AT Honolulu we had said farewell to the CASCO and to Captain Otis,and our next adventure was made in changed conditions.Passage was taken for myself,my wife,Mr.Osbourne,and my China boy,Ah Fu,on a pigmy trading schooner,the EQUATOR,Captain Dennis Reid;and on a certain bright June day in 1889,adorned in the Hawaiian fashion with the garlands of departure,we drew out of port and bore with a fair wind for Micronesia.
The whole extent of the South Seas is a desert of ships;more especially that part where we were now to sail.No post runs in these islands;communication is by accident;where you may have designed to go is one thing,where you shall be able to arrive another.It was my hope,for instance,to have reached the Carolines,and returned to the light of day by way of Manila and the China ports;and it was in Samoa that we were destined to re-appear and be once more refreshed with the sight of mountains.
Since the sunset faded from the peaks of Oahu six months had intervened,and we had seen no spot of earth so high as an ordinary cottage.Our path had been still on the flat sea,our dwellings upon unerected coral,our diet from the pickle-tub or out of tins;I had learned to welcome shark's flesh for a variety;and a mountain,an onion,an Irish potato or a beef-steak,had been long lost to sense and dear to aspiration.
The two chief places of our stay,Butaritari and Apemama,lie near the line;the latter within thirty miles.Both enjoy a superb ocean climate,days of blinding sun and bracing wind,nights of a heavenly brightness.Both are somewhat wider than Fakarava,measuring perhaps (at the widest)a quarter of a mile from beach to beach.In both,a coarse kind of TARO thrives;its culture is a chief business of the natives,and the consequent mounds and ditches make miniature scenery and amuse the eye.In all else they show the customary features of an atoll:the low horizon,the expanse of the lagoon,the sedge-like rim of palm-tops,the sameness and smallness of the land,the hugely superior size and interest of sea and sky.Life on such islands is in many points like life on shipboard.The atoll,like the ship,is soon taken for granted;and the islanders,like the ship's crew,become soon the centre of attention.The isles are populous,independent,seats of kinglets,recently civilised,little visited.In the last decade many changes have crept in;women no longer go unclothed till marriage;the widow no longer sleeps at night and goes abroad by day with the skull of her dead husband;and,fire-arms being introduced,the spear and the shark-tooth sword are sold for curiosities.Ten years ago all these things and practices were to be seen in use;yet ten years more,and the old society will have entirely vanished.We came in a happy moment to see its institutions still erect and (in Apemama)scarce decayed.
Populous and independent -warrens of men,ruled over with some rustic pomp -such was the first and still the recurring impression of these tiny lands.As we stood across the lagoon for the town of Butaritari,a stretch of the low shore was seen to be crowded with the brown roofs of houses;those of the palace and king's summer parlour (which are of corrugated iron)glittered near one end conspicuously bright;the royal colours flew hard by on a tall flagstaff;in front,on an artificial islet,the gaol played the part of a martello.Even upon this first and distant view,the place had scarce the air of what it truly was,a village;rather of that which it was also,a petty metropolis,a city rustic and yet royal.
The lagoon is shoal.The tide being out,we waded for some quarter of a mile in tepid shallows,and stepped ashore at last into a flagrant stagnancy of sun and heat.The lee side of a line island after noon is indeed a breathless place;on the ocean beach the trade will be still blowing,boisterous and cool;out in the lagoon it will be blowing also,speeding the canoes;but the screen of bush completely intercepts it from the shore,and sleep and silence and companies of mosquitoes brood upon the towns.
We may thus be said to have taken Butaritari by surprise.A few inhabitants were still abroad in the north end,at which we landed.
As we advanced,we were soon done with encounter,and seemed to explore a city of the dead.Only,between the posts of open houses,we could see the townsfolk stretched in the siesta,sometimes a family together veiled in a mosquito-net,sometimes a single sleeper on a platform like a corpse on a bier.
The houses were of all dimensions,from those of toys to those of churches.Some might hold a battalion,some were so minute they could scarce receive a pair of lovers;only in the playroom,when the toys are mingled,do we meet such incongruities of scale.Many were open sheds;some took the form of roofed stages;others were walled and the walls pierced with little windows.A few were perched on piles in the lagoon;the rest stood at random on a green,through which the roadway made a ribbon of sand,or along the embankments of a sheet of water like a shallow dock.One and all were the creatures of a single tree;palm-tree wood and palm-tree leaf their materials;no nail had been driven,no hammer sounded,in their building,and they were held together by lashings of palm-tree sinnet.