I am very strongly tempted here to tell about the big-gale that caught us the first night out, carried away our lifeboat, topsail, topgallant, and main gaff, swamped the unlucky passengers’ cabin, and caused the Cingalese steward to compose and chant all night long a litany containing three mournful versicles: “O my God, this is too much terrible! O my#God, why I ever go to sea! O my God, I never go to sea again!” But in the Pacific one soon learns that sea etiquette makes light of such matters. So the wonderful and terrible sights which I saw once or twice that night, clinging precariously to anything solid near the door of my cabin, and hoping that the captain would not catch me out on deck, must remain undescribed.
Nearly seven weeks were occupied by this northern trip—time for a mail steamer to go out from London to New Zealand, and get well started on the way home again. We were, of course, entirely isolated from news and letters; indeed, the mails and papers that we carried conveyed the very latest intelligence to islands that had not had a word from the outer world for many months. Our native passengers, who were mostly going up to Malden Island guano works as paid labourers, evidently considered the trip one wild scene of excitement and luxury. The South Sea Islander loves nothing more than change, and every new island we touched at was a Paris or an Ostend to these (mostly) untravelled natives. Their accommodation on the ship was not unlike that complained of by the waiter in “David Copperfield.” They “lived on broken wittles and they slept on the coals.” The Duchess carried benzoline tins for the feeding of the futile little motor that worked her in and out of port, and the native sleeping place was merely the hold, on top of the tins.
“Do you mind the dynamite remaining under your bunk?” asked the ancient mariner, shortly after we left Samoa.
“Under my bunk?”
“Yes—didn’t you know it was there? The explosives safe is let into the deck just beneath the deck cabin. I’ll move it if you’re nervous about it—I thought I’d tell you, anyways. But it’s the best place for it to be, you see, right amidships.” And the ancient mariner, leaning his six foot two across the rail, turned his quid, and spat into the deep.
“What do we want with dynamite, anyhow?” asked the bewildered passenger, confronted with this new and startling streak of local colour.
“We don’t want none. The Cook Islands wants it for reefs.”