Colonial facts and fictions: Humorous sketches

by John Milne

This information, coming as it did from the commander of a ship in the British navy, carried some authority, and was received with silence and respect.

The day after we left Hobart, where we picked up a few passengers, we had a beam sea, which caused many of the passengers to seek the seclusion that a cabin grants. Next morning it was bright and sunshiny, and as the sea was more aft, the motion of the ship was a little less. One or two of us indulged in games of quoits, sometimes throwing them on pegs and sometimes into numbered squares chalked on the deck. Behind us there was always a flock of albatross, molly-hawks, and other sea-birds, on the look-out for the leavings of the table. These companions, which often flew close above our heads, were quite an interesting study. One great difficulty was to understand how they managed to fly so fast, and this with little or no apparent motion of their wings. We were going at a rate of at least ten knots per hour, and yet from the way in which our feathered friends circled about, and yet kept up to us, they must have gone at ten or twenty times the rate at which we were going. All that they appeared to do was to balance themselves and gently tip their wings up or down—there was no violent flapping, such as crows go in for when they wish to move. The albatross were very tame, and would often fly right over our decks until they appeared to be poised a few yards above our heads. Their build is the ordinary seagull pattern—a huge white body in shape like a soda-water bottle, furnished with two enormous angel-like pinions. MacTavish said that you could often see changes in the expression of their faces. When the dinner-bell sounded they would come charging up from all points of the horizon and arrange themselves astern, ready to pounce on the first fragments thrown from the rich company’s table. At these times we had the best view of our friends, and you could hear the big ones clucking, and now and then detect a little smile. They knew that they must keep pretty close, or some of the relics from the kitchen might sink. I suggested to Mac that the menu ought to be thrown over a few minutes ahead of the breakfast. The molly-hawks would certainly be grateful, and the Union Company would Buddhistically be doing a good turn. If the theory of Pythagoras is true, the directors of the U.S.S. Co. may be turned into molly-hawks themselves when they die; and if they are, they will regret not having instituted this charitable custom. I do not think that captains and officers of the ships will ever become molly-hawks. They are too good. But the directors of a company who, in their scramble for dross, do not hesitate to have four sea-sick people crammed into a small cabin, ought certainly to prepare themselves for a hard time in the future. But more about molly-hawks and the directors of steamship companies by-and-by. I must here tell you that MacTavish, or, as I shall often call him, Mac, was a Scotchman from South Africa on a trip to see the colonies. As we did not know each other’s names, when we first met at dinner, a funny little man, who had seen more of London or Paris than Scotland, suggested names for the company. MacTavish was one of these names. MacTougal and MacAlister were two others. I was called the Major, and a quiet dignified gentleman with a black moustache, who was my neighbour, was known as the Colonel. In return, our black little friend, who some remarked might have seen more of Palestine than Scotland, was called MacCallum More. He was a lively fellow, and in spite of the weather kept us amused. I liked MacCallum.

The reason that we had so many Scotch names was that about half the passengers were really Scotchmen, and we were going to Southern New Zealand, which is Scotch in its looks, Scotch in its climate, and has a population of Macs. From what I shall say about parts of it, it will be seen that it is a country where only cast-iron Scotchmen, and a few other human abnormalities, could thrive. Not long ago tenders for a Government contract were handed in to the authorities at a town in the south end of New Zealand. The one accepted was from a Mr. John MacDougal. When Mr. John MacDougal turned up, he was found to be a Chinaman. ‘But how is this, John?’ said the authorities; ‘you are a Chinaman.’ ‘You callee me John, and s’pose I no talkee Mac, no can catchee contract this side,’ was John’s reply. The Macs are certainly a powerful clan in their new home.

As we went surging along, one by one, new faces appeared at the top of the companion. Many of them had a blue bonnet above them. Those who hadn’t blue bonnets faintly smiled, and then retired again.

On the evening of the second day it was blowing harder than ever. Sails had to be taken in, and we went along through a seething sea in the dark. How ever Captain Cook found New Zealand is a mystery. If an angel had told me where it was, I don’t think I would have gone to look for it; the irregularities of the approaches to New Zealand are too unpleasant. It has often been remarked that you do not get sufficient exercise on board ships; your liver gets out of order, and you may suffer dyspepsia. On our ship we certainly had considerable exercise—not so much of the muscles which come into play when walking, as with those which are used when holding on. When a man goes to New Zealand, and it is rough, he ought to have claws and long toe-nails. Rubber shoes, with patent soles for suction, might be good, but claws, toe-nails, or spiked boots, would perhaps be better.

I had a great deal of exercise in picking up convalescents. One heap which I sorted consisted of two ladies, a Yank, two ’possum-rugs and some pillows, several chairs, a couple of cups of beef-tea, sundry biscuits, a cockatoo, and a lot of bird-seed. This helped me to make friends with the ladies. I always like ladies to be just a leetle sea-sick. It gives you a chance of being agreeable. I shall have more to say about the Yank. He was very droll, and did a little to remind the officers of the U.S.S. Co. that their directors had failings. While talking about the inmates of our village, for a Union boat is always like an overcrowded floating hamlet, I must not forget our worthy skipper—Captain Popham. Captain Popham was a big man, and he was never sea-sick; I don’t think he could be sea-sick. He had a good square head, he wouldn’t stand humbug, and he was always pleasant and agreeable. I used to sit with Popham when all the rest had fled. Sometimes he would be raised up about ten feet, and would be looking down at me. On these occasions I was able to read the inscription on the bottom of Popham’s soup-plate. The next moment I would be up ten feet, and looking down on Popham. On these occasions I had to hold my soup-plate edgeways up, as if it had been a mirror in which I was examining my back teeth. Everybody liked Popham, and voted him a good man. There was one exception, however. This was a sea-sick Blue Ribbonite. Blue Ribbon’s occupation, when not engaged with a bucket, was to bemoan the immorality of the world. Edinburgh was his pet aversion. ‘Eh, mon, there are nae bigger slums than in Edinboro. It’s a fearful place.’ Now and again he would try and convert the ship to Blue Ribbonism.

By perseverance he managed to stir up a little animosity before he left us. One Sunday, between his fits of indisposition, whilst prowling round the ship, he seems to have discovered four passengers playing cards in one of the ship’s cabins, which he promptly reported to the captain. As the captain either did not, or else would not, know anything of the matter, Blue Ribbon promised to report him to the directors for non-attention to duty—he spent too much time talking to the ladies on the quarter-deck instead of attending to his duty. Poor Popham! We supposed Blue Ribbon wanted him to be either reefing topsails or else snuffing round passengers’ cabins.

The first sight of New Zealand in winter weather was not very inviting. Here and there were black cast-iron-looking rocks, their summits capped with clouds, and their bases fringed with foam. After this we rounded some rough-edged hills, covered with scraggy scrub and dripping rocks. This was the entrance to the Bluff. There were no trees. Scotchmen can live beyond the limit of trees. At the head of the bay near to the waters, there were a few paddocks, two or three cottages, and clumps of yellow furze. It was so like bonny Scotland, especially the canopy of fog. You felt that you were on one of the selvages of the habitable world, and that just behind the hills you might find the eternal snows of the Antarctic regions. The end of the bay was like the edge of a Scotch moor with a wharf on the shore of a loch. Matters certainly looked a little brighter as the day advanced, and the dull appearance of the Bluff, for it certainly was as bleak as Orkney when I saw it, may have been due partly to the weather, and partly to my indisposition. One indication that the Bluff may at times be bright and shiny, was a number of little bungalows, which I was told were summer retreats for the Invercargillites. There were also several hotels, and, of course, a place of worship.

Here MacTavish, MacCallum More, and several of the other Macs, and myself, took train for Invercargill. The first part of the country was very marshy, and was covered with great green bushes, called Ti-trees, and tussocks of grass, any bunch of which would hide a herd of cattle. There were a number of plants like flags. These a New Zealander, who gave us much information about the country, whom for variety I will call Robinson, told us were the New Zealand flax. The Maoris made bags and string out of it, but Europeans had not yet invented the proper method of making it clean. The bunches of flax were about as big as the tussocks of grass. Now and again we saw some tame-looking birds, with red legs and blue heads, like guinea-fowls. They simply looked at the train, and either couldn’t or else wouldn’t fly away. Robinson said that they would fly quickly enough if we went after them with a gun. A lot of the New Zealand birds, however, are unable to fly. In this respect they resemble their predecessors, which together constituted the family of Moas. Robinson said that some of the Moas were forty feet high, and in speed could eclipse the winner of the Melbourne Cup. Sometimes they would breakfast at Invercargill and then trot off 565 miles north to the plains of Canterbury for their dinner. Their eggs weighed fifty-six pounds. They were all dead now, and globe-trotters often felt disappointed at not getting any sport amongst these animals. As I don’t believe all that Robinson said, I will reserve my own observations on these remarkable birds until I come to the place where I interviewed their remains. I will then tell you the truth.

A curious bird that still exists is the Maori hen, or the Weka. From its simplicity it might be called the ‘Weak’un.’ It suffers from inquisitiveness. If you clap two sticks together, it will come to investigate the reason of the disturbance. To catch it, you place a bit of red rag on one stick and a noose on the other. While the ‘Weak’un’ is picking at the red rag on one stick you put the noose on the other stick round its neck. This sounds like the salt dodge, and although you may not believe it, it is perfectly true. Another bird—a hairy-looking beast called the Kiwi—suffers from sleeplessness, and therefore has become a night-walker. There are lots of these birds in the streets of London. A charming pet for a farmyard is the Kiau. This dear little bird has retained its powers of flight. Its chief amusement is to sit on the back of a sheep and pick out its kidneys. It is a wonderful anatomist, and never fails in striking the spot where it will obtain its favourite morsel. After the operation the sheep invariably die, and the kiau flies off to another little lamb to institute a new investigation.