The weather was extremely hot, so we accepted the bribe that he offered when he once more became suspicious, a bottle of something that tasted like the best champagne. Grimes nudged him in the ribs, winked and said something like this: “Don’t you worry, old cock; I ain’t a-going to give yer away.” Then he did a double shuffle, which delighted the Marquesan.
Whenever Grimes, after that, was hard up for a drink, he sneaked away into the forest to see old Rimbo, where he renewed his protestations of secrecy as to the heathen’s misdeeds and drank away to his heart’s content.
Beneath Rimbo’s sly commercial propensities he nourished a deep belief in the virtues of the heathen gods, as I discovered in the few conversations which I had with him after the aforesaid experience. He swore to me that he saw the old gods stalking through the forest on moonlit nights. “You no believe me?” he responded to my remarks and sceptical glance. “Allee samee, I see them go across forest, climb down the stars, down into the big moana ali” (ocean).
“Rimbo, I believe you,” said I, as Grimes nudged him in the ribs, saying:
“This ain’t ’alf good stuff,” then took another drink from Rimbo’s hoarded store.
It was a pleasure to encourage Rimbo to tell the wonders of his weird belief. And why shouldn’t one encourage him? Think of the thousands of people in civilised lands who believe implicitly in spiritualism and crystal-gazing. The poetic legends and creeds of the natives had their virtuous side. It is true enough that many of their songs were based on cannibalism and idol-worship, but more often they sang the praise of warrior deeds that had brought some cruel enemy to the dust. The old heathen bible had much inherent beauty in its primitive psalms, far more than has ever been intimated by early travellers. The sacrificial altar and cannibalistic horrors were much the same, and nearly as wicked, as the deeds of the stake-burning era of Christianity in civilised lands. Also, the savages were sincere in their beliefs, a fact that is proved conclusively by the noble stoicism of their now historical martyrs, who died mercifully by one blow of the war-club, whereas British chapel-goers of our dark ages hired orchestral stalls and cheered whilst the martyr died a lingering death. Their creed was a primitive Buddhism, preaching reincarnation and a divine reverence for all living things. The birds, the trees, the fish of the sea, the winds and clouds were transformed beings, the shadows and poetic voices of dead warriors beyond the grave. Indeed their apparently blood-thirsty religion possessed an inherent gospel of tenderness: all creeping and living things forming a sympathetic part of a mythology that was based on a mystic reverence for nature and the beautiful, a reverence that has never had a dominating sway in the religions of the Western world. A dash of Marquesan heathenism, as it once was, thrown into the stock-pot of modern Christianity would, I am sure, vastly improve the bigoted, outrageous godless moan that attempts to dominate human wishes and joys to-day.
As for Rimbo, I’d as soon enter heaven arm in arm with him as with any saintly bishop or pope ever born.
I see by my diary notes that even in those days I was unconventional in my religious views. One entry, 21st October, goes:
“Had great argument with thick-necked, low man about religion. He called me b—— fool and crimson and purple idiot, etc., etc. He’s a coal-trimmer from the Alandine, a Yankee tramp steamer that called yesterday from Hivaoa. I told him he was an arrant coward, and swashbuckler to boot, to strike a Marquesan youth on the head for stealing a clay pipe from his pocket. He said same youth was only an animal. I told him brown men were as good as white, especially his kind of white. Had great stand-up fight by the settlers’ copra shed near Vaekehu’s wooden palace. Got nasty knock in fourth round, but in fifth round gave him one in the starboard eye that flummoxed him! Beachcombers waved their big hats and wildly cheered as he made final plunge, and I got one in on the port side of his jib and was declared the winner on the spot.
“Sounds low to fight after travelling so far, but obliged to fight so as to gain respect. My fist has been my gold medal diploma, my finest letter of introduction, in all countries and in the toughest communities. Father O’Leary saw the fight as he left Vaekehu’s palace. Says he was surprised to see one as presumably respectable as I fighting such a man. The priest seemed very pleased that I’d only lost one tooth. It’s not lost, but is decidedly loose!”