Well, Koro, the old Marquesan chief, had lived in the stirring times when his tribe had suffered from the ravages of cannibalism, and he started off yarning almost directly Stevenson sat down. From his lips we were told many things that seemed almost unbelievable. Koro even darkly hinted that Samoans up till very recently had been addicted to the awful appetite, which was probable; but, being an intellectual race and superior in every way to the other races of the Pacific, Samoans had not allowed the stain of cannibalism to rest on the history of their people, letting the memory of it die out with the custom. Stevenson was alert with interest as the old chief told us of past cannibalistic orgies of his islands, and, as the old man yarned on in pidgin-English, kept saying “Well now, really me!” for very surprise at the things we heard. One tale he told us was so bloodthirsty and cruel, and the truth so evident from the manner in which it was told, that I must repeat it here.
It appeared that in the Marquesa Group, on Hiva-oa, at a period not distant from the time that I am telling you of, there was a ferocious cannibal who was the last survivor of a tribe which had ravaged the surrounding villages and preyed on the flesh of the people. In Koro’s time this hated man-eater lurked in the forest, and the village was obliged to have sentinels on watch each night. For the terrible cannibal had a passion for the flesh of their children, and often by night the whole village was awakened by hearing the screams of one of their little ones, who had been seized whilst asleep, and was being carried off into the forest. The method of this monster was to crawl on his belly through the thickets and watch the village for hours, and once or twice a girl had been carried off in broad daylight to be strangled and eaten. Many of the things the old chief told us were too terrible to write down here; it is enough to say that he did not strangle his female victims at once, but kept them lashed in his hiding-place to be killed and eaten at leisure. The people knew this, because a native girl had managed to escape, after being a prisoner of the monster’s for several days. It is impossible to describe here Koro’s dramatic attitude, and his wonderful way of telling the story. The listening children in the hut crept closer to us for fright, and Stevenson laughed almost hysterically and said “Good Lord!” as the old fellow continued. “Well, Marser Stesson, one night Chief Swae, who had just got married, had a great dance, and we all be happy and dance; and that night when the moon was getting old we all did sleep and Swae’s bride did sleep beside him, for the night was very hot and we did all sleep in the open under the fifis (palms). Suddenly we were all awake and jumping about in the village, for Swae was shouting out with a great voice: ‘The man-eater has stolen my wife.’ In one moment we had all seized our war-clubs, old cutlasses and muskets and rushed off into the forest, Swae the bridegroom leading the way. Presently we did hear a far-off scream coming from the direction of the sea. Swiftly we turned and went toward the shore, and it was then that we all looked through the mangroves and saw the great man-eater holding Swae’s bride in his arms as though she was a caught bird. He was leaning against a tree and had stopped because she did cling to one of his legs; he was a mighty big fellow of great strength, and his face was very, very dark and wrinkled with wickedness. Swae ran with all his might round the shore and got behind the cannibal, and, creeping up behind him, with one sweep of his cutlass cut his head from his shoulders. It fell to the forest floor and the body still stood upright, while the cannibal’s head lay on the ground with the mouth still half laughing at the thought of what he would do with Swae’s wife! When we got up to the bride she lay as one dead, still clinging to the man-eater’s leg. Then Swae called her softly by her name and she opened her eyes and sprang into his eager arms. We cooked the body of the cannibal and gave it to our grunting swine. No one of my tribe would eat the swine after that, so we sold them to the white sailors who came in on the big ships and they were much pleased that they were so cheap!” And saying this the old chief gave a chuckle in his wrinkled throat, being hardly able to disguise his inward delight. Stevenson, too, saw the grim humour of it and also smiled and said: “Well now!”
As Koro finished Mrs Stevenson arrived on the scene, carrying a large bunch of flowers, and when Stevenson told her that which we had been listening to she said: “Ugh, I am glad I wasn’t here to listen; you love gruesome things, I know.” Stevenson grinned like a schoolboy as he started mischievously to tell her some of the most gruesome details which we had just heard.
CHAPTER VIII
Robert Louis Stevenson and his Friends—Stevenson as a Roadmaker—Timbo—Stevenson on the Schooner—The Skipper—“Tusitala” and the Natives—Conventionality—A Visit to King Malietoa—Stevenson’s Love of Adventure—Stevenson the Writer—Genius in the Southern Seas—Socialism
I SAW Stevenson several times after that at society balls and concerts in Apia, where sometimes he seemed full of merriment and indeed the life of the party, and again at other times strangely silent, revealing the man of moods. I have never heard that he was fond of being alone, but I can vouch for it that he was as often alone in his wanderings over the islands as he was with friends; indeed I think I saw him more often alone than otherwise. I met Mr Strong twice, I think, when he was with Stevenson. Mr Moore too, who wrote With Stevenson in Samoa, was a pleasant man, and Robert Louis Stevenson and he were as familiar as brothers.
Almost the last time I saw Stevenson was at the Tivoli in Apia; he was with Mr Moore and several other men whom I cannot recall. They were all taking refreshments and talking. Stevenson was flushed a bit, his eyes were very bright, and with his hat off, revealing a lofty, pale brow, he looked unlike the ordinary run of men. He was in an excellent mood, and Mr Moore and another member of the party were so intensely amused at what he was saying that they almost upset their glasses and spluttered as they laughed; which gave Stevenson very obviously great pleasure, for he was as fond of a joke as any of them.
On that special occasion I was in the company of the chief mate of a large schooner which was leaving Apia the next day for Honolulu. Stevenson, or one of the party, called us across and offered us drinks and cigars. Soon after my companion, who had to get on board his ship, left and I went with him; and as we got outside we still heard the jovial exclamations of Stevenson and his friends as they yarned on, their voices fading behind us as we walked away into the moonlight and shadows of the coco-palms many years ago.
Stevenson would often tackle rough work, such as tree-chopping and digging; and was often to be seen perspiring and covered with grime as he helped the natives to make tracks across the rough jungle and forest land that surrounded Vailima. Bare-footed, dressed in old clothes and a seaman’s cast-off cap, he looked like some vagabond dust-man. His manner to the natives who worked for him was jovial enough; he would shout: “Go it, Sambo, that’s right, te rom and te pakea[[3]] if you work hard”; and then with a twinkle in his eyes he’d stand and watch them lugging the wheelbarrows up the slope as they jabbered like school-children and worked their hardest. Several of Stevenson’s friends also worked with him: one of them would be cutting the trees down as the novelist smoked, and jocularly criticising him, telling him to “keep moving and not be such a loafer.” Mrs Stevenson arrived on the scene of hard work once and chided him for exerting himself. “Don’t do that, dear, or you will be ill again,” she would say; and the novelist would look up and then work harder than ever.