At midnight after the burial, we raised the fire of Mauna Loa dead ahead. Sailors declare that a always follows a death at sea and the wind that night blew hard. But we cracked on sail and next morning we were in smooth water along the shore of the island of Hawaii with the great burning mountain towering directly over us and the smoke from the down through our rigging.
We loafed away three pleasant weeks among the islands, loitering along the beautiful sea channels, merely time until Captain Shorey should arrive from San Francisco by steamer. Once we sailed within distant view of Molokai. It was as beautiful in its tropical verdure as any of the other islands of the group,but its very name was with and suggestiveness;—it was the home of the lepers, the island of the Living Death.
We did not anchor at any time. None of the whaling fleet which meets here every spring ever anchors. The of the tropical shores is strong and there would be many desertions if the ships lay in port. We sailed close to shore in the day time, often entering Honolulu harbor, but at night we lay off and on, as the sailor term is—that is we off shore and back again, rarely venturing closer than two or three miles, a distance the swimmer, upon desertion, would not be apt to attempt in those shark-haunted waters.
Many attempts to escape from of the whaling fleet occur in the islands every year. We heard many of these adventures. A week before we arrived, five sailors had overpowered the night watch aboard their ship and escaped to shore in a whale boat. They were captured in the hills back of Honolulu and returned to their . This is usually the fate of . A reward of $25 a man is offered by whaling ships for the capture and return of deserters, consequently all the natives of the islands, especially the police, are constantly on the for runaways from whaling crews.
When we drew near the islands the fever became in the forecastle. Each sailor had his own little scheme for getting away. Big Taylor talked of knocking the officers of the night watch over the head with a belaying-pin and stealing in a boat. Ole Oleson cut up his suit of oil-skins and sewed them into two air-tight bags with one of which under each arm, he proposed to float ashore. Bill White, an Englishman, got possession of a lot of canvas from the cabin and was busy for days making it into a boat in which he fondly hoped to paddle ashore some fine night in the dark of the moon. "Slim," our Irish grenadier, stuffed half his into his long sea-boots which he planned to press into service both as carry-alls and life-preservers. Peter Swenson, the forecastle's baby boy, plugged up some big empty oil cans and made life of them by fastening a number of them together.
Just at the time when the forecastle were at their height we killed a thirteen-foot shark off Diamond Head. Our catch was one of a school of thirty or forty monsters that came about the brig, gliding slowly like gray ghosts only a few feet below the surface, nosing close to the ship's side for garbage and turning slightly on their sides to look out of their evil eyes at the sailors peering down upon them over the rail. Long John, the boat-steerer, got out a , and standing on the shot the iron up to the wooden haft into the back of one of the sharks, the spear-point of the weapon passing through the creature and sticking out on the under side. The manila attached to the harpoon had been made fast to the bitt. It was well that this was so, for the shark and fought with terrific fury, the sea into white froth. But the harpoon had pierced a vital part and in a little while the great fish ceased its struggles and lay still, up on the surface.
It was hauled close alongside, and a boat having been lowered, a large patch of the shark's skin was cut off. Then the carcass was cut adrift. The skin was as rough as sandpaper. It was cut into small squares, which were used in metal and for all the polishing purposes for which sandpaper serves ashore.
Life aboard the brig seemed less intolerable thereafter, and an essay at escape through waters by such great, silent, sea-wolves seemed a hazard less desirable than before. Taylor talked no more about slugging the night watch. Slim his sea-boots and put his effects back into his chest. Peter threw his plugged oil cans overboard. Bill White turned his canvas boat into curtains for his , and Ole Oleson voiced in the lilting measure of Scandinavia his deep regret that he had cut up a valuable suit of oil-skins.
The captain of one of the whaling ships came one afternoon to visit our skipper and his small boat was left dragging in our wake as the brig skimmed along under short sail. It occurred to me, and at the same time to my two Kanaka shipmates, that here was a fine opportunity to escape. It was coming on dusk, and if we could get into the boat and cut loose we might have a splendid chance to get away. The Kanakas and I climbed over the bow, intending to let ourselves into the sea and drift astern to the boat, but the breeze had freshened and the brig was traveling so fast we did not believe we could catch the boat; and if we failed to do so, we might confidently expect the sharks to finish us. We abandoned the plan after we had remained on the stays over the bow for a half hour considering our chances and getting soaked to the skin from the dashing spray.
A pathetic incident grew out of the visit of the captain from the other ship. Tomas Mendez's brother, a boat-steerer, came aboard with the boat's crew. He was a young negro whom all the boat-steerers and officers knew. He came swinging lightly over our rail, laughing and happy over the of seeing his brother.
"Hello, fellers," he called to the officers and boat-steerers who welcomed him. "Where's my brudder?"
"Dead, my boy," said one of the boat-steerers gently.
"Dead?" echoed Mendez.
He staggered back. When he had heard the details of his brother's death, he burst into tears. All the time his skipper remained aboard, the poor fellow stood by the cooper's bench and .
While drifting at the mouth of Honolulu harbor one morning, Captain Winchester called for a boat's crew to row him ashore. All hands wanted to go. I was one of the lucky ones to be chosen. The morning was calm and beautiful, the water was smooth, and we pulled away with a will.
The city looked at the foot of its green mountains, its houses embowered in tropical . On our starboard beam rose the fine, bold of Diamond Head, and in between the headland and the city lay Waikiki, the fashionable bathing beach. We could see the bathers taking the surf in the bright morning sunlight, while beyond stretched a wooded country, above the tops of whose trees peeped and of wealthy citizens.
We reached the long at last and tied up the boat. While the captain went into the city the sailors remained on the dock in charge of Long John, the boat-steerer. Three snaky-eyed Kanaka policemen in blue uniforms hung about, watching our every movement. We were not allowed to stir off the dock. There was a street corner within a stone's throw. A little red brick store stood upon it. A lazy Kanaka lounged against the building, smoking a cigarette. That corner fascinated me. If I only could around it! How near it seemed, and yet how unattainable!
But if we sailormen could not get into town, we at least had the freedom of the long pier. This was several hundred feet long and piled thick with freight of all descriptions, which shut its harbor end from view. With a casual and indifferent air I sauntered out along the pier. In a moment I was hidden behind the merchandise from the unsuspecting Long John and the policemen. I soon reached the harbor end. I saw that a sharp curve in the shore line brought the part of the pier on which I was standing close to land. It seemed easy to dive off the pier, swim past a big four-masted English ship unloading alongside, gain the land, and escape to the fields which swept up to the edge of the city.
I sat down behind some freight and began to take off my shoes. I had one off when a barefooted Kanaka suddenly stepped into view from behind a pile of bales and boxes. He was tip-toeing and peering about him . I knew him for a spy instantly. Directly he saw me staring at him he looked as guilty as one taken in crime, and slunk away sheepishly. I knew he was on his way to inform on me and made up my mind not to get my clothes wet by any hopeless attempt to run away.
I put my shoe back on and strolled back toward the boat. I saw one of my shipmates—it was Richard, the deep-water German sailor—walking up the gang-plank of the English ship alongside the dock. I followed him. When we reached the deck, we saw a gang of sailors working about an open hatch.
"Hello, mates," said Richard. "We are merchant and want to clear out from a blooming whaler. Stow us away, won't you?"
The sailors didn't seem to take to the proposition. Perhaps they were afraid of getting into trouble. But they told us we might go down in the fore-peak of the ship and stow ourselves away. Richard and I climbed down three decks and found ourselves in the chain deep in the ship's bow. It was pitch dark down there and we lay upon the ship's cable in the farthest corners. For three hours we there in silence.
Just when we were beginning to congratulate ourselves that our escape would be successful, the hatch was pulled off suddenly and three Kanaka policemen with clubs came leaping down upon us.
"Come out of this, you," they yelled, swearing at us and their billets. The was up; resistance would have got us only broken heads. We were led upon deck and escorted toward the gangway for the pier. But I was for one more try before giving up. Suddenly I for the rail on the harbor side of the ship. We were in the waist and the bulwarks reached about to my breast. Before the Kanaka policemen had recovered from their surprise I had plunged head first over the rail and dived into the water twenty or thirty feet below. When I came to the surface I struck out for shore with all my might. It was only a short swim. I soon made the land and dragged myself, dripping brine, out upon a beach.
I glanced toward the pier. The policemen, with a crowd at their backs, were dashing for me along shore. I started for the cane fields, but in my wet and heavy clothes I stumbled along as if there was lead in my shoes. Perhaps I ran a quarter of a mile. My pursuers gained on me . I was drawing near a cane field, in which I felt I should be able to lose myself; but before reaching it, my pursuers sprang upon me and bore me to the ground. Then, with a policeman on either side of me, I was marched back to the brig's boat.
The populace had turned out royally in my honor and I passed through a lane of brown humanity that bent round eyes upon me and chortled and spluttered Kanaka and seemed to get a huge amount of out of my capture. As my captors paraded me onto the pier, who should be there waiting for me but Captain Shorey, our new skipper, just arrived from San Francisco by steamer. He stood with feet wide apart and arms folded on his breast and looked at me steadily with stern, cold eyes. In my wet clothes I cut a sorry figure. I felt ashamed of myself and realized that this introduction to my new captain was not all it should have been. Captain Winchester had nothing to say to Richard and me on the long pull back to the brig. Once aboard, he drew a of Jamaica rum from his pocket and gave every man of the boat's crew, except us, a swig. But no penalty of any sort was imposed upon us for our escapade. This surprised us.