Equator. The Norwegian came in to bid us farewell, as he expected to sail at daylight, and incidentally he trimmed Jack's hair according to a promise, made yesterday. The day ended with music, and we had the novel enter tainment of merry Marquesans dancing the energetic hula- hula of their Tahitian cousins, to Hawaiian music on an American phonograph — under a tree with a French name ! Saturday, December 14, 1907. Up and out at half past five this morning, we watched the old grey bark with painted ports square away for the Azores her chronometer dead and no 1908 Almanac aboard. A fair vision she was for all that, dipping her flag to the Snark, where Wada was running up the colours. A gun saluted from the shore, and dusky women, sitting beneath the trees and on the pier, raised a mournful wailing for the men who had been so briefly theirs. "For men must work, * and women must weep ' ' — it is the sea-song for white women, brown women, black women, wives and sweethearts, the world over — the old, old game. We lingered to see the last of the bark, as she passed through the portals of Taiohae and took the rocking swell. Soon her last royal was out of sight behind a headland, and we wondered if we should ever see her again. Then we watched the painting of the morn upon a shell-pink sky above the sculptured heads of the Eastern range, and drank deep of the cool sweet breath of waking day. We were too full of peace to stir, resting there at the grassy edge of the sand. One by one the tear-stained women picked them: 142 THE LOG OF THE SNARK selves up and went disconsolately along the green road to their lonely homes. When we, too, finally rose and walked toward the old club-house, Nakata was starting to hunt for us. He paused when he saw us — a quaint and smiling Japanese figure in grey kimono, standing under a small broad tree laden with flowers like pink tiger-lilies. "Breakfast ready, Missis-n," quoth the cheerful picture; and ye of the cities with your steaks and chops, ham-and- eggs, and fried potatoes, have nothing on us, with our man goes, butter-yellow, rich and spicy, our wild pineapple, sweet as sugar-cane, and our pitcher of orange juice. . . . There were two arrivals to-day — one, a canoe from Hooumi bringing two big calabashes for us, in the pink of condition, and the other the beautiful schooner Oauloise, spic and span as a gentleman's yacht, carrying mails every several months between here and Tahiti. Captain Chabret, a striking, swarthy man, born of French and Paumotan parents, and educated in Europe, called with his mate, who interpreted, as the captain speaks little English and our French is very lame. The Hooumian made the sleepy after noon vibrate with solemn blasts on our war conches. Once heard, one could never forget the barbaric mournfulness of their long, resonant, bell-like call. It conjured up night mares of stealthy tattooed savages gathering for the fray and secret orgy of long-pig. At five o'clock we went to the store to see for the last time the social gathering of pay-day — for Jack says we shall get away Wednesday. I cannot say -enough for the kindness of Mr. Kreiech and Mr. Rahling. They have never been too busy to give their undivided attention to our slightest want When Mr. Kreiech discovered that I was interested in the old French silver which is current here, he had me into the inner office free to rummage in the money-bags. I found several five-franc pieces bearing the head of Napoleon over the dates of 1809, 1811, and 1813, for which, of course, Jack paid the equivalent. Captain Chabret dropped in, and Mr. Kreiech opened THE LOG OF THE SNARK 143 bottles of sweet French champagne on a counter, and brought a couple of watermelons from his garden. How Martin i Johnson's Kansan eyes did shine! After a while Jack and I gravitated out to the big box on the porch to dangle our heels once more under the yellow spilth of the sketchy cotton-tree. The grief-stricken girls of the early hours were arm-in-arm and eye-to-eye with the men of their own kind, who looked well content. We saw our two aristocrats of the cottage, the woman, whose name I have discovered to be Mauani ("Sky is covered"), as usual on such occasions making herself and her puarka very much at home. The jolly workmen, in the big white cook-caps they often wear, jostled one another in the store as they spent their earnings in gaudy pareus and tobacco. Among the dark skins, Mrs. Fisher's daughter shone white as a lily, moving about with her plump pink baby. She is a veritable Madonna, and Leonardo would find himself in his element here, for this girl, like Herrmann, has a Mona Lisa smile and the inscrutable gaze that goes with it. Mrs. Fisher, a head above the crowd, trod her stately way into the store, with a grandchild hanging to her skirt. Everybody was invited down to hear the phonograph at half past seven. They turned out en masse, less shy than before, dancing the hula-hula with fervour, Tahitian sailors from the Gauloise swelling the fun. Simeon, a bright native boy who clerks in the store, was the envy of all when we showed him how to run the Victor. This left Jack and me free to mingle with our guests. The captain of the Gauloise was familiar with the operas, and enjoyed the music immensely, murmuring little ex pressions of appreciation in French. But I had to bother him to tell me about pearls in the Paumotus. Then Jack and Captain Warren plied both him and his mate with questions concerning the Paumotan atolls. The weather in their vicinity seems to be a joke in the South Seas, although a serious' one, as the name Dangerous Archipelago would imply. We -have decided not to risk the Snark any1 length 144 THE LOG OF THE SNARK of time among these treacherous coral-rings. One of them, Rangiroa, in one side of the broken circle and out the other, will do for us on our way to Tahiti. During all the merrymaking of an evening like this, Mauani and her old mate, Taituheu ("Burned-out cinders") sit in the living room, proud to show that they are part of our household — quite a change from their original attitude. What is in their minds behind those wide-set eyes as they watch the gambols of the decadent remnants of their purple blood? It is impossible to form any true estimate of what was the moral status of the original Marquesans. The Sailing Direc tions of 1884 give them a black reputation for licentiousness, and warn shipmasters against putting in at these islands. Persons here with whom we have talked say that a widow is grievously insulted if a new admirer fails to appear on the day of her husband's funeral. We are assured that the peo ple have little love and absolutely no gratitude. That polyandry exists, we have evidence; but it is an institution of old standing and high repute. But from Melville one does not get the impression that the Typeans were unusually lax in their social relations, and Stevenson, in 1889-90, gives the Nuka-Hivans a good char acter for modesty, pride and friendliness, as well as endless courteous observances. At any rate, whatever they once were, they are passing ; and those who are left are so altered that one's conclusions are worth little. We asked Mrs. Fisher if she had known Robert Louis Stevenson. She said she had met him at Anaho, on the other side of the island, where the Casco first touched, and she added : "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." Dear Robert Louis! — he was "crazy" because he was sav ing his own good life in his own good way. I w6nder what is the general opinion of Jack and me in our kimonos as we THE LOG OF THE SNARK 145 trail over the landscape bareheaded under a pongee parasol, our bare feet thrust into Japanese sandals. December 15, 1907. Strange Christmas holiday weather this, our first tropic winter. We look forward to eating our Christmas fowl aboard the Snark, provided she hasn't become fatally involved in the Paumotus. They tell us that until very recently the insurance companies refused all risks on vessels in this vicin ity, and now, while they will insure, the rate is twenty per cent. The owners, however, take out no policies. They estimate the life of a schooner in the Paumotus to be five years, and merely write off twenty per cent, a year. I could almost find it in my heart to wish for a week of California climate. The warmth here, while not oppressive, keeps my north temperate cuticle in a ferment of invisible prickly-heat and visible bunches of exasperating hives; and by now the nau-nau bites are becoming more than exasperat ing; and Jack's are worse than mine. But do not think that these trifling annoyances interfere in the least with our plans. Jack asked Mr. Rahling to arrange a goat hunt, and to-day, with two mounted kanakas to carry guns and game, we three started. For the first time our ride took us off to the left of the Typee trail. We saw more of the beach, and, once out of the valley, had an entirely new aspect of the island. Nuka-Hiva is only four teen miles long by ten broad; but every foot of it is worth seeing, from sea-brim to mountain-rim and all the verdant laps of the valleys between. The changes that are wrought in such small space stir one's blood from moment to moment. From dreaming over sweet vales of repose, the eyes, startled by some sudden gloom, rise to the black trouble of stormy peaks where thunder-clouds are rolling. Oh! to have seen the volcanic chaos of the making of this isle of the Southern Sea, with her sister isles lifting their heads round about to keep her company. 146 THE LOG OF THE SNARK Once across Taiohae 's western bastions, we rode through fragrant lanes of yellow cassi at the head of another and smaller valley almost as beautiful, that ended in a wonderful blue bay, bounded by lofty perpendicular rocks to the west, and on the other side by the wild eastern declivity of Taiohae 's wall. I dislike to mention that the name of this lovely anchorage is Port Tschitschagoff, although it will soften your anguish to. know that the natives mercifully call it Hakaui, and, even more gently, Tai-oa. It may further in terest to learn that it took a master mariner born a Krusen- stern to outrage such a heavenly port by a name like Tschitschagoff. The entrance is twenty fathoms deep, with fine sandy bottom, while the azure basin itself is two hundred fathoms in depth and one hundred wide. In it the greatest man-o'- war yet built could anchor in safety from the worst hurri cane that ever blew ; and to careen her on the even, sandy beach, would be child's play. The valley is luxuriant with palm and breadfruit and banana, and well watered by streams; and we startled from cover many a reverted chicken, which swept with strong pinions over the tree-tops on the incline. But not a human being makes home in this ideal spot — and it can be bought for $1000 Chile, less than $500 in American gold. Think of the smothering cities of the world, and this exquisite haven gone to waste. That it was not always thus, is shown by Captain Krusenstern: "Behind the beach was a green flat resembling a most beautiful bowling-green. Streams of water flowed in various places from the mountains, and in a very picturesque and inhabited vale. ... A ship in need of repairs could not wish for a finer harbour for such a purpose. The depth is exceed ingly convenient. Bananas, cocoanuts, and breadfruit, are superabundant. The chief advantage is that you can anchor about 100 fathoms from the land, thus having the king 's house and all the village under the guns of the ship, in case of an attack. ' ' THE LOG OF THE SNARK 147 That was a hundred years ago, and now wild fowl, goats, birds, wasps, and the ubiquitous nau-nau have sole possession. The wasps warned us menacingly off their premises, and we went; but this wasn't a circumstance to what they did to us coming home. But more of that later. Looking back as we climbed into yet another valley, we saw a big boulder that they call the Rocking Stone; but we did not take time to prove whether it really "rocked" or not. The valley in which we did our shooting is a very fast ness of natural disorder, as if the primeval forces had stopped midway in setting it to rights and let grass grow over the wreckage to see what the effect would be. No gradual slopes and placid beaches lead into this goat-scented retreat. It would be a dreadful misfortune to run a ship's nose into its snarling, frothing lip. Tying the horses, we took our rifles and proceeded on foot. I have never done such rough climbing. It took all my wind to accomplish the rocky pulls, and all my confidence to descend their other sides. Once — and for the second time in my life — my nerve deserted me. I had to cross the bare face of a horribly-sloping rock, and midway, in spite of hands reaching close to me, I suddenly saw myself on an icy ,, , incline in Switzerland where once I felt I must cast myself ! '¦[ in the abyss. But I gathered my wits, and before long we were sitting on the knife-edge of a windy ridge, with a world of green hills behind, and the chaotic goat-haunt before us. We kept very still, and breathed our panting lungs full of the flowing air while cooling off from the hot scramble. Then a dotted line strung out far below our toppling perch, and one of the men fired. The dotted line lost a dot, and the rest swerved across the green lawns into the brush, where another dot that had been struck, fell just at the edge. One altruis tic goat came back out of safety to sniff at the fallen one. The two kanakas, with two others who had appeared out of the woods, went back into the hills, and Mr. Rahling, Jack and I worked seaward along the ridge. I found I was hold ing their stride back a little, and begged them to go ahead. 148 THE LOG OF THE SNARK I followed in their tracks, and overtook them down a long sweep of grassy hill after they had killed several goats. We sat a long time at the edge of a chasm, picking off stray victims — virile little billy-goats that wagged their wiry beards in dismay at the invasion of their stronghold. But the distressed cries that rose from the stricken were not sweet in my ears, and I about made up my mind that now I had proved I could bring down distant game, I would leave killing to others in future, and do my practising as be fore, on twigs and grasses and targets. A sudden shower blew up, and we sheltered under the brow of a crag in a small red lava cave, odorous of goat, meanwhile watching rain-squalls drift like brown veils across the stern features of the mountains. While our men were packing the game to the horses, we rode on up the mountain for a further view of Nuka-Hiva. And it was all a piece of the same beauty — the castled rocks, the hills shrugging their round shoulders against the blue mantle of the sky, the unearthly atmosphere and colouring of the little world of island. Is there anything lovelier waiting for us further on in our voyage ? Out of sight from where we stood, is a long slope of country that lacks the rugged character we know so well, and the natives call it the "desert land" — Henua-Ataha. I wish we could visit Anaho, on the northern coast. From what Stevenson and his mother have written, it must be very beautiful, although I cannot imagine anything to surpass Taiohae. I wonder if the discoverers, those "careless cap tains," had the imagination really to be shaken by the beauty of the Marquesas — Mendafia, and Marchand, and In- graham. "There was quite a row going on when we rejoined the others. The horses had seen fit to take fright at the familiar sight of dead goats, and were literally kicking up a rumpus. Jack's diminutive stallion — the one Captain Warren rode to Typee — joined in the fracas. He was looking for trouble. And he got it. When we came to the yellow cassi thicket THE LOG OF THE SNARK 149 the wasps got him, and unfortunately that meant poor Jack as well. He rode in the rear, Mr. Rahling leading, I in between. Jack yelled: "Get out of my way quick!" How could I? The only way was ahead, for the trail was exceedingly narrow, to say nothing of steep and stony. So we got ahead, and I'll never forget the way we "got," dropping down that perilous path to Taiohae. Mr. Rah ling 's horse broke into a headlong scramble as the insects stung him, at the same time kicking my horse, who, stung behind, let the rear horse have it, and caught Jack's foot, while I was nearly pitched off. Jack's horse, frantic with pain and fear, tried to pass me, plentifully urged by his rider, who was holding the side of his face. Aside from one or two stings Mr. Rahling 's horse and mine went free, and we were untouched. Jack was the scapegoat. The wasps were the largest we have ever seen — canary-yellow, with bunches of long yellow legs hanging out behind. Jack says they were as large as canaries. I don't know. I wasn't quite so close to them as that ! Friday, December 20, 1907. We were a lame pair to-day, from the unusual climbing. Then Jack had a painful lump on his neck where a wasp had pierced a cord, and other lesser lumps. The nau-nau bites did not add to our comfort, and we decided that as a place of permanent residence Nuka-Hiva could be improved by exterminating canaries — I mean wasps — and sandflies. There are divers reasons why the Marquesas are not at pres ent entirely desirable for white immigrants. One of these is the high duty on everything one would want to import, and another is the incredible fact that the French govern ment imposes an export duty on copra, which is about the only remunerative article of commerce. This forenoon Jack had his first chance to use his dental instruments. A shrivelled little old Chinaman whom we had often seen about the copra sheds, came shambling up the steps. In a tinny voice and the most birdlike of pigeon- 150 THE LOG OF THE SNARK English he volunteered that he once worked in San Francisco as a cook, and then asked Jack if he would pull a tooth. Jack laid aside his manuscript of an article on Typee, and hunted up the dentistry book to refresh his memory on the experience he had had with a skull in a dentist's office in Honolulu. He then examined the Chinaman's suffering jaw, and selected the requisite forceps. Martin and I in duced him to perform the valiant act behind the house under a banana tree, that we might photograph it. And a curious picture it was, the broad-shouldered white man in Japanese garb, bending over the withered, shrinking Chinaman. The ancient fang came easily; but just as Jack brought it loose and triumphantly held it up, Martin cried : "Oh, Mr. London, please put it back — I wasn't quite ready ! ' ' Shortly afterward, a sensitive-faced Tahitian youth, with big, scared eyes, came on to the porch. He pointed to his mouth and made unmistakable gestures. Jack rolled up his sleeves and went at it again, looking almost as important as when he worked out his first chronometer sight. The vic tim stood it like a man, albeit he quaked and breathed hard with the strain. He seemed very grateful, and went away laughing nervously with the tooth in his hand. While we were talking over the morning's professional doings, a shadow fell upon us. It was cast by Tomi, who had quietly approached and stood regarding us with lugubri ous eyes and crooked mouth. He had had a toothache all night, he said, and only just now had met the jubilant Tahitian. (I have not told the latest about Tomi. Unless he has been maligned, it looks very much as if he is respon- ' sible for the untimely end of two successive wives — which may account for a certain worried look worn by his present consort.) He sat his mighty frame upon a protesting chair and opened his mouth warily, keeping a suspicious eye on Jack as if he might purposely seize upon the wrong tooth. The correct one was laid upon by the shining forceps, but the THE LOG OF THE SNARK 151 instant they began lifting, the giant clapped his jaws to gether and grasped Jack's arm in both hands, emitting the most blood curdling groans. Captain Warren and I took a hand at holding him down, but it was no use — although it was already loosened, Tomi would not allow that tooth to be extracted. He was finally coaxed into having another drawn, which he said had been aching also. "More power to your elbow, Mr. London," giggled Cap tain Warren, as Jack began to pull. This time Tomi did not get away. We held on, and so did the dentist ; and the big hulking fellow went away as aggrieved as if we had enticed him in to rob him of his teeth. "The great baby!" Jack said disgustedly, as he passed the forceps to Nakata to cleanse. "I didn't believe about the wife-killing until I tried to pull his teeth." . . . This afternoon we were in the most typical Mar quesan ha'e we have seen. Strolling about in a final search for curios, we were accosted by an eager young woman who explained brokenly that she would like to show us some kokas. She led to a high-roofed wooden cottage that we had seen many times; but immediately behind, on rising ground and connected with the cottage porch by a plank, was another house, a grass one, not visible from the road. We bent our heads to enter, and emerged into a long room the floor of which was of the broad polished stones of a pae-pae. Against the farther wall, full length, were spread beds of clean native matting, folded and thick-piled just as Herman Melville had them in Typee. Everything was spotlessly clean. Apparently the family that lived in this ha'e took pride in keeping up its traditions. In a dark corner we made out a number of large bowls. The woman dragged them out feverishly, and with the help of Tahia, who had followed in, made us understand that they belonged to her husband, Tomi's brother, and that she could not sell without consulting him. There were other and Jmaller calabashes on the wall, all in good condition. They like their big poi-poi kokas, these people, although not seri- 152 THE LOG OF THE SNARK ously enough to go to the labour of making new ones ; so the well-to-do hang on pretty closely to the ancestral vessels, at least in Taiohae. We were lucky in finding a few persons who were not so well-to-do, and when the results of our hunt were nested on our floor, they totaled sixteen bowls. While Tomi's brother was not anxious, he parted with two or three. On the way home we bought some pareus of gorgeous designs and hues, to use for the double purpose of souvenirs and of packing fragile articles. Our boxes will go to San Francisco by a barkentine that is expected in about three weeks. Before we left the store, Captain Chabret came to bid us good-bye, and then went aboard, for the big mainsail of the Gauloise was already being hoisted. Shortly we noticed the boat returning. The captain hurried to the store, and with the Frenchiest of bows and most gallant com pliments presented "Madame" with a Paumotan pearl — a lustrous oval with a slight crease around the centre as if it had tried to be two pearls. My first Paumotan pearl — and a gift at that. And think — when I showed it to Mrs. Fisher at dinner, she cried: ' ' Why, do you like those things ? Come in here a minute ! ' ' I followed her into a little room where the Madonna sat at a machine stitching hand-plaited bamboo sennit into a hat for Jack. Mrs. Fisher delved into an old wood mosaic case on a mahogany dresser, and at length brought to light a tiny box. In it was a miniature of herself which she asked me to accept, and then she unrolled a wisp of tissue-paper in which lay five pearls — all a good match for the one I had. ' ' You take them, and welcome, ' ' Mrs. Fisher urged. " I 've had them a long time, and my girl takes no stock in them." It did not seem right, somehow, to rob her of her last pearls, but nothing would do but that I take them. "I wish you could see the big ones I used to have in Tahiti," she mused. "But they went the way of everything else. I had to sell them. "See," she went on, turning to the bed. "Here's a hat we 've been making for you. ' ' THE LOG OF THE SNARK 153 It was such a pretty thing — a "sailor" of glossy white bamboo plaiting, and about the crown a hei of pale brown- and-white bird-feathers, soft and fluffy. It is hard to keep even with these kindly folk. The Madonna makes hats to sell, so Jack and I had put in an order for one; but any advantage to her was promptly offset by this gift to me. We asked everybody to a final musicale, and, as before, Simeon squatted on the porch with a bare brown foot on each side the machine and tried not to look too superior as he reeled off disk after disk of opera, hymn, and sea-chantey. The old Corsican reclined in his place under the flaming tree beyond the gate. I wonder if he misses the Tattooed Man. They must have known each other well as rival celeb rities. Did you ever hear about the Tattooed Man of Taiohae? — although it would be hard to pick up a book on the South Seas that does not mention his curious tragedy. He was white, and, as I understand it, fell hopelessly in love with a high chiefess in the neighbouring island of Uapu. To propitiate her, he resorted to the extreme measure of being tattooed — a matter of fine torture and ineradicable conse quences. The tattooing of the Marquesans was the finest in Polynesia, and the suffering from the process so keen that great chiefs have been known to back out before their deco ration was completed. But their incentives must have been less powerful and their nerves less firm than this white man's — he was red-headed, too, they say. He was covered from head to foot with lacy designs, not omitting the fash ionable broad bars across the face. And what was his re ward? The high-born damsel went into violent hysteria at sight of him, frightening her relatives so that they ordered him off the premises. She could never behold him without laughing, and at last, discouraged, he returned to Taiohae, where he died an old man. Tuesday, December 17, 1907. While the music was going on last evening, an attenuated grey figure angled through the festive gathering and whis- 154 THE LOG OF THE SNARK pered to Jack. It was Herr Goeltz ; and great was the sur prise, for no one could remember ever having seen him out after dark. He took Jack away, and I wondered what was up. Jack returned in a little while, accompanied by a na tive, the pair of them bearing two wonderfully carved, full- sized paddles, and a model of an old-time Marquesan war canoe. No one knows exactly where or when the canoe was made, but it is thought to be all of a hundred years old. It is the handsomest thing we have, the hard wood dark with age, and the deep-cut devices on its sides and full figures at each end demonstrate that the Marquesans were wood car vers of no mean talent. Model though it is, the canoe looks almost big enough to use; but while it is several feet in length, it represents the proportions of the exceedingly long war canoes, and its narrow sides would pinch a child. These things were part of the furniture of a little cottage next the store, belonging to an old captain who was absent, and we saw them one day when the Norwegian, who was sleeping there, took us to look at some of the curiosities in the place. The owner came in on the Gauloise and re mained over. Herr Goletz heard that he was feeling con vivial, took a look in and found him in a mellow mood, and then came after Jack, who in some way wheedled the old sailor into selling. So Martin has been hard put to-day to make a case to fit the barbaric battleship ; but it is done now, and stands with five other boxes as big, one way or another. We all worked. Wada came to help Martin, and Jack schemed to stow safely the thirty-five-odd weighty bowls we have gleaned from Nuka-Hiva. As late as this morning, two more came in. While the men did the heavy work, I sat on the floor and carefully wrapped the more delicate articles. On the back porch, his chair placed so he could watch us, old "Burned- out-Cinders" sat muffled in a blanket, for his asthma was .bad — poor old Taituheu, with his perfect Greek face, banded across with the wide bars that were once blue but have now THE LOG OF THE SNARK 155 turned green, as a turquoise turns. And Mauani — the dear old thing hovered about me all day, sometimes passing her slender hands, mittened with their fine tattoo, over the treas ures we were looting from her land; sometimes crooning, vowel-throated, in the "evading syllables" of her tongue, above some carven koka ; and once, going out of the room, she came back with hands full of the flowers I call tuberoses, fastening them, one by one, through my hanging hair and over my ears. Would that I could pack her in a box, too, that she might greet us along with her appropriate furniture when we go home again. It is said that the nether limbs of the late Queen Vaeheku were noted for the most marvellous tattooing in all the Mar quesas. And I imagine our friend Mauani could show some traceries worth studying, if one may judge by her feet and ankles, which are covered with "lace." But she hasn't given me a chance to see any more, either through modesty or mere shyness. It is easy to see she is very proud of her tattooing, nodding her head in appreciation of its excellence when ever one points to it. I notice that she also uses the word "tattoo" in reference to wood-carving, turtle-shell-carving — any sort of ornamental scratching. The only excitements of special moment to-day were the disappearance of a young and exceedingly agile centipede (probably brought into the house with the dry banana-leaves used in padding) into a full packing-case ; and the arrival of the schooner Roberta from Tahiti. She is much larger than the Gauloise, and looks quite a ship alongside the Snark. It is a little world, this! Why, years ago, when Jack was seal-hunting off the coast of Japan on the Sophie Sutherland, the Roberta, then the Herman, was working in the same waters; and Jack used to go "gamming" aboard of her, pleasant evenings on the sealing-grounds. This particular vessel, of all others, is now in the hands of the French Com pany, away down here in the South Seas, and anchored smack alongside Jack's own boat. What next? 156 THE LOG OF THE SNARK December 18, 1907. We hated to get up this our last morning in the Mar quesas. I wish we were going to "Yonder Far" (Hiva-Oa) and others of the group; but Jack is anxious to receive his mail at Tahiti, and we must hurry hence. It is going on three months since we saw home letters or newspapers. We lay in our netted beds, conscious of the sweet-scented air, and looking up the eastern battlement of the bay, with the old fort on tiny "Calaboose Hill" in the foreground, all woven into marvellous tapestry by the straight lines of a heavy tropic shower. The rain turned from diamond to rose-tourmaline and lastly into opal and gold as the sun spilled rainbows into it, and then the downfall stopped as quickly as it had begun, startling us with the sudden cessa tion of bombardment on our iron roof. I heard Jack quot ing: "Tou have heard the beat of the off-shore wind, And the thresh of the deep-sea rain ; You have heard the song — how long? how long? Pull out on the trail again!" I saw his mottled face and hands as he emerged from the mosquito-netting, and felt the burning irritation of my own outraged skin, and was glad, after all, of the prospect of getting to sea once more, away from the wretched nau-naus. Well are they named — not yet-yet, nor then-then, but right- now-now, with past and future all welded into the insistent, existent moment. If Nuka-Hiva never sees us again, it may be put down to the nau-naus. It did not take very long to make the Snark habitable once more. A trip or so of our lifeboat (the launch engine has never worked since the morning we arrived) returned all belongings, and Jack and I went aboard and stowed our personal things. In settling up accounts at the Societe store, Mr. Kreiech left out the item of house-rent, saying that he was only too glad to do this for our entertainment. And he had two men raining cocoanuts all morning from the big palms next the iIIIIIIIMIIiIIIBTt "" - . y'.y Snark at Tahiti j •> **¦ ??m3 *J^W 7^: , .... ¦¦¦-'"': '¦ " : Wtizi&x&h '; _ 'Is^^^MES Double Canoe, Bora-Bora "Porpoises ! THE LOG OF THE SNARK 157 store, and others bringing in oranges and limes, that we might have our favourite drinks all the way to Tahiti. It was hard to bi^ Mrs. Fisher good-bye. There is some thing infinitely lonely about her patient life. Our final sight of her was on her low-eaved veranda, smiling sadly, with that wistful grandchild clinging to her skirts and weeping heart- brokenly at he knew not what. Tide would not serve until about ten in the evening, and there was no need of going aboard early. So we sat on the porch of the empty club-house that once echoed to Robert Louis' voice, and for the last time watched the sun go down behind the twilight crags, in the foreground the fruit of our mango trees and the acacia fronds of the flamboyante sil houetted against a palpitant sky. Tahia came and sat at my feet, laying on my knees an armful of roses and a circlet of white blossoms on my hair; and a Tahitian girl brought more roses and a wondrous hat she had made, even the flower-trimming of which was of glistening white bamboo. We spoke low in the dusky quiet, and from the water heard with a thrill the shadowy Snark heaving her anchor short. Sitting safely in this peaceful land, among the whispering of cocoanut palms and great banana leaves, I felt vaguely averse to embarking again on the unrestful ocean, and visions of the infamous Paumotus would creep in between my eyes and the storied shores of Taiohae. Then I remembered that fear is only a word to us of the Snark — a word without mean ing. And I also remembered the nau-naus. So I was all- too-glad when Jack rose and said it was time to start — adventure leaping afresh in my heart. The going out was lovely as a dream. We slipped along in the smooth dark tide with a fair light wind, while plaintive little night-voices from the hills stirred the stillness. The moon literally burst from an inky cloud at the edge of a cliff, and the misty ridges round about the bay lay like gar lands looped upon the mountainsides. 158 THE LOG OF THE SNARK Our German friends saluted with a shot from . shore, and ' ' Hoist that spanker ! ' ' Captain Warren cried from for ward, while Jack, at the wheel, let go the single stop that held the willing mizzen wing. How different this, from that dark night we entered. Then we could only feel our way; to-night we were lit by moon and stars and snowy reflecting clouds, fans of moon- rays upon the mountains, and growing patches of light upon the water — all the paint and tinsel of night under the South ern Cross. Never was I so happy, I do believe, as on this dazzling night, when the rush and muffled roar of the outside break ers came to our hearing and we felt the Snark taking the first swells. At last I know it — the lure of the sea, the real glamour of it, a thing that can no more be explained than Love, or the beginning and end of the universe. And with the happiness came a sense of homesickness ; but that often comes in my fairest hour of this wild free life that is mine, with its great spaces and flowing wind and rolling waters. To the nestling night-pipings of sea-birds above the break ers, we passed out the sea-gate of Taiohae and lost the "fixed red light" on Calaboose Hill. The spinnaker was set, and blossomed and swelled like a great white petal in the moon light. "The old girl!" Jack said affectionately, giving her a spoke as she foamed ahead in the jewelled flood. ' ' O happy ! Happy ! Happy ! ' ' joyed Nakata, executing a queer little Japanese pirouette, with his hands full of glasses of lemonade. "Good-bye, Typee," we saluted, as we drank and looked back on the capes, showing grey in the moonlight like grim heroic statues of monster mastiffs. The ghostly flowers piled on the bosun's locker sent out unearthly sweetness, and the off-shore wind came laden with breath of cocoanut and cassi. I know I am growing to be THE LOG OF THE SNARK 159 like the man who so loved the tropics that he feared his blood was purple. Good-bye, Typee, and incredible Nuka-Hiva, the first fairy port of our southern dreams. And low lie the atolls before us, and that mystic lagoon of tinted coral and rainbow life. At sea, Marquesas to Society Islands, Thursday, December 19, 1907. This has been one of our ideal days at sea, after a restful night during which the Snark logged sixty knots. It is good once more to feel the ocean crooking its sleek back under our iron keel. As yet there are no warnings of Paumotan vicissi tudes, although Herrmann has been looking for a change, and talked so much about it that the captain told him testily not to count his squalls before they were hatched. The wind is fair, the waves most comfortable, and a spirit of indus trious prosperity pervades the yacht. While Jack and I read our astronomy, the deck is being gone over with clean sand from Taiohae beach, and painted stanchions under the rail scraped and oiled to show the natural oak. Chickens in a coop for 'ard keep up a queru lous clatter, and the captain and Herrmann have inter minable discussions concerning obvious trifles. It seems to me from my slight experience with sailors, that their minds are very immature. They become utterly absorbed in harangues about unimportant details that could be disposed of in two sentences by the average adult. These differences between Captain Warren and Herrmann afford us much secret amusement. The skipper is irascible, Herrmann ob stinate ; and when they have parted in the wrath and despair of continued misunderstanding (the captain muttering ' ' The bally squarehead!") Herrmann can be heard complaining (while the lady on his arm oscillates sympathetically), "The captain is of too excited. He gets as too excited already." We used up our last daylight by reading from Conrad's 160 THE LOG OF THE SNARK The End of the Tether, Jack with the book, while the rest of us lay or sat around the cockpit watching the burning of a golden city on the sunset horizon, beyond the rose and amethyst swell of the sea. Monday, December 23, 1907. Before I proceed further, here is a quotation from Robert Louis Stevenson's In the South Seas, as an earnest of what one may expect in this region of lagoons: "... the atoll ; a thing of problematic origin and history, the reputed creature of an insect apparently unidentified; rudely annular in shape; enclosing a lagoon; rarely extend ing beyond a quarter of a mile at its chief width ; often rising at its highest point to less than the stature of a man — man himself, the rat and the land crab, its chief inhabitants ; not more variously supplied with plants ; and offering to the eye, even when perfect, only a ring of glittering beach and ver dant foliage, enclosing and enclosed by the blue sea. "In no quarter are the atolls so thickly congregated, in none are they so varied in size from the greatest to the least, and in none is navigation so beset with perils, as in that archipelago that we were now to thread. The huge system of the trades is, for some reason, quite confounded by this multiplicity of reefs ; the wind intermits, squalls are frequent from the west and southwest, hurricanes are known. The currents are, besides, inextricably intermixed; dead reckon ing becomes a farce; the charts are not to be trusted; and such is the number and similarity of these islands that, even when you have picked one up, you may be none the wiser. The reputation of the place is consequently infamous; in surance officers exclude it from their field, and it was not without misgiving that my captain risked the Casco in such waters. I believe, indeed, it is almost understood that yachts are to avoid this baffling archipelago ; and it required all my instances — and all Mr. Otis's (the captain) private taste for adventure — to deflect our course across its midst. "For a few days we sailed with a steady trade, and a THE LOG OF THE SNARK 161 steady westerly current setting us to leeward; and toward sundown of the 7th it was supposed we should have sighted Takaroa, one of Cook's so-called King George Islands. The sun sets; yet a while longer the old moon — semi-brilliant herself, and with a silver belly, which was her successor — sailed among gathering clouds ; she, too, deserted us ; stars of every degree of sheen, and clouds of every variety of form disputed the sub-lustrous night; and still we gazed in vain for Takaroa. The mate stood on the bowsprit, his grey figure slashing up and down against the stars. ... At length the mate himself despaired, scrambled on board again . . . and announced that we had missed our destination. He was the only man of practice in these waters, our sole pilot, shipped for that end at Taiohae. If he declared we had missed Takaroa, it was not for us to quarrel with the fact, and, if we could, to explain it. We had certainly run down our southing. Our canted wake upon the sea and our . . . course upon the chart both testified with no less certainty to an impetuous westward current. We had no choice but to conclude we were again set down to lee ward . . ." They sighted an island in the morning, not the one they were looking for, but Tikei, "one of Roggewein's so-called Pernicious Islands." This seemed entirely out of the question, and "at that rate, instead of drifting to the west, we must have fetched up thirty miles to windward. And how about the current? It had been setting us down, by observation all these days : by the deflection of our wake, it should be setting us down that moment. When had it stopped? When had it begun? And what kind of torrent was that which had swept us eastward in the interval ? To these questions, so typical of navigation in that range of isles, I have no answer. Such were at least our facts ; Tikei our island turned out to be ; and it was our first experience of the dangerous archipelago, to make our landfall thirty miles out." Mine are the italics. And ours is the expected. On 162 THE LOG OF THE SNARK Friday it began to squall and continued off and on all day, with a lively blow once during the night. We were obliged to work sweltering in our staterooms with skylights screwed down. In a lull toward evening, Jack was lying on the life-boat cover, reading, when the main-boom jibed over, the sheet catching his head and giving it a wrench that luckily did not break his neck. He is still lame in neck and shoul ders. That night, when the drowning moon struggled out of the watery vapours astern, there appeared before us a per fect lunar rainbow, the first Jack and I have ever seen. It only differed from a sun-bow in its subdued tones. Next, a flying-fish came right down into the cabin, looking like an offshoot of the rainbow. Oh, it is classic Paumotan weather! Saturday the fair wind broke off, and it blew from the southwest, with a big swell, and we had no rest for rolling. The captain took off the jib toward evening, and at midnight, in a nasty squall, lowered the mizzen. We have been averaging over a hun dred knots daily, and on Sunday night, in a tremendous black thunder-squall that spit forked fire, we drove through the water at ten knots. We sighted a bark that afternoon, miles ahead, going the same way with the Snark, but soon lost her. No chronometer nor latitude sights have been possible for two days, and we are wondering how near we shall find our selves to Rangiroa to-morrow, when we should be picking it up. To-day has been squally and overcast. At 9 a. m., we should have been abreast of the small atoll Ahii to the southwest, but were unable to pick it up. Heavy squall at noon — so heavy that the rain drove through raincoats, and even got below in spite of us. Followed a dead lull, in which the galley-stove smoked for want of draught. Next the wind slapped out of the north for a change. In the afternoon there was a much stiffer blow that kept on so steadily that the captain thought it might be the beginning of a gale, although the glass was normal. Never did I see such a downfall of water. The flat-beaten sea smoked with THE LOG OF THE SNARK 163 its violence, and every line of rain left a white streak on the grey water. We ate our fried fowl and taro in the cabin, without re moving our seaboots, and solaced the muggy hours of work below with many drinks of cocoanut water and orange juice. Nakata was laid up with a headache in the afternoon — the first time we have ever seen him indisposed — and when he awoke after an hour's nap, we had great sport trying to convince him that he had slept the clock around. Off the Dangerous Archipelago, Tuesday, December 24, 1907. At half past four I came on deck in the wan moonlight. Jack was forward, on watch for Rangiroa. It was an anxious time, for these elusive atolls are but a few feet high, and Rangiroa being sixty miles long, we might, with light wind and strong current, drift too close. We thought of Takaroa, not far away, where the wreck of the British ship County of Roxburgh still holds to the reef. I notice in the Sailing Directions that when Le Maire and Sehouten discovered Rangiroa in 1616, they were actually driven from the lagoon by "small black flies" — the nau-naus, of course. They named the atoll Fly (Vliegen) Island. As no one now mentions these sandflies as a feature of Rangiroa, we must conclude they were all blown off to Nuka-Hiva ! Every one will agree that I started this day wrong. In the first place, I rose too early, thereby losing sleep; and when I went below to wash for breakfast, I took down the wrong bottle, deluged my toothbrush with strong ammonia, and somehow missed the warning fumes until I started brush ing my teeth with the fiery stuff. All morning the captain tried to get a chronometer sight, but the sun gave him no chance. A little after nine the sky lifted to the southeast and we saw a line of cocoanut palms. "Pincushion," observed Nakata; and at that distance they did look for all the world like pins. 164 THE LOG OF THE SNARK But. what island could it be ? It did not seem to tally with the description of Rangiroa — there wasn't enough of it. Captain Warren made up his mind that an easterly current had swept us so far east that these trees were on the next atoll eastward of Rangiroa. So he altered the course to about southwest to pick up Rangiroa. He was rewarded a little later by another pin-cushion just where he wanted his island to be, and great was the general relief. It was a marvellous thing to see that atoll rise from the sea as we approached, and from moment to moment develop in intensity like a plate in the dark-room. The feathered palms were stepped in a strand of pale-pink sand, against which combed a surf of every vivid shade of blue and green. It burst high and white against the rosy barrier, for there was a considerable swell and what Jack insisted was a westerly current, in spite of Captain Warren's contention. Still, we were almost convinced it was Rangiroa, and it re mained only for us to find Avatoru, the northwest passage indicated on the chart, con our way in, and anchor in the still, sunny waters of the fairy lagoon with its harlequin fishes. It seemed as if the sun shone only within that charmed circle. The captain himself climbed to the masthead and presently called down that he saw the entrance. Fifteen minutes later he descended with sour and anxious countenance. His en trance was after all only a low part of the reef, with the surf breaching clear across. Again we sheered off and followed along that puzzling island. And the more we scrutinised, the less it tallied with the Sailing Directions and the chart. The captain fumed and fussed, but held to his opinion that it was Rangiroa. Then something showed on the edge of the reef that looked like the wreck of a ship, and we wondered if it could be the County of Roxburgh, and that we had inexplicably happened upon Takaroa. Coming closer, we saw only some blackened boulders of coral. Jack began to look about with purpose. Day was wearing, THE LOG OF THE SNARK 165 weather threatening, and something had to be done. He found that we were now due west of the island, and since we had skirted the entire northwest coast and found no passage, it could not be Rangiroa, which has two well-defined northern entrances. Therefore he reasoned that the land we had sighted in the morning to the southeast was Rangiroa, and this atoll we had coasted all day must be Tikahau, the next island northwest of Rangiroa. Jack himself got two after noon sights, and askecT "the" captain to work them up ; but the man seemed to have gone completely to pieces, and would not even make an attempt. So Jack did it, charted a Sumner Line, and confirmed his opinion of our whereabouts; but Captain Warren refused to accept his conclusions. He simply would not admit that he had gone thirty miles wrong, even if Stevenson's captain and a special pilot, with days of successful sight-taking behind them, as well as countless other skippers, had been quite as unavoidably unfortunate. Also, he clung to that eastern current of his, although all signs pointed to the contrary. We now steered north, for the sky was stormy and wind shifty, and it would not do to spend the night too near that reef. Jack said he thought he would go "butting around for a day or two" and find Rangiroa in spite of torrential tides and other adverse elements. But no one was enthusiastic, and he went below and studied the chart some more. When he came up, he walked aft to where the rest of us were sitting, looked back thoughtfully at the receding "pin-cushion," and said brightly : "Well, Captain Warren, shall we put about for Tahiti?" —and to me, "What do you say, Mate?" Everybody cheered, even I, for I was as tired as any one, hunting for needles — or pins — in this aqueous haystack, in such criminal weather. So the course was laid to pass between Tikahau and a little island to the northwest of it, Matahiva, and peace descended upon the Snark. Next time Jack came on deck he made all hands a Christmas present — all but me. We had nothing for 166 THE LOG OF THE SNARK each other but each other ; and, besides, we make our gifts at any and all times, instead of upon conventional occasions. Jack had been suffering from an increasing headache, and before supper it sent him blind to his bunk. . . . And now, standing up and writing on my high bunk, I wonder if woman ever before spent exactly such a Christmas Eve. I have soothed my sick Mate to sleep, and feel very much alone, for the thunder and lightning are terrific, the water rough, the wind roaring — and the white-speck boat only forty-five feet long. The captain is on deck and so are the men, including the cook, for squalls are stiff and frequent and there cannot be too many nor too keen eyes to keep a lookout in a night and place like this, nor too many handa to obey orders. Just now a heavy blow shook the bows. I was certain we had struck, for never had a wave dealt such a shock to the Snark. I rushed on deck, blinded by the blue sheets of lightning, and somehow managed to reach the cockpit where Captain Warren was sitting as calmly as if nothing had hap pened. No, he had neither felt nor heard anything. It made me appear rather foolish, and I crept below again. I am reminded of the dry and comforting lines : "The heavens roll above me ; and the sea Swallows and licks its wet lips over me." Christmas Day, 1907. And it's "Merry Christmas" from stem to stern this day. The sun came up at the proper hour for a sun to rise, the natural phenomenon of the southeast trade set in, and there is a general aspect of restored poise in the universe, except that now, southwest of Rangiroa, the fickle Paumotan tide is running east ! Well did Charles Warren Stoddard observe : "If you would have adventure, the real article and plenty of it, make your will, bid farewell to home and friends, and embark for the Paumotus. ' ' When I opened my door this morning, Nakata, head cocked THE LOG OF THE SNARK 167 on one side like a bird, contemplated me with that elfish sweetness of his, and, after giving me full and respectful time to spring my "Merry Christmas," himself proffered a timid "Missis-n — Merry Christmas!" Wada, wide of smile in the galley doorway, repeated the greeting. I went on deck determined not to be caught again, and nailed Martin and Herrmann ; but Jack and the captain spied me from the cockpit while I was busy with the first pair, and shouted in unison. Poor Jack encountered hard luck again this morning — and fortunately a hard head. At four, his headache slept off, he was coming up to take his watch, when Herrmann, not seeing him in the darkness, jammed down the heavy teak compan- ionway covers and caught him squarely on the crown. It will never do for me, a sailor, not to be superstitious enough to wonder what Jack's third accident will be. He is having a holiday, however, and it will do him good. But he joined the captain in taking chronometer sights, both men working them out with assumed latitudes, and differing only a mile in their results. These proved Jack's correctness the day be fore, and the captain said Jack's observations this morning were perfect. A good noon observation dispelled all uncer tainty about our position, and we should sight Tahiti day after to-morrow. It is very fascinating, this finding one's position on the world of waters, and I often wish I had time to study the science of it. I'd rather see my husband navi-| gate and sail his boat than write the greatest book ever writ-V ten. It is living life, whereas writing is but recording life,' for the most part. Jack himself always insists that he wishes he had been a prizefighter! All day the sunshine has scorched down from a broken sky, and I cannot express the comfort it spread throughout the little ship. Everything moulds so quickly when the sky is over-cast, and rainy days have made cabin and staterooms stale and unwholesome. It is hard enough to keep even with must and rust in good weather. I was caught on deck by rain the second night out from Taiohae, and my blankets 168 THE LOG OF THE SNARK sadly needed drying. The skylights have been raised straight up, and drawers and lockers below opened wide to sun and air. The men have been tired and sleepy, after a wakeful night of squalls. In one especially ugly one, the mainsheet parted, worn by unpreventable friction in calms north of the Line when the boom slatted back and forth in defiance of tackles. Wada's Christmas dinner was a brilliant success. There was tinned soup, followed by shrimp fritters, roast chicken, fried taro, tinned corn, salad of tinned French beans and mayonnaise ; and for dessert a luscious dish of sliced oranges and bananas grated over with fresh cocoanut. Martin and the captain contributed a quart of champagne they had brought from Taiohae to surprise us. Nakata emerged on deck about two o'clock, looking well- filled and contented, having banqueted on roast brown chicken and plump white kernels of rice. He walked to the fringe of bananas swinging above the port rail, contemplated it desirefully, selected two large ones, and went forward to eat them at leisure. Jack offered a dollar if he would eat twenty bananas in the space of half an hour. Nakata could not see why Jack wanted to lose money, but wasted no time in helping him do so. He took a half-dozen bananas, squatted on the deck, and began to assimilate them in judicious, well-masti cated mouthfuls. The six disappeared, Nakata stood up and shook himself, took a further half-dozen from Jack, looked critically at their size, then at the fringe and back to Jack, and requested that he be allowed to select his own fruit. But Jack held him to that already picked, so he peeled the seventh and began on it, his eyes passing from one to another of us with calm, unblinking, Asiatic certitude. By the ninth he was sitting again, leaning against the rail and gurgling an occasional "0 my!" or imploring smaller fruit, his eye no less calm, but wandering more frequently to the clock. Once in a while he would break off to laugh at himself, and lay a caressing hand upon his distended pod. "Allee same chicken-crop," he giggled stuffily. THE LOG OF THE SNARK 169 By the eleventh banana his laugh was very wheezy and his eye less certain. He gazed long at the twelfth before tackling it, and half-way through rose stiffly and carefully and threw the remaining half overboard, declaring with amiable finality, "No can!" He explained in pantomime that he was like a cup into which he had been trying to force the contents of two cups, and no raising of stakes and lengthening of time, even to twenty dollars and another half-hour, could tempt him. He leaned painfully over, picked up the re maining eight bananas and ranged them across his body to show, by comparing them with his stomach, how unreasonable we were. As he went down the companionway, he flashed back at us one of his inextinguishable grins. "He et so much as it can be," Herrmann commented, with his jocund smile. Our way is now clear except for two islands. One of these, Makatea, lying in latitude 15° 48' South, longitude 148° 13' West, we should sight late to-day. It is an uplifted atoll two hundred and fifty feet high, revealing its coral formation distinctly and having an encircling reef of coral in turn, but no entrance for large vessels. It would be interesting to visit, for there is something alluring about the idea of such an isolated isle, inhabited by a few Polynesians. Visible for twenty miles, there is no danger of our running upon it unawares. The second island, Tetuaroa — or group of islets enclosed in a reef thirty miles in circuit — is farther on. Thus, we have almost sunk the mysterious Danger ous Archipelago. While it means relief to have run around behind such weather, one can but regret not having entered just one coral sea-girt ring — not to have bartered for one "pale sea-tear," one pearl just risen from its coral bed. Their very names make one long to know them — these thou sand miles of rosy coral wreaths flung northwest to southeast across the blue Pacific, with Pitcairn, high Pitcairn of Bounty fame, geographically if not geologically belonging to the 170 THE LOG OF THE SNARK group, bringing up the southernmost end. Are they not enticing, these names ? Listen — Mangareva, Oeno, Mururea, Ahunui, Vahitahi, Negno-Nengo — and Fakarava, where Stevenson sailed in. And the people of varied origin that live under the cocoa- nut palms and fish for pearls in the lovely lagoons — think of seeing those wonderful native divers. It is said the natives are very hospitable, most of them resembling the Tahitians, although formerly of a more warlike character than the Tahitians ever were, so that King Pomare I of Tahiti had his body-guard chosen from among them. But Jack comes to me and says that many are the pearl atolls ahead of us in the southern seas, on to the west, and that my lap shall be filled with pearls if I will only wait ! Off Tahiti, i Thursday, December 26, 1907. Makatea was passed in the night, but no one saw it, as there were squalls all around. We glimpsed Tetuaroa this morning. At ten we were about forty miles off Tahiti, and the captain will sail until he picks up Point Venus, the northernmost jut of the island, then hold back and forth all night and at daylight make for the Papeete entrance through Tahiti's coral cincture. Point Venus, according to our Sail ing Directory, is the most important geographical site in the Pacific, as it has been the point most accurately determined, or at least has had more observations made from it than any other point. In 1769 Captain Cook, on his first expedition, went here in company with Green, the astronomer, to observe the transit of Venus. If I had a son, and he looked through this old South Pacific Ocean Directory, and then did not want to run away to sea, I should disown him! Such un believable romance is spilled through these pages of bare facts, such exploits of such brave gentlemen and gallant com manders ! English, French, Dutch, and what not — theirs are names to conjure with, and we run upon them everywhere : THE LOG OF THE SNARK 171 Captain Cook, Mendana, Roggewein, Bougainville, Ingra- ham, Quiros, Bligh, Boenecheo, Wallis, Marchand, Schouten, Cartaret, and so on down the blazing line of men who went fearlessly to sea in all sorts of queer craft and drew charts on this vast sheet of water. I wonder that any one ever grows old in this storied region, this purple desert of the ocean, littered with ' ' fragments of Paradise. " As it is, people age leisurely. Atrophy is stayed by the atmosphere, physical and mental, of Polynesia. That they do die some time or other we know, from the plaintive Tahitian proverb : "The coral increases, the palm grows, but man departs." "We have lived a little, you and I, Mate-Woman," Jack said this morning, as we took our book under an awning out of the glare. We had been talking over our travel experi ences and the people we had met, from Cuba to Molokai, from Paris to the Masquesas. A vivid life it is, and we hold it and cherish it, every minute, every hour of to-day, and yes terday, and the fair thought of days that are coming. . . . You should see Herrmann this afternoon. Probably taking note of a camera on deck, he disappeared below for a quarter of an hour. Then he came up, all in white sailor ducks, the broad collar flaring back from his powerful neck, long time free from any restraint of "high-heeled collars" as he innocently calls them. He was exceedingly debonaire in a jaunty white hat, on his face the frankest possible smirk of satisfaction and expectancy of admiration. He had shaved a three-weeks' stubble, and the smirk was a whimsical ghost of Mona Lisa's smile, lurking half -abashed behind the mandarin-droop of a yellow moustache. He has been irrepressibly talkative all day, has Herrmann, and the captain correspondingly glum. "The fool Dutch man," he growled, reminiscent of Herrmann's enthusiastic efforts at being clerk of the weather in the Paumotus. His moroseness passed lightly above the sailor's guileless head, •however, for presently, bending over a piece of canvas with the statement that he was not so quick mit the needle as he 172 THE LOG OF THE SNARK was more time before yet, Herrmann went on to tell of his last experience in an American ship, where, contrary to the usual custom on vessels from our country, the men were poorly fed. Their fare, he said, was but six slices daily of unrisen bread, with rusty, weevily pea-soup five times a week. The captain wanted to make him bo's'n, but Herrmann would not accept the promotion. ' ' I cannot as drive the men of the way I must ought," he lucidly explained to us. "I cannot of swear a more o' many than dom, and like o' that, when I am as very mad. ' ' Then he recounted how one day a seventeen-year-old boy fell overboard, and the captain did not tarn his head until one of the officers rushed past to the wheel. "Then the cap'n called him back, and came along side the rail up, and nevermore did I as hear such a lan guage as he of used. The youngster boy he vas as trying save himself mit the log-line, and like o ' that, and the cap 'n swearing at him of to let go. And that youngster boy he let go. But that was not any never mind to the cap'n. It vas awful to see that boy as of left behind. . . . No, I can not as drive the men. I cannot as swear yet as like that al ready. ' ' According to Herrmann, his association with the Snark' s company has wrought great improvement in his English. "I have of learning more English as every day," he beams repeatedly (he is always afraid he will not be heard) ; but I vow he isn't learning it from me ! His ambition is to own a farm in America. "It is the only country of what I like," he avers. . . . The day had been sticky hot. Sky and water have vied in outshining each other and have met in a brassy glare. My head has ached, but my fuzzy utterance concerning it, produced by the ammonia ravages inside my mouth, has caused more mirth than becoming sympathy. The bulk of Tahiti is plainly to be seen, but its eight thousand feet of volcanic upheaval is lost in leaden billows of cloud. Jack and Martin are laying plans for getting to work on engine repairing as soon as may be after arrival. THE LOG OF THE SNARK 173 The captain pores charts, and, as twilight comes on, sweeps the nearing coast for the Point Venus Light, supposed to be visible at fifteen miles. The captain was in Papeete some twenty-five years ago in a training-ship, but remembers little about its approaches. What are our dear ones at home thinking, all these weeks without report of the Snark? We had written before leav ing Hawaii that we should not be more than three weeks going to the Marquesas — and we were over eight. There is no cable from Tahiti. There never was one, in spite of a cer tain English writer to the contrary. The first word we can send will be by the old steamer Mariposa, which Captain Chabret told us would leave Papeete on January 13, making a twelve days' voyage to San Francisco; and on this steamer will go all the mail we sent from Taiohae by the Gauloise. The Mariposa should be in Tahiti on the 9th, and we can hardly wait to get our hands on our letters. Again must I break into the Log, briefly to narrate months passed in Tahiti, a land which, although surpassingly beau tiful from craggy mountain head to smoking surf, is very much on the "tourist route," and very much exploited in book and steamship circular. No one who has entered the harbour of Papeete, "Paris of the Pacific," is ever likely to forget the emotional impact of it. Outside the coral barrier, one sees to the south the smoke of reefs, rising, drifting over the rainbow-coloured channel between Tahiti and pinnacled Moorea, lying to the west; then follows the exciting fight through the swift out ward current of the narrow reef-entrance into the harbour, with the wicked waters leaping, hissing, reaching, snapping, from the treacherous coral on either hand. Once safely in side and past the reefy wooded islet in the middle of the harbour, Motu-uta, the calm of the haven is like peace of prayer after deliverance from peril, and you lift your eyes to green palmy hills, on to the abrupt heights of solemn Oro- 174 THE LOG OF THE SNARK hena, Aorai, Piti-Hiti, and other stern mountain heads — The Diadem, a thorny tiara of spiked peaks, like the Dent du Midi of Switzerland. And then the town: never was anything sweeter to look upon than this garden spot of flowers and vines and trees of deepest green, the quaint French roofs peeping here and there from among the flamboyante and fau and mango foli age. The Quai de Commerce, Papeete's main thoroughfare, runs along the in-curving water front, embowered in mag nificent flamboyante trees, with houses and shops on the shore-side only, while the seaward outlook of the broad ave nue is unobstructed save for gnarled tree-trunks, and little white schooners and sloops backed up in deep water right to the sheer margin of the street, their graceful bows facing out toward the barrier reef. Near the southern end of the crescent, a high white church, red-roofed, is reflected upon the glassy water in shore, and other buildings, long and white and many-win dowed, are duplicated as clearly — like a fleeting glimpse of a Swiss city on a lake. Along the street occasional slow forms in long gowns of white or pink, red or blue, move to and fro, or a duck-suited Tahitian, going just fast enough to keep from falling, wheels on a bicycle. To north and south of the harbour lie idyllic points of low white beach, crowded with laden cocoanut palms; and as you gaze at them and between their pillared trunks to the intensely blue water of other bays beyond, over the whole lovely picture comes a change that is all in your own brain. In place of the houses of the French and their half-castes, you behold golden brown grass huts of the early Tahitians, scattered under trees that are not flamboyante trees. Moored in sheltered places, or drawn up on the beach, you see scores of enormous war canoes, perhaps the mighty fleet of nearly two thousand that was here in Cook's day. There are no streets, only haphazard pleasure-lanes among the pandanus-thatched dwellings; and no steamer-wharf and THE LOG OF THE SNARK 175 long unsightly sheds of commerce mar the perfect sweep of shore-rim. Under the palms pace stately figures of men and women, and a warm trade-wind rustles the great fronds above them. Then you fancy a commotion in the happy village, and, following the stretched arms of the natives, turn to greet a wonderful sight — two painted galleons, questing along the outer edge of the barrier reef. They spy the passage and alter their course — fair vision of strangely fashioned hulls and gleaming canvas, as a favouring zephyr swells the fan tastic sails. Perhaps it is morning, or maybe flush of sun set; or, again, it is the brazen noon that strikes upon land and sea. It does not matter — each phase of the day is more beautiful than another. In the carven bows stand two Spanish adventurers, Luis Valdez de Torres and Pedro Fernandez de Quiros. Three hundred years ago, first of European voyageurs, they raised Tahiti ; and secretly from all the world but Spain they car ried home the name they gave to their discovery, La Sagit- taria. So well did Spain guard her knowledge that when, more than a century and a half later, Captain Wallis came upon Tahiti in the Dolphin, he did not dream but what he was the first white man to set foot upon King George Island, as he christened it, in honour of George III who had equipped the expedition. A year later came Bougainville — 1768 — and called the land Nouvelle Cythere. In 1769, the ubiquitous Captain Cook dropped in. Don Domingo Bonecheo hap pened along in 1772, and changed La Sagittaria of Quiros and de Torres to Tagiti. And on his last voyage, Cook, with Furneaux, made his third visit to Papeete Har bor, August, 1777. Eleven years later the Bounty ar rived in Matavai Bay, on the other side, commissioned by George III to transport breadfruit trees to British West Indies. Captain Edwards, in search of the Bounty and her mutineers, reached Tahiti in March of 1791, and Vancouver saw the island in the same year. The London Missionary Sdciety sent out the Duff to carry missionaries and Bibles to 176 THE LOG OF THE SNARK this group and anchored at Tahiti on the fitting day of Sun day, March 5, 1797. Truly, we are late in this part of the world. Everything is altered, except the up-thrusting spires of the amazing mountains; so it is good once in a while to give rein to the imagination and restore as best one may the unspoiled paradise of past centuries. After standing off all night in the squalls, keeping Point Venus light in our eye, in a gorgeous sunrise Captain War ren steered for the entrance through a breaking reef, while the ship was made trig and trim and I added a duck skirt to my costume. Everything seemed in our favour as we dipped and slid in a pleasant sea toward the narrow channel. We had no cause for- misgiving, and could devote ourselves to enjoying the beautiful picture of the island. Alas — the breeze dropped us very near the entrance, and in a dangerous position, for even so chunky and sturdy a hull as ours could never survive a pounding on this iron coral. So it was up with signals, and promptly our friend Captain Chabret responded, coming out in a launch; and promptly broke down as soon as he had made fast to our side. Anxiety? Try it once — a small vessel like ours, drifting straight toward a toothed ledge of adamant roaring with bursting seas, her sails slatting uselessly with each lurch, and an impotent tug bobbing alongside. It was not the tug that pulled us through, but the good old much abused wind, which picked us up at exactly the right point in our game of chance. And we made as pretty an arrival at Papeete as Jack's yachtsman heart could desire, beating lightly across the harbour, the yacht like a graceful skater on ice, her white sails filling now to this side, now to that, as Jack steered, his bright face all alive with achieve ment and pride in his dear little tub! "The old girl!" I heard him laugh. The American cruiser Annapolis was in port from Tutu- ila, Samoa, and Captain Warren fairly strutted when she dipped her flag. THE LOG OF THE SNARK 177 The port doctor, M. DuBruelle, came out and assured him self of our excellent health. He seemed especially inter ested in knowing if we had any live rats aboard, and we learned that the plague scare in San Francisco had not abated. Before the port doctor 's boat left, another came skimming out, this time a tiny familiar outrigger, paddled by a native and carrying a blood-red flag. Standing in the canoe was a startlingly Biblical figure — a tall, tawny blond man with russet gold beard and long hair, and great blue eyes as earnest as a child's or a seer's. His only garmenture was a sleeveless shirt of large-meshed fish-net and a loin cloth of red. We were fairly spell-bound by the striking vision, and still more mystified when it broke the silence with a matter- of-fact friendly "Hello, Jack!" and "Hello, Charmian!" Then Jack recognised him — "The Nature Man," Ernest Darling, whom he had met in California some years before, and greeted him cordially. "But what's the red flag for, Darling?" Jack wanted to know. "Why, Socialism, of course," he answered simply. "Oh, I know that," Jack said, "but what are you doing with it?" "Delivering the message," Ernest Darling declaimed, with a sweeping gesture of both tawny arms toward Papeete. ' ' To Tahiti ? ' ' Jack asked incredulously. "Sure." And the Nature Man clambered aboard, shook our hands, and gazed into our faces with his sweet, mystical, unsmiling eyes, and then became suddenly and utterly ab sorbed in unpacking a little basket, setting on the cockpit seat a small jar of clear white honey, two bursting-ripe man goes, a tiny jar of heavy cocoanut cream, and two small, perfectly ripe alligator pears, which latter Jack hailed with a hungry smack. He is a picturesque creature, this Nature Man, and good, good clear through. Of course he is a little mad — patently 178 THE LOG OF THE SNARK because he lives differently from the generality of people; as Robert Louis Stevenson was a little mad in that he chose to walk barefoot ; as I must also be mad, on that same score. In spite of his interest to us, however, Jack and I had the same thought about Darling — one look between us told it all — that he would be a disturber of our coveted solitude ashore, and that, as sure as doom, he would proselyte unceasingly in the sacred cause of nakedness, diet — or lack of it — cocoanut hair-oil, fish-net shirts in winter, and so on. . . . How could we dream of his delicacy, that kept him from intruding until, weeks later, we sent for him; nor his devotion in illness, nor his generosity with all he possessed? "Any old place I can hang my hat Is home, sweet home, to me," one tramp sang; but with this glowing young tramp of mine, this peripatetic Jack London, any old place he can hang his writing elbow on any old table, is good enough for him. He is a wonder to me. My first responsibility in any new place is to find or devise a table for his work ; and there have been some queer ones. No matter how alluring the situation, how novel, how exciting, at nine of the clock down he sits, pep pers the plane before him with little note-pads, some already scribbled, some blank, squares his manuscript tablet — or diagonals it, rather, for that elbow rests well on the table — selects an ink-pencil from the half dozen that Nakata keeps filled, reads over the previous day's thousand words — usually aloud to me — and then, with a little swooping bob that seems to shake him free of all external bother, and a busy, wise little smile, he settles for two hours of creation — of bread and butter, he will have it. Sometimes he looks up, with a big smile in his eyes, and says to me : "Funny way to make a living, isn't it, Mate-Woman?" And I often wonder how many men can do it — carry their business around with them, and attend to it strictly, day after day, at stated hours, living romance and creating ro- Off for Tahaa with Tehei Pahia, Bora-Bora THE LOG OF THE SNARK 179 mance at the same time. Now I can spill my thoughts over many pages at the end of the most thrilling day ; but to re strain oneself to certain hours is another matter. Also, Jack practically never writes of experiences while he is in the thick of them. He waits ; he gains perspective and atmosphere j \f through time. He is the artist, the painter; I am mere photographer — with colour plates, true, at times, but still a photographer. In Lavaina's famous hotel I left the artist to his painting, and went house hunting. I found a cottage embowered in roses and tiare and blumeria, shady with breadfruit and palm, and drowsy with honey bees. The ground sloped greenly up at the back to a mossy high wall over which drifted choral voices of men and boys in a Catholic school. The cottage was let to us by our good friend Alexandre Drollet, government interpreter. It was ours for three months, during which we made a month's round-trip to San Francisco on the steamer Mariposa, leaving the Snark engines to be repaired — for the third time. The history of these Papeete repairs is largely one of graft, in which our captain shared bountifully. We should have let him go, but for one thing. We had learned, from him, be it said to his credit, of his having served seven years of a life sentence for murder. He had been pardoned, and we, to give him this chance to rehabilitate himself, kept him on despite his known crookedness to us. We worked very hard in Tahiti — we had to work hard to keep even with the graft. Jack knew it long before he told me; but his way is always to let people hang themselves in their own way. Perhaps it is a good method by which to learn one's essential human relationships. Although we enjoy work and the opportunity to work, 1 am not sure it is the best thing for us under this ardent sun. Our friend Dr. E. S. Goodhue, in Hawaii, warned us repeatedly that we were living too strenuously in an ener- 180 THE LOG OF THE SNARK vating climate. I am tired beyond all apparent reason, much of the time. But be this as it may, one thing is certain, as Jack says — we shall never rust, in this or any other latitude. The custom among the French in Tahiti requires a visitor to make the initial call. Since we did not learn this until near the end of our three__months, and since we are ever poor callers, we were practically uninterrupted ; and Omar himself might have benignly envied us our life in that idyllic garden. A few delightful souls broke through the inhospi table habit of the country, and gave us some happy social hours — the Meuels of the Steamship Company ; the Tour jees (his father was founder of the Boston Conservatory of Music) ; Consul Dreher and his wife; and Mr. Young, a wandering friend of the Nature Man's. Also, the famous Tati Salmon bade us to his home at Papara for the New Year's festival. There we met his daughters and sons — splendid examples of the physical aristocracy of Polynesian chief -stock mingled with English blood; all educated in Paris, and now living their sumptuous tropical life. Husky Jack London was a mere babe alongside these strapping girls, who easily weighed three hundred. We attended a fair and a feast at Papara, and, most remarkable of all, in the narrow white French church heard the himine singing of the native Christians, a beautiful production in which the women carry the air, and the men produce an accompani ment of sound, the volume and tone of which is akin to a pipe organ. This is familiarly known as "the Tahiti Organ." The melodies are based upon old hymns, but have become infused with an indescribable barbaric lilt that is infinitely stirring. We also came to know dear old man McCoy and his kind- hearted daughter — of the McCoys of Pitcairn and the Bounty. Our acquaintance with them was a rare bit of luck for us. One especial blessing, when we could tear ourselves from the completeness of our home life under the breadfruit and palms, was our sunset swimming off the Snark' s rail. We were a mixed and exuberant company — Captain Warren, THE LOG OF THE SNARK 181 our Japanese boys, Martin, M. and Mme. Drollet and their brood, the Nature Man and Mr. Young and others ; and great was the splashing and laughter and defiance of sharks. Once, we arose before dawn, and, with the Nature Man, climbed the perpendicular heights to his tiny plantation. And often, of mornings, before Jack was awake, I sallied out in flowing native garb and bare feet for dewy walks in the foothills. I believe our only really unpleasant experience in Papeete was Jack's bout with the dentist. His teeth had been threat ening for some time, and finally "blew up," as he expressed it. His sufferings were such that the American dentist, Dr. Williams, finally begged Jack to take a vacation, as both of them were nervously exhausted. We acted upon this good advice and took a week's cruise to Moorea, which proved as beautiful as the sunset vision of it that we were accustomed to. . . . And here I shall shake off the temptation to speak more at length of Tahiti, and go aboard our little floating home once more. Aboard the Snark, at sea, Between Raiatea and Bora-Bora, Society Islands, Thursday, April 9, 1908. -I, THE LOG OF THE SNARK 401 In the evening, burned-out and weak, but happy, I was on deck, listening to "Narcissus" and "Red Wing," cuddling a convalescent Peggy, watching the ebb on the black reefs, where red fires glowed in the villages. Single silhouetted canoes with their gondola ends, glided across the lagoon where a golden moon dropped golden pools in the night-purple tide. The mountains melted in soft luminous- ness, their summits frosted with light clouds. Never in all my years shall I hear the dear, foolish ". . . moon's shining bright on pretty Red Wing, The breeze is dying, the night bird's crying," without a tightening of the heart. Thursday, August 13, 1908. Captain Jansen had by now accomplished several things that brought him here, such as recovering a spare sail from the village that had stolen it on the Minota' s last visit, and collecting good gold from Chief Billy for two deserters of his tribal brothers from the plantation. As there was no chance of gathering any recruits from the troubled bush region, we set out for Malu, on the north side of the island, to land the last of the homing blacks and drum up a new supply. Johnny, losing his head as we were getting under way, jammed the wheel in the wrong direction, and nearly crammed us on the inshore reef. It was an apprehensive moment, even Captain Jansen knitting his blond brows as he watched the inches finally widen between the boat and the milky-purple menace below the pale-green water. Even with the punitive Cambrian so shortly departed, for the Minota, of all vessels, to hang up at Langa Langa, might mean a concerted rush that would finish us all in smoke and blood. We wove along the lagoon made by the outer and inner reefs, picking our way so swiftly among prismatic coral 402 THE LOG OF THE SNARK shallows in bright green water to the guidance of a man at the cross-trees, that the near coral islets and low lands of the mainland, belted with mangroves, produced the illusion of shifting in an opposite direction from the mountain be hind. The low, continuous ivory-sanded reef to seaward showed the kind of "land" the natives have built upon, and now and again a tiny village broke the line. Beyond the narrow strip, across a white-crested indigo sea, to the west we could glimpse Ysabel Island, showing on the heaving horizon in a string of isolated hummocks. Four miles of this exquisite traverse brought us to Auki, a beautiful walled double-village on the reef off a bight in the mainland. An enormous banyan had taken root in Auki, and overhung the wall. Close alongside, as in a moat, a shell-garish war canoe rocked. We almost touched the mossy coral wall as we went about to head-reach out a narrow pas sage to the open water. We could smell the salt deep-sea smell distinctly as we emerged from the lagoon. A little later, we spied a schooner anchored off shore, and Captain Jansen recognised it as the Melanesian Missionary Society's Evangel. They have a mission near by, and one at Malu; but not a trader has been able to stick on Malaita. It was ten at night when we came to anchor at the extreme northwest end of Malaita, between Cape Astrolabe and the tiny island of Bassakanna. Here Captain Jansen told us he had once been becalmed for four days, the tide carrying him back and forth against his will. And here, on another occasion, he had picked up the survivors of the Sewall ship Rappahannock. The Eugenie was a short distance ahead, and she, too, went to anchor for want of wind. Captain Keller rowed aboard for a "gam" — a good looking fellow of but twenty-two, of German descent, who seemed very young to be in command of a schooner in such waters. He volunteered that he had never learned navigation. And all this day, Jack had been kind enough not to jeer at me, for, at last, I had a well-developed Solomon Island THE LOG OF THE SNARK 403 sore just abaft my left outside ankle-bone. He saturated it with corrosive sublimate, for I was too shattered with the left-over of my fever to have the nerve to doctor the aching thing myself. But I tied a raffish bow in the bandage, and Jack said that even in my rags I was picturesque. August 14, 1908. With the aid of tide, and a mere zephyr, with steady work ing of the sweeps, we rounded Astrolabe, entered Malu Bay, and landed the recruits — outdistancing the Eugenie, which was too big to sweep. The missionary at Malu, Mr. J. St. George Caulfeild, came out, rowed by his mission boys, and told us the natives were in a subdued state, as the Cambrian had lately paid an admonitory visit. We were in turn able to give him the news of the Cambrian's actions at Langa Langa. He congratulated us upon getting out safely from both that port and Su'u, as the moral effect on the natives is very salutary to the white man hereabout. Any new dis aster to a white vessel makes them bold, he explained. Mr. Caulfeild has stuck it out at Malu longer than any other mis sionary. If the bushmen didn't get him, the fever did. He either died here, or fled to Australia. The first mis sionary, in the early nineties, lived only five months. And Caulfeild goes about entirely unarmed, with the gentle belief that his faith, combined with the superstitious awe of his fearlessness that obtains among the people, will protect him. He even dares to interfere with some of their practices, going so far as to try to prevent contemplated bloody tragedies that he gets wind of. He came here with a deep-seated prejudice against taking quinine for fever, which he lived up to for some time; but he confessed that he had come to it finally. He is a slenderly built, sandy-haired man, one of the sweetest and most unaffectedly righteous souls we ever knew. On a high bluff, reached only by a slippery and difficult defile, so narrow and so beset with rock and root that one man could hold it against a thousand, we found the grass-plaited 404 THE LOG OF THE SNARK mission church, and the good man's tiny abode on stilts, with a little cookshed near by. It was not until the next day, August 15, 1908. A whistle was heard ashore that betokened recruits. We could see our boat, with the rowers resting on their oars, while Johnny talked from the stern to the beach. Every time a recruit stepped into the boat, a yell went up from the boys on the Minota. The new boys were innocent of cover ing, and a white breech-clout was handed to each, before he came overside, awkward and shy as a wild animal. The bewildered and scared but willing captive was then hurried into the cabin, where his picturesque name, be it Kapu, or Nati, or Gogoomy, or Mgava, was written in a book, and his hand guided to affix a cross thereto. The deck then be came his quarters, where he was promptly assimilated by the inquisitive crew. Never believe that the untutored heathen has good teeth. He hasn't. His teeth decay and ache and become unsightly, just as do our teeth, only we have the means of arresting disease. In addition to these ills, often brought about by lack of right nutriment, the islespeople 's custom of blacken ing their teeth, before referred to, renders their mouths hideous. Only from Caulfeild at Malu did we learn the true inwardness — abundantly backed by Johnny, and Ugi, Man- oumie, and Lalaperu, other stars of the Minota's crew — of the process. We had always been assured by the planters that the discolouration arose from lime-eating and chewing betel nut. It seems that a certain mineral found in land slides and erosions of the earth, is worked into powder, and put indelibly upon the teeth when young, the process taking an uncomfortable twenty-four hours during which the patient has no wink of sleep. Jack and I absorbed many significant items of Solomon life. Jansen mentioned to Caulfeild the murder of a planter in the Group : THE LOG OF THE SNARK 405 "Which murder do you mean?" mildly inquired the gentle disciple of peace. "... Oh, man, that was a month ago. I thought maybe you were referring to ... or ... " And then would follow the curdling details of one or more out rages that had been committed in the interim. "They're careless — they get careless, and let the beggars get behind them," Jansen would complain. "Mackenzie, poor chap, had no manner of business to be alone on this boat that day, or any day. A Mary did the trick, I under stand — a nice harmless female woman peaceably aboard with three or four men. Mackenzie 'd no business to be fooled." Caulfeild told with a shudder how a chief on one of the islands had stalked into a mission dining-room and tossed a white trader's freshly severed head down the long table — a head that had once talked and eaten at that very board. And there were sanguinary tales of the reeking bush, such as what happened at one place on Malaita, where two hun dred men were cut up by their enemies, and the women forced to carry the decapitated heads down to the beach, where they were themselves beheaded. Jansen had already recounted to us how, five months previous, thirteen boys ran away in a stolen whaleboat from Ysabel plantation, and dur ing their voyage to Malaita killed a Guadalcanal boy, and one other, who were with them, and kept the heads under the sternsheets. Jansen, who had followed in the Minota, re covered the boat, and saw the butchery mess, which, he as sured us, was very "loud" by that time. All these months Chief Billy has been in possession of the mast, boom, and sail of this very boat, but Jansen has recovered them and they are snugly stowed below. It is nothing to find an arm or a leg, fresh or otherwise, hanging in a tree — ghastly warning or signal of one tribe Or faction to another. And in this atmosphere of merciless carnage, Jack and I performed our regular work, read books, played cards, and taught Nakata English. I embroidered on fine linen in odd moments, and nursed the drilling hole in my ankle, feeling still uncertain and rather vague from the fever. Nakata 406 THE LOG OF THE SNARK was our joy and luxury, helpful, interested, and appreciative of this rare opportunity to observe the fringe of the earth. He called my attention to the beauty of the woods ashore, where a river flowed across the pink-tan coral sand into the sea, and especially to the splendid depth of blue shadows among the enormous trees. Sunday, August 16, 1908. We were fortunate enough to witness a big "market" on the broad beach this forenoon. While I mingled with the women, at least two hundred of them, Jack guarded me from a little distance, and our whaleboat hovered just off shore for the same purpose. I could glimpse the bush men, with their Sniders, spears, and arrows, in the gloom at the edge of the forest, and the canoes of the beach people pro tected their Marys in like fashion. The majority of the women were not large, perfectly naked, except for a string of sennit, and went about their exchange of comestibles in business-like fashion, with a great hubbub of dialects. I was less than a nine minutes' marvel, so intent were they on trade. But before their little minds tired of me, they felt me over, examined my pongee, laughed at the bandage-bow on my ankle, and one old mother, all kindly pucker of wrinkles, looked at my hands, and rubbed her calloused ones against them, explaining, in unmistakable pantomime, that the softness of mine was because they had done no work. There was noticeable lack of variety in the food stuffs. Dried fish of half a dozen kinds, a limited choice of vege tables and a few fowls, were all they offered. The mission ary told us that there is sickness because the people have too little change. The bush women are physically superior to the beach Marys, well up to their stalwart warriors in size, for moun tain climbing has developed them to fine proportions. Some of them have really beautiful bodies, with long, strong legs such as artists paint on Greek girls playing ball. Their only imperfection seems to lie in the unlovely, shaven heads. THE LOG OF THE SNARK 407 I had been conning over a fascinating plan to adopt some attractive pickaninny, and take her home with me. Visions of a perfectly trained treasure of a maid lured me on to inquire of Mr. Caulfeild if such a scheme would be possible. He thought it would be easy to get permission from the Resi dent Commissioner, and I was sure I had found exactly the right girl at the mission — a fine looking child of nine or so, with intelligent brown eyes, wide apart, pleasant mouth with good teeth, and a well-shaped head ringed with soft brown curls. Her euphonious cognomen was Fakamam, and I had busied my brain already with diminutives coined out of the unlikely material. However, everything was settled for me, when the little maid's cannibal aunties and uncles up-bush (her father was a convict in Fiji, and her mother's head had been smoked) took a hand, and refused to let her go, claim ing that they had to be responsible to him for his daughter. Nakata, I think, was more relieved than was Jack at the out come of my quest. Nakata was appalled into bold utterance : "Why, Missis-n, where could we put her on Snark? Your room too pickaninny altogether, and oh! Missis-n, she can't sleep out in cabin — and you many times say would not have even little dog aboard Snark extra!" . . . Later in the day we sailed out of Malu, following in an easterly direction the inward curve of the land, to a couple of reef villages, Sio and Suava, where the natives were so frank and friendly that Jack and I waxed reminiscent of Polynesia. Their gentleness must have been the weakness that led them to flee to the land's end, for they are farther out than most of the similar settlements. Quite an expanse of navigable shallow lies between them and the mainland. We were promptly surrounded with a bevy of canoes, and, contrary to the other anchorages, young women and children flocked out, laughing and coquetting, chirping and twittering with excitement over me, all naked as the day they first saw the light, many of them very prettily formed. A score of yel low-headed kiddies swarmed over our sides, and were not re pulsed, for Jansen knew his ground here. We saw some 408 THE LOG OF THE SNARK funny ornaments and clothing. A young chief, Eiraba, wore an exceedingly short coat patched variously as a crazy- quilt — and nothing else. And one older fellow, otherwise naked, was decked in a battered derby hat, with a broken saucer bumping on his unclean and matted chest. In the morning, August 17, 1908. Sinulia, big fella marster belong Sio, whose grey head and rugged features were startlingly like those of the actor, Louis James, paid us a call and invited us to inspect his village. His daughter, Vavia, sat in a canoe alongside, making mo tions for me to come ashore — a tawny-skinned, beautifully formed girl, apparently about nineteen, with hazel eyes and light soft curling hair, bleached, of course. As we entered the village, up the mossy, ferny break in the deep masonry, the golden princess Vavia took possession of me, while Jack and the captain were entertained in her father's house, into which no female might trespass. In fact, while the old man had been most affable to me, and liked to talk with me, he had himself made clear that he was tambo from the touch of any Mary, and I was therefore deprived of the dubious boon of shaking his dirty old hand. It had begun to drizzle, and Vavia hovered me in under the long eaves of a house, where, pressed from all sides by her nude maidens, I was subjected to the most searching examination I had yet encountered, Vavia putting up my sleeves to the shoulder, and caressing my flesh with her small hands, making little velvety cries and moans over the white surface and texture, and sniffing the length of arm as daintily as a child scenting the perfume of a flower. At this extremely close range I was shocked to find that the secret of her gold-tan hue was plain and simple bukua, which had ravaged the entire brown cuticle, and left her an even shade that matched her bleached hair and yellow eyes. Con sidering the tint of the latter, however, I judged she must originally have been one of the lighter tones of the countless THE LOG OF THE SNARK 409 variations of black and brown that the Solomon Island "blacks" sport. I was rather shy of her contiguity, this warm and sticky -wet day ; but she seemed to have passed the dandruffy stage, and I was helpless anyway, unless I gave them all hurt by withdrawing. So I yielded myself to the experience of being adored by the little naked ladies of Melanesia, who were lavishly sweet in their attentions. And they bore such charming names — Mahua and Lurilna, Rarita, Ema, Masema, Heura, and Kassua, and a dozen others as musical. They had seen the missionary women, so I was not an unmitigated curiosity. Vavia finally, by patient reiter ation of signs and sounds, got me to comprehend that she wanted me to sing. I hummed a familiar hymn, thinking that would most probably be what she had heard. She laid her face near mine, and, fluttering her small hands, followed me note for note, in a soft humming voice, an almost inap preciable interval behind, until I was sure she had heard the air before. Then I tried something that it was impossi ble she could know, and to my delight and astonishment, she repeated her achievement in a perfectly true voice. She reminded me of Bihaura, in her serious application. And she was so very, very winsome and pretty, was Vavia, with her round-breasted, round-limbed body and the infantile fair curls on her round head. She made me pensive and very wistful, for I am sure she was more than a half -soul — such as are the bulk of these evil, sub-human creatures who people her land. We were loath to let each other go, Vavia and I, lingering behind the rest at the end, with clinging fingers. How she wanted to learn, and how I should have loved to : teach her. Sio is an exquisite gem of the sea, perched on the coral, in two sections, with a tiny lagoon between, wherein float canoes inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Great banyans grow among the thatched houses and overhang the low battlements of the walls, and the cocoanut palms are heavy and fruitful. The lanes echo to voices of plump pickaninnies, and we saw never a half-caste — the grim reason being, so we were led to be- 410 THE LOG OF THE SNARK lieve, that any child showing white blood is destroyed at birth. Tuesday, August 18, 1908. We returned to Malu for the purpose of picking up a bunch of promised recruits on our way to Gubutu and the Snark. But no arrangement of one's activities in the Solo mons ever eventuates as mapped out. And here was where Jack and I went through an almost classic experience, viewed with the Melanesian twist. Captain Jansen decided to lie at Malu over night, so we took advantage of the afternoon to see a little more of the shore. Mr. Caulfeild, who came out with generous offerings of fresh vegetables and bread, warned us that a bad lot were prowling about near the beach, led by a certain chief so notoriously pernicious and the author of so many murders that the government had been looking for him a long time. So we landed with eyes open and revolvers handy. My back had by now grown callous to the irk of the holster. Jack and I, in bathing suits, treated ourselves to a bath in the dark still river, overarched with lofty trees, some of them banyans that covered acres with their tentacles — vegetable octopuses. The pink strand and blue-green bay, with the sparkling sunlit reef, was a dazzling contrast to the dense green gloom where we stood shoulder-deep in the cool slow flood of the river. Men from the Minota stood guard, and we were careful to hide our guns at a little distance from our heaps of clothes, as, in case the latter were taken, the savages thinking the arms would be in them, we ourselves could rush to the guns. It sounds lurid and spectacular, I know, but was all necessary commonplace. It was not a case of the horse-play theatricals sometimes practised on "new chums. ' ' After our dramatic ablutions, Captain Jansen took us for a walk through the mangroves alongshore, going ahead with pistol in hand. This was the first time we had ever tried to make our way among these remarkable roots. The earth THE LOG OF THE SNARK 411 was of a rich black, saturated, "squdgy, sludgy" quality, and where we turned uphill the bush trail reeked with dampness and mould. We felt very subdued in this atmos phere of dark-souled savagery, spoke low and stepped warily. But Captain Jansen did not lead far — even he, so unafraid, knew where special caution should enter in. If any human thing lurked in the jungle, we saw it not, and the silence was heavy and oppressive. By the time we were once more on the sunny hot shingle of coral and shell, the bad high-bush chief with his gang had come into the open, or nearly so, keeping just inside the edge of the trees — a tall, lean, sneaking individual with cunning eyes set near together, and an unclean fringe of whisker. The smiling friendliness of our meeting with him was rather comic, as we all were patently pretending that we were not taking inventory of one another's weapons, and the mock armed equality was rather overborne when that engaging swashbuckler, Jansen, with the most ingratiating insouciance took the chief's old Snider and emptied the horrible, soft- nosed cartridges into my hand. "Nice little barn-door that would make in one's carcass, no?" he commented, returning the loaded gun to its owner, and taking another from one of the blacks. "Look at this old cartridge, all made over. This beggar is a returned Queenslander, and they're the worst of the lot, for they know firearms and teach the rest how to make this sort of thing. They smuggled guns back into the bush with them, and there 's been the devil to pay ever since. ' ' He also referred to what we had already learned, that these people know nothing of marksmanship, and for this reason, and also to conserve their scarce ammunition, they shoot only at close range, and from the hip — insuring the most awful abdominal damage to the victim. At Jansen 's sociable suggestion, as if for the special en tertainment of the others, Jack emptied a few magazines from his Colt's Automatic, and the bushmen stared and emitted guttural sounds of astonishment and awe at the 412 THE LOG OF THE SNARK stream of lead the pickaninny fella gun belong white man could pour out. My modest Smith & Wesson, being in the hands of a mere Mary, impressed them to foot-shifting embarrassment. The fact that we can hit objects at a dis tance also acts as a cheek to undue mischievousness on their part. And in view of later happenings, our bombast was lucky for us. Wednesday, August 19, 1908. At nine-thirty, after a wade in the river, we of the Minota set sail in an ebb tide for the final lap of our "blaekbirding" cruise, with some forty new recruits on deck, to say nothing of a half dozen Marys bound for another port beyond Gubutu. The wind was baffling, and the current setting strong upon the ugly point of reef. Just as we were about to clear it, the wind broke off several points. We tried to go about, but the Minota for once missed stays. Jansen never had got back two of three anchors lost at Langa Langa, and he now let go the one remaining one, giving plenty of chain that it might get a hold in the coral. The bronze fin keel ground on the reef, and the main topmast, which we knew to be risky from dry- rot (although only four years old) angled from the upright mast in a way that threatened our skulls. A huge comber raised and threw us farther on the reef just at the instant the vessel fetched up on the slack of the cable, and the chain parted — our only anchor gone. We swung around and plunged bow-first into the breakers, crunching deeper and deeper into the brittle surface of the adamant ledge. The instant the Minota struck, the boat 's crew had sprung to their rifles and stood facing shoreward. This seemed to us a touch showy and unnecessary ; but in an incredibly few minutes the bay, which had been deserted except for a few desultory small fishing canoes, was thronged with boat-loads of eager headhunters, rifles and spears and clubs sticking out in all directions. The captain told us this springing of the crew to arms in such situation is drilled into them from the start. THE LOG OF THE SNARK 413 While the whaleboat started off with a tow-line in an at tempt to keep us from smashing farther on the coral, and Jansen and the fever-shaky mate rigged up a scrap anchor from out the ballast, a dead-line of a hundred feet was estab lished, and the hungry-looking savages hung there in their gorgeous war canoes, willing to wait any length of time for the Minota to break up and yield her loot of tobacco and stores, not to mention other, rounder prizes. The crew behaved splendidly, likely as not, in the main, more from deadly fear of the hostile bushmen than special sense of loyalty to their masters. Some of the recruits had sprung for the rigging and clung there frozen with fright; but the captain got most of them below deck, and presently had them hard at work passing the pig-iron ballast up on deck, where, as the tide fell and the vessel jammed down harder and harder on her keel and rolled over from side to side, the eighty-pound pigs hurtled dangerously back and forth. I came near losing a finger in one dizzy lurch. The missionary, whose boys had run to him with the news that we were "lost," hastened out in his whaleboat, and then, Jack with him, approached the dead-line of black canoes, where the two eloquently tried with much tobacco to bribe some native to go with a message to the Eugenie, five miles away, near Sio, either to sail to our rescue, or bring anchors and cable. Our first kedge to the reef-shallow on the other side of the passage had parted the line, and our plight was increasing momentarily, with a heavy surf in the squalls. At length, one old man, alone in a tiny canoe, despite murmurings from the others, fell to the bait of an entire half- case of tobacco — a prince's ransom — and forthwith started with Jack's note. He set out in a gusty squall, and it did not seem as if the frail shell could live in the smother. In the meantime, while work went on aboard, and divers tried to raise the lost anchor, and the shivering sick mate went aloft to try to chop down the tottering topmast, that good man Caulfeild, unarmed himself, harangued the malevolent dead-line in true militant fashion, telling them in 414 THE LOG OF THE SNARK thrilling beche de mer that they need not expect to get any tobacco from the Minota; that what they would get was bul lets, close up too much, thick and fast, if they dared come any closer. So convincing was he, and so determined did we appear with our arsenal, and the advantage of the near Eugenie already being advised of our predicament, that the unpitying vultures finally dispersed their close formation, and lay around in the bay and off shore. "They'll get even with Caulfeild for this, I fear," Jansen said. Signal fires were sending up their bending smoke-pillars all over the steep mountains, and we could not fail to note the gathering of clans beachward; while the longest war canoes we ever saw were coming along the coast and entering the bay — some of them paddling near and showing the faces of returned recruits we had landed at Sio. One big canoe, propelled by women, dipped out after a while, and was allowed to take off our Marys. This relieved the boat of weight, and Captain Jansen considered the situation well enough in hand for the moment to send ashore spare sails and other heavy gear, which were stored in a little shack he kept there for such things. The returning boat reported a restless and augmenting mob ; and the exodus from bush to beach was taken advantage of to hold a big market. The crew also brought back lengths of trees they had cut, to put under our keel for its protection from the coral, and our divers did some splendid work placing these logs. As the water lowered and wind increased in ugly squalls, the swelling breakers lifted our helpless hull repeatedly, crash ing it down with terrific shocks, when it would roll the deck almost perpendicular only to duplicate the perform ance to the other side. Everything broke loose, above and below, and the blacks, certain the bottom would cave in, made frantic crushing rushes for the deck, only to return laughing foolishly. The wretched Peggy screeched honestly and shamelessly, as she swept across the floor in an avalanche of potatoes, limes, flour, and bilge-water; the men yelled, THE LOG OF THE SNARK 415 breakers crashed, and it was altogether a nerve-racking bedlam. And yet, I wasn't afraid. When one is in the midst of such a situation, the interest is so breathless, so absorbing, and so much there is to do, that an element of keen joy of living enters in. Right in the thick of the first trouble, not wishing to be in the way, I called Nakata (Wada was useless with fear), and we fought our way through everything below to the stateroom, where, alongside the banging drawers of explosives, we packed our belongings in compactest form and order — manuscript, clothes, money, typewriter — ready for prompt transportation in case we had to take to the whaleboat. My helper was cheerful, even enthusiastic: "Why, Missis-n, this more like old years with my father, in fish sampan in what-you-call Inland Sea — oh, Missis-n — big blowing, big trouble, many time ! ' ' It was fully three hours before the Eugenie's whaleboat surged into sight across the white-whipped peaks of surf, the yellow-haired master standing at the steering-sweep — white man to the rescue of white man the world over. Jack and I were solemnly touched with the romance and beauty and bloodedness of it. Captain Keller with his men and ours worked for heartbreaking hours trying to kedge the Minota off with the new anchors. It was a stirring spectacle, the boys shining with sweat under the brassy midday sun, shout ing and crying the invariable necessary accompaniment to their every endeavour. But the scene we shall always remember above all others, was when the missionary, after striving steadily with the resl to help us out of peril, said smilingly: "Well, we've tried and tried, one way; now I'm going to try the other way." He forthwith gathered about him his boys, who had been put in charge of certain of our rifles (the captain thought wiser to disarm several of the crew who hailed from Malu), and they descended into the wrecked cabin, finding foothold 416 THE LOG OF THE SNARK where they could, for the floor had been ripped up to get at the ballast. And down there in the dim light, with the ves sel heaving, falling, crashing, the blue-eyed man of Christ uncovered his fair head and prayed aloud in the shouting din where above men toiled with fervent profanity, his meek disciples bending their brown faces on their hands folded on the muzzles of the guns. Ensued a moment of silent prayer, and then the child-men 's voices, led by the white man 's bari tone, rose and fell in "Nearer, My God to Thee." And when it was ended, they returned soberly on deck to work with the heathen. Jack finally consented to let Mr. Caulfeild take ashore the typewriter and one suitcase of manuscript and notes, for fear of salt water below. Care was observed in not sending a noticeable amount of luggage, lest our enemies get an idea we were abandoning the ship. Nakata went along to carry the machine up the steep ridge; and when he came back, with the missionary, Jack had decided after all to make safe the remainder of our things, and I heard him say, "And Mrs. London will go ashore also." I was glad of this, for nine hours of the keen excitement, to say nothing of the violent pounding, had nearly exhausted me. Caul feild assured us I would be certainly as secure in the tambo of his precinct as on the Minota; so I dropped into the whaleboat on a big swell, Peggy in my arms, and was rowed to a point on the beach nearest the trail. Jack sent Nakata and Wada with me, and we carried the ship's money and the mail. Willing hands of Christian boys helped us up, and Nakata bustled about making me comfortable in Mr. Caulfeild 's one-room shack, with a mere closet adjoining which contained his bed. Wada, with his spine of jelly, was of little assistance; but his countryman foraged in the vegetable garden and rustling cornfield in a little meadow, and served me a delicious and welcome supper. He is pos sessed by the very spirit of loving service, that brown cherub. A letter home, written during that grave night, tells freshly how I spent the hours : THE LOG OF THE SNARK 417 "And here I am, at eight-thirty, alone on the windy ridge but for the two Japanese boys, and a small black Christian who is patrolling the premises on his own account in defence of the 'white Mary,' with a long strong bow and a quiver of arrows. He just now, on one of my scouting essays, told me quaintly in stage whisper that Malu beach is full of 'wicked men' — which means that the murderous bushmen are gathering in greater numbers, reinforced by neighbouring salt-water men of the worse sort. No man or woman ever knows what freaks of fancy may actuate the cannibal brain, so I think I shall not go to bed in the tempting nest Nakata has laid for my broken back and aching limbs and head, al though I am dead tired from the long day of buffeting down there on the crashing reef. "I am writing at a little green-topped table on which lie my five-shooter and a Winchester automatic rifle containing eleven cartridges. Outside is an intermittent gale of wind, thrashing the banyans and palms, whipping the breakers into hoarse, coarse roaring, varied by blasts of thunder, and lightning of all descriptions ; and through the clamour I can just catch the pulling-calls of desperately hauling men on yacht and reef, as they work to clear the vessel at high water — and I hope and strain hope until it hurts, that she is even now leaving the bed she made for herself in the coral, to float in the merciful deep water of the bay. I cannot see, I do not know; when I go out, every quarter hour, I can only glimpse a light far below on the reef, which is blotted out by the wet veil of a squall. I hear no shots, and am fairly cer tain our crowd is not being annoyed by the scoundrelly man- eaters ashore. I am not exactly happy, with my man out there, tired and anxious and supperless; and the yacht, in spite of almost unbelievable staunchness, may break up in the night. They could get away in the whaleboats, but what would they meet if they tried to land on the beach — the sav ages knowing the ship had been deserted ! "My house reels and whirls, 'lifts and 'scends,' all but bumps. I came ashore for rest, and rest there is none, for 418 THE LOG OF THE SNARK the terrible swaying and pounding and grounding of many hours is in my brain, and I swirl and sway on solid ground. "How good Jack's face would look in the doorway. "My two boys are sleeping on the floor near by, Wada moaning and twitching in a light attack of fever, and Nakata dead-o, with a tired face. ' ' 9 :05. Just now I went out reconnoitring, to the cau tious edge of the bluff, but could detect through the glasses no change in position of the distressed ketch's light. Nor did I see the redeemed James on guard. I stepped quietly about in the dense blackness twinkling with fireflies, and saw glow-worms softly luminous in the damp wold. In a long silken thrall of lightning my staring eyes saw that one of the piles under the high cottage was of a peculiar bungling shape ; and I walked toward it with gun poised, ' singing out ' sharply in the vernacular : 'What name stop you fella? — What name belong you ? ' " 'Jam-ees,' meekly responded the uncouth post, and in the utter blackness my faithful policeman added : ' I walk about look my eye belong me. ' "Fortunately I never was timid about being alone in a house, or I should be 'properly,' as they say here, scared out of my wits to-night, in spite of the missionary's assurances, for it comes to mind that I heard him say, before the Minota hung up, that last night he found footprints in a freshly made vegetable plot, where his own boys know better than to tread, and other signs of prowlers. "10:45. If only the earth would not seem to heave and plunge so! I am tired, tired, tired, and have been awake since three this morning, when, on board the Minota, the recruits began cooking their breakfast of sweet potatoes. The native cook, Bicliu, had deserted at Sio. " — Wouldn't it be funny if I actually should have to fire on some one ? Well, if it is necessary, I '11 call up a firm New England jaw, and go to it; and if I fire, I'll not miss, I promise ! THE LOG OF THE SNARK 419 "Thursday, August 20. "The missionary returned last night about 11:30, just as I was falling into a doze in spite of myself. I must have heard Nakata start for the door, for before I knew it, I was there ahead of him, and met that gentle soul, Caulfeild, re volver in my hand, albeit with the muzzle pointed downward. He reported that they had failed to move the yacht at high water, because every line bent had parted at strain. (In twenty-four hours she had parted two anchor-chains and eight sturdy hawsers.) She still stuck fast, and was striking hard, although there was no break yet in the bottom ; and he said he had left Jack asleep for the moment. He also said the beach was covered with armed bushmen. "I went to bed, first being sure that Nakata was making our good friend comfortable, and when I opened my eyes at 6 :30, found I had not moved from where I fell asleep. The weather was still blustery, and the sky soiled with thunder clouds, but the sea had abated. Captain Keller had re turned to the Eugenie during the night, and his whaleboat was washed on the rocks twice in squalls; but he made the schooner, and brought her to Malu in the forenoon — her ar rival was a beautiful sight that brought tears to our eyes. Her presence, coupled with the stubborn refusal of the Minota to become flotsam and jetsam, had a pacifying effect on the cannibal horde. "Last evening, Mr. Caulfeild carried a warning to the Minota that one of the new recruits aboard had a price on his head of fifty fathoms of shell-money and forty pigs ; and the modified desire of the baffled headhunters was to capture this valuable cranium. Jansen decided to take the offensive, and went in the whaleboat to the beach, where, interpreted by Ugi (the Red Jew we called him, from his fairness and a ruddy tone in his wool), he had told the sullen, uneasy pack a few things — the essential one being that any canoe sighted that night within range, would be 'pumped full of lead. ' Ugi warmed to a fine frenzy, and finally jumped up 420 THE LOG OF THE SNARK and down in the sternsheets, waving his arms and screaming shrilly that if they harmed a hair of his captain's head, he would drink his blood and die with him ! It was an amazing performance, proving the spark in the clay that will out. "Jack came ashore this morning. I met him on the trail in a shower of sunshine and rainbow from a breaking sky. He was very, very weary, but full of enthusiasm over indomi table mankind that can fashion such a boat as the Minota, and fight so unwaveringly and cheerfully for endless, unsleep ing hours. The mate, by the way, had been thrown into a fearful attack of fever, and had lain in the cabin, senseless and raving by turns, but had risen later on, weak and shat tered, determined to go on working. "Captain Jansen kept some of his crew on guard at the storehouse all night. When Mr. Caulfeild came ashore near midnight, a bolder chief was trying to break through the guard. Caulfeild took him by the shoulders and threw him backward. And he and the muttering, scowling spawn did not dare touch the white man who blazed at them with his straight blue eyes — not yet; but I fear, I fear. — A shack on the beach under the bluff, belonging to one of the mission boys, was burned during the night, in retaliation for his helping the white men. "Small Nakata, with a parental arm half around Jack's husky shoulders, fathered him into the house, brought him every convenience of toilette that he could muster, the while setting the wan Wada at the preparation of a hot break fast of rolls, eggs, and coffee — and a steaming tender ear of sweet corn. How could one help loving such a creature, and being willing to live and die with him — die for him, if need came? ' ' This evening we packed our things back down the drip ping trail, and were taken aboard the Eugenie. I was to voyage on Harding's tambo idol in spite of him, and beyond choice in the matter." The Minota was not pulled free until the afternoon of the THE LOG OF THE SNARK 421 21st — two nights and three days she withstood the punish ment of sea and coral. Three whaleboats towed the gallant shell of her to an anchorage, and a great cheering went up from us in the schooner, with a "Hurrah for the Dutch!" —our black boys dancing, and yelling "Hita! Hita!" in shrill falsetto. The Eugenie was to take us to Gubutu, land her raw recruits at Pennduffryn, and return as quickly as possible to Malu. Captain Jansen came aboard to shake hands good-bye, Jack said a few warm words for the wonder ful time he had made possible for us, and Jansen reddened pleasedly, but only said, as they wrung hands : "That's all right, old man — leave the change on the plate. — And you, Mrs. London, won't you please leave Peggy for me at Meringe, and tell Schroeder to bite her tail off good and short, and I'll pick her up when I land the boys. She already hates a nigger — the very spit of her mother! and I want her ready to train." Then, not wasting a minute of precious time in getting to work reballasting and patching up his raffle of rigging, he swung overside into his boat with a "Right 0 — so long, good people. — 'See y' in Liverpool!' " The Eugenie sailed in the afternoon of the 22d, and, to make assurance doubly sure (she had already made one un successful unaided attempt to get out), had three whaleboats tow her past the bursting surf. Then, a boisterous trade- wind and -sea favouring, we swept around the uttermost capes of black-hearted Malaita, and down to Florida (Ngela), sailing past the trading station at Gubutu, into the Tulagi anchorage near by, where is the government seat. An a?on of time might have passed over our heads in the race of man, for from primordial red savagery we crossed smoothly into the machine age. The harbour of Tulagi presented a most populous twentieth-century picture — the Makambo, in from Sydney, the Cambrian, from anywhere and everywhere, and we dropped hook just astern of the Evangel; while a little distance off, we saw our own Snark, and the planters of 422 THE LOG OF THE SNARK Pennduffryn putting off in surprised haste at sight of Jack and me aboard their schooner. Harding's face was a study when I grinned at him over the rail. We were lunched on the Makambo and the Cambrian, at last meeting up with Captain Lewes, who was the soul of kindness, sending his electricians aboard the Snark, and placing any and all things at our disposal. And we were invited aboard the Evangel, where we met the women and men who spend the best part of their lives going about these soul-slumbering islands. Miss Florence S. H. Young, the head of the South Sea Evangelical Society, twenty years ago became interested in the work through trying to civilise the Solomon men working on her father's sugar plantations in Queensland; and, when Australia voted "all white," she followed the expelled labourers and continued and enlarged her activities. We were bidden to the Residency on the shining, gardened bluff, by our Naturalist Among the Head Hunters, Mr. C. M. Woodford, and his good wife, who was over the water from England to see him. And he was no disappointment, this clear-eyed man who has served and studied the most of his life in "the terrible Solomons" — a man of learning and of great personal charm, with valuable tomes to his credit on the subject of the flora and the insect life of the Archipelago. Jack had by now definitely concluded to lay up the Snark at Marau Sound, near Pennduffryn, with her crew, take a run to Sydney on the next following trip of the Makambo, and go into hospital for an operation. So we engaged passage ahead, with Captain Mortimer, and went aboard our blessed boat for the short cruise to Meringe Lagoon on Ysabel, with a run north to Lua-Nua (Lord Howe, — the Ongtong-Java of the discoverer), and Tasman, for a few days. This would partially compensate for the failure of the Bellona and Ren nel adventure, for Harding had backed and filled until Jack was possessed with one of his deep disgusts, and I knew that that particular picnic would never come off. On THE LOG OF THE SNARK 423 Wednesday, August 26, 1908. We left Tulagi, watered at Gubutu, and, with Tehei aloft to watch for coral patches, had just cleared the wharf and got well under way, when an unmistakable American voice shouted from an anchored ketch : "Long time since I've seen that flag here !" "How long?" Jack demanded genially. "Oh, several years," the man replied. " — I guess you knew the schooner, Sophie Sutherland — Alec McLean! — eh? How about that Sea Wolf!" And in the brief passing, we learned that he was a Penn- sylvanian, and that he wished there was room for him on the Snark. How many wished that! We did not blame them — we were so glad to be there ourselves. And the happen ings of our wonderful nine days on the Minota seemed very remote — like the fulfilment of a long ago dream. We had an inspiriting brush with a big recruiting schooner, the Malekula, whose men we knew at Pennduffryn, until our engine, ever faithful in failure, broke down. After a night of brisk but steady wind and sea, in which Jack kept un broken vigil (for there were coral shoals to dodge), in the morning, August 27, 1908. We found ourselves rocking along the northern coast of Ysabel, her mountains all lovely colours in the dewy waking day. Meringe Lagoon is a passage formed by a garland of coral and islets off the mainland, the waves of which lap the roots of mangroves where, above the water, cluster very edible rough-shelled oysters. "Wait till we tell 'em at home that we have picked oysters off trees," Jack grinned, as the first one slipped down his throat. " — Say, that tastes like another ! ' ' And a round dozen followed after. We came to rest in five fathoms, and were first greeted from the beach by a brace of enormous terriers, one red and rough and the other smooth as a sorrel horse. The pair 424 THE LOG OF THE SNARK trotted like a span of ponies, and barked with throats like bells. "Oh, they're Prince and Biddy," Jack cried, and Peggy set up a hysterical howl, overbalanced, and plopped over the rail. Once in the water — for the first time in her life — instead of trying to get back, she made valiantly for the maternal bosom, where Biddy, beautiful with motherhood, raising and setting her narrow feet alternately in the edge of the tide, received her lost daughter with a thorough going over of tongue and paw, to see if she were clean and sound, while the interested but more dignified sire stood a little apart, occasionally wagging his shaggy stub-tail. I have for gotten to mention that Peggy, most human of four-footed beings, had contracted at Tulagi a perfectly human and very painful malady — urticaria. Pitiable as were her deep eyes of suffering, she was a mirth-provoking figure, for her poor little face, broad puppy-paws, and lank and as yet un- trimmed tail, were all shapeless with knobs. She tried to hide herself under canvas, anything — but any contact, how ever slight, made her shriek with sensitive agony. "I'm not surprised a bit at Peggy contracting a human disease," Jack had commented. He had had urticaria himself, and was in full sympathy despite his laughter at the asymetrical, unfinished form of her, like a partially thumbed dog of clay. Next arrived John Schroeder, and his assistant Mr. Mere dith. Mr. Schroeder is brother-in-law to Captain Svenson, and manager of the plantation. He placed his house at our disposal, and regretted that he was minus a cook, so he could not ask us to lunch. We had both men eat with us, of course, and listened to advice about careening the Snark. At high tide we ran her aground on a steep-to part of the beach indicated, and strange enough it was to feel her fore foot stop on the firm sand — touching for the first time in her tale of many thousands of miles of sea-faring. As the tide went out, and the hull lay over, all hands and the cook THE LOG OF THE SNARK 425 went about removing the astounding accumulation of bar nacles, working until ten at night. It was a wonder she had handled as well as she had. "Gee! They're like oysters," Jack delivered himself, trying to pry a large shell loose from the man-o '-war copper that we hadn't laid eyes on since the boat was launched from the ways in South San Francisco. Mr. Schroeder strongly advised that I sleep ashore, as the yacht would assume all sorts of unrestful angles. Jack begged me to comply, although he felt that he must stay aboard, as there was more or less risk to the boat in careen ing on so sharp an incline. He sent Nakata along with me, and August 28, 1908. When I arose at six, to the resonant boom of a wooden drum in the quarters of the Malaita boys, after eight un troubled hours, I found the little man curled fast asleep before my door, where he had lain all night. He sat up, wide awake on the instant, rubbing his cheerful eyes. Al ways he knows exactly where he is at the moment of awaken ing — no slow Oriental drowse in his return to consciousness. Wada, who had perked up considerably when he sailed out of Malu on the Eugenie, had lapsed when the Snark touched Ysabel. We explained — what he could see with his own eyes — that the Ysabel natives are of a better grade (they have a very slight infusion of Polynesian), that there are no bad bushmen. All to no avail; he knew the plantation was worked by Malaitans, and his terror augmented, throwing him into fever again. When Mendana, nearly four hundred years ago, discov ered "Santa Ysabel de la Estrella," he found the natives lived principally on cocoanuts and roots, and was beginning to think they lacked animal food, when a chief sent him a lordly present, a quarter of a boy, with the hand and arm at tached, and was deeply offended when it was promptly buried. We trusted Wada had not heard this scrap of his- 426 THE LOG OF THE SNARK tory. As soon as he went down with fever, Nakata, to our surprise and pleasure, stepped gaily into the galley, and pre pared a meal of which oysters fried in batter was but the appetizer. "Oh," he grinned, "I 'look 'm eye belong me' one year now, and I t'ink I can cook good 'kai-kai.' " And ' ' Perhaps, ' ' he added musingly, ' ' I shall be with you always ; and I like to learn all kinds of work." To my delight — and sorrow, when I thought of parting — Peggy established herself my shadow, as if she considered her self my particular property and devoted slave. Mr. Schroe der had done his worst — and best — to her, as was eloquently attested by a gory bandage at one end and a plaintive voice at the other. Never was there such a puppy. Her brother, Possum, himself an adorable armful, appeared a mongrel beside this fine, super-soul of a dog, Peggy — "Peg-tail" for the nonce. Martin earned indignant protest from Jack and me when he said, honestly : "She's a nice enough dog, I'll admit; but I can't see she's any different from any ordinary yellow cur. ' ' The only criticism of Peggy ever wrung from Jack was when, having wallowed instinctively and luxuriously and thoroughly in a rotting carcass on the beach, she tempestu ously flung herself to cuddle in his neck, where he lay against a rock on the beach: "You brute — you filthy imp — Peggy, Peggy, I thought you were a white woman ! " he concluded accusingly to the abject heap that cowered where he had involuntarily flung her. Well it was that Jack stayed by the yacht, for, having worked a little farther up the slope at high water, she nearly capsized outward at low. Jack went through a terribly anxious period as he observed that she did not right in the rising tide, and the water crept and crept over the rail, up the vertical deck, until it lapped the edge of the skylight. Then he acted, and things popped for a while as additional lines were carried ashore from the mastheads. It was nip THE LOG OF THE SNARK 427 and tuck for a time, but at last the heavy hull slowly began righting. Every one looked strained after the close call. For me, the two weeks at Meringe Lagoon were a stretch of almost unmitigated repose and beauty — long nights of sleep, rainbow mornings on the curving pink north beach, on the way to the Snark, Prince and Biddy, those wedded comrades, racing and frisking along to a swim aboard, where they knew awaited them a bite or two of delicious fried pigeon, or broiled goat (Martin went hunting on a tiny reef island), or succulent, coloured fishes; happy hours of work aboard or ashore, romps with the pups, and an occa sional swim — always a risky amusement, what of sharks and crocodiles, both of which we saw from the yacht. Our stay was delayed beyond the few days we expected, waiting for bigger tides to careen the hull properly. I had been looking forward for months to finding turtle shell, and here the natives brought a "scale" or so aboard, the armour of the huge Hawksbill turtle, some of the pieces eighteen and twenty inches long, and broad in proportion. But Mr. Schroeder, learning my desire, opened up a box of specially selected pieces, already sealed for shipment, and told me to select the best of his best. Of course, Jack would not listen to a gift of such value, for the choice shell brings a large price in Sydney, and our friend at length, overborne, consented to talk business. It was the thickest and most beautifully marked shell we ever saw, and Jack revelled with me in picking out a goodly pile. Already I was sketch ing designs for combs and pins, and dressing-table boxes, while Nakata, fired with enthusiasm, could hardly wait to get where he might buy tools and learn to work the enticing material. Martin tramped to a hill village, but we did not go into the interior. Only one trip we made from the Lagoon, and that was to a dot of uninhabited islet, Kiaba, a few miles directly north, to shoot the pigeons that home there after noons from their mainland feeding. Mr. Schroeder took us 428 THE LOG OF THE SNARK across the indigo summer sea in a nineteen-foot open cutter with a large sail. Kiaba is nothing more or less than a round miniature sea-girt garden of Eden, a dozen feet high and a third of a mile across its sanded floor, ringed with a gleam ing beach of disintegrated coral, a handful of which looks like ground colours. The woods are a breathless Paradise of big white-shafted trees and lightsome foliage of banyan and bamboo, tendrilled with lacy creepers. The stillness was broken only by the coo and rustle of pigeons and the stir of strange forms that clung to trunk and limb. It seemed a shame to discharge a gun in such environment — until we had a good look at our first iguana, three and a half feet in length. "Gee! look at the alligator up a tree!" Martin gasped; and I wondered if this could be one of Woodford's "lizards several feet long." At any rate, so utterly evil is the appearance of an iguana, so absolutely is it a conven tional devil in shape and style, that it invites destruction. We played it was the Serpent, and blew off its horny head. Yet it is as harmless as it is horrible, the poor iguana. Martin and I, with much yelling and laughter, chased a frightened shark in the reefy shallows off shore, trying to hit it with our pistols. On the jewelled beach, where our every step flushed a clatter of tiny hermit-crabs, Schroeder found a turtle 's nest, from which we gathered a hundred eggs like ping-pong balls, buried eighteen inches in the sand. I never ate anything better, in way of an omelette, than those Nakata made from the tiny soft-shelled eggs. The con sistency was as if they had been mixed with a pinch of fine corn-meal, and the flavour was excellent. There must have been too much excitement for me, or it might have been the extra coolness of the day, for I was stricken suddenly with fever, and went through a novel sweating — swathed in the boat 's canvas, and laid on the beach in the sun, with my head shaded. How touchingly kind and tender men can be ! They carried me back to Ysabel in the bottom of the cutter, weak and with a racing pulse, but noisy and optimistic. Fever grows to be all in the day's work THE LOG OF THE SNARK 429 here — Wada to the contrary; and Henry is not as yet re signed to its recurrences. Seventeen pigeons were all we bagged, and Jack had been hugely put out at finding that the smokeless cartridges he had ordered were black powder. But it was a red letter day anyway. The Southern Cross dipped behind a towering height of Ysabel as we ran homeward, and a silver moon two days old sank into the fainting rose of the west. Soon the bright sky clouded over, and our placid day of sun and smooth sea was followed by a night of rain and squalls — the "dusty" weather that comes with the moon's first quarter. But be fore the wind blew up, we gave the shore and ourselves a treat with the searchlight, fish leaping by thousands out of the illuminated water, where the reflections of our mooring cables wrinkled like black snakes. The upshot of the outing to Kiaba, in spite of caution, was bush-poisoning for us all — the excruciating "scratch- scratch," ngari-ngari, that did for the Sophie Sutherland's doomed crew. Jack had it the worst, Martin and I ruefully admitted while we vainly tried to keep our hands quiet. Nakata had caught it on Guadalcanal, and to our great sym pathy confessed that he had not sat down for a month, and that he was now obliged to tie his hands at night. We all pitched into the lysol, and added another kind of doctoring to our list, alternately dosing Solomon sores with peroxide of hydrogen and other things — our bottle of corrosive subli mate solution having been finished on the Minota, and our main supply of tablets left at Pennduffryn. Jack, who had now completed his article "Cruising in the Solomons," set to work on another, "The Amateur M.D.," wherein he ex ploited his medical experience from pulling teeth on Nuka- Hiva to abating "scratch-scratch" on Ysabel. On September 7, Wada, terrified by light recurrent attacks of fever, parted with his last vestige of common sense, and with the Snark. I was not on board when he announced his intention to quit. It followed the serving of a very much 430 THE LOG OF THE SNARK overripe goat-stew with a cup of inexcusably weak and dish- watery tea, all of which Jack pushed aside. Wada was some what taken aback by the way Jack accepted and accelerated his resignation. "Very well, Wada — pack up your things quick, while I get your money; and, Henry, you have the boat ready." Months of wages were due, and an extra regular allow ance or present Jack had credited him ever since the beating up Warren had meted him — altogether an unwise sum for a lone Japanese to carry about on his person should the natives get wind of it. ' Poor muddled mortal — he had a notion he could walk right into the plantation kitchen, as he had heard Mr. Schroeder say they were distressed for want of a cook; but direly as that true gentleman needed one, he met Wada 's shameless proposal with cool refusal. Nakata helped his friend pack and land, then came imme diately back to the Snark, stepped into the galley and said he would be glad to cook for us any length of time it might take to get another cook. But he made it plain that no salary could tempt him to cook permanently. "I t'ink sea-cook all get crazy in head ! " he smiled his reason. In return for his help in the difficulty, Jack promised him the steamer trip to Australia, a new suit of clothes, and other emoluments. There was more than a touch of pathos in the boy's sturdy attempt throughout to be loyal both to us and to his coun tryman. After Schroeder 's turn-down, Wada declared he would go a-tramping in the bush, albeit he was scared of his very life. But it was discovered that he was hiding in a near-by native hut, in hope that Schroeder 's mind might change when we were safe out of ken. A conviction had been growing in my brain that it would not be good for Peggy and myself to part. The little super- animal clung to me night and day, and, when not in actual contact, sat and regarded me with fathomless great eyes of love and speculation that made me almost apprehensive. So, when the day of sailing came round, I left a letter for Cap- The Impact of Civilisation Crew of Snark at Pennduffryn THE LOG OF THE SNARK 431 tain Jansen, stating the case clearly — that I could not yet bring myself to separate from Peggy, and would deliver her over to him when we returned to Pennduffryn. . . . Jack watched me curiously — I had merely stated my intention and asked no advice. I suppose he concluded that, doing such an unusual thing — for me — as to steal another person's property, I must be acting in the only way I could act. Thursday, September 10, 1908. Jack says he never shall know just what did happen when we attempted to get away from Meringe Lagoon — or, at least, the cause of what happened. The yacht was floated at 3 a. m., and lay at her largest anchor, which was properly provided with a tripping-line to make sure it could not foul. At eight, when we began heaving, the thing would not hoist, and, at the same time, seemed to be dragging, as if it had got caught under a cable. The boat with her skating hook was drifting fast toward a ledge of inshore reef, and our friends on the beach began to look anxious. The anchor still failing to break out, still dragging, we hove until we parted the big main hawser and the tripping line. "Find it, and you can have it!" Jack shouted shoreward, once he was clear of entanglement. Fortunately we were not really crippled by the loss, as it was an emergency anchor, say for on a lee shore in a blow ; but we were sorry to let it go. There was a heavy cross-sea outside, which, with the brisk easterly wind, made every soul of us sick except Henry, who, like Herrmann of old, is blessedly immune. We have logged no less than a steady seven knots all day in the adverse sea, and figure, at this clip, to see Lua-Nua (Lord Howe) early to-morrow forenoon — one hundred and fifty miles north of Meringe. We parted with some of our stores to Mr. Schroeder, as the non-arrival of the Minota, by way of Gubutu, has left him short ; and to-day Nakata, Creeping about after a tuSsle with 432 THE LOG OF THE SNARK fever, announced with concerned and puckered visage that we had kept no flour for ourselves. Martin exploded "Im possible!" But his search of the snug forepeak was fruit less — or flourless. However, toward night, when we all began to sit up and feel hollow, our stout pilot bread was as satisfy ing, we thought, as Nakata 's hot soda-biscuits that we didn't get. The weather is very smoky, and we are wondering if it betokens a trade gale. September 11, 1908. Wind dropped, and, to make sure of port to-day, the engine went to work at nine and a half knots, acting the best it ever has yet. Jack roughly calculated our distance from Lua-Nua at 6 a. m. to be twenty miles. Everybody felt better, and Nakata 's fever had burned out. He was even chirpy enough mildly to criticise some of Wada's galley practices, the while he whipped batter for shrimp fritters. The island failed to show at the anticipated time, but the sky was clear enough for Jack to take a morning sight. Then, alas, when he came to work it out, he found he had left at Pennduffryn the corrected tables he had so laboriously made up. Hence, also out of practice these many weeks, he was forced to dig his results the hardest way. And such results ! According to them we have sailed right over Lord Howe, and no explanation can be deduced for being so out of our course. We beguiled ourselves with Peggy, who was very dull yes terday — probably seasick. In spite of our declaration never to risk pets on so small a boat, we now find ourselves with this fragile-boned creature, and a still more fragile feathered one, a white cockatoo with strawberry-pink crest and round dilating yellow-and-black eyes, which Martin mutinously brought from Tulagi. As its wings have been abbreviated, it is in as much peril about the ship as is Peggy — more, for it cannot get out of the way so quickly with its two legs. Peggy is jealous of the cockatoo, and droops dispiritedly when she hears our gales of laughter at the canny bird's THE LOG OF THE SNARK 433 pranks. When he cannot get what he wants, after storming up and down the deck and ruffling his indignant feathers he changes tactics, climbs up our wincing arms, lays his flat tening crest against our ears, and caresses and wheedles in the most ingratiating upward inflection : "Hello ! Cock-ee / Cock-ee / " Something seems to tell Peggy that she will be hurt if she tampers with the sharp-nosed beak or prickly toes; and something also warns her that any annihilating rush at the despised biped would be an infringement of our property rights. Peggy is taught more from within than without. — Which reminds me that to-day, in five minutes, she learned to "speak," and in the same five minutes grasped that she must speak like a lady, "ever gentle, soft, and low," and not like wild-dog puppies from the unregenerate and vulgar bush. To carry chicken bones to the painted covering-board, whence they must not be worried off to the white-scoured deck planking, will require two lessons — not because she fails to compass the idea, but because, with a ravenous grow ing-appetite, she forgets in her eagerness. And she does apologise so generously with her snuggling black velvet muzzle and great speaking eyes, the while she wags the un lovely rag on her violated tail. It was a strange sweet evening we spent on deck, in our puzzling frame of mind, the softly piled clouds, lighted by a drifting moon, casting white reflections in the dark grey sea. Jack hove the yacht to (she handles "like a witch" with her clean hull), and lay on his side on a cot, with the blissful puppy curled in the hollow of his arm ; and Martin, tired from hours in the engine room, and feverish in addition, flattened out on a deck mattress, with the cockatoo, head-under-wing, on his chest. I nestled under the light covers of a cot beneath the awning, and hummed Hawaiian airs to my thrumming ukulele, until the men all were breathing deep, except Tehei who had taken Martin 's watch. 434 THE LOG OF THE SNARK September 12, 1908. Did ever a yacht's company spend such a day? Land there should have been, and land there was none. It is the season of especially unsettled weather, even for the Solomons, wherein the southeast trade changes to the northwest mon soon, and everything is topsy-turvy. Jack got a most unsat isfactory observation, which again attested that we had fabu lously sailed over the dry land and shallow waters of an enor mous atoll. Our patent log seems to be in perfect condition, and we can only wonder if the chronometer is out of order. Martin, who has been with the Snark continuously siiice we left Pennduffryn on the Minota, swears by his budding beard that he has never neglected the daily winding. Can the equa torial current be setting us off our course ? With the worry of this unaccountable situation, with fever threatening, and a new crop of small sores eating into his nerves, I don't see how my husband can be so merry — except that he relishes a set-to with adventure and the unknown. On top of everything, he inadvertently got a bad sunburning on his back, while reading at the wheel in a net singlet, and I have been soaping it at intervals, which has drawn the heat and brought great relief. Martin tried to run the engine, collapsed, and had to lay up. Peggy sustained a fall which would have been a header if she hadn't curved and landed on the end of her outraged appendage, to an accompaniment of piercing shrieks which Cockee accurately duplicated. As if the general at mosphere were too surcharged for any thinking bird, the cockatoo has muttered and stuttered and nearly burst himself the livelong day, trying to say something besides "Hello, Cock-ee/" Once, when Jack had persistently replaced the spoon in his tea (of which Cockee is inordinately fond), after the bird had removed it repeatedly with great pains and was ever about to sip, there was no mistaking the fervid swear- tone that filled his throat, although no words could he muster. I took the second dog-watch for Martin, and enjoyed once again the two hours of solitude in a black and unstable world. THE LOG OF THE SNARK 435 It was squally, with a rough sea. Full many a month it is since I have stood a watch, and my only steering has been when making entrances and departures. September 13, 1908. There has been very little of the conventionally enjoyable in to-day's programme. As if there weren't novelty enough, we three white ones have been deathly sick the forepart of the day, undoubtedly poisoned from tinned cabbage, although we had hardly swallowed any of it before deciding it was "off." Weather variable, with a mean, seasicky swell. Jack se cured three sights, seven o'clock, nine, and ten, but no noon observation to follow; nor could he obtain any latitude yes terday. He is trying to hold his weatherly position — to the east — beating to wind 'ard under short canvas and heaving to at night, until such time as he can secure a good sun- or star- observation in order to find his latitude. This determined, he will head by log to the latitude of Lord Howe, and run both that latitude and the island down together to the west ward. We humorously think of ourselves as in one of "the outermost pits of the sea," where sun and stars and all sta bilities have deserted us. Once, to-day, we saw an ominous black cloud, while under it a waterspout formed and spiralled — the first I ever witnessed. . . . 'Tis the twitching hour of midnight, when tired wives yawn ; and I have just watched Jack fall uneasily asleep in a copious sweat, after a raving period of intolerable fever- burning. The blast of fever struck him after supper, just as we vociferously won to victory over Martin in a rubber of dummy whist. Our vanquished opponent, who was suffering the tortures of the unredeemed with corroding bluestone on his shin-sores, and had preceded the playing by wiping up the cabin floor with his writhing person in the first agonies of the fearful application, lost his temper at our noisy victory. 436 THE LOG OF THE SNARK This being the only time since the Snark' s keel was laid that we had ever seen our blond friend's temper disturbed, I think it must have been the shock that overthrew Jack's equi librium ! With the exception of the man on watch, I am the only one ,, awake, and I am very much awake. This is a commonplace of my life — to be in a state of luminous consciousness in the dark hours, while all else is normally reposing. But every thing becomes commonplace where there is no standard of commonplaceness. Consider us here, aimlessly adrift in a black and starless world of water above and below, the land of our objective sunk beneath the sea for aught we can dis prove, calmly going about our work-a-day business quite as if we weren't lost. . . . Jack is sleeping with one eye half open, and I wish he would either close it or wake up, he looks so ghastly. The past two weeks have been very wearing on him — the responsi bility of the ship careened on that risky incline, the loss of rest, and the shocks of fever. But he takes his attacks easier than do I, for at their height his mind wanders, and in the easement of temperature he falls asleep, and so misses the conscious nerve-suffering that I endure because I cannot go out of my head. September 14, 1908. The first I heard through the skylight (it had been too wet to sleep on deck) was an inexcusable punning exclamation from Martin: "Lord! Howe did we miss that island!" And that was but the forerunner of similar combinations, which I leave to any imagination foolish enough to dwell upon their possibilities. Even poor little Nakata, moaning and turning in violent malaria, while we steamed and grilled him in the hot cabin, gave forth little cackles in his conscious moments at our brilliant competition (American humour is an open book to Nakata), and finally poked a scarlet face from a blanket scarce as red, and finished us all with a trembly: THE LOG OF THE SNARK 437 "Lord! Howe I wish there was no fever in the Solomon Islands — don't I?" and then wept at his own quip, from sheer nerve-rack and weakness. Yes— and what a pity that so wonderful a space of great islands, so rich in promise, should be so variously unhealth- ful. But never mind — such things are beaten out slowly — the day will come when, along with the wondrous savannahs on Guadalcanal, all these lands will be brought under scien tific cultivation and control, the striped mosquito that is the author of so much suffering and disability shall be destroyed, there shall be no devastating ulcer-poisoning and filthy flies to carry it to flesh that is no longer unantisepticised — a time when the islands will lie blossoming under the light of ap plied knowledge, and disease and unnecessary death shall be no more. As we of to-day cannot gaze upon this certain reality of the future, it is good to see it in the mind's eye. Rain, rain, rain; and the barometer rises and falls as if indicating the insanity of the universe. There is no sun to dry out above and below, and we must endure, with what fortitude we may, the encroaching mouldiness and staleness and stuffiness of our quarters. I peer into lockers, fingering the wax-paper wrappings of my perishable clothing to see if they are intact, for these are disastrous conditions for silk- stuffs and gold threads, and the very atmosphere implants indelible rust-spots in linen and cotton. Tehei cooked to-day, and Martin was barely able to help with the dishes ; while Jack, in his stateroom, hot and sealed against the torrential downpour, added new items to his "Amateur M.D." There was no chance for a noon sight, and a late partial observation proved of little value. Coming below to put away his sextant, he smiled brightly at me and said: "The most remarkable thing about our whole remarkable situation, Mate Woman, is the way you, most sensitive of women, nearly transparent from lack of sleep, go about doing anything and everything, and actually enjoying it all. The jnore I see of you, the more I marvel at you. ' ' 438 THE LOG OF THE SNARK I was really taken aback, with surprise as well as pleasure, for it hadn't occurred to me that I might be otherwise than happy -hearted, despite tiredness and the unresting gnaw of two small sores that have taken hold on my instep. I am happy ; I am having a good time — the time of times ; for I am doing what I want to do, in the company I crave, with "life and love to spare, ' ' and too absorbed in the potentialities of being to be more than superficially arrested by the flip of little irks or fears. Believe me — there's been more vital snap of interest in the few hours of waging war with Jack's fever yesterday and Nakata 's to-day, than in a month of placid existence in well regulated conditions. And then, think of coming up for a breath of squally air, and taking a turn barefoot along the streaming deck, wondering the while if it has settled down for weeks of rain, or how near we can come to missing Roncador Reef to the south (called The Snorer, and 18 miles in circumference) , or if we may drift far enough south and east to encounter Bradley Reef — both deep-sea banes of mariners — or how many other reefs there may be that are uncharted. Happy ? I never was so happy in my life, take it all round, nor with more reason. Jack says we are " . . those fools who could not rest In the dull earth we left behind, But burned with passion for the West And drank strange frenzy from its wind." September 15, 1908. Driven out at six by the insufferable stickiness, I found Jack at the wheel all glowing in a deep red sunrise, with Martin and Nakata laid out completely, while Tehei puffed and perspired in the suffocating galley, and went about the cabin work. "My Lord, Howe bluff you look in that good sun!" I ven tured to Jack, who came back at me gaily, nodding to the tragic spectacle on deck: "With our sick beneath the awnings On the road to . . where?" THE LOG OF THE SNARK 439 "Don't know, and don't care," expressed my feelings, for I had slept well, if briefly, and the sun was drying and cheer ful, if hot. Jack was able to get morning sights, but noon was cloudy and he failed of his latitude. Martin 's illnesses are of an exclusive sort — unlike the com mon fever. I can't make it out. He absolutely declines to admit that he has fever, and will take no quinine, and as a matter of fact, I cannot see that he is especially feverish. He is up and down, supine for hours, then recuperates and sails into a whist-game with dash and ambition. It may be that he is subtly poisoned by the chain of bandaged ulcers on the lean blades of his shins. When other interests flag, there are always the cockroaches. I go on still hunts for them, whopping the daring ones that scout from the overhead sliding boxes in the cabin, and occa sionally taking down those same boxes and raiding the shell- baclied pests that have grown too large to scout, and which finally die imprisoned. But no cockroaches on the Snark approach in size the enormous night-frights we had on the Minota, when they debouched in myriads in the dark and spread wings at being disturbed. Ours do not seem to have developed wings ; but they have teeth, and steal nibbles at our toes while we sleep. . . . There is more than a vague depression among us this evening, in spite of Tehei 's nice supper, an exciting rubber of whist and my efforts on the "baby guitar" to 'liven things up. "The hospital ship Snark," Jack summed it up, and there was a little catch in his voice, for on my bunk lay Peggy the Beloved, pulling at our heartstrings in her pain, one leg apparently useless from a fall through the skylight into my room — the eager child could not wait to go around ; and on a cushion in Martin's bed a limp cockatoo that has grown strangely dear, with his affection and intelligence and his sense of humour, breathes with difficulty and half -closed, filmy eyes. Tehei, with a dozen things to do at dinner time, rushed to drop the skylight in a sharp rainsquall, and shut it on the 440 THE LOG OF THE SNARK napping bird roosting under the edge. The frail frame of him seems to be crushed, but we want to give him every chance. Just now we feel guilty that we ever broke our rule about pets on the voyage. Tehei has been touched by the over-animal consciousness displayed by Peggy and the bird, and shakes his head again and again, with his sweet Polynesian smile: "No dog — no fowl — I no can say. They got somet'ing in here, and here, like you, like me, ' ' tapping his breast and fore head. These two denizens of earth and air have met with and grown to us with all there is in them of common likeness of entity. We are hove to "under a bright and starry sky," but there is no sight nor sound of land. Wednesday, September 16, 1908. This is my day to feel dumpy and dull, with neuralgia in the head to enliven the dulness. But Martin, Nakata, Peggy and Cockee have brightened, and Tehei is glad to return to deck duty. Henry replenished the board with a baby shark and a fine bonita. The heat of the clear day calls to mind that we are nearer the Equator by a presumable two degrees or so — although Jack declared in the morning that he might be several degrees north of the Line for all he knew ! But he was able to take a perfect noon observation, and steered for the latitude of Lord Howe. At six in the afternoon, he told us he figured we were about seventeen miles from the island. September 17, 1908. This afternoon the engine was set going, and, with perfect trade-wind weather assisting, we surged due south. The sea was like dark-blue crinkled satin, and sun and wind freshened the boat and all on it with new life. I climbed up on a shroud and let the flowing liquid breeze blow through me as it seemed, and was possessed with an enchanted sense of detachment and THE LOG OF THE SNARK 441 the illimitability of the cloud-land and the world of water. Solid land does not exist in such exaltations. Henry and Tehei, as the sunset wore, kept insisting that we were near land — perhaps they smelled it unconsciously ; and we were taking one last sweep of the waving purple horizon, when Tehei, who had gone aloft, screamed like a child : "Lan' ho!" We could not see it from the deck, but Henry climbed up and verified the glorious find, while Jack noted the bearings, west by south, one-half south. The grand little Snark hove to beautifully, even working to wind 'ard a little under stay sail, jib, and mizzen. Jack glowed at the excellent per formance— " The old girl— eh?" Our immediate joy was short-lived, and a small but real grief fell upon us all. The lovable cockatoo, who had rallied in the forenoon, had been wilting perceptibly, and it was plain that the only kindness would be to end his misery. But who was to do it ? Martin, whose bird he was, backed down with a sick face; Tehei begged off, with tears; Nakata said, "I'd rather not," and Jack, with misty eyes looking at the poor thing caressing his hand with its gentle crest, said to Henry : "I'll do it, Henry, if no one else will, because it must be done ; but how do you feel about it ? " Henry, grave and concerned, came up nobly : "I no like, Mr. London. . . . But I do for you. Give here." The last sound our pretty white pet ever uttered was when I took his broken body for a moment and laid it against my neck. "Cock-ee," he said in the shadow of his sweet and whee dling tone that ended in a little rasp. — Just a wisp of sentient down, he was, with a modicum of plucky spirit ; but he left his mark on us all, and we separated very quietly and mourn fully for the night. 442 THE LOG OF THE SNARK „- Lua-Nua (Lord Howe, or Ongtong Java Atoll), Friday, September 18, 1908. Not only are we rocking at anchor after eight days in an apparently chartless void, but we are encompassed by our first atoll, albeit this rosy coral ring is so big we cannot see the far low side of it. A one hundred and fifty mile hoop gives a brave diameter. Hove to, we drifted S.S.W. during the night, at five o 'clock set sail north, and shortly sighted land again, three miles to west 'ard. But just when a good position had been attained for the reef opening, a succession of squalls overtook us, and we dared not risk an entrance that could not be seen; so Jack hove to the obedient little ship until the watery swift tempest abated, when he put me at the wheel, Martin at the engine, and Henry aloft, and we raced through the swirling passage into the choppy sea of a fresh squall. From outside we had glimpsed two white cutters across the line of reef, but the first craft to reach us was a welcome outrigger canoe, the sight of which filled our cannibal-cau tious souls with sense of rest and security ; while Henry and Tehei gurgled and glowed with delight and anticipation, eager from their hearts to find if they and the gentle-faced, tattooed strangers (who, by the way, were of much smaller stature) could speak a common tongue. They could, al though with various garnishments borrowed from their own slight strain from the southerly ; and we white ones met them with beche de mer and our mild mixture of Polynesian patois — while Nakata 's language, all his own combination, was entirely adequate. As soon as we looked into the inquisitive but friendly faces of the three paddlers, came the realisation how little affection we had learned for the western breeds — our feeling for the people of Melanesia was one of fascinated interest, but developed no ties such as now pulled when these dusky men of Lua-Nua clambered over-rail. One, a benevo lent middle-aged fellow with a tuft of curly hair over each ear and a straggling beard touched with grey, seemed to be a personage. THE LOG OF THE SNARK 443 ' ' How do ? — Me fella Bob. I pilot— I take you Lua-Nua— right 0. I like you — any amount. ' ' "Any amount" is a favourite expression of old Bob's, and it is infinitely entertaining to hear his musical husky voice saying, "My word!" "Right 0!" and other exclamations gleaned from English and Australian traders. Old Bob 's two companions took our breath away with their beauty — princes of youth, heads a-toss with sun-touched ringlets, eyes sweet and long-lashed, and mouths fine and small, curling lovably over white small teeth. Bob, after the exchange of greetings, became very im portant in his role of pilot, and, with austere face and solemn arm-weavings in the mist, warded off the rain; the young princes the while reciting measures of warning incanta tion to the gods of ill weather. We were thus poetically guided to an anchorage near the village, which lies snug under beautiful tufted palms. These people are in one respect like the bird family. Their beauty is mostly vested in the males. When we came to observe the girls and women, there was no comparison, and they were still further set at disadvantage by cropped skulls, one of several un-pretty Melanesian customs that have crept in. Harold Markham, trader for the Company, a husky sailor- built blond Australian, had started out in his cutter through a smaller passage, but lost us in the wet gusts that blotted out everything. He now followed in the way we had come, and, among other things, recounted how the big schooner Malakula, on her last trip, entirely missed the opening and had to enter forty miles away, at the next entrance. Markham took us ashore, where, in his neat high-pillared house, the first notable incident was the meeting of Peggy with a good-humoured, lumbering, white bull-pup. Our patently inadequate terrier advanced stalkingly on thin, stiff- stilted legs, her back ruffed like a wild boar's, and when the unsuspecting bull tipped her over at the first friendly on slaught, she came up in a still frenzy of outraged dignity, 444 THE LOG OF THE SNARK lips tight-snarled, and stood over the abject flattened white- jelly puppy with blood-curdling growls of menace. "The big bull has no chance altogether," chuckled Markham. Next, we met the lady of his choice of Lua-Nuans, a healthy, beaming bronze girl of seventeen or so, of whom he is un affectedly proud and fond. He explained frankly the un- faceable loneliness of a life like his, at the ends of the earth, and how happy "I and my wife" are together; planned trips with her to other islands in leaves of absence ; and, dropping into her vernacular for a moment, accompanying his words with free pantomime, he laughingly translated her pleased exclamations over the pretties he was promising. It did give me a queer little start, though, when, with the most un embarrassed air in the world, he told how he had paid ten gold sovereigns to the parents for their daughter, who, he added with utmost childlike pride, was of high degree. "An' she's a sight better off with me — right as rain," he confided. ' ' You '11 soon notice she 's entirely deaf in one ear, an' the other side nearly so. The vahines would plague her, but as my wife she's protected from all that — my word! I should say so. — Also, a woman that can't hear don't talk one to death, and she can't squabble with the other vahines, either. — An' she don't take to clothes at all," he went on, with charming naivete. "All she wants is a new fathom of gay calico an' a change of beads ... an' soap: she's daffy over soap. Whenever I don't see her around, I only need look under the shower I fixed outside there on the veranda, an' she's there latherin' herself from head to foot." The modest young matron, with not a stitch above the waist and only a scarlet-patterned pareu below, smiled con tentedly and affectionately at her lord, as his gestures told her the matter of his monologue. The whole spirit of the situation was so clean, orderly, and natural, that I decided I was having the oddest, maddest, merriest time of all our "Snarking" in the unswept corners of earth, and planned no end of good fun with the girl when THE LOG OF THE SNARK 445 I could get her aboard to surprise her bright eyes with gar ments such as she had never seen, and, perhaps, dress her up as one would a new doll. There is no danger of bankrupting Markham by my foolishness, because I find these primitive minds grasp but a bit at a time, and are shocked into only the briefest interest in things complicated. I would back the speed of Peggy's reasoning against that of a large per centage of these natives. And, if a dog's logic reaches its limit at a given period, so does the savage 's. One thing more than reconciles me to my inability to adopt Fakamam — they tell me that the average maid of Melanesia reaches her apogee of mental development somewhere along in her mid-teens, and is a burden thereafter. The third and last member of Markham 's household is a mild-faced Solomon Island cook, who, despite his deceptive weak prettiness, is deservedly serving an aggregation of sen tences that cover eight years, for murders, escapes in hand cuffs, thefts of whaleboats — a history of bloodcurdling crimes and reprisals too long to go in here, but which so tickles Jack's fancy that he intends making a short story of it, to be called "Mauki," and including it in his collection South Sea Tales. There was quite a gathering around the tiny compound when we came out for a walk, gracefully formed, gracefully moving men and women, and a tumble of cherubic kiddies. Among them we saw two or three albinos. They were rather weird and ghastly — white human beings on the face of it, and yet not white. Their eyes were not pink, but very faded, and their pinky-white skins blotched with light freckles. The hair was almost white. We found there were two villages instead of one, at some little distance apart. No maiden may cross from her village to the other, except to marry ; and it is compulsory to wed men of the opposite community. Even with this precaution fairly close inbreeding must obtain, for there are but five thousand inhabitants on the entire coral circle. It was sheer bliss to pad along the soft pathways under 446 THE LOG OF THE SNARK thick palms, all in a green-golden atmosphere, and be accosted courteously and unaffectedly by a beautiful race with whom smiles are currency and love the password. Into the lofty gloom of the king's house we were ushered, and there pre sented with grave pomp to a man who lost none of his magnif icence because he was not great of stature. Henry and Tehei, six feet in bare soles, seemed gentle giants loom ing in the cocoanut-scented twilit spaces. A small fire burned in the centre, sending up an aromatic smoke. The rest of the large floor was covered with coarse, clean mats. while finer ones were laid for us by the hands of the king's two wives. Children flitted about, lovely curly-pated cupids. We duly submitted our offering of tobacco, with bead neck lets and bracelets for the ' ' queens, ' ' and in true Polynesian spirit a return was ready to hand — a shark's jaws, with row upon row of jagged teeth. As our eyes grew accustomed to the half-light, the beauty of the king shone out more and more ; and in the corners and mid-distances of the interior, groups were disposed, leaning, crouching, sitting, standing, in lovely unconscious composi tions, while the doorways framed sweet faces with tumbled curls that were touched with the gilt of afternoon sunlight. The forms seemed perfect, with skins of satin, unhidden save for small loincloths, and the men moved like actors, deliber ately, unhurriedly, with calm, sure eyes in which there was no boldness. The colour of their tattooed skins is variously bronze and copper, but many rub in a yellow oil with a certain leaf that turns them a greenish hue which is less unpleasant than curious — like the mellow greening that copper and bronze attain. On returning to the yacht, we found Bob had already drummed up trade for us, and before the blue and silver sunset I had filled a large fine-woven basket-bag, the gift of Mr. Caulfeild, with turtle ornaments, string upon string of "money," and wide girdles made of "money," both shell and cocoanut wood, and an assortment of shells, the most impor tant ones being two "orange-cowries" of splendid colour, THE LOG OF THE SNARK 447 rare and much coveted by collectors, who pay for them in Sydney five pounds a pair. There were little tiaras of shark- teeth, with tie-strings of sennit, and, to Jack's delight, some fine specimens of whale-teeth. The fans submitted were exactly like those in Samoa. "Man-fowl and woman-fowl he stop," Bob introduced the chickens, a man-fowl bringing about eight and a half cents to its owner, and the woman-fowl a little more, what of her capacity for "pickaninny he stop along woman-fowl too much." September 19, 1908. Jack says "Lucky we were not at sea last night," for it blew worse than any time in the Snark' s history. It was quite rough enough inside, and one of the blackest nights in our experience. The sky seemed to press down. But it was not so black in the early evening as Martin adjudged. He came up from the lighted cabin and gazed overside. "My! I never saw it so black!" he said. Jack and I, who were al ready on deck and our eyes better focused, began to laugh, for within six inches of Martin's face hung a pair of heavy blue-flannel bloomers of mine, winter wear put out to air. Our men-fowl crowed me awake before five, and a rainy forenoon was not specially inspiriting. But the pleasant, eager traders 'livened things, and I became possessed of three new clam-pearls. Jack turned some small iron puzzles over to the visitors, who were like a lot of holiday children, bobbing their ringlets and crying over and over : "Ah Tie he! Ah he he! Ah he he !" "Wow-ow-ow! Wow-ow^ow!" and laugh ing heartily with me at my amusement. The Tongan Wesleyan missionary, Mr. Nau, with his wife and daughter, and his Tongan associate, Mr. Bolgar, paid us a call — big, gracious Polynesian love people, all of them, with whom Henry and Tehei were overjoyed to talk. Tehei has been under the weather all day with headache, but we cannot discover any fever. Peggy, still uncertain on her off hind-leg, took another fall, 448 THE LOG OF THE SNARK and lamed the nigh fore-leg, so that she is neither seaman like nor silent in her meanderings. But meander she will, as long as any brown-skinned human stranger is aboard her ship, although she seems to divine the difference, undoubtedly from her association with our two Polynesians, between the Lua-Nuans and the burly, Semitic-faced Solomons. Jack is a bit shaky with fever, and a peculiar swelling has appeared in his hands, the sensation being similar to chilblains. It hurts him to close them, and the skin peels off in patches, with other skins readily forming and peeling underneath. I do not believe his nervous system was ever made to thrive in the tropics. . . . Just now, as I write in bed, there came a fluttering of wings, distinct through the ripping of thunder, against the ventilator, and Jack, roused out of his first drowse, dropped from his bunk and went up in the rain expecting to find a bat. Instead, his hands encountered a white bird that had stunned itself on the rigging. He straightened it out, and it presently flew away. When Jack came down again, he put a damp and towelled head through our tiny doorway and blinked smiling at me : "It's a royal life we lead, isn't it? There's nothing in the world to equal it!" September 20, 1908. Tehei has fever at last, and is very languidly and pallidly interested in himself and his symptoms, with a sweet smile watching Nakata pull together and return to the galley. It is now three weeks since my last attack; and Jack's threatening state yesterday proved only a slight cold. Markham brought his lady-love aboard, and I dressed her up in stays and lingerie and an evening gown and sent her on deck, to the huge entertainment of the men. But it was as I thought — beyond the gift of some scented toilet soap, a string of beads, and a gay pareu, she was not at all covetous — although I have a suspicion that steady association with a certain huge powder-puff would tempt her. THE LOG OF THE SNARK 449 Ashore in the afternoon, we were treated to a big dance, called "sing-sing." The women hula'd in dresses of grass and leaves and gay calico, and a bevy of naked girl-babies mingled, dancing amorously with unwitting faces, tiny point-fingered hands on swaying hips, while King Kepea and his councillors watched us to see how we took it; for they seem to have gathered a notion, probably from the enlightened Tongans, that the hula is not a white man's dance. One cross-eyed infant, girdled in flowers, danced herself into a frenzy of contortions of body and plump limbs, until her mother caught her up amidst shrieks of laughter from every body, and held her kicking on high. The incongruity of actions among these simple folk (who are far more comely and gracious than the general run of one's white acquaintances), when they become absorbed in trivial and childish affairs, is rather rude on one's imagina tion. We had brought a half sack of sweet potatoes for His Majesty, and a big square tin of assorted "lollies," and the handsome chief kept a keen and frequent-dropping eye and hand on these treasures — as did some of his court who sat around on hand-wrought four-legged stools of hard wood. And /had my eye on the king's seat, which was the best of the lot, and which I intended to possess sooner or later. The dignified and graceful acceptance by the lofty-miened prime ministers (Bob among them), of a single potato or a sticky handful of lollies, sorely tried our gravity. Some inimitable young prince, flaunting his love-locks in the sun, made bash ful eyes at us behind a slanting palm, until he was beckoned to come up and receive a fistful of the garish-coloured dainties — at which a coquettish hoyden swayed close to him from a dance figure, snatched his prize and broke into a run, he after her, and both laughing shrilly. There were practically no dances new to us, even the "jumping widows" of Taiohae being represented by various vahines who bumped stiffly up and down in the midst of a weaving circle. Old Bob was general of affairs, and fearfully important. When the entertainment waned, he called our attention to a 450 THE LOG OF THE SNARK half dozen fowls lying bound beside the king, who looked uneasy, as if he were afraid we might depart before he could get something off his mind. And then his high Majesty majestically suggested that we buy his six "woman-fowl"! The descent from sublime to ridiculous was so abrupt that Jack and I stood open-mouthed for an instant, and Martin made an actual shy away from the august presence. "Well, what do you know about that!" he breathed — "well — I'm a son of a seacook!" (Martin's words often contain the spirit if not the sound of his emotions. ) Oh, we bought the chickens, never fear; and as the ele gancies of our language are not understood here, Jack's genial and respectful "Good-bye, you old robber!" and my "Fare well, you magnificent skinflint ! ' ' carried nothing but pleasure and sense of well-being to the soul of the sovereign. Henry looked aghast at our temerity; but as nothing fell from heaven, and as not even the astute Bob suspieioned the mock homage, our big Rapa Islander smiled his whimsical three- cornered smile and chuckled all the way to the beach. Henry hasn't spent most of his years on white men's boats without learning a bit of their humour. He was about to toss me over his great shoulder (he has relegated to himself the duty of passing "Missis" high and dry from beach to boat and vice versa), when a hubbub arose ashore, and there was an exodus of the crowd across the belt of land. Something was up, and we joined the rush, praying against hope that we might be about to witness the drawing ashore of a lost canoe drifted from some far palmy isle. This drift peopled Lord Howe and Tasman, Bellona and Rennel, and at long intervals, still other canoes are east up. Sometimes the voyagers are all dead — we are possessed of several spears from such a funeral canoe that was once washed on the reef. But think, of the meeting when the strays from fabled lands are still breathing, and are welcomed and resuscitated by their saviours ! It was not to be that we should gaze upon such a scene ; far from it, what we saw was a steamer plying slowly outside the reef toward an opening farther west, and Markham told us it was THE LOG OF THE SNARK 451 the Sumatra — smallest of the North German Lloyd fleet, which makes more or less regular trips among the German islands for copra and to bring stores ; and he said we would take a run down to her in the cutter to-morrow, with our mail, as she does not like to come to the shallower waters at this end. On our walk to-day, we found the breadth of this coral band to be not more than three hundred yards at the widest, and could realise how easy it must have been for the first white men who came here to subjugate the natives. Although in the main descendants of a purely Polynesian drift from the eastward, they had a leaven from an occasional Melanesian contribution in the season of the northwest monsoon, and were hostile to white invaders. They fought well and bravely, but learned their bloody and heartbreaking lesson, and the entire population of the atoll is as peaceable as we see them here. The story of their trimming by the "inevi table white man" is so stirring that Jack will add it also to his collection, calling it "Yah! Yah! Yah !" which was the gleeful slogan of one of the reckless white mariners who took an important hand in the trimming. Owing to bad weather, we had not been tempted much inshore since our arrival, and now took occasion to examine the Lua-Nua cemetery — the most remarkable thing in its way that we have ever come across — itself worth a voyage to this great atoll, which, in spite of contiguity and control, belongs to the Solomons neither geographically nor ethno- logically. This burial ground, wandering along for some distance, is really very beautiful, although it is hard to say exactly why, for it is comparable to nothing in the world. Through the emerald-green forest of luxuriant palms, you come upon what most nearly resembles a miniature ruined city all in white coral, tipped and decorated with rose-red pigment — a little Pompeii with painted walls and silent streets. The buildings are rows of tombstones, the graves are covered with fine white coral sand, and widows and widowers sweep these 452 THE LOG OF THE SNARK graves regularly every day for hours, over periods that en dure according to the devotion of the bereft. Once I acci dentally stepped on a square of wood lying in the way. Markham 's girl drew me aside quickly. "Make," she whis pered — the Hawaiian word for "dead." The "widowers' (and widows') houses" stand at intervals on the other side of a sort of avenue running parallel with the city of the dead, and we saw the mourners (more women than men) wrapped to the eyes in what looked to be literally sack cloth, of an ashen and dusty dimness. They answered our "alohas" with most unbecoming cheer and merriment. We passed several turtle-pools — small dark holes criss crossed with logs, in which the captives slowly grow new houses for their backs after the harvest of shell has been cruelly ripped off. In some of the homes we visited, sweet-faced vahines gave me presents — bead-necklaces and bracelets, and fans I had my own pockets and Jack's full of pretty trade articles, and made them happy in return. During the latter part of our stroll, Peggy disappeared, and I reached Markham 's house in a panic. Markham sent several natives to look for her, and they met a curly-headed youth hastening beachward with the puppy, who, when her eyes lighted on us, went into a perfectly feminine hysteria. A ship 's dog, unused to regular exercise, is very likely to run amuck when it discovers endless pathways for the chasing. September 22, 1908. At nine yesterday we started with Markham in his cutter with the impossibly huge sail and absurdly short tiller, and two leaf-chapleted sons of high men in Lua-Nua, Matukea and Tunaka — beauties, both of them, in face and form, and as stupid of wit as they were beautiful. They appeared to have no judgment whatever in handling the cutter, and Markham was obliged to watch them every minute of the thrilling traverse. No use scolding them — they only look THE LOG OF THE SNARK 453 puzzled and grieved, then smile irresistibly with a flash of teeth and dimples, and return to their singing and de claiming for fair weather. We were bound for the station Nuareber, miles away, where the Sumatra was anchored, and the cutter raced along like an ice-boat with her enormous canvas spread to the squalls. Time and again it seemed we must capsize, and Markham 's cheering assurance that there were only fish sharks in the lagoon did not make me any less desirous of keeping up on the windward rail. As we had started in the rain, I had not changed from bloomers, and merely added an oilskin and a pongee parasol for sun or rain, packing a skirt with Jack's inevitable book and magazines. There was quite a swell as we ranged alongside the black side of the steamer, and I en tertained visions of courteous Teutonic officers reaching to help the white lady aboard. A couple of Black Papuan sailors looked lazily down upon us, and made no offer to as sist. Jack prepared to board the ship in order to give me a hand up, when a door opened and two immaculate plump pink Germans looked frowningly out, then, to our amaze ment, closed the door again. "What are we to them?" Jack laughed, landing on the deck at the next rise of the cutter. "Up with you! — they took you for a boy." Markham found Captain Miileitner, and soon everything was ours, the two officers profuse with apologies, saying they had seen only the native boys in the cutter. We gave our mail to them, for the Sumatra expected to connect with an Australian steamer shortly. Of course, with our delay in reaching Lord Howe, we knew we should miss the Makambo, and now planned to take her next following trip, six weeks later. We had a capital lunch with our hosts, the captain explain ing in his broken English (not beche de mer, alas!) the various German delicacies. But the sauerkraut and noodles and Pilsener and Rhine wine needed no interpretation, and the ship was able to spare us an assortment of things for the Snark-— sausages, Camembert cheeses, sauerkraut, fruits, 454 THE LOG OF THE SNARK cakes, and toothsome potpourris of German tidbits in gay tins. We were served by slender young Chinese with refined faces and soft manners, and beautiful hands. The sailors, Black Papuan from New Britain, were blacker than any Solomon Islanders, and we could not but compare their lean, asymetrical bodies and round, knobby, sloping shoulders with our shapely cupids on the cutter. After lunch, the weather being fine, with an untroubled lagoon, Captain Miileitner announced that he wanted to see the Snark and would take us back. Jack was glad of this, especially as he was very anxious to rate our chronometer. But our scheme failed early, all because of the inability of those love-children in the towing cutter to steer after the Sumatra's stern. The cutter capsized, and was dragged under, coming up and submerging repeatedly before the steamer could be stopped. One of the Lua-Nuans went free after the first immersion ; but the other, as if from sheer inability to let go, hung on to the stern and came up blowing prodigiously each time. Fortunately he did release his hold before a final twist drew the dismasted cutter clear under the Sumatra's propeller. We saw everything in the clear water — the pretty hull sink and twist beneath and then float to the surface on the other side, bottom up. The boy was now astride a trade chest, with other litter around him, including my parasol, his eyes bulging with fright, while his com panion swam frantically to join him. And presently, hear ing our chorus of mirth at their panic, the pair were laughing with us between panting breaths. The loss of time occasioned by the accident was so consid erable that the captain said he would entertain us over night instead of putting us aboard the Snark, while the Sumatra went on with her business and Markham got the cutter, whose hull was intact, in shape at Nuareber. We spent a luxurious evening lounging in hammocks and big rattan chairs on the long, canopied after deck, listening to a variety of .splendid operatic records on a big phonograph. Jack slept here, along with the others ; but the captain insisted, with elaborate bows, Guadalcanal The Squall off Lord Howe A Cannibal Venice THE LOG OF THE SNARK 455 that "Frau London" occupy his stateroom, a large and handsome apartment, well stocked with firearms. Mr. Timm, chief engineer, sold us some New Britain and New Guinea curios. One was a long spear, jagged with rows of sharks '- teeth, encased in a woven sennit sheath — a very choice acqui sition. He told us stories of these wild countries that sent our thoughts far beyond the trip to Sydney, when we should return to join the Snark and fare westward again. At nine this morning, we set sail for the Snark, and it took six long hours beating to windward to cover the distance we had sped in an hour the day before in the running cutter. Monday, September 28, 1908. For a week we have lain here, just pleasuring in the life, and because we have ample time on our hands. Also, and most important, Jack has been lying in wait for observations, so that he could settle the little matter of the chronometer. He has tested it by longitude sights, and discovered it to be something like three minutes out — a very grave total error, when it is considered that each minute is equivalent to fifteen miles. By repeated observations, he rated the chronometer, finding that it had a daily losing error of seven-tenths of a second. Nearly a year ago, when we left Hawaii, the thing had the same losing error. That error was always added each day, and has not changed, according to these Lord Howe observations. So what in the name of all watch makers made our chronometer put on speed and catch up with itself three minutes ? There is no explanation, unless it was allowed to run down in our absence, and was wound and corrected by some chronometer at Tulagi. But Martin stoutly avers that nothing of the kind took place. It is very curious. Tehei, frightened by his fever, begged leave to spend a couple of days ashore to visit and pray with the Tongan mis sionaries. He came back more optimistic, but is very self- centred in the observation of symptoms. I once had a male 456 THE LOG OF THE SNARK relative-by-marriage who eternally searched for symptoms — and found them — so that he was always ill or on the verge of becoming so. Tehei reminds me of him. Jack's hands have not improved — in fact, he is sorely bothered by them — even holding a pen is uncomfortable, and a pull on a rope is positively painful. Nakata, flouting all symptoms, although he has not been entirely free from fever for some time, goes about the cook ing without complaint, and many's the delicious odour that floats out from his galley — steaming clam-meat from fluted marble shells, sizzling small-fry brought by the natives, wholesome boiling or frying taro. The people here and in the Solomons are largely tambo in respect to clam-meat, as a devil-devil resides therein. So we, who are especially fond of it, raw or cooked, have difficulty in obtaining all we want. Henry has come nobly to the rescue, with indulgent amuse ment at the superstition of the lesser breeds, and dives over side when, in the clear brine, we locate on the white bottom, sixty feet below, a desirable shell. Slowly filling his deep lungs, he leaves the rail feet-first, then, well under, turns over and swims down leisurely, as leisurely picks up the shell, and rises very slowly, in order not to change the atmos pheric pressure too abruptly, which is the cause of the ter rible "bends." He is quietly pleased over our praise, al though he knows we know he has only done half the depth of his old-time record. Henry hasn't that slightly de pressed chest for nothing. Jack and I have done a little swimming around the yacht, and the other day, while he was resting on the rail with a dripping and solicitous Peggy beside him, both watching me under water, he saw not fifteen feet below me a long shape. Then I saw it, too — only a fish-shark warranted not to bite . . . but I made my record climb up the gangway ladder. I do not feel well any of the time — am tired and listless; but a strange elation of happiness possesses me, and all's well. Every day Bob, who affectionately calls me "Mamma," THE LOG OF THE SNARK 457 and assures me I am the first white Mary who has visited this end of the island, comes out with something we want, whether tattoo-sticks pointed with sharks '-teeth, or strings of little carved-wood cups, wooden or stone poi-pounders — fine specimens from the Stone Age brought here by the canoe- drift from the high islands — or broad bead girdles of gor geous hues. And I lie on a cot under the awning and listen dreamily to the musical-husky voices and the soft lapping of little waves against our tumble-home sides, and look out across the warm blues of the lagoon to the isle-dotted pink reef, and am just . . . happy. Or at night, on deck, we watch the searchlight on shore and water, fish leaping to the illumination, screaming terri fied white birds fretting the brilliant green foliage, while weird cries and shouts rise from the villagers, and groups of naked brown forms dance singing on the gleaming sand. One evening we went fishing with Markham and his girl on the inside reef by lantern light. There had been an astounding sunset, crude blue-and-pink fanrays out of a brazen green-orange horizon band, the reef islets picked out in dead black. The swift passing of all the riot of rude colour was succeeded by a purple night-sky spangled with enormous electric stars, low-hung; and as we glided across the warm water, down out of a sudden blot of cloud shot crackling a round red ball that died through red and rose to pale nothingness ere it reached the sea. A ferine chorus of panic yells went up from the beach at the meteorite, and two scarlet-cinctured, curl-crowned amphibians in our canoe emitted queer little guttural cries and with their arms wove magic spells against devil-devils. It was a wonderful night. Great stars, reflected in the lagoon, made a strange blue light, softened by fleecy vagrant clouds that also met their reflections in the waveless water. The girl beside me caressed my tired body and limbs with the everlasting blessing of lomi-lomi, and the brown prince- things sang and laughed in undertones at their fishing. The water was so quiet that we could see by the starlight the 458 THE LOG OF THE SNARK moony gleam of the sandy bottom, broken with grey fanciful shapes of branching coral. A low groan and growl from the outer surf came across the palmy strand, but we hung mo tionless in a magic still circle swept softly by perfumed airs. . . . And to-morrow we hoist anchor for Pelau, at the other end of the atoll, thence straight north for indefinite two-score miles to a ring of reef not a seventh the size of this — Tasman, or Niumano Atoll. At sea, Lord Howe to Tasman, Friday, October 2, 1908. To the south Lord Howe has sunk beneath a waving hori zon of cobalt blue, and the dear old bowsprit is questing northward where Tasman lies but a fraction over four de grees below the fervid Line. And fervid enough it is aboard, despite a flowing breeze. On the morning of Tuesday, the 29th, we sailed for Pelau accompanied by two natives, Kelango, a nephew of Bob's, and Boonaa, the very picture of .an Abyssinian. The two put in their time on the bowsprit, guiding us among the brilliant coral patches in the rippling lagoon. King Kepea rendered a farewell largess of one hundred young drinking-cocoanuts, and that coveted four-legged "throne," which shall be my pet footstool some day in our Wolf House on Sonoma Mountain. He also sent a score of fowls, these, as we had come to learn, to be paid for. Mr. Markham came out, and the girl was a sumptuous vision, swathed in sky-blue pareu held by a wide blue- beaded band close around her bronze body under the breasts. But she was entirely put in the shade when there hove over- rail our friend Bob, who had spent good money at the store on a coarse white cotton chemise (surmounted by an em broidered frill), that reached below his lean knees. Imagine the bewhiskered, fuzz-tufted, benevolent old fellow in this outrageous rig, stiff with pride in his unimpeachable cor- THE LOG OF THE SNARK 459 rectness — and our struggle not to shout with laughter. And at the last, tarrying with us until he became separated from his canoe, he dived overside and rose waving a lean brown arm out of its embroidered puff -sleeve, before he struck for shore with a "Good-bye, my mamma! Good-bye, my friend!" Jack trusted Henry with the wheel and went below to start his story "Mauki," which has greatly stirred his imag ination. I spent most of the day fitting up our tiny state rooms with yielding depths of fine mats on the floors, others soft-folded on the bunks, and rearranging things gen erally. They are such clean comfort, these native weaves, in this melting temperature. At 5:30, with an hour of the engine, we came to rest in sixty feet of green-crystal water, and our eyes could follow the chain link by link to where the anchor hid under a dull- blue coral-hummock. Rosy rock-cod and dun fish-sharks could be clearly seen hovering in the shadows cast by sea gardens or gliding from tree to tree out of the violet glooms into opalescent sungleams and back again, and large beche de mer slugs lay like blots on the wavy white bottom. Before the natives commenced to swarm out, Mr. Bolgar (Mr. Nau and he had preceded us to Pelau) paid us a call, and more to our amusement than surprise at first, warned us against the natives, whose breeding includes a streak of Malayan as well as Melanesian. "S'pose you frien's look out along Queenslander fella," he explained. This we per fectly understood, as the presence of a "returned Queens- lander" would make us keep an eye out for at least small failings, although nothing worse in this safe environment. There is not a white face in Pelau, and we quickly com prehended the variance of the people from those at the other end. No lovely youths here — these were very like Solomon Islanders in shape and feature, although as elaborately if not as finely tattooed as any Samoan. All over their faces the patterns stray, and it makes one's flesh creep to look at heavy designs on the tender skin under their eyes, so 460 THE LOG OF THE SNARK exquisite must have been the torture of the artist's handi work. The children are well sketched on their little chests, and childless wives and the men wear irregular knicker bockers of intricate drawing. Some of them had "fella muskets" limned on their satiny torsos. Early next morning the roar of surf outside roused me, and I dived for a cool swim with Jack before breakfast, as the sharks really seemed to stay on bottom near the fish. Imagine lying face-downward on the tepid beryl floor of water, eyes open to the coral groves and lazy-shifting life of the lagoon, and trying to spy a hide-and-seek anchor at the end of a chain that partly lies in irregular lines and loose coils in the slack of the tide; or, coming up for a lung of fresh air, leisurely swimming under the beloved copper hull of your boat, and turning face-up to look at her iron keel before rising on the other side. It is all so indolent-easy. If Jack and I did everything in the tropics as moderately as we live in the water, I am beginning to believe there would be little sickness for us. A strange canoe with upright carved ends ranged along side while we were having our fresh-laid breakfast-eggs on deck, her paddlers equally strange — two Mongolian-faced men under broad Chinese hats. One of them submitted a large, perfectly round clam pearl, at which I tried not to look too possessively, for he held it at a price that would have commanded a true oyster pearl. Jack advised: "Let him wait a day or two — he'll find his mistake and come down." But he never could be convinced that it was not a proper "poe" (Tahitian for pearl), and we sailed without it, as I preferred to hoard the price against our pearl-junket ing in Torres Straits. Mr. Nau and Mr. Bolgar sent out an invitation to visit them, and under their commodious oblong roof, as we rested on thick mats, we met the royalty, King Pongavali of Pelau, and drank the good health of His Majesty and his wives and prime ministers in endless libations of tender cocoanuts. Many of the types were curious — not like the Solomons, not THE LOG OF THE SNARK 461 like anything we knew — stern visages set around with Faun- tleroy locks, faces slow to smile, their watchful black eyes lid-dropping when too closely scrutinised. Mr. Nau's sweet vahine piled in my lap several fine Samoan mats, one of them thickly fringed with vari-coloured wor sted, an especial treasure in her eyes. While we were under shelter a heavy shower cleared the oppressive air, and we walked about the green island, where I was allowed to go and come unchallenged in rickety devil-devil houses such as Jack and Martin had never seen, nor even Henry and poor weak Tehei, who could not resist coming ashore. The Pelauans are not so fastidious as the Lua-Nuans, and these devil-devil houses are noisome with a clutter of offer ings of dirt-encrusted turtle shell, native kai-kai spoons of the same shell and of mother-of-pearl, malodorous ragged garments — I saw a grimy plaid shawl — dog-skulls, sharks '- jaws, repulsive strings of fish-tails, and, under one conse crated thatch, a week-dead black cat swayed and swung and perfumed the breeze. At all times watchers squat or lie in these twilight temples — unpleasant creatures, some of them with loathly skin diseases. We picked up a few fine curios — Jack was especially elated over several adzes of petrified shell that were routed from obscurity by the ancient fathers of the tribe, wrought years before white men introduced the first iron. When we returned aboard, a large crowd saw us off, and then dispersed to sleep away the heat. Just before sunset, in what I suppose one might call the cool of the afternoon, we roused from our deck-mats and brought to light some foolish miracles to astound the gathering that paddled out to see what it could see. Some were absorbed in "tuppenny" wire puzzles until the marvelling murmurs of others called them to where stupid paper wafers spread into coloured lilies in pans of water, or Japanese flowers burst into swift blossom ing in little pots, or harmless grey lumps of clay turned into writhing snakes of fire at the touch of a match. Next day the King, being indisposed and bored, despatched a courier 462 THE LOG OF THE SNARK with request that we bring or send similar wonders for his amusement. It was too hot to leave the awnings, so we sent the things. We noticed that no reciprocal gift was forth coming. How radically different peoples in the same part of the world can be! The missionary's wife was ill, so the household did not come to dinner as arranged. Very few canoes paddled out — either we must have gleaned all the curios, or else we had nothing the population wanted. By the time we were ready to depart, our anchor chain, to say nothing of the anchor, had become so involved in the coral groves that we had to send native divers down to disen tangle them, and could watch their every movement. I steered out the narrow reef entrance under power, snapping breakers close on each hand. Jack, in addition to writing and navigating and general captaining, is studying up everything on the medical shelf relating to Tehei 's sickness, and is treating him very care fully; for blackwater fever undoubtedly it is, and black- water is no joke. What a terrible thing a death on the happy Snark would be! But we are not dwelling upon death, but life and recovery. Unfortunately, Tehei 's mind, whether conscious or wandering, works directly against our efforts. He seems sweetly determined to become an angel, and meets all cheer-provoking suggestion with patient smiles ; while all his childish-lisping talk is in the missionary nomen clature. His worship leads curiously into the channel of aitu observance. To-day I overheard him whispering; "0 God, don't kill me! 0 God, don't kill me!" But we have simply got to pull him through. Saturday, October 3, 1908. Except for making safely out of Lord Howe at three yes terday, we did not employ the engine, but sailed on in the warm-blowing afternoon, through a glorious equatorial sun set, and into a scintillating night of electric moon and stars and phosphorescent water, until, at half past ten, Martin THE LOG OF THE SNARK 463 sighted Tasman low-lying not far off. Jack hove to, but was up and down all night to be sure of holding his weather position. He looked very tired-eyed this morning, and I could see his burning, stinging hands gave him no respite. Happily, his natural curiosity is such that the study and working through even his own physical misfortunes (let alone others') nearly offset the personal pain and irk. Hence, his temper is equable, and no one else is forced to suffer unduly on his account. Under power, once near Tasman, we skirted her purling reef, all strung with deep-green wooded islets, Henry at masthead, bald and hatless under the roasting noonday sky. Martin was triumphant above all Solomon sores at the way his smooth-running masheen was "sewing" on distillate; and Tehei, deciding to live until he beheld one more frag ment of this mundane sphere, crept on deck and eased him self on to a mattress. Peggy, gallant soul, sat beside me, golden ears pricked, restless of paw, while I turned for the southeast entrance. A dun squall-curtain that had been swinging toward the opening swerved away and left fair going. "The dear old tub — I love every plank and sheet and pulley!" Jack laughed to me from the bow where he was directing my course. "This is an atoll what is," was his next call, for at last we were gliding into the fairy ring of our dreams, re stricted enough for one to realise its bounds at a circling glance. Here the water is deep, and no coral patches could we see. . Out came Mr. McNicoll, a small, hard-bitten Scotsman, ^ who holds power of life and death over the rapidly dimin ishing handful of almost pure Polynesians on this privately- owned island. He is here only temporarily, having come to help the manager, Mr. Oberg, to suppress an uprising of the natives consequent upon a scourge of dysentery intro duced by Oberg 's Black Papuan boat crew. So autocratic has Mr. McNicoll become in his long years of lording it over 464 THE LOG OF THE SNARK the dark races, and doing the thinking for their dull wits, that it never occurs to him that he cannot exercise unques tioned authority with other persons' brown boys. Hence, there were at least surprised looks on the faces of Henry and Nakata when our caller ordered them around quite as a matter of course. Henry's triangular smile took on a twist of resentment, but Nakata saw the humour, and was all polite respect and obedience to the quondam "bossing." I thought it was exceedingly funny, until the interesting char acter squarely kicked Peggy, merely because she happened to be standing between him and the mongrel he desired to kick. Peggy's tear-dimmed eyes wrung a protest from me, whereupon McNicoll was all apology for his thoughtlessness, and jokingly remarked that he fancied Peggy's tail had been bobbed "so's to make room for her on the schooner." Then he relieved his embarrassment by kicking the right dog with the threat that he'd throw a leg o' Moses at him if he didn't keep out o' way. But McNicoll was solid at heart, and displayed every con sideration, sending out fruit and vegetables to "Captain London and the Mate," bringing his sturdy, lawful native wife to see us — a stolid New Ireland woman in decent muslin wrapper — and their three-year-old son, the most beautiful child I ever saw. Other and older sons and daugh ters are being educated elsewhere. McNicoll is evidently a man keen to his responsibilities as a parent. He is full of story and anecdote, and will ever stand out in my memory, if for no other reason than that he is the first white man I ever talked with who has eaten human flesh, or, rather, ad mitted the same — albeit this one swears he did not know it was human flesh until afterward. "Man, man, I was fair blowed, I was, any amount, I tell you, by Jove!" he de claimed; then, to my question: "It was nigger meat, any ways, and . . . well, you might say it's more like pig-flesh than anything else, fine-grained, y'know ..." and he trailed off into hair-lifting tales of his years in New Guinea, New Britain, New Ireland — where the natives are blacker in THE LOG OF THE SNARK 465 body, and soul, if that be possible, than the Malaitans. A missing thumb on his left hand was torn out by a winch when he, alone, hoisted overboard sling-loads of five hun dred coolies dead from cholera, somewhere on the China coast. McNicoll has lately buried twenty-three of the inhabitants here, dead from dysentery. There remain but ninety-three natives, thirty-six of whom are women, and there are only two children in the whole community. This man verified Jack's diagnosis of Tehei 's condition, and told dreadful instances of the mortality from black- water. As to Jack's hands, he examined the peeling upon peeling that was visible, and the painful, dry, hot swelling, and said he had once had something like it, but had got over it; didn't know what it was — maybe the salt, maybe the sun, and that Jack's and his own were the only cases he had ever seen. « Niumanu, Tasman, Sunday, October 4, 1908. The rain pelted all night, and the men were driven from their deck mattresses ; but I, under a flap of canvas, stuck it out, with Peggy, who had been rudely detached from Jack's side when he was washed out, curled beside me. Peggy loves me more and more, but when night falls she hunts the shelter of Jack's arms, and, if he has to desert her, she goes to Martin, whom she has won to her in spite of himself, and who now considers her "a pretty good little yellow dog." This forenoon McNicoll placed his whaleboat, manned by magnificent Black Papuans, at our disposal for the day. He also ordered a dance, in a space among tall dense trees — the most ideally primitive and savage dance we ever watched. Men and women were clad in bushy ballet-skirts of grass and leaves and feathers, dancing angularly with quick jerks and flirts of the undulating fringes. One man was a small satyr among his wood-fellows, and as they all moved hither and thither into the twilight, fireflies wove like shuttles 466 THE LOG OF THE SNARK among them and shot in and out the dark pillars of the forest. A small, sweet, listless people are these Niumanus, soft- voiced, soft-mannered, without ambition enough to persist as a race. A wonder it is they gathered sufficient impetus to protest against the dysentery ; but it was little more than an hysterical protest against fate. The village is very picturesque, smothered in tufted, laden palms full of birds, and we saw only one devil-devil house, from the door of which a coffee-coloured little Mephisto peered. The rapidly dwindling female members of the pop ulation are the most comely we have seen in this part of the South Seas, despite their cropped skulls. What hair they have lies in tender, tawny-tipped ringlets. We did not see the pitiful remnant of Niumanu 's childhood. And the burying-place — that is even more curious than Lua-Nua 's, although quite different. The import of the relics that decorate the rickety graves was very stimulating to our white imaginations. One tomb, plastered with pink lime, bore the rusted wraith of an old musket; another, a bronze rudder-pintle, green-crusted; a group of graves bristled with bayonets corroded to mere uneven toothpicks, while rust-splintered marlinspikes and crowbars stuck up at intervals, and one lone mound boasted an almost unrecog nisable sauce-pan — indeed, here were all the copper and hardware that had been taken from two New England whale- ships that the once adventuresome people of Tasman had ' ' cut out" more than a century ago. One of these ships, the Sailing Directions says, they captured inside the lagoon, but the other they went out after in their canoes. McNicoll happened to remark that some of the older graves near the reef had been washed open by the surf. Martin departed forthwith to see if he could find a skull. He was not allowed to get away with it for nothing, however, the natives, first shocked, then covetous, considering it worth three sticks of tobacco. "Some cheap head!" Martin com mented, turning the ghastly trophy in his hands. THE LOG OF THE SNARK 467 Monday, October 5, 1908. This would have been one of our loveliest days in the tropics except for the heat that boiled our white blood. I have been frantic with prickly heat that rose in a rash, and Jack suffered greatly with his turgid hands. And I do not think our breakfast of tinned sauerkraut and frankfurters was the most approved diet for the climate! At any rate, we enjoyed an inactive day, indolently discussing the possi bility of missing the next steamer to Sydney. Fancy being so moderate that one misses sailings five weeks apart! Nakata seemed possessed with good spirits, and his vibrant Japanese lilts soared out and upward from the galley to a low accompaniment of self -pitying groans from Tehei, one of whose aberrations is that we over-persuaded him to come on the Snark. Martin was indignant, and reminded him sharply of the five different refusals Jack had given when Tehei began first to hint and then to beg to be allowed to sail with us. Jack gave the demented child a good talk- ing-to, in the hope of bracing him up, but such result is not apparent. He turns an obstinate face to the wall and says no word. Meanwhile his fever is well in hand under Jack's unremitting treatment ; but Tehei has long since decided that the only way to abate his homesickness is by way of steamer from Sydney, since there are no connections to be made from the Solomons; and gloom has settled upon bis soul. This evening, to my ukulele, Nakata and Henry danced a merry figure or two on deck in the moonlight; but Tehei stuck it out in the hot cabin and would not be beguiled. Tuesday, October 6, 1908. Early in our first sleep last night we were aroused by a low warning rumble from Peggy, and almost before we could locate the canoe, three womanish, ringleted men, with great soft eyes, were perched upon our rail, explaining that they wanted to ship on the Snark. It was all part of the recent panic — the poor things want to get away. 468 THE LOG OF THE SNARK This morning we were under way about nine, Mr. Oberg and his crew helping us break out the anchor and hoist the canvas. Jack says these blacks, although willing enough, are very awkward sailors compared with the Polynesians. There was a certain relief in getting away from this anchor age, as the reef to the west was a trifle too close for mental repose. And so we have left our first atolls — rosy garlands flung upon the sapphire sea — and are pointed for the Solomons again, which, while we do not love them, are more like home and headquarters than any other place in this wild region. Tehei is almost laughable. Without deigning to notice Jack and me, or even Henry, he languidly ordered break fast of Nakata, who offered us something very like a wink as he humoured the sick man. I think Tehei would have liked the last hen (the rest have flown overboard), but he did not have quite the courage to suggest it. The hen, by the way, a small brown person, is conducting a most scandal ous flirtation with a sleek drake that McNicoll gave us. This evening I took my watch. We are short-handed, with Tehei laid up and Wada gone. After I had turned in on my deck-cot, the squalls set in. Such rain ! Such blasts of wind ! Such sudden going-over of the hull, until the lee rail and half the launch were buried ! And such rushes to the main-sheet! Henry handles the boat well, without or ders, bringing her up into the wind and keeping the head- sails shaking just enough. He has a fine feel of a boat. Wednesday, October 7, 1908. It is one year to-day since we picked our way out among the floating islets of lilies in Hilo Harbor. I spent this forenoon on my cot, in a dead calm, trying to make up sleep. We are a little less than one hundred and fifty miles from Manning Straits. After the calm, came light airs, but only just enough for steerage-way. Martin went at the forepeak, and gave it a "turning out," THE LOG OF THE SNARK 469" aired our precious saddlery, and discovered three tins of flour, along with two dozen tins of oysters and some fine dried apples, peaches and apricots. And we saw two big dolphin — the first since before Nuka- Hiva. Thursday, October 8, 1908. So tired, so tired . . . spent forenoon in bed. But my passive illness is nothing beside the active stress of Jack's lamentable hands. Sydney is becoming very desirable, with its advice and help. Last evening I took my watch — although Jack had ar ranged otherwise. Had good weather, but the next watch was fierce with squalls from black curtains on the horizon, and the mizzen had to be lowered. The awning was taken in, and the Snark looked bared for action. We ran fast, wary of the big mainsail jibing over in the "hummers." The worst squall came from two directions almost simulta neously. There was no sleep until nearly four. We were glad to be no nearer Manning Straits, which are imperfectly charted, and treacherous with reefs and warring currents. Tehei went quite "luny," in a calm before dawn, took his best suit of clothes on deck, threw it overboard, and was preparing to follow, when Martin caught him. He evi dently desired to enter the isles of the blest in pleasant rai ment. Friday, October 9, 1908. I have heard Jack tell of the sun-dogs in the Arctic, and I surely never expected to see my first sun-dogs on a hot day under the Equator! But that is just the novelty which greeted us from this forenoon's sky — two soft blobby false suns, one on either side the true luminary. Another un usual occurrence was Henry's taking the chronometer time for Jack's morning sight. Henry has been working very faithfully of late at his navigation. 470 THE LOG OF THE SNARK Later in the day we could see the dim blue tops of Ysabel rising from the horizon to the southeast, and a tangle of islands ahead that made our senses prick with caution once more. This being Martin's birthday, we made Cupid stew (see Jack's play, Scorn of Women, for recipe) of the flirtatious brown hen, and opened a bottle of the Sumatra's Rhine wine. The Snark logged along slowly and evenly, into a lovely sun set of lavender and rose and gold, with glorious piled clouds on Ysabel's peaks, and woolly puffs dotting the horizon. Before the huge crimson sun had touched the western waves, like a pale reflection the full moon had grown in the low sky opposite, so silvery delicate that it seemed a transparent gossamer hoop through which the ineffable colours drifted and filtered. Jack hove to for the night, and while we drank in the rest ful beauty, and cooled in the evening air, the anthropomor phic Tehei, below, called upon his concept of the Deity not to kill him. Henry, his sneer almost a triangle, called down in his husky staccato : "Hey! Tehei! You killing you 'self ! God, he no Solo mon to kill you — you kill you 'self, I tell you!" I cannot reconcile this futile, febrile thing with the old Tehei. He is behaving according to his lights — of course; but methinks they are rushlights, and burn but dimly. . . . Midnight: I feel quite weak from relief. Nakata, a little less careful than usual, had eaten some salmon that was past virtue. Shortly before nine, when all were asleep, the little man became violently ill with ptomaine poisoning, and for three hours Jack and I wrestled for his life with every means at our command — and won. He is sleeping now like a tired baby. It was terrible, fighting one rigid convulsion after another, conquering, and watching the at tacks grow less frequent. Nakata 's last observation before he drifted into sleep, was: "Never I want to taste mustard again!" THE LOG OF THE SNARK 471 Saturday, Oct. 10, 1908. Blue sky, blue water, snowy surf, low woolpacks on the blue rim of the world, light breeze, mountains of Ysabel to port, and the blue velvet hills of Choiseul to starboard — and you think you have it all, a picture of peace and security. But the two hours I steered this morning, nine to eleven, through torrential currents and tide-rips that brimmed and followed and seemed ever about to roll over our stern, was one of my most exciting experiences. We saw our way largely through the eyes of Henry, aloft, who called down to Jack, forward, who in turn shouted instructions to me above the racket of engine and rushing water and impact of wind. The steering gear was stiff, and Jack told off Nakata to help me at the wheel if I found it too much for my strength. But I managed it unaided from start to finish. There is a wicked reef off Ysabel, in Man ning Straits, and the tide-rips look like surf on reef, so that I needed quite desperate nerve at times to obey orders and steer unswervingly straight for a toothed line of white water. Some day I shall learn never to question Jack's judgment, no matter how secretly, in matters of the sea. In spite of two charts, which, in addition to being frankly in adequate and unreliable, flatly contradicted each other, — in spite of phenomena that to the rest of us, even Henry, appeared convincingly disastrous, my blue-eyed sailor ex ercised his everlasting unerring judgment in this intricate maze of rock and coral, shoal and crazy current. "Oh — just my luck!" he will say; but I know better. We who sail with him are not born to be drowned ! I have observed him too much to have any doubts. My happy heart ! My brave boat ! The tonic of explor ing in uncharted places, wondering each moment if the keel will not bump on a hummock of coral in the watery, swirling plain of shallows! A few remembered words of advice and reminiscence from men who have been here, or know others who have been, is all we have to go by ; the rest is guesswork and judgment. 472 THE LOG OF THE SNARK "Watch out lively! We're going into another rip!" And I watch — meeting with all my weight on the brassy teak wheel the shock of the combing, fighting water; and then — "Mate Woman!" "Yes!" "Keep her off— keep her off!" And keep her off I do, noting Henry's warning wave as well, as he sees a coral peril near at hand. With the engine working full power, and every stitch of canvas drawing in a bright gale, we sail like mad; but the adverse current pulls so strong that, looking overside into the blue-green water, we see coral patches standing still so far as our progress is concerned. Nakata, peering over, sees, looks up at the marble-hard sails, and down again, in credulously : "Snark stand still!" But slowly, slowly, almost inch by inch, we win through, and are slashing along in gentler water, the contrary cur rents left behind, all sense of danger sloughed off in the whirling background. Henry descends and stretches him self, and recounts a tale of ripping tides where two strong men were needed at the wheel; then, three, and the vessel swung around in spite of their combined effort. Henry's imagination makes his broken English very dramatic; then he trails off with liquid ehucklings in his veiled voice, while his black eyes shine with old Paumotan memories. And through all the tumble and activity of the Straits, I am conscious of the pleasure of the keen whip of wind on bare calves and feet and the sting of spindrift on my cheeks, and, greatest of all satisfactions, the sense of doing my part, of being needed and making good in my station at the helm. ' ' Can you beat it ! " would come the laughing shout of my skipper, who waves both arms in entire forgetfulness of his painful hands. Fine mental healing, this ! We had hooked a long, slender fish on our troll line as we THE LOG OF THE SNARK 473 were negotiating a succession of rips, and the silver-blue sword was dragged from crest to crest of the creaming rollers by the combined speed of the yacht and the warring current. Not a moment before, Nakata, who was quite himself after his sickness, had broached the puzzling problem of dinner; and now, out of the chaotic passage, the little man served a delicious platter of that fish, dressed over with tomatoes and onions, and accompanied by German beer. New Georgia is visible dead ahead, and all is plain sailing. Jack has fallen into a doze, and I yearn over his face, gone tired and sick as he relaxes. And I love the gear about him, the gear of his sea avocation — the spread chart, held flat with the dividers and parallel rulers ; the binoculars, the sextant in its case, and the perpetually low-ticking chronometer. Sunday, October 11, 1908. A bad squall took us aback last night. Henry, alone at the helm, rang the bell to the engine room ; I yelled to Jack, who landed on his feet at one bound, and started through the cabin. He stumbled over Martin, who had struck the floor on all fours, while Nakata, falling upon Martin from the upper berth, was saying "Excuse me!" in mid-air. The squall nearly buried the launch on the port rail, and the wind came from every quarter, accompanied by a deafening and blinding electrical display. The main sheet and main peak halyards carried away, and things were very tense for a while. During the night the mizzen was taken in twice, and hoisted as many times. — Just a sample of night sailing in the Solomon Archipelago. Monday, October 12, 1908. Last evening, during my watch, I had the one, grisly, hair- raising scare of the Snark voyage. It was an eerie night to be alone on deck. The lightning was almost continuous, and in rocking calms between windy puffs, the intermittent rat tle and patter of loose blocks, and the whine of boom-jaws 474 THE LOG OF THE SNARK against tortured masts, were extremely uncanny. Then would burst the squalls, with the clouds spitting flame, and the sharp rat-tat of reef-points and the taut hum of the rig ging, and the unearthly swish of unseen waves, were no more soothing to my strung nerves. I am not overly timid, but for once I was not in tune with the responsibility of my post. Jack, coming up for a look around before turning in, must have sensed my distress, for he said: "This is a nasty night. I'll stay up with you." With him, I found the night very wonderful, and we amused ourselves counting the seconds between lightning flash and crack of thunder. Sometimes they were almost simultaneous, so close were the bolts. Then again, we counted several seconds. It was in a particularly long period that I received my terrifying experience. There was no breath of wind. Jack sat beside the rudder box, while I stood before him, facing aft, and rubbing his hot hands. There had been a blinding blue flash, an awful illumination, right in my face, and the moon at my back, veiled in a blue cloud, shed a ghostly gleam on Jack's upturned face. Then something seemed to be happening to us. Jack was staring horribly, and I leaned nearer, myself staring, fascinated by what I saw. It seemed that some spell was laid upon us, separating us as if all space intervened, and that we knew it, each to each, and were powerless to help ourselves. He seemed striving vainly to speak, his mouth open, and my horror- stricken eyes saw his jaw fall. I thought all the thoughts of my life, quickly, distinctly. I felt the voiceless tragedy of this ending to our exceptional life and of our existence on the Snark. I thought we were both dying, that some un learned manifestation of electricity had taken possession of us and the end had come. Then, as I gazed and strove to hold our ebbing lives together, consciousness began to wane, and with a great effort I tried to let go Jack's hand from my two, saying: "Let go! Let go!" In my half -trance, the idea persisted that we had established some sort of "circle" that was paralysing our faculties. Also, I consciously stood THE LOG OF THE SNARK 475 clear of the iron wheel and other metal in the cockpit. Then Jack spoke : "What is the matter?" I came to myself and found, with relief that was a pang, that he had merely been counting the seconds, with his mouth and eyes open, and the whole million years I had suffered were encompassed in the space of eight seconds. I was shaking all over, but my ego succeeded in gasping : "But I did behave with presence of mind, according to my lights, when I let go of your hands !" "You behaved with judgment enough, I'll admit," he joked ; "but your physics were darned bad !" I agreed with him ; but the freezing horror was still in my blood, and it was some time before it seemed to flow warmly again. The remainder of the night was fine, and we slept soundly. The engine has been chugging away all this day, but we have made few knots, what of head-sea and -wind. Every one seems fit ; even Tehei, evidently deciding, as Jack put it, that his tactics were "buying him nothing," greeted me with a smiling : ' ' Good morning, Bihaura, ' ' and ' ' Good morning, Tehei," to Jack. After which Jack haled him, gently enough, to the wheel, despite protest, and made him steer. The Snark' s course was erratic in the extreme, for Tehei was weak as a cat, and wabbled badly. But the method worked — the man was stung to interest in life and to appetite, and ate a hearty dinner. Jack let him rest well, then helped him to the wheel again. "I'll make a man of him yet," he bragged to me. It is high time we connected with Pennduffryn. Our kerosene is getting low ; we have bread for but one more day ; yeast and flour are gone; our last rice was consumed three days ago. We are pretty well down to our German tins, with their enormous duty. 476 THE LOG OF THE SNARK Pepesala, Cape Marsh, . ,, Pavuvu or Russell Group, Tuesday, October 13, 1908. Not much headway in the night, with light wind and north current. This morning Nakata came down with fever, and, in one of his lucid moments, made all of us, except Tehei, laugh when he chattered whimsically : ' ' Please, Lord, don 't kill me!" To assist Henry, I peeled the onions (our last vegetable) while I steered, under power, with my feet, and I smiled to hear the Rapa Islander's picturesque language as he struggled with can-openers on cans that had been intended to yield to their "keys," which had futilely broken off. Into West Bay, or, more poetically, "The Bay of a Thou sand Ships," the Snark glided before noon; and out to us came George Washington, or some one very like — Mr. Kiss- ling, trader here at Cape Marsh. We had him to our midday meal, and found him a mine of interest. Twenty-three years in the South Seas, he bears many a mark of his prolonged tussle with nature and with man's devices. His great chest is coral-scarred, deep, to the bone, from some battle with the breakers. One leg was dynamited, and, while he can walk on it, the rended tissues have developed into a chronic sore. Mr. Kissling knew Stevenson, and loved him for his cheer against odds; and he remembers Lord Pembroke, who, al though his income was half a million a year, preferred to roam rather than spend conventionally, and lost his yacht Albatross in the Ringgold Group — not far from the scene of our close call. We had tea and dinner ashore, and I found a little organ in the trader's living room. Amongst other things he had once been a church organist ! Peggy had us in tears of laughter over her pompous ap proach to a monster mastiff, a good natured, indulgent soul who was awkwardly nonplussed by this intrepid insect that braced up so menacingly to him. Her superiority once established, she made friends with him and with a fat terrier THE LOG OF THE SNARK : 477 of her own persuasion that was playing with an enormous Maltese tomcat grown lean with lizards. A family of guinea pigs caused Peggy to bark her head nearly off; and the sheep . . . But she respected the two big white cows, and we had already taught her that ducks and hens are taboo. She doesn't even see them as she stalks by, although I think I can detect a slight lop to one ear. A walk about Levers Pacific Plantation showed us a very beautiful as well as unique island, for a slanting up-thrust of coral formation has created a basin that forms a lovely lake of fresh water. Looking seaward through the oblique pillars of feathered palms, in the blue lagoon with its purple coral- shadows, and in the waters beyond, we could see innumerable green islets, each a ' ' fragment of Paradise. ' ' In company with Mr. Kissling, and Messrs. Hickie and Birley, two young Englishmen in charge of the estates here, we saw the plantations, and were greatly struck with the deforesting that had been accomplished — a large area cleared of all but the grotesque stumps of colossal "board-trees," like those of Upolu. The great bases still stand, flanked by their satin-grey bastions. We are now looking forward almost eagerly to Penn duffryn, to get our mail and make ready for the steamer to Sydney, which leaves Aola, a station to the east of Pennduffryn, on November 5. We have sojourned in these Solomon Islands long enough for1 the present — too long for our good. Glorious earth monuments of verdure that they are, yet, in their existent state, they are no place for white men and women. Indeed, their own aborigines do not thrive ; what with fever, ulcers, skin diseases and worse, bad teeth, and innutrition, they are a sorry lot in the main. And a Polynesian fares little better here than a white man. When we return from Australia, all mended and fresh for a new start, we shall go aboard the Snark and immediately fill away to the west — always west, and north of west, and south of west, the round world 'round until we are bound at last around Cape Horn and north to San Francisco Bay. 478 THE LOG OF THE SNARK Thursday, October 15, 1908. On a "windless, glassy floor," engine purring fault lessly, we slipped out of the Bay of a Thousand Ships and by the fantastic green litter of the Pavuvu islets, like leaves strewn on a peacock-blue mantle; on, hour after hour, past Savo, the volcano island, where the water appeared dusty, as if from volcanic ash; along beautiful Guadalcanal, her mountain-laps cradling the mist; flying-fish scudding from our sleek forefoot and tripping over the top of the absinthe water. Tehei, contentedly munching a ripe guava, steered for an hour or so. Jack was in great fettle — undoubtedly with sense of safe ending to a voyage in such adverse en vironment. Coming toward me with his merry walk, he stopped to listen to the regular throb of the engine, and said very quietly, stating the mere fact: "I have figured that, counting repairs, Martin's salary, and so forth, that that engine has cost me one hundred dollars for every mile she has run. — But what of it?" he added brightly. "We're here, aren't we?" Which same is his invariable cheery conclusion to all irking propositions. "Look at Peg," Jack remarked softly just now; and I raised my gaze to see the little slender golden thing sitting before me on the deck, very upright on her thin, aristocratic toes, regarding my face in the same searching, boding manner as when we neared the end of our stay at Meringe. There has been nothing unusual going on aboard, save that I got out a box of handsome ribbons and made wide girdles for summer gowns in Sydney. How does she fore-sense change ? Even if she could understand our speech, there has been no speech — how can I talk about the possibility of relinquishing her? By all right of sentiment, she is my dog. Her eyes . . . here they are before me, and I cannot describe them . . . up-cast, large beyond all eyes of dogs — stirless, stead fast, so deep, so deep . . . there is no plumbing the warm brown of the pure pools, where little golden lights play up like live things ; not little devils — though they could be such THE LOG OF THE SNARK 479 — but glints of feeling made visible, love-lights from heart and brain. For Peggy loves with all of her, profoundly. How did the Creator come to house such great capacity of lovingness in so lowly a frame? . . . Safe at anchor once more off Pennduffryn, and as there is a crowd of guests ashore, we shall sleep aboard to night, and sail early for Tulagi, for our mail is being held there for us. The cruise came near a disastrous ending. After dark, and before the moon rose, we headed in for what tallied with the signal lights we knew so well, and in relation to which we knew our anchorage perfectly. We discovered, and none too quickly, that we were at Boucher's Plantation, some miles to the west, and that he had adopted the same system of lanterns — rather a disturbing factor on this perilous coast, where the Pennduffryn lights are the only ones described in the Admiralty Directory. The warm night seemed suddenly to chill when we found our position, but, all working in uni son, we swung around just in the nick of time, and soon afterward rumbled down the anchor in its old place off the tiny quay at Pennduffryn. A ghostly schooner, the Lily, rustled by under sweeps in the misty moonlight, and passed the wordo' night. THE ENDING THERE is little more to tell. We did not dream that these were our last hours of travel on the Snark. The three weeks at Pennduffryn we put in busily despite illness. Days were spent in the shady grove of piles under the build ings, sorting, labelling and packing in great cases our vast accumulation of Melanesian curios for shipment. Jack wrote daily, except when the violence of fever attacks laid him low. His various ailments grew steadily worse. His hands alone were enough to drive a man wild — eleven skins peeling off simultaneously, one above another. Out of my own fever, and the anaemic and neurasthenic condition I had fallen into, augmented by worry over Jack, came moods of despondency, most unlike my happy-go-lucky wont. And instead of inviting repose, I foolishly worked harder than ever, and developed a siege of insomnia. The life of the plantation at this stage in its downfall would make a romantic story in itself. The little Spanish Baroness Eugenie, Mrs. Harding, who had returned from Sydney, hid under forced gaiety, innate charm and loveableness, and the most enchanting of wardrobes, the tragedy of the disappear ance of her own fortune as well as her husband's and Dar bishire 's. When she married Harding, in South America, she forfeited all but her title, the baronial jewels, and a mere modicum of her rightful fortune ; and the latter had melted away in the failing plantation. "I will show you my coronet and jewels some day," she mused, in a confidential moment, her incredibly large black eyes very wide. "They are in the Bank — and I cannot sell them, alas!" The entertainment was lavish — perhaps this sort of thing was at the bottom of the failure to make things go ; but they 480 Snark Careened at Meringe ^^ The Rembrandt Skipper A Polynesian Prince THE LOG OF THE SNARK 481 died game and gay, all of them. Two dining-rooms ran full blast. The house was packed, among the guests being three men of different nationalities, taking moving pictures for Pathe Freres, and at many a meal eight languages were spoken — all of which Mrs. Harding understood, even to Swedish, and nothing could be passed about and escape her quick ear and brain. There were fancy dress and masquerade evenings, horseback rides, musicales, all night poker, billiards — anything and everything that two women and a dozen men could devise to enliven a house party, and make every one forget that the establishment was in its last days. It was admirable, and very pathetic. And splendidly English. The schooner Eugenie had been chartered for Bellona and Rennel by some nitrate people, and had never returned to the Minota at Malu. The mate of the Minota, who had now left her, told us the ketch had got safely away for Tulagi for stores, thence to Meringe ; and he further reported that Cap tain jansen had been "wild" when he discovered Peggy's loss, but had been pacified when he read my letter. When he came to Pennduffryn, before we sailed for Sydney, he formally presented me with what he could see was entirely mine own, saying, with a twinkle in his Dutch blue eyes: "She's spoiled for a nigger chaser anyway, now. My word! I couldn't make anything out of such a lady's- dog!" Peggy helped me wondrously through all those feverish, sick days in the hot northwest season. Never a night, no matter how late, did I leave the drawing-room, but the little velvet form, outside on the porch, was pressing against me, seeing me to my netted cot in the grass bathroom on stilts. No awkward age was ever hers; she was a thing with the grace of God in her, mentally and materially. And she gave all her big and gallant soul in love. With Captain Jansen, on the Minota, came Wada, landed back upon us despite his wishes or ours, by the very law of the land. He could not stay in the islands because no one would be responsible for him; he could not leave, 482 THE LOG OF THE SNARK because there was no one to put up the hundred pounds bond required in Australia on any dark skin. Mr. Schroeder, to save the boy's life when he was very low with fever in a native hut, took him in, and when he was better, had him cook, without wages, until the first chance to get him away from Ysabel, which was on the Minota, where in the galley he worked his passage. Meekly he came aboard the Snark to cook without wages until such time as we should return from Sydney, and sail to some port where he could take leave freely. How blindly we plan. How little we thought, that starry, musky night under the Southern Cross, when we paid our farewell call on the Snark — now in charge of the Minota 's mate — that this would be the last time we should ever descend her teak gangway ladder in these waters. Martin as well as Nakata took steamer for Sydney, as there was purchasing for him to attend to, and he wanted to see doctors himself. Jack and I, in Captain Mortimer's roomy quarters, actually loafed on the twelve days of the Ma kambo' s stormy voyage to Sydney, both of us suffering greatly and additionally from a prickly heat that boiled up in a fiery rash which in turn burst into water. During the five weeks when Jack lay in a private hospital in North Sydney after an operation for, not one fistula, but two, his surgeon, Dr. Clarence Read, flanked by several skin specialists, puzzled and studied and theorised over his pitiful hands, the like of which they had never seen nor even heard. All agreed that the trouble was non-parasitic, and there fore concluded that it was entirely of nervous origin. And a different skin malady showed on his elbows, which they recognised as psoriasis, truly and actually the leprosy of the Bible, the "silvery skin," cures of which occur spon taneously, but of which no other cure is known. One day, during my reading aloud to the convalescent, I said tentatively — and it had taken much thought and self- abnegation to come to it : "If you think we'd better give up the Snark voyage ..." THE LOG OF THE SNARK 483 ' ' Oh, nothing like that, "Jack answered brightly. ' ' We 're going around the world in the Snark, you know." But the unhealing weeks went by, and one day Jack gave me the result of his consideration of his case: that the one thing that would set him straight would be to return once more to his own habitat, to California, where his nerve equi librium had always been stable. This, of course, meant the ending of our voyage. Although I had not ceased from thinking along these lines, the actual facing of the issue was too much in the low state of my nerves, and I broke down and sobbed unrestrainedly. This precipitated fever, and for days I lay in a little bed in the same room with Jack. In short, Martin was sent back to the Solomons, accom panied by an old skipper, Captain Reed, to bring the yacht to Sydney, where she would be put up for sale. In the meantime, we rented an apartment in Sydney, and worked and played as best we might, among other trips taking in the wonderful Jenolan Caves. But it was not all pleasure, for Jack's hands did not improve, but went on swelling and peeling prodigiously. The only relief was in massage, which caused them to break into wringing perspiration. His toe nails became affected, growing as thick as their length in twenty-four hours, when he would file them down, only to have a recurrence. We tried Tasmania, visited Hobart Town, and spent a month in a cool hotel resort at Brown's River, where the country was very like California, and our general tone was better for the time being. We had been back in Sydney for some time when the Snark arrived, all hands alive and well, except . . . Neither Martin nor Captain Reed had the courage or heart to bring the tidings, so the little old skipper wrote : ' ' I am very sorry to report that your little dog Peggy died off Bellona and Rennel, three days out from the Solomons." I do not think Jack is ashamed of the tears he shed with me that night. She was too good to be true, Peggy, dear heart, dear heart. I cannot, must not say much . . . only 484 THE LOG OF THE SNARK . . . the day before she died, wan and weak she came and sat before Martin, as she had sat before me that last day going back to Pennduffryn, and looked long and questioningly into his face with her dolorous eyes. I know, Jack knows . . . she was asking for him, for me, some word, some mes sage, trying, at the end of her blameless days, to pass across all space and difference of kind, her deathless faith. I have claimed much for Peggy . . . not too much, I swear, for those few who have known such a creature — if there could be another — and who will understand, quite. It was a terrible strain, going daily to the Snark on a little ferry boat, to oversee the packing of gear that we were send ing home. I know I shed tears during each return trip. I blush to think how little of help I was to Jack in the matter of cheer ; but he says that out of it all he gathered the great est proof of the success of the Snark adventure, that the one small woman, frail out of all proportion to the husky men, should be so broken at the abandonment of the voyage. Martin continued on around the world by devious ways. Wada sailed as cook on some outgoing steamer! Henry and Tehei returned to the Society Islands ; but Nakata went with Jack and me from Newcastle, N.S.W., one fine day, on an English tramp, the Tymeric, Captain Macllwaine, bound with "coals from Newcastle" to Guayaquil, Ecuador. We were glad her orders were changed at the last moment and that we were to have a final flare of adventure in a new coun try before reaching home. Jack's general health benefited by the voyage, and he was able to box lustily with the three sturdy young English officers. But I fell from one fever fit into another, during a many days' gale early in the passage, and this weakened me sadly. However, the forty-three days in the tramp were an experience worth having. One last link of our South Sea chain we picked up one morning at sunrise, when a squall-curtain lifted and parted over Pitcairn Island, high and sheer, green and gold and unreal in the rainbow shimmer. I looked out of my porthole THE LOG OF THE SNARK 485 with sick eyes of disappointment as my fancy wandered north west over a thousand, miles of the Paumotus, of which Pit cairn is the one high, last, southern sentinel. Then in the fever I slept and dreamed we put out in a boat from the Tymeric and found a bay (that does not exist) inside the breakers, and went in and landed. Awakening with a start, I turned quickly to the porthole. It was still there — I had dozed but a moment: — a sun-shot emerald, with the grey velvet pall of mist falling, falling, until it was blotted eut. Isle of my dreams, waking and sleeping — when shall I see you, or any one of you, again ! We crossed the Andes, on the side of old Chimborazo itself, at an altitude of 12,000 feet, the summit white and stark 10,000 feet above, to Quito, 10,000 feet in the air. After a month altogether in Ecuador, in which we escaped the ram- j pant yellow fever, malaria, pneumonia, smallpox, bubonic j plague, bacillary dysentery, and several other perils (not ! the least of which was an accident on the wonderful railway, of which we saw two frightful examples), we sailed for New f Orleans, per Canal Zone, celebrating the Fourth of July, 1909, in true American fashion at Panama. Nakata, our little rock of ages in all sickness and stress, was in due time safely entered into the United States, with less pow-wow than we had expected, to our mutual rejoicing. Steadily, rapidly, Jack won back to health in his Califor nia environment. In a very few months not a trace of any of his curious maladies remained, glory be. But to his ana lytical mind the greatest cause for congratulation is that he found out what was the matter with his hands. He came across a book by Lieutenant Colonel Charles E. Woodruff of the United States Army, entitled Effects of Tropical Light on White Men. We later met Colonel Woodruff in San Fran cisco, and he told us he had been similarly afflicted, and had had the same experience with physicians. They sat on his case, and could come to no conclusion. It is very simple. Both he and Jack, and there must be many others whom we 486 THE LOG OF THE SNARK have not met, have a strong predisposition toward the tissue- destructiveness of tropical light. The ultra-violet rays tear them to pieces, just as so many experimenters with the X-ray were torn to pieces before they learned to protect themselves. I continued to suffer severe but lessening attacks of fever for nearly a year, and it took almost as long to recover my balance of nerves. The last touch of fever I ever felt was when, in June, 1910, after fulfilling the godspeed of the sweet vahines of Polynesia, I lost my girl baby, Joy. The Snark was sold long afterward, for a mere fraction of her cost, to an English syndicate which operated her, trad ing and recruiting, in the New Hebrides. The next we heard, she was sealing in Bering Sea, and later on we met several persons who had been aboard of her at Kodiak, Alaska, in 1911, while one told us he had subsequently seen her at Seattle, in August, 1912 — painted green! Jack and I, landing in Seattle the month previous, from a five-months' wind-jamming voyage from Baltimore around Cape Horn on the Sewall ship Dirigo, thus narrowly missed meeting up with our little old boat of dreams. I dare not think how it would have affected me. It was not until we had returned to California, after the voyage of the Snark was over, that we learned that the much sinned-against craft had been built two feet shorter than her specifications called for — this in addition to the extra two feet draft. The marvel is that she sailed as well as she did. Now, one word: Jack has been severely and ignorantly criticised by untravelled book reviewers for the unreality and unveracity of his tales of the cannibal countries we vis ited, such as his novel Adventure. And yet, in this Year of Our Lord, 1915, quite fresh in our minds is the report lately come to hand that Captain Keller of the Eugenie, who came to our rescue on the Malaita coast, and Claude Bernays of Pennduffryn Plantation, both lost their bon- nie handsome heads in the Solomons, the former aboard his vessel, the second on his own plantation. Poor Darbishire THE LOG OF THE SNARK 487 died of dysentery in the Gilbert Group only last year, leav ing a young English wife and a fine boy. It is all a sweet memory to Jack and me, our life on the Snark, and Martin and Nakata swear allegiance to any new venture we may pursue. There is now a little Mrs. Martin who also wishes to be counted in. And, believe it or not, ye of little faith in the joy that was ours on the voyage, our one ultimate hope of earthly bliss is to fit out another and larger boat, and do it all over again, and more — and do it more leisurely, more wisely under the tropic sun. THE END Printed in the United States oi Ame.iCH THE following pages contain advertisements of a few of the Macmillan books on kindred subjects The Cruise of the Snark By Jack London Author of "The Call of the Wild," "The Sea-Wolf," "The Scarlet Plague," etc. Illustrated with over 130 halftones from photographs by the author, and a frontispiece in colors. Decorated cloth, 8vo, $2.00 One of the most adventurous voyages ever planned was that of Mr. London's famous Snark, the little craft in which he and Mrs. London set forth to sail around the world. Mr. London has told the story in a fashion to bring out all the excitement of the cruise. Those who have read Mrs. London's sparkling Log of the Snark will enjoy Mr. London's Cruise of the Snark as well. "Deserves an honourable place in the literature of travel and adventure." — Outloo k. "Nowhere is it without that insistent touch of personality that makes everything from Mr. London's pen irresistible." — Boston Transcript. "In Mr. London's most rapid and vivid style." — N. Y. World. "A delight."— Philadelphia Ledger. THE MACMILLAN COMPANY Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York ILLUSTRATED BOOKS OF TRAVEL Highways and Byways of New England By Clifton Johnson Author of " Highways and Byways of the South," " The Picturesque Hudson," etc. Illustrated, decorated cloth, izmo This volume describes the characteristic, picturesque and his torically attractive regions in the states of Maine, New Hamp shire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut and Rhode Island. Among the interesting chapter titles are : In the Maine Woods, Artemus Ward's Town, June in the White Mountains, August in the Berkshire Hills, The Land of the Minute Men, Autumn on Cape Cod and Shad Time on the Connecticut, concluding with Glimpses of Life. The illustrations, of which there are many and which are reproduced from photographs taken by the author, main tain the standard established by the pictures in his previous works. Through the Grand Canyon from Wyoming lexico. to Me By Ellsworth L. Kolb With a preface by Owen Wister. New edition, with additional illustrations. Cloth, Svo Mr. Kolb's absorbing narrative of the trip which he made through the Grand Canyon in a rowboat with photographic ap paratus has, since its publication about a year ago, met with very general commendation. It has been described as the most fas cinating adventure story ever written. It is here re-issued with minor changes in the text and with twenty-four new half-tone plates, bringing the total number of insets up to seventy-two. THE MACMILLAN COMPANY Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York NEW MACMILLAN FICTION The Star Rover By JACK LONDON Author of " The Call of the Wild," " The Sea Wolf," " The Mutiny of the Elsinore," etc. With frontispiece in colors by Jay Hambidge. Cloth, izmo Daring in its theme and vivid in execution, this is one of the most original and gripping stories Mr. London has ever written. The fundamental idea upon which the plot rests — the supremacy of mind over body — has served to inspire writers before, but rarely, if indeed ever, has it been employed as strikingly or with as much success as in this book. With a wealth of coloring and detail the author tells of what came of an attempt on the part of the hero to free his spirit from his body, of the wonderful adventures this " star rover " had, adventures covering long lapses of years and introducing strange people in stranger lands. It is a work that will make as lasting an impression upon the reader as did The Sea Wolf and The Call of the Wild. Heart's Kindred By ZONA GALE Author of " Christmas," " The Loves of Pelleas and Etarre," etc. Cloth, i2mt There is much of timely significance in Miss Gale's new book. For example, one of the most interesting and powerful of its scenes takes place at a meeting of the Women's Peace Congress and in the course of the action there are introduced bits of the actual speeches delivered at the most recent session of this congress. But Heart's Kindred is not merely a plea for peace ; it is rather the story of the making of a man — and of the rounding out of a woman's character, too. In the rough, unpolished, but thoroughly sincere Westerner and the attractive young woman who brings out the good in the man's nature, Miss Gale has two as absorbing people as she has ever created. In Hearts Kindred is reflected that humanness and breadth of vision which was first found in Friendship Village and The Loves of Pelleas and Etarre and made Miss Gale loved far and wide. THE MACMILLAN COMPANY Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue Haw York NEW MACMILLAN FICTION The Research Magnificent By H. G. Wells Author of " The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman," etc. Cloth, nmo A book of real distinction is this novel from the pen of an author whose popularity in America is no less than in his native England, where he is put in the front rank of present-day writers. The Research Magnificent is pronounced by those critics who have read it to be the best work that Mr. Wells has done, realis ing fully the promises of greatness which not a few have found in its immediate predecessors. The author's theme — the research magnificent — is the story of one man's search for the kingly life. A subject such as this is one peculiarly suited to Mr. Wells's literary genius, and he has handled it with the skill, the feeling, the vision, which it requires. "A book with the whole world for background." THE MACMILLAN COMPANY Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York NEW MACMILLAN FICTION Old Delabole By EDEN PHILLPOTTS Author of " Brunei's Tower," etc. Cloth, ismo A critic in reviewing Brunei's Tower remarked that it would seem that Eden Phillpotts was now doing the best work of his career. There was sufficient argument for this contention in the novel then under consideration and further demonstration of its truth is found in Old Delabole, which, because of its cheerful and wise philosophy and its splendid feeling for nature and man's relation to it, will perhaps ultimately take its place as its author's best. The scene is laid in Cornwall. Delabole is a slate mining town and the tale which Mr. Phillpotts tells against it as a background, one in which a matter of honor or of conscience is the pivot, is dramatic in situation and doubly interesting because of the moral problem which it presents. Mr. Phillpotts 's artistry and keen perception of those motives which actuate conduct have never been better exhibited. God's Puppets By WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE Author of " A Certain Rich Man." Cloth, i2mo Here ire brought together a number of the more notable short stories by one whose reputation in this field is as great as in the novel form — for has Mr. White not delighted thousands of readers with The Court of Beyvillc and Ik Our Town, short intimate studies of life at first hand which, while quite different from the material in the new volume, nevertheless show mastery of the art? Mr. White is a slow and careful writer, a fact to which the long intervals between his books bear witness, but each work has proved itself worth waiting for, and GocCt Puppets will be found no exception. It gives us of the best of his creative genius. THE MACMILLAN COMPANY Publisher*. 64-66 Fifth Aveaue JTew Tork 3 9002 08837 1191 i