First, I must say that I can tell the story only by making the facts appear like the buffooneries of a South Sea burlesque. Thinking it over, I must admit that my own cheek upon this particular occasion was enormous and superb! I can recall no other escapade like it, except, perhaps, my dangerous adventure with Singa Lorna, the dancing girl, in the heathen monastery at Fiji. Though I can claim the dubious honour of having arrived on the shores of four continents with three halfpence in my portmanteau and an all-absorbing belief in the generosity of man, of having been a member of the crew of an old-time blackbirder, and of having been thrown among the wildest characters found outside the realms of fiction, I can recall none who managed to get my head so near the guillotine as did the wayward Irishman O’Hara. There was a deal of humour about O’Hara’s personality; it was the humour of romantic youth, a pathetic humour that is discernible only to the practical onlooker, or at the time when the tale is old. In saying humour, I do not refer to humour as defined in the old books of recognized jokes, or the works of many modern humorists, works which, to me, are the saddest, driest books in existence; but I mean the humour suggesting poignant laughter, flickering in the light of the eyes and rippling on the lips, coming like visible music on the flushed, emotional countenance—the poetry of laughter and tears as suggested in a Mallarmé poem.
I had been some three or four weeks in Papeete when I first met O’Hara, the curly-headed Irishman. I was in the small beach grog-café near Potuo, having a glass of lime-juice at the time. By this, I do not wish to infer that I was, or am, a teetotaller: on cold nights at sea nothing warms my blood like a nip of rum. O’Hara introduced himself by giving me a whack on the back, and then joined with immense gusto in the chorus of “Killarney,” which I happened to be performing on my violin. Ah, what a voice he had! mellow and sweet, it vibrated like the strings of a ’cello in the hands of a Maestro. And, as he lifted his blue eyes and sang on, moving his fingers before him as though he played an imaginary guitar, the Tahitian belles, peeping through the open bar-door, lifted their dusky arms in sheer ecstasy as they sighed for “One fond look from those wild eyes.” One maid placed her hands on her hips and, putting forth her pearly toe-nailed feet in exquisite style, danced a graceful Tahitian himine. The old shellbacks waxed enthusiastic and pulled their whiskers, as they made critical comments on the dancer’s beauty. I might say here that these dances were wonderful for their restraint and artistic movement, quite devoid of the vulgar limb-movements as exhibited in European music-halls.
I attribute the almost menacing glance of those Tahitian orbs on the Celtic temperament for all that occurred that night. For my Irish friend overshadowed himself, became one inch taller, and broadened considerably in the shoulders, on seeing the impression he had created in the minds of those dusky maidens. His deplorable wit brought forth roars of laughter from the assemblage of shellbacks and half-castes who haunted their presence. Then he ordered a dozen drinks, pressed four plugs of ship’s tobacco into my hand, and swore that he would die for my sake. I returned the compliment, and told him that I did not wish him to die if he would only consent to sing “Killarney” once more. It was nearly midnight when the inevitable argument arose and the shellbacks and traders took sides. I often wonder how O’Hara and I escaped suffocation in the dust of the débris as the empty meat-tubs, the wooden bar-screens, and a hundred drinking-mugs got inextricably mixed up in the farewell mêlée and wild, insane farewells when true comradeship returned, after the fight, and each man had a last drink and then went his way.
Such was my first meeting with O’Hara. But I sought his company again. It was at our next meeting that he informed me he knew a native who could tell us where thousands of pearls were deposited. “Pal, our fortunes are made! Savvy?” I intimated, by a conciliatory nod, that I did savvy. I had heard before, both in Australia and the Islands, of such vast fortunes in the pearl and nugget line; but I had never found them! The very next day O’Hara introduced me to a weird-looking Tahitian chief, who was supposed to know where the pearls were to be found, providing we gave him a sufficiently large bribe. This chief (his name was Tapee), was a most striking-looking old fellow. He was tall and finely built, and looked about sixty years of age. His costume consisted of bits of decorated fibre matting swathed about his loins. He wore a large, cleverly-twisted palm-leaf hat. His face?—well, it was a face! I’ve seen thousands of faces in my travels, but never one like his. Tapee’s face was the essence of faces; it could easily have made fifty ordinary ones and still possess enough character to make one stare back if it passed by in a crowd. The mouth had been finely curved in days gone by, but years had withered it, making the lips appear sardonic. The eyes, once clear as a tropic sky full of stars, had faded into a dim, far-away look, as though Tapee saw some wonderful new day beyond the peaks of death—and stared into the beyond with fright! He was a full-blooded heathen, worshipped idols, and believed in dreams and dark omens.
“Look at him! What a face!” said O’Hara, as he nudged Tapee in the ribs, bent forward, and exploded with laughter! Tapee took O’Hara’s boisterousness in good part, even as a compliment, then, swallowing his rum, beckoned us both to follow him down to the beach. When we stood beneath the breadfruit trees, Tapee peered about to convince himself that we were unobserved. The shadows of night were falling across the rugged mountain slopes behind semi-pagan Papeete city. We could hear the tinkling of guitars, mandolines, and zithers coming from the Café Française that stood by the coco-palms near the main street of Papeete. The enchantment of fairy-land was destroyed by the cries of “Vive la France! Sacré!” as sunburnt gendarmes gazed, as only Frenchmen can gaze, into the lustrous eyes of the pretty “Belles Tahitians.”
“You wanter lot moneys, great heap pearls, nice Englesman, eh?” said Tapee.
“Oui! oui!” said O’Hara and I in one breath, as we joyously pronounced that French monosyllable.
“Well, Masser, me knowee where tousands of pearls are hidder in lagoon near coast.” Saying this, the old chief looked up artfully and continued: “But you give me moneys firster—if I taker you there to-mollow?”
“How do you know that there are pearls in the lagoon?” said I.