FOOTNOTES:
[1] We had met the Hawaiian missionary Maka and his wife Mary on our second South Sea cruise at Butaritari, one of the low islands belonging to the Kingsmill group. Maka and his wife being away at the time, by the advice of the resident trader we had burglariously entered and taken possession of the missionaries' comfortable little wooden house, where we made ourselves at home while we complacently awaited the arrival of our involuntary host. Having thus identified ourselves with the missionary party, and laid ourselves under such heavy obligations to them, we felt bound to forego many amusements and friendships, otherwise interesting, that would have been objectionable to Maka. However, during the time of the great festival, when the neighbouring islanders of Little Makin (called by the traders "Little Muggin") came over, in answer to a challenge from the Butaritaris to dance against them for what sportsmen would call "the championship," Maka retired into discreet obscurity, giving us an opportunity to become acquainted with the King of Little Makin and to attend the heathen dances. But Maka and Mary remained our most real friends in spite of our momentary defection toward Makin. When we left Butaritari we could find nothing suitable to offer them as parting gifts, in the island fashion, and to show our gratitude for their many almost overwhelming kindnesses; hence the silk dress and clergyman's frock coat. Two other friends, consistent converts to Christianity, to whom we also carried presents, we left behind us with regret, Nan Tok and his wife; but they were of a different sort from Maka and Mary, being natives of Butaritari and, from Maka's point of view, quite uncivilised, as, in ordinary life the lady (there are only ladies in the South Seas, woman being a word that is tapu in all society, high or low), a rich, high chief woman, wore the ridi only, while for full dress she appeared in a white chemise fresh from the trader's shelves with the marks where it had been folded still showing. My first meeting with Nan Tok and his wife was rather alarming. The King had raised the tapu from drink, consequently, the entire island, including his dull majesty, was wildly drunk on "sour toddy" (the fermented sap of the flower-stalk of the cocoanut), which is the most dangerous intoxicant in the world, as it incites in its users a frenzied desire to shed blood. During this period of licence I accidentally came upon two women fighting together like wild beasts, their teeth sunk into each other's faces, which were streaming blood. "Oh, what is the matter?" I cried. "Sour toddy," replied the woman to whom I spoke, casting a contemptuous glance over her shoulder as she passed on.
In the circumstances it was thought unsafe for me to leave our own small premises, but one quiet afternoon I broke bounds and went over to the weather side of the island to hunt for shells. Here a strange man and woman joined me; they were not reassuring companions, judging from outer appearances, as they were unkempt, clad in nothing but a small fragment, each, of dirty, old gunny sack, and their faces were haggard and anxious. At first they walked with me as I went about my business of gathering shells, but presently, seeming to tire of this amusement, they began to crowd me off the beach toward the land; then seizing me by the arms, one on either side, they boldly marched me into a narrow, crooked path that led through the clustering cocoanut-trees with which the island was heavily wooded. As I reluctantly moved along beside my captors, the lady, evidently with a kindly feeling for my comfort, drew a clay pipe from out an enormous hole in her ear, stuffed it with strong, coarse tobacco, lighted it, puffed a moment, and then placed it in my mouth. As I could not guess whether their intentions were hostile or otherwise and all the warnings I had received flashed through my mind, with sublime courage I accepted the situation. But it was a solemn experience. We emerged from the palms to find the town in a turbulent uproar, the street in front of our house filled with a howling, fighting, drunken mob. It was a great relief to find we were just in front of my own door; the two natives held me fast until we were safely on the little veranda, when, to my astonishment, the man fell on his knees and offered up a fervent prayer.
So began our friendship with Nan Tok and his wife (my husband always called them the "baron and baroness"). They told us afterward with what anxiety they had watched me wander through the woods alone; then how, after a heated argument as to the proper means to pursue, they concluded to force me back to safety. The incident of the pipe was an attempt to conciliate me because of a supposed fiery gleam in my eyes that disconcerted them. The prayer was one of thanks for the outcome of their adventure and a petition that this should prove the beginning of a new friendship that should be blessed to us all.
[2] This flag was designed on a former cruise after we had left Apemama, the principal of the three islands comprising the group under King Tembinoka, the last of the absolute monarchs of the South Seas. The King had asked that we send him a flag, so one evening, on board the schooner Equator, we each drew and coloured a flag. These were voted on by the ship's company. It happened that mine was unanimously chosen. The three cross-bars, red, yellow, and green, were intended to stand for the three islands, while the black shark lying across the bars was meant to be typical of Tembinoka's ancestry. The King's line was not lost in obscurity; he gave us almost embarrassing details of the first of his forebears, who sprang from a liaison between a beautiful lady and a shark. The drawings I made on the Equator were taken to a firm in Sydney that did such work; they turned out a couple of very gorgeous flags that were quite to the taste of his majesty. The house flag had a white crown over the head of the shark (a little different shape from that on the island flag). I chose for the motto "I bite triply," which referred not only to the King's three islands, but to the three rows of teeth peculiar to the shark.
[3] Very few flowers are found in the atolls, wherefore the natives, who use wreaths for every festive occasion, are forced to devise all sorts of makeshifts for the garlands that are considered almost necessities. I have seen only two flowers that seem indigenous to the true atoll, one quite insignificant, that looked like the blossom of the male papaia, the other a sort of "spider lily"; both these were of a whitish colour, and, as far as I could see, were worn only by people of position, and not by the common herd, who contented themselves with imitations made from some part of the cocoanut-tree. I wish those artistic souls, who so scorned my purchases at the milliner's, could have seen with what frantic joy they were received. Many times staid matrons burst into sudden hysterical weeping when I offered them my wreaths, while kings, chiefs, and even white traders intrigued to gain one of these coveted possessions.
[4] As all mine and most of Louis's were burned, except what I had on my feet, I wished to preserve these for such times as it might seem necessary to make a civilised appearance.
[5] He used this afterward, but as it seems to belong to my diary I thought I might let it stand.
[6] Sitione was suffering from the effects of an old wound got in the last wars, some of the bones in his shoulder being shattered; they were finally removed, and Sitione recovered entirely with only a scar or two to show where the doctor had operated. Sitione, I was told, received this wound while doing a very brave and dashing act. During one of the many Samoan wars his party had fallen back a short distance, leaving an open space between them and the enemy; in this opening Sitione perceived that a friend of his had fallen and was unable to arise. The enemy were already rushing forward to take the man's head, as is their custom, when Sitione bounded back in the face of their guns, caught up his friend, and brought him into safety with a hail of bullets whizzing after him, and a shattered shoulder.
[7] The "labour boys" do, sometimes, die of homesickness. A black boy called Arriki whom we hired from the German firm, did so die after we left Samoa. The man to whom he was assigned by the German firm told me that both Arriki and a friend of his began to droop and become sullen, and then went quite mad; soon after they died at about the same time from no apparent disease, but he said he knew the symptoms—"just plain homesickness for a cannibal island." Arriki, in a moment of confidence, once described to me his life in his own land. It seemed to consist of flight from one unsafe spot to another, with death hunting on every hand. Both his father and mother had been killed and eaten, with the most of his friends; and yet Arriki died of homesickness.