Their busy babes, unsatisfied desires,
Eyes sparkling starlight of the sea-nursed South!
As down the forest track from hut to hut
Pass natives, clad in half a coco-nut!
I RECALL the memory of a Marquesan royal person who stands out in my recollection with unusual vividness.
Whilst wandering, during one of my troubadouring expeditions north-west of Tai-o-hae, I came across a small, semi-pagan, tribal citadel of huts on the lower mountain slopes. It was a romantic and picturesque scene. The scattered bird-cage huts, made of twisted bamboo and nestling in the hollows, that were shaded by feathery palms, intensified the enchantment of the secluded forest empire. I know that the glad reception which I received from the whole population when I entered the high bamboo stockade gate, my two native boys ahead of me, was as impressive as it was pleasing to me. The two boys in question were Palao and Sango, neither of them more than ten years of age. But they were invaluable guides, considering the benefit their protection afforded my unarmed person, for they were able to converse in the difficult Marquesan tongue, and could explain my wishes and friendly attributes.
I was always careful in those days, and contrived that Palao and Sango should move ahead of me as my advance guard, thus leaving me in the immediate rear, ready for flight. The tribes about that part were supposed to be friendly, but my nerves were a bit unsettled through hearing that two sailors had been murdered in a tribal village ten miles to the eastward. Indeed, more than once I had been welcomed by the sudden appearance of fierce warriors with raised war-clubs and other strange implements of combat, which gave due notice that intruders were not to call at that particular moment! Possibly a tribal battle had been on, and had ended in the demise of a young warrior or so, and consequently a happy cannibal festival was in progress. Hence, no admission to the tribal stronghold for white men unless they happened to call on the most secretive and intimate terms.
Seeing only the smiling faces of chiefesses and chiefs welcoming me from the ambush of multi-coloured flowers by the lagoon mangroves, I saw that I had arrived at an opportune moment. “Aloah! Alli, Papalagi!” came from the lips of the assembled natives as I placed my violin to my chin and commenced to perform an old Marquesan himine.
The effect was magical: out of the leafy shadows and the hut doorways rushed the whole population, so it seemed to me, their faces bright with delight. It was a sight worth travelling many miles to see: tawny, oval, elongated, scarred, serious, and handsome faces, with original-looking eyes of varied brilliance, stared at me. A few tattooed warriors, clad in lava-lava and palm-leaf head-gear, leaned against the coco-palm stems regarding me with fixed, cynical-looking eyes. I did not like the look of them at all, but they turned out to be harmless enough. They were simply the old conservatives of heathen times, who instinctively resented the intrusion of white men into their sylvan demesne. Flocks of pretty boys and girls, of a pale walnut-polished hue, clambered at the picturesque ramias (native skirts) of their deep-bosomed mothers, gazing with half-frightened stare as my violin bow swept forth the wailing strains. I must have looked like some Pied Piper as I marched across the wide rara (village green), with Palao and Sango singing lustily, one on each side of me. That pagan mountain village was part of a true wonderland of the wine-dark seas. I am unable to describe the bright-eyed glances of those pretty Nausicaas and Circés who crept from the Elysium-like shadows of heathenland and stared at me as I passed by. Two stalwart chiefs, who were nibbling my present of tobacco plug, led the way; they were taking me straight to the palace building wherein dwelt their tribal queen. This palatial stronghold was constructed of coral stone and was surrounded by a wide verandah that was again sheltered by the beautiful pauroa and tamunu trees. Entering the palace, I found myself in a low-roofed apartment. On the walls hung the polished skulls of fallen warriors who had been renowned for bravery in their day. Magnificently woven tappa-mats covered the polished floors and the barbarian furniture. I noticed two cases of gin and one empty rum barrel standing right in the centre of the apartment. They were given that conspicuous position, I believe, because rum and gin denoted all that was immense wealth in the eyes of the Marquesan race. But what struck me as the most interesting piece of barbarian antiquity was the strange woman who presided over that palatial residence. She looked as old as her palm-clad native hills, and I discovered that she was one of the surviving queens of the many who had once reigned over the small dynasties of the Marquesan group. I had never seen her like before; her physiognomy was unique and decidedly pleasing-looking. She might easily have been some happy personification of Death itself as she sat there and saluted me:
“Aloah! Papalagi, you wanter see me am?”