I was still enjoying this strange feast of the eye, when the Ancient of yesterday, the Governor of the Island, came in. He was between fifty and sixty, tall, straight, and strong, and, in many points of look and manner, a strange survival of the old-fashioned man-of-war’s man, though he might never have trod a vessel’s deck. He was dressed like a seaman, in blue pilot cloth with brass buttons, that must have come from England. He had the inheritance of a pigtail and side locks, in his way of trimming his hair. He was no swarthier than an English tar who has seen service, in spite of his cross of native blood. He had softer manners, however, than one would look for in his great original. Yet, to say the best for him, he came somewhat short of the common conception of a Governor. His face had something of the grave beauty of Victoria’s, without any trace of its spiritual charm.
—‘Hope you are better, sir,’ said his Excellency, laying his hat on the writing-desk, and holding out his hand. One thing especially charmed me in him, as, afterwards, in all of them. He was as free as a Spanish peasant from all subservience of manner born of a sense of difference in social grade. None of them seemed to know their station, although, strangely enough, this implied no ignorance of their Catechism. The secret of my unfortunate position at home, as revealed by the visiting card, made me an object of curiosity, but not in the least of deference, still less, if possible, of ill will. They seemed to feel without explanation—what I was at first so anxious to tell them—that it was no fault of mine.
After compliments, he gave me his history, in reply to my eager questions. He was the grandson of an English mutineer; and both his father and mother were of mixed English and native blood. So, too, was his wife—now dead. Victoria was his only child. The very mention of her, I could see, brought a faint glow of pride to his bronzed cheek; and when she came in, bearing a smoking dish for my breakfast, he embraced her as lovingly as though they had not met for months.
‘Be careful, father, or you’ll upset the bird,’ said the girl, as she laid a baked fowl on the table, which was quite a master-piece as a colour study in luscious browns. It took three journeys to complete her preparations; and then I was invited to sit down to the most deliciously novel repast ever spread before me—grey mullet, and the mysterious squid, now turning out to be the more familiar cuttle-fish, to take off the sharper edge of appetite; the baked bird, with yams, roasted breadfruit, and plantain cake to follow; bananas, oranges, and cocoa-nuts for dessert. The liquors, I am bound to say, were a failure. I was offered water with the fish, and cocoa-nut milk with the bird; and, I suppose, my passing spasm of pain caught Victoria’s eye.
‘I knew he would never like it,’ she said to her father, ‘I must make him some tea, this minute,’ and she flew outside once more.
I followed, with a bunch of bananas in my hand, to entreat her not to execute her kindly intention, and then I discovered that the kitchen was in the open air. It was the old Otaheite oven, described by Cook—heated stones in a hole in the ground, the food laid on them, and covered with more heated stones, which, in their turn, were covered with leaves and cleanly rubbish to keep out every particle of cold. Half an hour in this bath of hot air cooks a fowl to perfection. Other things were new and strange to me. The houses stood about a yard above the soil on huge sleepers of stone, and these sleepers, again, were laid on low terraces of earth, for further security against damp. Each house was surrounded by its own plot—a garden in front, and in the rear a miniature farm-yard, and offices, including the oven, and a shed for the making of cloth. The roofs were thatched with leaves, and most of the dwellings had an upper floor.
CHAPTER VIII.
GOVERNMENT, ARTS, AND LAWS.
Victoria goes afield, and I return to the house, to smoke with the Ancient, and to interview him on government, arts, and laws. This is what I learn.
Our population, men, women and children, is less than one hundred souls.
Our arts—well, we till the soil, as aforesaid, but in our own way. The plough and the windmill were unknown to us a few years ago. We breed a little stock, and we exchange wool and tallow for flour and biscuit, with passing ships. When a ship comes to us, we grow wild with joy, and it is fête day throughout the island.