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It was then past midday and oppressively hot and still. Every one at Hopéaroa slept during the heat of the day. In fact, repose was the principal island occupation. The natives could lie down anywhere, at any time, and go to sleep at once, as dogs or cats do. After lunch, observing that my host was getting drowsy, I excused myself, went to my room, put on my pajamas, and lay down on the bed to cool off. It was a good time, I thought, to examine Captain Handy’s Memoirs, so I propped the ledger against my knees and opened it.

It had a bouquet like that of an empty rum keg, and there was no doubt that a great deal of liquid of various sorts had been spilled on its pages. It was redolent, too, of coffee, fish, tobacco, and salt beef. The memoirs filled about two hundred pages in the back of the volume, written in pencil, in a quavery hand. I began with page one:

FIFTY YEARS IN THE PACIFIC

Or

The Life of George C. Handy

There’s been a lot of books about the South Sea Islands and most of them are not worth the paper they’re printed on. I ought to know. I’ve traded in the Pacific for fifty years as my title shows, and if anybody knows the ways of kanakas, I do. I’ve decided to put down some of my recollections, and reader when you’ve finished this book if you don’t wish there was more of it I’ll miss my guess.

I’ll begin at the time when I was supercargo on the schooner Manaura that belonged to Wyatt & McClintock of Papeete. That was in 1872 when the kanakas would take anything you’d a mind to sell them and pay anything you’d a mind to ask. They didn’t pay money of course they didn’t have any, but they’d give you pearls and pearl-shell and copra which is as good as money any day.

Old Joe Cheeseman was captain of the Manaura. All we had for cargo was some cheap laundry soap, some kegs of salt beef, some calico and overalls, and about ten cases filled with bottles of physic pills. Well, this trip we went first to Tikehau. There’s a good pass into the lagoon at this island and we anchored in front of the village. The natives paddled out and we said we’d give them two bars of soap, three pairs of overalls and six yards of calico for every ton of copra they brought us. We laid up there till we had fifteen tons then we went to Rairoa. That’s a big island with several villages. They had a lot of pearls. We got a tobacco sack full, A-1 quality and all we paid for them was a case of physic pills. We said the medicine was good for anything from sore throat to rheumatism. We had good luck all that voyage and went back to Papeete with 70 tons of copra and pearl-shell and a cigar box full of fine pearls.

The next trip we went to the south’ard. We carried about the same cargo only instead of physic pills we had three barrels of rum and a lot of cheap mouth-organs. Kanakas are a lazy lot as everybody knows who has had to deal with them but when you’ve got something they want they’ll work for it. In these days of course trading is nothing to what it was in the seventies and eighties. We loaded the schooner again in no time and most of the cargo was paid for with the three barrels of rum and five dollars worth of mouth organs.

I read on for a dozen pages, then dipped into the record farther along, and it was all like this. It seemed incredible that a man who had spent half a century in the Pacific, voyaging among widely scattered archipelagos, should have found nothing worthy of record but his trading ventures. There was something awe-inspiring in his singleness of interest and purpose, which was to get as much as he could from the islanders and to give as little as possible in return. Occasionally there were such passages as the following: ‘We landed at Puka-Puka and found a big pow-wow going on, singing and dancing and all that,’ but no mention about what ‘all that’ was—nothing but long diatribes against the natives who could not be tempted at such times with laundry soap or overalls. I searched diligently for an hour, and the only passage I found to relieve the bleak monotony of the narrative was this:

When we were coming up from Manga Reva, Joe (Cheeseman) got sick. We didn’t have any medicine aboard but I found one of the bottles of physic pills we’d been passing off on kanakas. I asked Joe if he wanted some and he said he guessed he could get along without. He got worse and worse and was out of his head a good deal of the time. He kept saying, ‘Put me ashore George put me ashore’ so when we came to an island not far off our course we took him over the reef in the whale boat and came within one of getting swamped. It was a god forsaken place no people on it. He was thirsty for coconut water so I gave him some. He kept getting worse and worse and the next day he died. Just before he died he said ‘Don’t you bury me at sea George. Leave me here.’ So I did. We got to Papeete two weeks later.

I put the ledger on the table and took down one of Monsieur Clémont’s English books—Jeremy Taylor’s ‘Rule and Exercises of Holy Dying,’ but because of the sultriness of the afternoon, perhaps, the text soon blurred before my eyes and I fell asleep.

I was awakened by a knock at the door and was surprised to find that it was quite dark in the room. ‘Come in!’ I called, and my host entered.

‘My guest! I have aroused you!’ he said apologetically. ‘But the food is ready.’

After a plunge in the lagoon I felt greatly refreshed and did full justice to a supper of delicious baked fish. We were in the midst of the meal when a note was brought in from Captain Handy, asking us to come out to the schooner that evening. He said he had something important to tell me.

We found him perched in a sort of child’s high-chair at the cabin table, with a bottle of rum before him. He took it for granted that I had spent the afternoon reading his story.

‘Well, what did you think of it?’ he asked at once.

He awaited my reply so eagerly that I couldn’t find it in my heart to disappoint the old man. So I said, which was true, that I thought it a remarkable document.

‘Didn’t I say so?’ he replied, triumphantly. ‘But I haven’t told the half of what I might. That’s what I want to see you about.’

Then he began a long account of some experiences which he now believed should be included in the memoirs, and I sat there, again marveling at his capacity for rum. I asked some questions, hoping to get him started on something interesting, but I might just as well have saved my breath. An hour passed and still he rambled on. Finally, Monsieur Clémont, who had not spoken a word all evening, said, ‘Captain, should you wish to play on the zither?’ I warmly seconded the suggestion, and the captain, after a moment’s hesitation, told M. Clémont to fetch it from the drawer under his bunk. We waited while he tuned some of the strings. Then, tucking his beard more carefully under the table, he began.

I thought I was prepared for anything, but certainly I was not prepared for the performance which followed. At first he played some simple pieces, waltzes, marches, and the like, to limber up his fingers; but each number was more difficult than the one preceding. When he played ‘I Dreamt That I Dwelt in Marble Halls,’ and ‘Listen to the Mocking Bird,’ his fingers were all but invisible as they flew over the strings. Monsieur Clémont sat on the extreme edge of his chair, tightly clasping his shoulders, and I felt little thrills racing up and down my spine. But ‘Larboard Watch’ was the most remarkable performance. He sang this to his own accompaniment, and when he came to the refrain,

Larboard watch, ahoy!

Larboard watch, ahoy!

his virtuosity with the instrument at the end of each line was truly wonderful. And for depth and volume, his singing voice surpassed his speaking voice. Indeed, it seemed miraculous, coming from a man well into his seventies, who was nothing but skin and bones and beard.

Had he continued singing and playing in the manner of ‘Larboard Watch,’ I could have listened with pleasure all night; but he soon became very muddled, which was not surprising, considering all the rum he had drunk. He tried a few other songs but made increasingly sorry work of them. At length he pushed back the instrument in disgust.

‘No use,’ he said. ‘Can’t sing an’ more.’

Then he began calling me ‘Joe,’ and it was evident that he thought I was his old trading partner, Captain Cheeseman.

‘You gwan with that bus’ness, Joe,’ he said. ‘Lot of money in it—both of us. I’ll trust you, but mind you don’t try any your monkey tricks! Fifty-fifty, fair enough, ain’t it? ’Sfar’s I’ll go anyway.’

Presently his glazed eyes rested on Monsieur Clémont, and he pointed a limp, skinny finger at him.

‘Hey, Joe! Wha’s that kanaka doin’ here? Owe ’im anything? Give ’im bottle physic pills. Tell ’im run along.’

His utterance became thicker and thicker, and a few moments later he passed out completely. He would have fallen over in his chair had not Monsieur Clémont sprung forward to catch him. He carried him to his bunk and covered him with a soiled sheet, tucking the edges gently around his shoulders. Then, having carefully put the zither back in its drawer, he extinguished the light, and the faint radiance of the last-quarter moon, streaming through the port-hole, fell on the captain’s face, silvering his beard and the tufts of snowy hair at his temples. He was in a profound stupor, but he looked like some ancient holy man, sleeping peacefully after a supper of herbs and water.

‘Does this happen often, Monsieur Clémont?’ I asked, as we were paddling back to shore.

‘Yes, but to-day is more unusual than before. He has failed his sleep.’

After a long silence he added, ‘I should wish to play on the zither like Captain Handy.’

I supposed that we should see no more of the captain for a day or two, at least, but late the following afternoon he again came ashore. It had been raining during the early part of the afternoon, and having nothing better to do, I had been writing some letters to be posted later, when I should again be on a steamship route. The natives had never before seen a typewriter, and every one in the village had assembled in front of the veranda where I was at work. Monsieur Clémont was as deeply interested as any of them. He thought a typewriter a marvelous instrument, which it is, in fact. After watching for a while, he asked whether I would mind letting the others come up to see how it worked. I was glad to comply, so he lined them up and brought them forward one by one, to look over my shoulder for an instant. He made them keep absolute silence, and finding it difficult even to compose letters under those circumstances, I wrote and re-wrote, ‘Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party.’ I had covered three pages with this immortal sentence by the time Captain Handy appeared.

He thought I was transcribing the Memoirs, and was greatly disappointed to learn that I had not yet begun it. Being in an indulgent mood, I decided that I might as well make a day of it, so I copied his first chapter to show him how it looked in print. This was a great mistake, as I soon realized, for he came again the following day, and the day after that, and the day after that, always followed by the old retainer carrying the usual bottle. He looked more and more haggard and disheveled, for the loss of his daylight sleep and the increased consumption of rum were telling on him severely. Then a curious thing happened: the ledger disappeared.

We searched high and low, without success. I confess that I was glad. I knew the book couldn’t be lost, and meanwhile I was relieved of the dreary task of copying it. But the captain became increasingly suspicious, and one day he accused me of stealing it. His opinion of his story, never a modest one, had risen enormously since its disappearance, and he really thought I meant to smuggle it away with me and rob him of his fifty per cent. I tried to reassure him, but only succeeded in thoroughly convincing him of my guilt. At last he made an official complaint before Monsieur Clémont, Administrateur.

His position was a delicate one. Here was I, his guest, and a journalist for whom the Secretary of State of the United States of America had asked a safe and free passage through foreign lands, and ‘all lawful aid and protection,’ accused of theft by Captain Handy, who had had a life of great deeds, and who played so beautifully on the zither. He informed me of the accusation with a delicacy and tact which would have done credit to a French ambassador.

‘But Monsieur Clémont!’ I said. ‘You don’t really believe that I have stolen his ledger, do you?’

‘My guest! I should never believe this! But Captain Handy exacts you. I am Administrateur. It is my duty to accept his complaining. But you shall see! You shall be excused by due process of law.’

So he made out the complaint in French. It was an interesting document, but too long to be included here. I had the honor of copying it for him on my typewriter—the first typewritten legal document ever uttered at Hopéaroa. But to my great regret, before the trial took place the ledger was found. It had slipped down at the head of my bed and worked in under the mattress.

To prevent any possible further complications I decided to make an excursion to the island on the opposite side of the lagoon. I took some fishing tackle, a light blanket, and nothing by way of provisions but some salt and a box of matches, for I wanted to see whether I could support myself for a few days something in the fashion of the islanders.

Monsieur Clémont carried me across in a sailing canoe. No one lived on this other island, but there were two or three thatched huts used by the natives when they came over to fish or to make copra. My host spent the afternoon with me, showed me where to find hermit crabs for bait, and the best places to fish. They all seemed best places to me, and the fish took the hook so readily that I saw at once I should have plenty of food. He left me at dusk, and I asked him not to return for me until the end of the week.

I had a gloriously lonely time, one of the happiest weeks I have ever spent anywhere. My only fear was that Monsieur Clémont might come back too soon or bring Captain Handy over. Fortunately, on the second day it began to blow very hard, and the wind increased steadily, so that it would have been impossible for any one to cross from the village island which was dead to leeward. It was an awe-inspiring sight, particularly at night, to see the surf piling up on the reef. The great swells rose higher than the land, it seemed, and fell with a thundering shock which shook the little island to its foundations. I thought my hut was going to be blown away, and in fact one of the empty ones was demolished. Despite the wind, it was bright, clear weather, and I spent the days, and most of the nights as well, in the open.

On Saturday it fell calm again, and to my great disappointment I saw the canoe returning. I gathered at once from Monsieur Clémont’s manner, that something unusual had happened. I was not mistaken. Captain Handy was dead.

It had happened three days before. One of his sailors had found him in the morning, lying on the cabin floor. He had been dead for some hours.

‘It was needed to bury him at once,’ he said. ‘I should have wished to come for you, but this was prevented by the great wind. We gave him the funeral that afternoon.’

The old schooner looked even more forlorn than usual, I thought. The soul had quite gone out of her now, but one of the ancient sailors was still at the pump. I wondered whether he would ever be able to stop pumping, having done it for so long. We passed close alongside, and through the clear water I could see innumerable rusty tins lying beneath her. A small mountain of them rose from the floor of the lagoon. It was roughly of the same shape as the schooner, and hollow in the center, like the crater of an extinct volcano.

‘Monsieur Clémont,’ I said, ‘I wish you would tell me something.’

He looked at me inquiringly.

‘It is none of my business, of course, but have you been supplying Captain Handy with provisions all these years?’

‘He was my guest,’ he said. ‘And he was an aged man. This was my duty.’

He volunteered no further information and I did not press him for any; but as we were walking out to the cemetery, he said, ‘Should you think I might have Captain Handy’s zither?’

I told him that I thought he was fully entitled to it.

The cemetery was on the ocean beach, a quarter of a mile from the village. A wooden cross had been erected over the captain’s grave, and leaning against it was one of Monsieur Clémont’s beaded funeral wreaths which bore the inscription, ‘Tombé Sur Le Champs d’Honneur.’ We removed our hats.

‘He was a man of great deeds,’ said my host, gravely. ‘He is sleeping now.’

I nodded, without speaking.

‘Should you wish to continue with his memoirs?’ he added, after a brief silence.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I replied. Then for the first time I felt the prompting of what must have been the journalistic instinct.

‘I wonder whether I could make something of the captain’s history after all?’ I thought. I had very little money left, after my six months of wandering. If I could write a little story perhaps I might be able to sell it to some editor——

Then I heard, or thought I heard, a deep, muffled, sepulchral voice issuing from the newly made grave:

‘Now mind! Fifty-fifty!’