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Illustrated History of Canada 25th Anniversary Edition
Craig Brown Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Craig Brown
ISBN(s): 9780773587885, 0773587888
File Details: PDF, 96.30 MB
Year: 2012
Language: english
 THE
Illustrated
History of
Canada
 CARLETON LIBRARY SERIES

The Carleton Library Series publishes books about Canadian economics, geography, history, politics, pub-
lic policy, society and culture, and related topics, in the form of leading new scholarship and reprints of
classics in these fields. The series is funded by Carleton University, published by McGill-Queen's Univer-
sity Press, and is under the guidance of the Carleton Library Series Editorial Board, which consists of fac-
ulty members of Carleton University. Suggestions and proposals for manuscripts and new editions of
classic works are welcome and may be directed to the Carleton Library Series Editorial Board, c/o the Li-
brary, Carleton University, Ottawa K1S 5B6, at [email protected], or on the web at www.carleton.ca/cls.

CLS board members: John Clarke, Sheryl Hamilton, Jennifer Henderson, Laura Macdonald, Paul Litt,
Stanley Winer, Barry Wright

211 The Making of the Nations and Cultures of 219 So Vast and Various
the New World Interpreting Canada's Regions in the
An Essay in Comparative History Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries
Gerard Bouchard Edited by John Warkentin
212 The Quest of the Folk 220 Industrial Organization in Canada
Antimodernism and Cultural Selection in Empirical Evidence and Policy Challenges
Twentieth-Century Nova Scotia Edited by Zhiqi Chen and Marc Duhamel
Ian McKay
221 Surveyors of Empire
213 Health Insurance and Canadian Public Policy Samuel Holland, J.EW. Des Barres, and the
The Seven Decisions That Created the Canadian Making of The Atlantic Neptune
Health Insurance System and Their Outcomes Stephen J. Hornsby
Malcolm G. Taylor
222 Peopling the North American City
214 Inventing Canada Montreal, 1840-1900
Early Victorian Science and the Idea of a Sherry Olson and Patricia Thornton
Transcontinental Nation
223 Interregional Migration and Public Policy
Suzanne Zeller
in Canada
215 Documents on the Confederation of British North An Empirical Study
America Kathleen M. Day and Stanley L. Winer
G.P. Browne
224 How Schools Worked
216 The Irish in Ontario Public Education in English Canada, 1900-
A Study in Rural History 1940
Donald Harman Akenson R.D. Gidney and W.P.J. Millar
217 The Canadian Economy in the Great Depression 225 A Two-Edged Sword
(Third edition) The Navy as an Instrument of Canadian
A.E. Safarian Foreign Policy
Nicholas Tracy
218 The Ordinary People of Essex
Environment, Culture, and Economy on the 226 The Illustrated History of Canada
Frontier of Upper Canada 25th Anniversary Edition
John Clarke Edited by Craig Brown
 THE
Illustrated
History of
Canada
EDITED BY CRAIG BROWN

25th Anniversary Edition

Carleton Library Series 226

McGill-Queen's University Press

Montreal & Kingston • London • Ithaca
© McGill-Queen's University Press 2012

ISBN 978-0-7735-4089-7

Legal deposit third quarter 2012

Bibliotheque nationale du Quebec

Printed in Canada on acid-free paper

McGill-Queen's University Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our
publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through
the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.

Excerpts from The Damnation of Vancouver by Earle Birney and "Laurentian Shield" by F.R. Scott are
used by permission of The Canadian Publishers, McClelland and Stewart. Permission to quote from the
poem "The Law of the Yukon," which appears in The Collected Poems of Robert Service, was granted by
Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc. The poem "The Planters" from The Journals of Susanna Moodie by Mar-
garet Atwood, © Oxford University Press Canada 1970, is reprinted by permission of the publisher. The
excerpt from Wolf Willow, © 1955 by Wallace Stegner, is used by permission of Macmillan of Canada,
a division of Canada Publishing Corporation.

Every reasonable effort has been made to trace ownership of copyright materials. Information enabling
the publisher to rectify any reference or credit in future printings will be welcomed.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

The illustrated history of Canada / edited by Craig Brown. -- 25th anniversary ed.
(Carleton library series ; 226)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-7735-4089-7
1. Canada—History. 2. Canada—History—Pictorial works.
I. Brown, Robert Craig, 1935- II. Series: Carleton library series ; 226
FC164.I442012 971 C2012-905045-8

Design: Peter Maher

 Foreword

HE ILLUSTRATED HISTORY OF CANADA is a book about Canadians. It is

T a story of how Canadians have lived and worked, how they have seen them-
selves, how they have thought about each other. It is a history of how
Canadians realized their ambitions in their several communities, across generations
of huge colonial empires and, more recently, as citizens of a nation in the interna-
tional world. In this book six Canadian scholars—historians and historical
geographers—have interpreted the words and illustrations of our past for all readers.
The book begins with Arthur Ray's vivid description of the first Canadians, the
Amerindian and Inuit peoples, at the moment when their world was broken into by
Europeans—fishermen, traders, and explorers who crossed the Atlantic seeking out
the riches of North America. The encounter stretched over nearly three centuries,
from the middle years of the sixteenth to the early decades of the nineteenth cen-
tury, following the paths of the European adventurers from Newfoundland to the
Pacific and into the Arctic. Almost as soon as contact had been made, colonizers and
settlers began to establish their first tentative footholds in North America.
Christopher Moore traces these initial, precarious settlements at Port-Royal and
Quebec, how they grew into a vast continental empire, and how the settlers of New
France founded a way of life that became a permanent influence on our society and
our identity as Canadians.
Great Britain ultimately prevailed over France in the long rivalry of North
American empires. Graeme Wynn takes up the story; British peoples, between 1760
and 1840, braved 4,800 kilometres (3,000 miles) of rolling ocean to develop stable
communities and to establish British institutions and law in the British North
American colonies. The stage was set for consolidation, for political union, for expan-
sion westward, aiming to control the Hudson's Bay territory before Americans got it.
Confederation, the restless ambitions of its creators, and the sometimes desperate
gambles they took to achieve continental nationhood, are the dramatic centrepiece of
Peter Waite's chapter on the remaining years of the nineteenth century.
Canadians began the twentieth century with hearty optimism. A buoyant econ-
omy transformed our society. In his portrait of Canada between 1900 and 1945,
Ramsay Cook sketches the transformation, the growth of cities, the diversification of
industry, the emergence of a vibrant western Canada, the commitment of Canadian
lives and treasure in two world wars, and the despair of the Great Depression.
Unprecedented wealth, a legacy of a wartime economy, Desmond Morton relates,
stimulated even greater changes in Canadian society in the last half of the twentieth
century. Our society became more compassionate than in the past, prepared to use
the instruments of government to protect and enhance the welfare of our citizens. It
became a more tolerant society, more willing to welcome new immigrants, more
conscious and respectful of the distinctive cultures and traditions of all Canadians.
And we are a more confident nation, determined to make a significant contribution
to international amity and well-being.
Each of these authors offers a distinctive view of his subject, and readers will dis-
cover new insights into our past. Familiar themes will be found, but freshly observed,
newly minted.
Canadians regard our multicultural character as a mark of our national identity.
Politicians and editorialists celebrate multiculturalism as a Canadian virtue and pro-
grams at every level of government promote recognition of our several traditions.
The authors of this book remind us that Canadians have always been many peoples.
That was so long before Native Canadians encountered Europeans in the mid-1500s.
At first Europeans, crudely, tended to lump all Amerindians together as "savages." But
Champlain, La Verendrye, Franklin, Hearne, Thompson, Pond, and a host of others
who followed Cartier's quest of exploration, quickly discovered that there were, in
fact, many nations of Native Canadians. Beothuk, Mi'kmaq, Algonquin, Iroquoian,
Chipewyan, Cree, Assiniboine, Babine, Kwakwaka'wakw, and Inuit spoke different
languages and dialects, organized their societies and governments differently, devel-
oped distinctive cultures and economies, and made their own ingenious
accommodations to climate and landscape. Nor were Europeans of one piece either.
Fishermen who put ashore in Newfoundland to cure cod, whalers who penetrated
the Arctic, and explorers who charted the waterways of the continent came from sev-
eral lands, Portugal, Spain, France, and Britain.
Less diverse were the founders of New France. They were mostly Catholic.
Perhaps as many as half of the men, and nearly all of Louis xiv's filles du roi, were
townspeople rather than land-bound peasants. They established an empire that
extended from He Royale through the Great Lakes watershed and down the
Mississippi to Louisiana. More important, they founded a unique society, rich in cus-
tom, tradition, and memory; their language has become a permanent component of
what it means to be a Canadian.
The British victors of 1760 had already established a presence in Nova Scotia
decades before Wolfe challenged Montcalm on the Plains of Abraham. After the
Treaty of 1763 their numbers swelled and swelled again in the aftermath of the
American Revolution. Like the French before them, many of the early settlers were
soldiers who took up land after a term of imperial service in the New World. Others,
from the south, created an enduring niche in Canadian mythology as Loyalists,
though an expert witness, Governor Parr of Nova Scotia, skeptically observed that
most were "not much burthened with Loyalty." Others still, a small minority of the
settlers, were state-sponsored emigrants from Britain after the Napoleonic wars.
What attracted all these people, and the thousands of Scots, Irish, English, and
Welsh who came out from Great Britain, was land. British North America was a place
of opportunity, of promise. "The prospects for you here are ten to one above what
they are in the old country," wrote one enthusiastic settler. Land, not free but cheap
and abundant, meant the promise of a farm, of raising a family, of making a go of it
in the new land. Most, albeit modestly, realized their expectations in the several
British North American colonies. By mid-century the farming frontier had pushed
up against the Canadian Shield. It was time to move on. Spokesmen for these rest-
less, acquisitive farmers had already spotted another world to conquer, the great
North-West, the seemingly empty lands of the Hudson's Bay Company. Here was an
empire, said George Brown, waiting to be conquered, developed, controlled.
The filling up of the pre-Confederation colonies had been something of a hap-
hazard process, sometimes assisted, sometimes hindered by the policies of the
imperial government. Conquering the North-West was different. It was an enormous
project of nation building by the new Dominion government. It required promises
of free land and promotion of the North-West as the Land of Opportunity, the Last
Best West. Most of all, it required many more newcomers than ever before. British
settlers were wanted: Americans too—their experience with dry-land farming was an
invaluable asset in the North-West. That was the key, and it prompted a dramatic
new initiative in settlement policy. Long-harboured doubts about whether immi-
grants from continental Europe could "fit in" were cast aside. If these Europeans were
farmers, individually and in groups they were encouraged to come. Men, women,
and children who could endure a prairie winter, who would break the tough prairie
sod, were destined to fulfil the expansionist dreams of the nation builders. The new-
comers came in unprecedented numbers, almost two million of them between 1891
and the Great War, and well over half of them went to the North-West.
The Great War, post-war immigration restrictions, the Depression, and yet
another world war temporarily slowed the flow of immigrants to Canada. But after
1945 Canada again became a land of hope and opportunity for people seeking a new
life in a new country. Two million arrived between 1946 and 1961, another one and
a half million in the next decade. In earlier times the government's appeal to new-
comers had always been preferential and restrictive. Blacks had been pointedly
discouraged, and severe limitations had been applied to immigrants from Asia.
Gradually, after the Second World War, restrictions based on race, colour, and coun-
try of origin were eased, and newcomers formerly unwanted added new dimensions
to the reality of Canada as a nation of many peoples.
Canadians have also had to learn how to live with each other. It has never been
easy; throughout our history that accommodation has been marked by incompre-
hension, suspicion, fear, and prejudice. Native Canadians thought the Europeans
they encountered were intruders. In the early stages of contact between the two
worlds, reciprocal interest in the exploitation of fur-bearing animals created an
unstable but working partnership between them. All too quickly, however, it eroded
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 Though I had sought by wordy wisdom to persuade O’Hara to
abandon his mad idea of abducting Fae Fae from Pomare’s palace,
my heart was as enthusiastic about it all as was his own. The
philosophy of the first fine careless rapture of youth was mine. I felt
I was out in the world to live, if somewhat faintly, some of the
glorious romance that poets wrote about. I well knew that the great
crabbed philosophies were written by perished feathered quills on
musty parchments, quills that once fluttered on living wings among
the blossoming boughs. I knew that no pen, however inspired, could
sing the impassioned philosophy of life as the throbbing red throat of
the brown thrush can sing, or as O’Hara and I could live it. And, so, I
must confess that the idea of the breadfruit sighing as we sat
awaiting the sunset’s close and O’Hara impatiently watching for the
favourable moment to abduct a Tahitian princess from a pagan
palace on a South Sea isle, seemed the perfect music and the most
noble endeavour of the Psalm of Life!
For several moments I compressed my brows as though in
deepest meditation over the wisdom or folly of doing what O’Hara
proposed.
He watched me closely, then suddenly gripped my hand.
“Pal, I’m with you; it shall be done,” I said.
My Irish comrade was satisfied. He knew me. I hadn’t stowed
away on sailing and tramp ships, and lived with rats in coal bunkers
on long voyages across tropic seas, without looking a bit determined
when I had really made up my mind—well—to make a fool of
myself!
I knew that Queen Pomare of Tahiti was allowed a certain amount
of authority over her people. Though aged, she was an attractive,
powerful-looking woman. It was also hinted by the officials that she
still leaned towards her old creed. However that may have been, her
retinue was made up of many old-time, ex-cannibal chiefs. One had
only to go by night up the mountain slopes by Tamao to hear the
low chanting of festival sounds coming from the solitary palace,
sounds that were suspiciously like the wild night-wassailing of some
frenzied heathenland!
The very next night we made our plans. O’Hara smacked me on
the back, and called down the blessings of the Virgin on my head for
helping a pal in trouble. It was finally settled that we should set out
on our romantic, risky adventure after dusk, the very next day.
The inevitable hour arrived. I stood beneath the palms at the
arranged spot.
“Are you ready, pal?” said O’Hara, as he met me.
“I am!” said I; and then added: “I suppose you are determined to
attempt to abduct Fae Fae?”
“By the holy Virgin, yes!” he muttered.
“I can rely upon you that the maid knows of your intentions, and
has agreed to bolt off into the mountains with you?” said I.
O’Hara gave a scornful laugh. It was then he told me that old
Tapee had slipped, under the cover of night, into the palace, and
had bribed one of the sentinels to deliver his billet-doux into Fae
Fae’s hands.
“Ho! so that’s how you’ve managed it all, is it?” I answered.
I felt much relief; for I will admit that I knew O’Hara well enough
to realize that he was likely to go off and seize a maid who knew
nothing of his coming. At hearing that old Tapee was in the secret, I
felt cheered up, and had greater faith in the result of the expedition.
So off I went, down the forest track with O’Hara, on the wildest
adventure into which I have ever plunged. We crept across the
lonely Broome Road, and passed under the shades of the giant
breadfruit trees. The stars were shining. Hardly a breath of wind
disturbed the leaves of the mountain palms. O’Hara clutched me by
the arms, as though he were afraid I might change my mind—and
make a bolt.
“I’m game; don’t worry. I’ll see you through,” said I.
 “Faith and be shure, you’re a good pal,” said my adventurous,
amorous comrade.
Taking a large flask from his pocket, he handed it to me. Though
not an imbiber of proof spirit, I took rather a bold nip, feeling that a
little extra Dutch courage might not be amiss ere the night was out!
We had arrived at the outskirts of the large cultivated space that half
surrounded Queen Pomare’s palace stockade. As we passed through
the arcades, constructed by Nature’s brooding handiwork of
interlacing branches of tropical undergrowth twining round the first
pillars of giant trees, my heart fluttered slightly.
“Is it some mad dream?” I thought, as we stood on the little
moonlit slope that faced the palatial stockade of Pomare’s dwelling.
Standing there, by O’Hara’s side, I peeped down the palm-terraced
groves and spotted the large one-storied, verandahed building. It
had an ominous look about it. Then O’Hara took me up a track
where I had never been before.
“Keep in the shadows; don’t expose yourself, for God’s sake!” he
whispered, as we stole onward.
We arrived among the thickets of dense bamboos growing by the
wooden gate that was the side entrance to the palace. We stood
perfectly still and waited. O’Hara gave a low whistle. Our hearts beat
like muffled drums as we stood there. I looked at the dim outline of
the palace. All was silent, phantom-like, in the rising moonlight. Only
one small light flickered in the little latticed window-hole by the main
entrance.
“What’s that light?” quoth I in a hushed voice.
“It’s where the Queen sleeps,” replied my pal.
“Is it really?” I whispered, as I thought in some mad way of the
old romantic novels that I had read in my schooldays.
Yes, and there was I, sure enough, with a mad Irishman, outside
a barbarian’s palace, awaiting the psychological moment to seize a
heathen princess!
 We must have stood there for half an hour before O’Hara gave the
fourth whistle and said, “She’s being watched, that’s what it is;
otherwise, begorra, she’d have come out of that gate before now.”
“What shall we do now?” said I, feeling fit for any emergency as
the spirit commenced to take effect. The romance of the whole
situation began to bubble, to thrill in my soul. Indeed, I had become
as enthusiastic as O’Hara over the prospective elopement of Fae Fae.
“Old pal,” said he, “I’m going into the palace to seize her; that’s
what I’m going to do!”
“Good Lord, really!” said I, as visions arose of dramatic scenes
that might ensue when we got into that eerie-looking, big wooden
building.
“Won’t they hear us—and club us?” said I.
“Not they! I’ve been in the palace before by night; I know where
Fae Fae sleeps, and it’s no hard job to find her.”
“You do, do you!” thought I. Then O’Hara began to creep down
the orange grove and, like some obsequious shadow, I followed.
Not a sound broke the primeval stillness as we curved round the
small track that led to the main entrance of the palace. At that very
moment a night bird, somewhere up in the mangroves, burst into
song. It gave a sharp scream as we passed like shadows beneath
the trees, and then flapped away. We both leapt back into the
deeper gloom. Our hearts nearly stopped, for lo! the bushy head of
some high chief suddenly poked out of the half-open gate at the
main entrance. We watched that big mop-head and fierce-looking
face turn to the right and left, peer into the moonlight a moment,
then we saw it withdrawn from view.
“I’d like to give that cove one on his napper!” whispered O’Hara,
with a levity which I thought considerably out of place at such a
time. “I know him; it’s old thin-legs, the night sentinel. I’ve tried to
bribe the old wretch, but ’twasn’t any go.”
 “Oh!” said I, for the want of saying something better at such a
moment. Indeed, the most poignant phrases that the English
language can twist together could not have expressed all that I felt.
“What do you intend doing now?” said I.
“Why, I’m going to slip into the palace and see Fae Fae in her
private chamber. She’ll soon come when she sees us.”
“Are you sure she won’t scream? Don’t you think it’s a bit unwise,
in the night-time, like this?”
“Blimey ducks, no!” chuckled O’Hara. Thereupon I made up my
mind to seize the blessed Queen herself, if O’Hara wished me to do
so.
To tell the truth, I had wondered if Fae Fae would not take fright
at seeing me with O’Hara. It appeared that my comrade had wooed
Fae Fae considerably in the little time he had known her. But I had
only seen her twice—and there I was, bound for her sleeping-
apartment in the dead of night.
Once again we moved on. Arriving before a little door that led into
a roomy apartment adjoining the west wing of the palace, O’Hara
gently pulled another door open. We both crept in. It was nearly
pitch dark; the faint rays of moonlight, peeping through chinks in the
roof, just helped us to grope along. As we moved stealthily across
the floor, I stumbled over a large calabash. We stood still, breathless
with suspense. I looked around: on the walls, dimly revealed by the
moonlight, hung old war-clubs, spears, and other ancient heirlooms
of the Pomarean dynasty. We heard a door open, then it was shut
again, for the sounds of distant laughter and heathen voices swiftly
ceased. It came from somewhere on the other side of the courtyard,
that portion of the palace where Queen Pomare and her suite dwelt.
Once more we crept on. Passing across another room, we suddenly
came out into a small courtyard.
Turning to me, O’Hara whispered:
 “You see that door over there, on the far side of that wooden
building? Well, it opens into a long corridor, and at the far end is the
chamber where Fae Fae sleeps.”
I nodded.
“Are you game to follow me, pal?” he added.
“I am!” said I, as I clutched my revolver and thought how
“gamey” we might both soon be if we were discovered.
I don’t know if my story sounds like a sketch from some semi-
comic opera, but I do know that it was a serious thing for us to
attempt to get into a native girl’s bedroom as we did that night. But,
mind you, I believed implicitly in O’Hara’s good intentions. Never
once had I observed him take a liberty with a maid. He had the
Celtic temperament, but was clean-minded, notwithstanding his sins.
We opened the door that led down the corridor to Fae Fae’s bed-
chamber; then we took a rather bold nip at the flask of whisky. In
complete obedience to O’Hara’s whispered directions, I at once went
down on my knees, then, hand over hand and knee over knee, we
began to travel down that dark, narrow corridor! A stream of
moonlight crept through the airholes that were in the roof. I could
just discern O’Hara’s ragged coat-tails in front of me as I blindly
groped along behind him. I saw the dim shadows of the palms
waving about, silhouetted on the wooden walls as the winds stirred
the forest trees outside. Arriving about half-way down the corridor, I
whispered to my comrade:
“Supposing she’s asleep? Do you intend to seize her whilst she lies
in bed? Won’t she scream if she sees me with you, and awaken the
whole palace?”
I knew what English girls would do if they suddenly awoke and
saw two sunburnt tramps on their knees, peering round the edge of
their bedroom door at the dead of night.
My relief was considerable when O’Hara whispered:
 “Don’t worry; Fae Fae expects me, and it’s not her who is going to
scream.” Then, in a tense whisper, he added: “Besides, she sleeps
alone, away from the rest of the palace folk.”
“Thank God for that much!” thought I, as we once more started to
creep, like two monstrous slugs, down the floor of the corridor.
O’Hara suddenly stopped. My heart gave a slight flutter. I knew we
had arrived outside Fae Fae’s chamber. I heard my comrade give two
soft taps—so, “tap!” “tap!”—on the door’s bamboo panel with his
knuckles. Each tap seemed to echo and re-echo down the silent
corridor. I was thankful that I had drunk deeply from the whisky-
flask which O’Hara had so thoughtfully handed me. Had we been
about to seize a heathen man, or even an old woman, the matter
would have seemed different. Notwithstanding that I had knocked
about the world, the thought of so rudely disturbing a maiden’s
slumber and those romantic ideals which I can find no name for
here, had still a great influence over me. Consequently, I paused on
the threshold of that chamber. She was an innocent girl, none need
doubt that much. To the reader, who has never plunged into such a
midnight venture as I tell of here, I can confidently say that he
would require a little artificial stimulant to buck his courage up were
he placed under like circumstances. There’s something eerie in
creeping into a semi-heathen palace and crawling down an
interminable corridor to seize a maid as she sleeps in her chamber.
And all this, mind you, not for one’s self, but for another! And, again,
there was not only the danger of detection by that heathen crew to
reckon with, but also the French officials, who would assuredly give
us penal servitude in the calaboose (jail), or transport us to Noumea
should they catch us on this mad venture. But for the fact that we
had youth’s superabundant confidence on our side, I am sure we
should never have ventured on such an escapade. I recall the
breathless hush of that supreme moment when O’Hara once more
gently tapped the maiden’s door.
“Fae Fae!” he whispered.
 How eagerly we listened! Only a faint moan came from the forest
palms just outside, then all was silent again.
“Begorra, she’s not there,” came in an agonized whisper from
O’Hara.
Our hearts thumped—we heard a rustling sound, which resembled
a noise made by someone yawning. An uncomfortable suspicion
flashed through my brain: Had O’Hara mistaken the room? and was
that chamber occupied by some mighty chief?
“What’s that?” I said in a tense whisper, as that eerie sound came
again, with the soft patter of bare feet. “Look out, pal!” I whispered,
instinctively ducking my head in some vague idea that a club was
falling on it!
O’Hara tapped again, then softly called the maid’s name. I looked
up, my heart in my mouth, as we crouched there, both on our hands
and knees. The door creaked. We watched—and it was being slowly
opened. Through a chink, that was no wider than two inches,
peeped two sparkling eyes, half hidden by dishevelled tresses—it
was Fae Fae!
In a swift, hoarse whisper O’Hara said:
“It’s only us, Faey.”
At once the door opened a little wider, and two astonished eyes
looked down upon us, both there on our hands and knees!
“Oh, Messieurs, you be killed!” she whispered, as she lifted her
hands and gazed upon us in an awestruck manner.
Slinking there, behind O’Hara’s coat-tails, I gazed up at the maid
through his armpits!
“Didn’t you hear me whistle, Faey dearest?” said my comrade, as
the astonished girl still stared at us in fright.
“No, Monsieur Hara, I sleep fast,” she said, rubbing her sleepy
eyes.
 At this candid confession, O’Hara looked crestfallen. I, too, must
confess that a dash of cold water seemed to have been thrown upon
the fires of my romantic soul. I pinched my leg to convince myself
that I was not dreaming. It was real enough, no dream at all. It was
a solid me intruding into a girl’s bed-chamber at the dead of night,
ready to clutch the maid and help my comrade to carry her away
into the mountains!
“Come, Fae Fae, don’t go back on me, darlint,” wailed O’Hara, as
the pretty maid looked about in a bewildered way, as though
hesitating as to what she ought to do under such distressing
circumstances.
At this moment I poked my head up from behind O’Hara and
revealed my physiognomy clearly in the shifting moonlight.
“Oui! oui! Awaie!” she woefully ejaculated, as she recognized my
impertinent presence. Then she peered again, and said: “Tre bon!
it’s nicer fiddle man!”
I rose to my feet as though I had just received a knighthood, and
bowed with such courtesy as I felt was due at such a moment. I
may have blushed, but I do know that my heart warmed
considerably to the possibilities of the whole business. Much of the
girl’s apprehension seemed to have vanished at discovering that it
was I who had accompanied O’Hara on my hands and knees down
that damned corridor! Ah me! As she stood there bathed in
moonlight, her tiny blue chemise ornamented with flowers, I quite
envied O’Hara. The hibiscus blossoms in her mass of rich-hued hair
were crushed on that side where her pillowed head had lain but a
moment before in sleep. I felt the thrill of her presence. Standing
there in the gloom, I saw O’Hara put forth his arms towards Fae Fae.
“Come on, Faey,” he whispered.
Leaning forward in the gloom, Fae Fae misjudged the distance,
and placed her mouth on my flushed cheek. Then it really seemed
that the tender pressures of our groping hands got inextricably
mixed up. I became bolder. Looking into the girl’s face, I said in an
appealing way:
“Come, Fae Fae, do come!”
I felt that, to creep into a heathen’s palace to help a maid to
elope, and for the maid to refuse to come, would cast a slur on my
idea of chivalry and romance such as I could never forget. I was
immensely relieved when I noticed Fae Fae stoop and start shuffling
about her chamber floor. She was hastily gathering together her
spare clothing!
“Awaie! Messieurs!” she cried softly. Then she held up a small
bundle, and blushed through the brightness of her eyes. Gallantly I
leaned forward and clutched those delicate garments that made up
Fae Fae’s trousseau! As for O’Hara, he grinned and then stared in
surprise, as he observed my correct manner when I bowed and
offered Fae Fae my arm. (He hadn’t read Alexandre Dumas, Byron,
Shelley, and Keats, and slept with his dreaming head on a volume of
Don Quixote.)
Suddenly a door banged somewhere across the palace courtyard;
we distinctly heard distant sounds of laughter and indistinct voices.
Then silence came; the door had been closed again.
“Come on, there’s no time to lose,” I whispered, as I clutched the
pretty sandals that Fae Fae hurriedly picked up from beneath her
bamboo couch. Down the corridor we crept. As Fae Fae caught hold
of my hand I returned the gentle pressures of that frightened
Tahitian maid. I gathered that she did not realize the seriousness of
the business. As we stole along, a puff of wind came down the
narrow corridor, and her mass of unkempt hair floated softly against
my face. I felt as though some beautiful creation of romance had
materialized before my eyes, as a silken tress touched my lips. Only
O’Hara’s heavy breathing, as he led the way, and Fae Fae’s
frightened gasps, made me realize that the whole business was real
enough. We all gave a deep sigh of relief as we stole out into the
night. A mighty alarm had seemed to thunder down the silence of
that palace corridor. Then O’Hara informed me that he had missed
the track whereby we had entered the palace. It was unfortunate,
for it necessitated our all climbing over a huge wooden wall that ran
along the south side of the track that led to the entrance of the
palace stockade.
“Come along, Fae Fae,” said I cheerfully, as the cool air of the
moonlit night and the glory of physical movement raised my spirits.
O’Hara clambered up to the top of the wall first; releasing Fae Fae’s
trembling hand, I followed. It was not hard climbing, for the huge,
upright logs were thickly overgrown with tough vine. “Look out!”
said I, as I stood in that elevated position and nearly stumbled.
Squatting side by side up there, we looked down. Fae Fae stared up
at us; she was half hidden in the forest ferns. O’Hara and I clasped
each other’s hand to get a better grip, then, bending down, we very
carefully gripped hold of Fae Fae’s extended hands and slowly
hauled her up to the top of the wall.
“Oh, Messieurs, it’s tellible!” murmured the frightened girl as she
stood high up there beside us. She shivered as she put forth her
arms in fright to retain her balance. Her tiny, blue diaphanous robe
was out-blown as the night wind sighed across the forest height.
“Don’t be frightened, Miss Faey,” I murmured, as the girl swayed
in terror, pressed my hand, and looked appealingly into my eyes as
we stood up there.
O’Hara and I gripped her carefully by the arms, swayed her to and
fro in space for a second, then dropped her softly down into the
mossy growth and fern of the forest on the other side of the wall.
“Awaie!” she cried, as she looked up at us.
Then my comrade and I slid gently down, like threaded spiders,
into the mossy scrub.
For a moment we stood breathless, as Fae Fae clung to our arms,
trembling in fear. To the right lay the main track; once across that,
we could bolt into the forest depth, where we would be safe. I
awaited O’Hara’s signal. I was taking no risks. O’Hara knew the place
too.
Suddenly my comrade said, “Now!” and off we went, rushing like
three phantoms across the exposed moonlit track.
“Holy St. Patrick!” breathed my chum, as we stood behind the
thick clump of bananas that divided us from the twelve yards that
we must yet pass ere we were out of sight of the main entrance to
the palace.
We were suddenly paralyzed by hearing a terrific yell. We had
been observed! That yell smashed to atoms all my indecision as to
what was best to do. Metaphorically speaking, it arrayed me in
armour, equipped me with all the necessary weapons to fight a
desperate battle for life and for the protection of the trembling girl
beside me.
I looked down the track: out of the main entrance had rushed
three stalwart Tahitian chiefs. They were quivering with excitement.
We remained standing still. I felt strangely calm.
“We’re in for it now,” said I.
O’Hara shook his fist and picked up a large stone. A glorious
feeling of exultation thrilled me at the thought of the coming race for
life. It was just in my line, whereas creeping on my hands and knees
down a corridor was dead against the grain.
Fae Fae gave a faint cry. It roused us. Simultaneously we dashed
away into the depths of the breadfruits and coco-palms. What a
sight!—Fae Fae, bare-footed, encumbered only by her pretty native
mumu (chemise) of scanty width, raced ahead, as O’Hara and I, our
arms held high in racing attitude, puffed on behind!
“Follow her, pal; she knows the way,” murmured O’Hara, as Fae
Fae’s dusky flying heels glittered in the moonlight about twelve yards
ahead of us! Though I admired that impulsive Irish comrade of
mine, I inwardly thought what an ass he was; for, though our
pursuers were hard on our heels, I distinctly heard him chuckling to
himself, making ecstatic remarks about Fae Fae’s swaying figure as
she fled down the forest track! I turned my head to see how it went
with the enemy. I was extremely disconcerted at observing them
coming up over the ridge of the rising ground, quite distinct in the
brilliant moonlight. A giant of a fellow was gaining ground, was far
ahead of the other pursuers.
“Wait!” I shouted in O’Hara’s ear. “We must frighten them
somehow.” I knew, well enough, that we were in the wrong, that we
could be legally charged with a serious, very serious offence. I felt
some sad, prophetic pain of a club falling on my romantic skull and
my head tumbling into the official guillotine basket. This sudden
visualizing freak of my imagination was made the more vivid through
my seeing Fae Fae racing along the track like some frightened child
(she was little more than a child in mind), as I lumbered on behind
her, clutching her delicate trousseau under my arm. Indeed I felt the
guiltiest of the three. Fae Fae was a child of the forest; O’Hara was
another child, since he was madly in love; while I?—well, instead of
giving wise counsel, I was there, an accessory before and after the
fact, and with the maid’s scanty wardrobe under my arm!
Preposterous!
“Go on; never mind me,” said I, when O’Hara suddenly stopped
dead short. There, on the track, I held up my revolver and fired over
the head of the mop-headed savage who was a hundred yards
ahead of the others. They slowed down. I saw the leader wave his
hand, and heard him yell out some words in his native lingo,
something that ended with the words “Fae Fae!”
On hearing that name, O’Hara gasped out:
“Why, it’s him, that damned Tautoa, who wants to marry my
Faey!”
It was with immense relief that I noticed that the pursuers had
slowed down and were apparently frightened at discovering that I
was armed. We couldn’t outrun Fae Fae. O’Hara and I had all we
could do to catch up to her as she still raced on, speeding round the
curves of the forest track. Indeed at times we could not see her at
all, knowing that she preceded us only because of the tiny, smoke-
like clouds of dust that we raced through, the diamond-like powder
that her bare, flying feet stirred and left behind as she raced along
the track. Sometimes the path wound into the full light of the moon;
it was then that we sighted Fae Fae’s flying figure and floating hair
as we thundered along behind her. I am sure the scene must have
looked like some burlesque or the rehearsal for a cinematograph
picture. As we passed the deep lagoons by the shore, weird shadows
whipped across the imaged, broken moons that were shining in the
still, glassy depths! For, as the fireflies danced in the leafy bamboo
glooms, I saw Fae Fae’s image, with flying hair, race across the
lagoon’s surface to the right of us, though she, herself, had passed
round the bend and was quite out of sight! To the southward
stretched, for miles and miles, the palm-clad slopes. It seemed as if
we were racing across a vast landscape oilpainting! To the north-
west rose the pinnacled range of La Diadème. We had reached the
Broome Road. As we raced across it we just missed a crowd of
hurrying Chinamen who worked in the cool of night in the
plantations of vanilla, coffee, sugar-cane, and orange groves.
“Hon kong ching chi chow kow!” yelled a straggler, as his pig-tail
tossed up, and he fell sprawling in the dust.
“One for his napper!” breathed O’Hara, as he recovered his
balance and we rushed across the plantation. We were safe! There
stood Tapee’s bungalow to the left of us. All would have gone well
had not O’Hara stumbled as he leapt across the stream. He gave a
yell of pain, and fell crash on his face.
Fae Fae gave a cry. Then she and I, breathing heavily, picked our
comrade up. He groaned as I examined him. I was relieved to find
that he had done no more than sprain his ankle. At this moment a
figure emerged from the shadows—it was Tapee.
“You all right?—where’s Fae Fae?” said the old man, as he peered
into the jungle depths around us. Fae Fae, who was hiding behind
the dwarf coco-palms, heard Tapee’s voice, and revealed herself. On
sighting the girl, the old idol-worshipper grinned from ear to ear.
“You clever wahine to run way from palace with kind white mans.”
It appeared that O’Hara had acquainted the chief that he was
going to get Fae Fae to elope with him from the palace that night.
Tapee was delighted to be of assistance to O’Hara, for he had some
grudge against Tautoa, the chief who was to marry Fae Fae. He was
also pleased to annoy Pomare, who had refused to allow Tapee to
attend the palace festivities.
When I informed Tapee that the gendarmes were already on our
track, he simply rubbed his hands and grinned as though the trouble
was over. Seeing O’Hara standing on one leg and holding the other
off the ground, Tapee and I escorted him into the bungalow hard by.
He groaned as we laid him down on the bed mats. On pulling off his
boot I saw that he was quite out of action so far as walking was
concerned—his ankle was swollen to the size of an orange, a lump
on the off-side.
Fae Fae, noticing the injury, gave a wail of despair. Then Tapee, to
my surprise, looked up and said:
“Oh, Messieurs, what shall we do? The popy priest am waiting to
marry Fae Fae and Papalagi O’Hara all this whiles down in Papeete.”
This was the first intimation I had received that O’Hara had made
the necessary preparations to have a Christian marriage with Fae
Fae. It was just like him, for, notwithstanding his being a scallawag,
he was ever ready to do the right thing at the right moment.
“Go, quick, and let the priest know that the marriage is put off till
another night,” moaned O’Hara. And so Tapee went off to postpone
the wedding. Fae Fae lifted her hands to the roof and wailed out,
“Saprista! Aloe, tua” and “Mon Dieu!” (Fae Fae spoke broken French
as well as English). I was more than glad to see that wedding
postponed. I felt it was quite enough for one night’s work to abduct
the maid in readiness for the wedding, and, moreover, Fae Fae was
trembling like a leaf and appeared very neurotic. She was a very
high-strung girl. Indeed I saw how artful-hearted Tapee had played
with ease on the girl’s romantic, sensitive temperament.
When Tapee returned, about half an hour after, he at once
prepared supper. We were all famished. We closed the door and
bolted it. Tapee said that on his way back after seeing the priest, he
had heard a lot of French officials discussing Fae Fae’s disappearance
from the palace. O’Hara groaned and Fae Fae wept, while I moodily
ate mangoes and stewed, juicy fruits, and wondered what my
relatives would think when they heard that I had been hanged for
abducting maidens in the South Seas! We passed a most wretched
night. I dozed off once, and dreamed that the world was a vast
guillotine, with me sitting in its receiving-basket as Time, and all the
stars danced sorrowfully around me, ere the blade fell and severed
my connection with mundane things. When I awoke, O’Hara was
looking very ill; but he gave a faint smile as Fae Fae held his head
and passed her fingers through his curly hair. At daybreak Tapee
went out and hired a kind of char-à-banc owned by a wizened
Chinaman. We took the Chinaman into our confidence, gave him a
good tip, and promised him a lot more than we could ever give him.
To tell the truth, if a Chinaman gives one his word of honour, he
seldom breaks it. I’d sooner trust a Chinaman than many pious
people whom I’ve unfortunately met. When we got into that wagon
the bottom nearly dropped out. It was old and rotten. The horse was
an object for pity; it moved at a mile an hour, and the angles of its
bones looked decidedly like the angles of the guillotine. We crouched
in the bottom of the cart, safe from the vigilant eyes of the officials
who were on the look-out for us. When we arrived in the Chinese
quarter of Papeete, I hired a room in a fan-tan den, and O’Hara
helped me to put up a bed. When all was comfortable, O’Hara fell
asleep, and I crept out into the forest and went back to Tapee’s
bungalow. When I arrived there, Fae Fae was weeping bitterly. I saw
that she had become sane, and regretted her flight from the palace.
She was evidently terrified in her reflection over the punishment she
would receive from the Queen’s hands. I tried my best to soothe her.
 “Oh, Monsieur, I so unhappy. Poor Monsieur Ilisham hurt himself
too. I feel lone, and Queen Pomare find me out and punish me, I
know, I know!” she wailed.
“Don’t worry, Fae Fae,” said I soothingly, as she gave me a tender,
sympathetic glance. I saw the tears in her eyes as she stared up at
me through her dishevelled tresses. Ah, beautiful hair it was! The
room was dimly lit by the latticed window-hole. She did look a
plaintive creature as she sat there swaying in her grief. I smelt the
sweet odours of the languishing flowers that still dangled, clinging
among her scented tresses, when she placed her hand caressingly
on my shoulder, and murmured:
“Oh, take me back to palace, Monsieur.”
We were close together, her eyes gazing beseechingly into mine.
Her smooth brow, bright in the glory of her vanilla-scented hair, was
near my lips. God knows that I would not betray the trust reposed in
me by a good comrade; but I have my weaknesses. Her hand
pressed mine. I somehow tripped forward, and, in some inexplicable
entanglement of the senses, my lips touched hers. Ah me! She
gazed deeply into my eyes. In a moment I realized what I had done.
I hung my head as she gazed on, and then, to my astonishment, she
swiftly lifted my hand and kissed it passionately. I thought of O’Hara,
probably asleep on his bed-mat and of the implicit trust he reposed
in me. I made a tremendous effort so that my outward demeanour
should have no twinship with the turmoil of conflicting thoughts
within me. Inclining my head affectionately, but at the same time
forcing a melancholy, sober aspect to my blushing visage, I managed
to blurt out:
“Oh, Fae Fae, child, my heart is heavy in the thoughts of your
sorrows. I don’t know how to advise you!”
It was a near go, I know. Indeed, had I partaken a little more
liberally of the toddy that Tapee had given me from his huge flask,
my memory of the whole business would not have made such
pleasant reading, I feel sure of that. Sober reflections made me
realize that, under the circumstance, the best thing for the girl to do
would be to go back to the palace. I fully realized the clumsy way
we had conducted ourselves and the seriousness of the gendarmes
being on our tracks.
At this moment Tapee opened the door and walked in. I was
relieved by his presence, but, to my consternation, Fae Fae’s attitude
towards me remained the same! Kissing the girl again, as though
she were a child, I looked her straight in the eyes, and said:
“I must get away and see O’Hara; it is unsafe for me to stop
here.”
The girl responded to this only by falling on her knees before me.
“Oh, Monsieur, stay! stay!” she cried in a plaintive voice.
It was then I noticed the wild, strange stare of her eyes. I gave
Tapee an interrogative glance. He touched his brow significantly. I
did not quite comprehend his meaning at the time, but subsequent
events soon enlightened me as to the state of Fae Fae’s mind.
Promising Tapee and the girl that I would return soon, I hastened
from their presence and went back to O’Hara. He was awake and in
great pain when I arrived at our diggings. I sat with him till dusk,
and all through the night poured cold water on his sprained ankle.
I well knew that while he was lame we had little chance of
clearing away, if the gendarmes heard of our whereabouts.
Once again, at O’Hara’s request, I went off to see how Fae Fae
was. Arriving at Tapee’s bungalow I found him trembling and
muttering in a strange way.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
“Oh, Masser, she gone! She run away in night; she go kill herself, I
sure!”
After the old fellow had rambled on a good deal, I gathered that
he had awakened at daybreak, and, discovering that Fae Fae had
flown, had spent the morning in searching likely places where she
might have hidden herself. I at once got Tapee to send a trusted
native friend up to the palace to find out if Fae Fae had returned
home. After a while the native came back full of excitement, and
informed us that the Queen and her retinue of chiefs had gone off to
the French Presidency to inform the officials that Princess Fae Fae
had been abducted from the palace by two white men. That bit of
information seemed to waken me up. I left Tapee at once.
“It’s no good using language like that,” I said, chidingly to O’Hara,
as I rubbed his ankle with coco-nut oil.
By the next day he could just manage to limp along. He was
determined to search for Fae Fae, though I had tried to persuade
him to do otherwise. That same day he seemed very depressed as
he sat under the palms singing to me. (He always sang when he was
feeling melancholy.)
“She’ll do herself some injury,” he said.
“She’ll turn up,” I said soothingly, though I must admit I felt
dubious about it all. I thought of the girl’s strange manner, how she
had danced round that idol; I was convinced that she was no
ordinary girl.
That same evening we walked into the forest near Katavio. We
were intending to meet Tapee, who had informed us that he would
be in his old hut in that part of the forest where his idol was hidden.
I tried to cheer O’Hara up as we passed under the arch-like
banyans that grew on the outskirts of the wooded country. Then we
sat down by the lagoons till darkness came. Suddenly we were
startled by hearing far-off sounds like the singing of a woman’s
beautiful voice. I jumped to my feet. There was something eerie
about the night as we listened. Then it came again, the long, low,
sweet refrain of an old-time Tahitian himine. Bucking up our courage
we stole forward, making for the direction where the singing came
from. Even the winds seemed hushed, not a sound disturbing the
silence of the forest. It seemed as if O’Hara and I walked a stage
whereon some thrilling South Sea drama was being enacted; the tall
trees looked unreal, even the wide roof over us might have been
some tremendous dark canvas bespangled with stars. The weird,
flute-like cadenza of the nightingale up in the branches of the
flamboyants did not destroy the unreal effect as it flew off.
“This way,” I whispered, as my comrade limped along.
We were standing on the wooded elevation just before the spot
where we had first caught Tapee worshipping his wooden image.
Moonrise, somewhere to the southward, behind the mountains, was
sending a pale brilliance over the rugged landscape. That weird
singer of the forest, or whatever it was, had ceased to sing. Then it
came again, a weird, tender wailing! O’Hara’s big form was leaning
against mine when the surprise came: staring there between the
tree trunks, we saw the old idol again and, careering around that
hideous wooden deity, that which looked like a phantom girl of the
woods! I had travelled the world over and seen some strange things,
but had never seen so weird a sight before.
“It’s Fae Fae,” said O’Hara, as he stumbled on his sprained ankle.
“Impossible!” I responded in a mechanical way.
“She’s dead, and has come back to dance where she first met
me!” re-wailed my love-sick Irish comrade.
The girl did look misty! I looked and wondered, notwithstanding
my cynicism over such things as ghosts. I felt that perhaps it was
Fae Fae’s ghost dancing before us! I had read of such things, and
had met old women who swore they had seen the dead doing
strange, unaccountable things.
We both stood still, strangely calm, as the girl whirled and sang in
her wild career, her diaphanous robe fluttering out to the breeze or
clinging closely to her misty-like figure. Then she lifted her arms and
moved towards us, her eyes wide open, apparently staring into
vacancy. The flowers in her unkempt hair, all crumpled, gave the one
touch that told of something real. It was evident that she had not
observed us, for in another moment she was again whirling around
the space, chanting to the deaf, wooden ears of the massive idol. As
she passed by us she came so close that I felt the rush of cool air
caused by her swift movements. Though her figure looked ghost-
like, I was still extremely sceptical. I knew that mortality, when
transformed into that blessed spiritual state that is supposed to
follow death, must of a necessity be unable to create any impression
through coming into contact with the material elements of mortality.
Indeed, I knew that singing itself was an impossibility, since it
necessitated an inflection and perfect contraction in the throat of the
singer. I resolved to seize the first opportunity to substantiate my
human suspicions as to the possibility of the figure before us being a
transfiguration of her whom we had once known in mortal shape as
Fae Fae. The opportunity presented itself forthwith. Fae Fae’s
apparent wraith, with arms outspread, the body swerving with
rhythmical beauty, was still flitting noiselessly round the small space,
coming toward us!
“Keep back!” I whispered to O’Hara, who was staring over my
shoulder, endeavouring to get a better glimpse of the figure. On she
came, seemingly draped in veils of the moonlight that was falling
through the overspreading, dark-fingered palm-leaves. Her lips had
begun a chant, her head turned slightly sideways as on her tripping
flight she approached and stared at the mighty, yellow-toothed,
wooden deity. In a moment she was upon us. I swiftly thrust forth
my hand as she flitted past.
“A phantom!” I gasped, as my fist passed right through the folds
of her attire and then seemingly through her form! For a moment I
could only stare. A vulture screeched high in the banyans. O’Hara
crossed himself and murmured a portion of some Ave Maria, terror-
struck. “Impossible! preposterous!” thought I to myself. Then I
remembered how I had distinctly felt the material of her robes
appeal to my sense of touch as my fist apparently went through her
figure; yes, something real and material was there. I had simply
missed touching her solid figure; that was it, I felt sure. “O’Hara,” I
whispered, and my voice sounded cracked as I muttered, “it’s no
ghost; it’s her, Fae Fae, right enough. She’s mad, out of her mind!”
 “No! Mad!” groaned O’Hara, as he jumped down from the banyan
bough where he had leapt in fright, and peered between the
breadfruit trunks. I tried hard to hold him back as he rushed
forward; but it was too late—a piece of his ragged coat came off in
my hand!
Fae Fae gave a terrified scream as she spied him.
“It’s me! your O’Hara, darlint!” yelled my comrade, as the girl,
turning round, stared at him in a wild, vacant way. Then, with a
frightened scream that thrilled us with horror, she fled away into the
depths of the forest.
I also rushed off, following O’Hara, who bolted after her. He had
not gone far when he tripped and fell with a crash. He gave a groan
as he held up his afflicted foot. I at once came to a standstill. I was
not in the mood to go chasing after a mad native girl. Besides, I had
had about sufficient of O’Hara’s love affairs. O’Hara was inconsolable
that night. At daybreak we were up and ready to go forth in an
endeavour to hear something about Fae Fae. Indeed, O’Hara
seemed more determined than ever to find her. We had at first
intended to go and see Tapee; but Tapee saved us that trouble by
suddenly walking into our apartments. Before we could get a chance
to tell the old chief of our adventure with Fae Fae, he had started
gabbling like one demented.
“Fae Fae, she go mad! and, O Papalagi, that Tautoa, her lover, he
have found her crying in the night in the forest, all ’lone,” said the
old dark man.
“No!” we both exclaimed in one breath.
“Ah, yes, Messieurs, it all-e-samee true. Fae Fae am now back in
palace, they got her now, and Queen Pomare am in terrible rage
with white mans. I knower that she am going to send gendarmes
after you and Monsieur O’Hara.”
The way O’Hara raved and carried on is indescribable. He got
quite drunk before midday. Then we were obliged to fly from our
lodgings and hide away under Tapee’s protection. For, sure enough,
a warrant was really out for both O’Hara and myself for trespass and
the abduction of Fae Fae, who from childhood had suffered from
mental afffliction!
It was Tapee who gave us this last bit of information. As the old
chief crept into the disused native hut and, squatting down by us,
told us these things, much became clear to me. I recalled many
things about Fae Fae’s manner, which, though fascinating and
romantic, seemed out of the normal even in a native maid. We hid in
that hut for three days, safe from the French officials; but I felt
pretty gloomy as I thought of the prospect of our getting three years
in the island calaboose. I gave out no hint of my qualms to O’Hara,
but I well knew that there was a good chance of both of us being
transported to the convict settlement at Ill Nou, Noumea! The
following night, however, we secured an old canoe, through the help
of Tapee, and paddled round to Matavai Bay, where we heard that a
tramp steamer was anchored.
And the next day, as we heard the tramping far overhead and the
dull pomp-e-te-pomp of engines, we both crept forth, moved our
cramped, huddled limbs, and groaned. I chewed a morsel off one of
our four coco-nuts. Then I caught a shadowy glimpse of O’Hara’s
sweating black face as he took a drink from the water-bottle, and
groped with his hands amongst the tiers of coal and terrific heat.
“Come on, this way!” I gasped, as I crawled along in that
monstrous tomb where we found ourselves buried alive! “That’s
better!” I said, as I felt a whiff of purer air come along some dark,
labyrinthine way. O’Hara sat by me in the gloom, groping about as
he carefully replaced the water-bottle and coco-nut in my
portmanteau (an old green baize bag that I always carried when I
travelled incognito).
Then O’Hara climbed up on my shoulders and peered through the
little round hole just above our heads. For a long time he stared,
gazing away to the far south-west horizon, where rose the rugged
pinnacles of La Diadem, still visible.
 “We’re safe enough now. They won’t catch us, I’ll bet,” said I.
“Ah, my darlint Fae Fae! I’ll never be happy again.”
“Yes, you will,” I murmured soothingly, as O’Hara still gazed
through that dirty coal-bunker’s glass porthole, staring wistfully so as
to get the last glimpse, as sunset touched the mountain palms of
far-away Tahiti! We were stowaways down in the hold of a tramp
steamer, far out at sea, outbound for Honolulu!
CHAPTER VII. THE HEATHEN’S GARDEN OF
EDEN

Tangalora the Samoan Scribe—Where the Gods and Goddesses

first met in Council—The Materials of which the first Mortal
Children were Fashioned—The first Wondering Men—The first
Women—How the first Babies came to their Mothers.

I T was nearly three months before I found myself in Samoa again.

O’Hara had shipped from Hawaii for the Solomon Isles, and I had
signed on as “deckhand” on a fore-and-aft schooner that was bound
for Apia. I missed the society of my Irish comrade; but we met long
after, as will be seen in the last chapters of this book. However, I
soon made another friend, for I came across a high chief, Tangalora,
who was an aged Samoan. I came to value his friendship greatly. He
dwelt in a cave on the shores of Savaii Isle, a cave wherein he lived
in primitive comfort and seemed happy enough. He was one of the
last of the wandering Samoan scribes—men who, with tappa robe
flung across the left shoulder, wandered from village to village in
pursuit of their romantic calling. These scribes would enter the small
pagan villages at sunset, take their stand on the village forum-stump
(sometimes a tree trunk or a heap of coral stone that denoted where
some mighty warrior or poet was buried), then, lifting one arm
towards the sky, commence to pour forth in dramatic fashion their
own versions of the old mythological tales and legends. Such a
scribe was Tangalora, with whom I became on the most intimate
terms. As I have said, Tangalora was a very old man. I believe he
was nearly eighty years of age. Consequently, he was unable to
travel from village to village singing his romantic chants and legends
to Samoan maids and youths. I found him a most agreeable old
poet, perfect in every way, except that I noticed a tinge of jealousy
arose whenever I spoke of his contemporaries. But even that very
human failing was forgivable, for competition was keen among the
poets of those days, and I myself heard many followers of the Muse,
as they stood on those Parnassian heathen slopes, cursing the lying
tongue of some wandering scribe who had forestalled them by
arriving at the forum-stump before they did. However, it’s not my
wish to go into detail over Tangalora’s failings; all I will attempt is to
tell from my own impressions some of the incidents of the
extempore verse which he rattled off in his cavern homestead. I
must first say that he used this cavern as a lecture hall as well as a
homestead, charging a small fee to the native men and crowds of
children who collected outside his rocky door at sunset. It was a
sight worth seeing as those little native children, their eyes bright
with mystery, waited to enter the cavern and hear the wonderful old
wizard man, Tangalora, tell of the mysteries of shadowland. It was
such a sight that met my eyes when I arrived at that cavern’s
entrance, as eager as any of the forest children, I am sure.
The sun was setting on the sea skyline and the shadows falling
over the mountains as Tangalora sat on his coral throne at the far
end of his weird-lit cavern hall. He was fully decorated with all the
insignia of his office, wearing his tappa robe, and with his
ornamental war-club by his side, as he sat there before me.
“Talofa!” he said, and all the children responded:
“Talofa, O Tangalora!”
Then he said that which translated into our language would run in
this wise:
“Now then, fantoes (children), come round close to me, my sight
is dim; sit by my knees, for I am old.”
In a moment the tawny children of the south were hustling and
bustling to secure their favourite position at the feet of the aged
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