THURSDAY ISLAND. VIEW OF THE HARBOUR.
It was on the same day that we too saw the Barrier Reef, at first looking like a long sandy bar. Presently the coral itself showed with some pelicans on it. Here, too, were the blue lagoons of fiction, small coral islands, with little sandy coves, and pelicans, the only inhabitants, walking under the trees. The warm water of the sea was full of life. Yellow-banded snakes swam by, from two to four feet long. We counted twenty of them in one day. Dampier, exploring the west coast of Australia in 1699, notes these curious water snakes, which are said to be very poisonous. He was sailing out of Shark’s Bay when he observed some “serpents swimming about in the sea, of a yellow colour spotted with dark brown spots. They were each about four feet long, and about the bigness of a man’s wrist.” On several occasions we saw turtles swimming just below the surface of the water. Sometimes the sea was covered with a thick floating yellow substance not unlike the brown “scum” which coats stagnant pools at home. Some of it was collected by letting down a bath sponge on a string. The microscope revealed it as a low form of animal life.
Frigate birds were not uncommon, and one night there came on board two lovely bright green “bee-eaters.”
So the long sunny days slipped away, and towards sunset the misty coastal ranges became dim and unsubstantial in the dove-coloured evening light, while inshore one little white sail could be seen, that might have been the ghostly vessel of Captain Cook himself. Wednesday Island was passed the next morning. The islands here mark the days on which Captain Cook sighted and named them, and we entered the narrow Thursday Island Passage.
Thursday Island lies at the extreme northerly point of Australia, Cape York Peninsula, that juts out, and narrows into a point forming the eastern side of the Gulf of Carpentaria. To the north of it are the Torres Straits, to the south Prince of Wales and other islands, among them that Possession Island on which Captain Cook landed, and formally took possession of the whole eastern coast in the name of George III, calling it “New South Wales.”[24] It is a centre for pearl-fishing, and a Naval Base. It is a sort of native cosmopolis. Every shade and tone of colour can be seen here, Chinese, Island boys, Papuans, and Malays. We entered the harbour, where the water was again that wonderful greenish blue turquoise, and the little fleet of pearling boats rode at anchor, for the War had put a stop to the industry. Thursday Island itself was a gay-looking little place, its shores covered with scattered bungalows, and a tropical forest covering the hills beyond. Moored near to our own boat was the little New Guinea steamer, manned by native Papuans. They wore nothing, down to their waists any way, which was as much as we could see of them, and were a pale chocolate-au-lait colour, with great mops of black hair. They returned our enraptured staring by grinning at us with all their white teeth, aware that they were objects of interest and beauty. This was the first time we had seen all kinds of natives, of different shades. They manned the boats round the steamer, that brought on board plenipotentiaries of the official visits which always precede and delay a landing. At last we drew up alongside the jetty, and were allowed to go ashore.
On the shore were innumerable empty coconut shells, also all the derelict kerosene tins that had not been utilised by Australia were washed up on the beach. Many of the little shops sell pearls, but the uninitiated will find that they will do a better bargain with their own jeweller at home, though the blister pearls are extremely pretty, and can be bought for a few shillings. We also bought for threepence a copy of the Thursday Island daily paper, which measured a few inches, and was only printed on one side. It contained war news of a bewildering nature. All the shops had large printed notices up in the windows, warning the inhabitants what to do in case of a raid by a German cruiser, for the “Emden” and the “Scharnhorst” were then at large. At the ringing of a bell the women and children were at once to repair to certain specified places of refuge. The little native children are extraordinarily tough, and must be nearly as difficult to finish off as a koala bear. We saw a small black naked baby of about two years old fall off a verandah. It rolled down a steep flight of steps like a football. We were hurrying forward to pick it up, but it immediately scrambled to its feet, whimpered a little, and trotted off, none the worse.
The post office to which we went to see if there were any telegrams, with news from home, had rows of private letter boxes with glass windows, as it was the custom for people to fetch their own letters. A notice warned the owners that they must do their own repairs to these boxes, as their messengers were in the habit of smashing the glass to extract the letters. Another notice proclaimed that a murderer was wanted. He was eighteen years old, the son of a half-caste Chinese mother and a Kanaka father, a parental combination which one could imagine was fraught with dire possibilities. We walked about the island in an almost intolerably hot sun, on loose cobbles, alternating with deep, soft sand. It is an arid, stony place, and bristled with khaki-clad men. Inside the provision stores, which stood wide open, Japanese were mending sails.
Following the path above the little town through a sort of rough scrub, the ground was overgrown with some strongly smelling aromatic herb, burnt brown in the sun. We saw here one of the rare ornithoptera, a gorgeous blue velvet butterfly, and numbers of grasshoppers with yellow wings that made an odd noise like little castanets as they came out of the dead herbage. There did not seem to be many living things except coconut palms and the beautiful heavily scented blooms of the frangipani. We met the gorgeous nuns belonging to some Roman Catholic sisterhood, dressed in dazzling blue raiment, which would have put the “lilies of the field” quite out of countenance; and we avoided the tropical forest that clothed the farther side of the island, tempting as it looked at a distance, and were glad that we had done so. Several of the passengers, who had made an expedition to it in search of entomological specimens, brought back more than they intended, as they got badly stung by green ants and ticks. The green ants are very pretty and interesting at a safe distance; they are green with bright red legs, and make their nests by sewing together the leaves of a tree, so as to form a sort of large bag, but their sting is very gainful. The ticks are much more seriously unpleasant, as they burrow in the skin to lay their eggs there, leaving their legs sticking out, and if the victim fails to extract all portions of them they produce a sore and painful scar.
Thursday Island has an interesting church—the “Quetta” Memorial Church. It stands in a green enclosure, with a blooming frangipani tree, and commemorates the loss of the S.S. “Quetta” of Glasgow, which some years ago sank on an uncharted rock one moonlight night, with the loss of nearly all hands. We went into the quiet and airy place. Just inside the door hangs in a frame, what seems to be a collection of coral and shells, but closer inspection showed it to be a porthole, that sixteen years later had been recovered, after having “suffered a sea change,” and become so encrusted with the beautiful growth of the sea floor that it was hardly any longer recognisable.
Returning to the ship, glad to escape from the blinding heat, we found an oil boat moored alongside. On her some Japanese were eating their rice with chop sticks, while a brown boy of unknown nationality, and a picturesque absence of clothes, cleaned cooking pots.