The hours passed anxiously until morning; when, being well to windward of the mouth of the harbor, we bore up for it, with the union-jack2 at the fore. No sign, however, of boat or pilot was seen; and after running close in several times, the ensign was set at the mizen-peak, union down in distress.3 But it was of no avail.

  Attributing to Wilson this unaccountable remissness on the part of those ashore, Jermin, quite enraged, now determined to stand boldly in upon his own responsibility; trusting solely to what he remembered of the harbor on a visit there many years previous.

  This resolution was characteristic. Even with a competent pilot, Papeetee Bay is considered a ticklish one to enter. Formed by a bold sweep of the shore, it is protected seaward by the coral reef, upon which the rollers break with great violence. After stretching across the bay, the barrier extends on toward Point Venus,* in the district of Matavai, eight or nine miles distant. Here there is an opening, by which ships enter, and glide down the smooth, deep canal, between the reef and the shore, to the harbor. But, by seamen generally, the leeward entrance is preferred, as the wind is extremely variable inside the reef. This latter entrance is a break in the barrier directly facing the bay and village of Papeetee. It is very narrow; and, from the baffling winds, currents, and sunken rocks, ships now and then grate their keels against the coral.

  But the mate was not to be daunted; so, stationing what men he had at the braces, he sprang upon the bulwarks, and, bidding every body keep wide awake, ordered the helm up. In a few moments, we were running in. Being toward noon, the wind was fast leaving us, and, by the time the breakers were roaring on either hand, little more than steerage-way4 was left. But on we glided—smoothly and deftly; avoiding the green, darkling objects here and there strewn in our path: Jermin occasionally looking down in the water, and then about him, with the utmost calmness, and not a word spoken. Just fanned along thus, it was not many minutes ere we were past all danger, and floated into the placid basin within. This was the cleverest specimen of his seamanship that he ever gave us.

  As we held on toward the frigate and shipping, a canoe, coming out from among them, approached. In it were a boy and an old man—both islanders; the former nearly naked, and the latter dressed in an old naval frock-coat. Both were paddling with might and main; the old man, once in a while, tearing his paddle out of the water; and, after rapping his companion over the head, both fell to with fresh vigor. As they came within hail, the old fellow, springing to his feet and flourishing his paddle, cut some of the queerest of capers; all the while jabbering something which at first we could not understand.

  Presently we made out the following:—“Ah! you pemi, ah!—you come!—What for you come?—You be fine for come no pilot.—I say, you hear?—I say, you ita maitai (no good).—You hear?—You no pilot.—Yes, you, d——me, you no pilot ’t all; I d——you; you hear?”

  This tirade, which showed plainly that, whatever the profane old rascal was at, he was in right good earnest, produced peals of laughter from the ship. Upon which, he seemed to get beside himself; and the boy, who, with suspended paddle, was staring about him, received a sound box over the head, which set him to work in a twinkling, and brought the canoe quite near. The orator now opening afresh, it turned out that his vehement rhetoric was all addressed to the mate, still standing conspicuously on the bulwarks.

  But Jermin was in no humor for nonsense; so, with a sailor’s blessing, he ordered him off. The old fellow then flew into a regular frenzy, cursing and swearing worse than any civilized being I ever heard.

  “You sabbee* me?” he shouted. “You know me, ah? Well: me Jim, me pilot—been pilot now long time.”

  “Ay,” cried Jermin, quite surprised, as indeed we all were, “you are the pilot, then, you old pagan. Why didn’t you come off before this?”

  “Ah! me sabbee,—me know—you piratee (pirate)—see you long time, but no me come—I sabbee you—you ita maitai nuee (superlatively bad).”

  “Paddle away with ye,” roared Jermin, in a rage; “be off! or I’ll dart a harpoon at ye!”

  But, instead of obeying the order, Jim, seizing his paddle, darted the canoe right up to the gangway, and, in two bounds, stood on deck. Pulling a greasy silk handkerchief still lower over his brow, and improving the sit of his frock-coat with a vigorous jerk, he then strode up to the mate; and, in a more flowery style than ever, gave him to understand that the redoubtable “Jim,” himself, was before him; that the ship was his until the anchor was down; and he should like to hear what any one had to say to it.

  As there now seemed little doubt that he was all he claimed to be, the Julia was at last surrendered.

  Our gentleman now proceeded to bring us to an anchor, jumping up between the knight-heads,5 and bawling out “Luff! luff! keepy off! keepy off!” and insisting upon each time being respectfully responded to by the man at the helm. At this time our steerage-way was almost gone; and yet, in giving his orders, the passionate old man made as much fuss as a white squall aboard the Flying Dutchman.6

  Jim turned out to be the regular pilot of the harbor; a post, be it known, of no small profit; and, in his eyes, at least, invested with immense importance.* Our unceremonious entrance, therefore, was regarded as highly insulting, and tending to depreciate both the dignity and lucrativeness of his office.

  The old man is something of a wizard. Having an understanding with the elements, certain phenomena of theirs are exhibited for his particular benefit. Unusually clear weather, with a fine steady breeze, is a certain sign that a merchantman is at hand; whale-spouts seen from the harbor, are tokens of a whaling vessel’s approach; and thunder and lightning, happening so seldom as they do, are proof positive that a man-of-war is drawing near.

  In short, Jim, the pilot, is quite a character in his way; and no one visits Tahiti without hearing some curious story about him.

  CHAPTER 27

  A GLANCE AT PAPEETEE • WE ARE SENT ABOARD THE FRIGATE

  The village of Papeetee struck us all very pleasantly. Lying in a semicircle round the bay, the tasteful mansions of the chiefs and foreign residents impart an air of tropical elegance, heightened by the palm-trees waving here and there, and the deep-green groves of the Bread-Fruit in the background. The squalid huts of the common people are out of sight, and there is nothing to mar the prospect.

  All round the water, extends a wide, smooth beach of mixed pebbles and fragments of coral. This forms the thoroughfare of the village; the handsomest houses all facing it—the fluctuations of the tides* being so inconsiderable, that they cause no inconvenience.

  The Pritchard residence—a fine large building—occupies a site on one side of the bay: a green lawn slopes off to the sea; and in front waves the English flag. Across the water, the tri-color1 also, and the stars and stripes, distinguish the residences of the other consuls.

  What greatly added to the picturesqueness of the bay at this time, was the condemned hull of a large ship, which at the farther end of the harbor lay bilged upon the beach, its stern settled low in the water, and the other end high and dry. From where we lay, the trees behind seemed to lock their leafy boughs over its bowsprit; which, from its position, looked nearly upright.

  She was an American whaler, a very old craft. Having sprung a leak at sea, she had made all sail for the island, to heave down2 for repairs. Found utterly unseaworthy, however, her oil was taken out and sent home in another vessel; the hull was then stripped and sold for a trifle.

  Before leaving Tahiti, I had the curiosity to go over this poor old ship, thus stranded on a strange shore. What were my emotions, when I saw upon her stern the name of a small town on the river Hudson! She was from the noble stream on whose banks I was born; in whose waters I had a hundred times bathed. In an instant, palm-trees and elms—canoes and skiffs—church spires and bamboos—all mingled in one vision of the present and the past.

  But we must not leave Little Jule.

  At last the wishes of many were gratified; and like an aeronaut’s grapnel, her rusty little anchor was caught in the coral groves at the bottom of Papeetee Bay. This must have been more than forty days after leaving the Marquesas.

  The sails were yet unfurled, when a boat came alongside with our esteemed friend Wilson, the consul.

  “How’s this, how’s this, Mr. Jermin?” he began, looking very savage as he touched the deck. “What brings you in without orders?”

  “You did not come off to us, as you promised, sir; and there was no hanging on longer with nobody to work the ship,” was the blunt reply.

  “So the infernal scoundrels held out—did they? Very good; I’ll make them sweat for it,” and he eyed the scowling men with unwonted intrepidity. The truth was, he felt safer now, than when outside the reef.

  “Muster the mutineers on the quarter-deck,” he continued. “Drive them aft, sir, sick and well: I have a word to say to them.”

  “Now, men,” said he, “you think it’s all well with you, I suppose. You wished the ship in, and here she is. Captain Guy’s ashore, and you think you must go too: but we’ll see about that—I’ll miserably disappoint you.” (These last were his very words.) “Mr. Jermin, call off the names of those who did not refuse duty, and let them go over to the starboard side.”

  This done, a list was made out of the “mutineers,” as he was pleased to call the rest. Among these, the doctor and myself were included; though the former stepped forward, and boldly pleaded the office held by him when the vessel left Sydney. The mate also—who had always been friendly—stated the service rendered by myself two nights previous, as well as my conduct when he announced his intention to enter the harbor. For myself, I stoutly maintained, that according to the tenor of the agreement made with Captain Guy, my time aboard the ship had expired—the cruise being virtually at an end, however it had been brought about—and I claimed my discharge.

  But Wilson would hear nothing. Marking something in my manner, nevertheless, he asked my name and country; and then observed with a sneer, “Ah, you are the lad, I see, that wrote the Round Robin; I’ll take good care of you, my fine fellow—step back, sir.”

  As for poor Long Ghost, he denounced him as a “Sydney Flash-Gorger;” though what under heaven he meant by that euphonious title, is more than I can tell. Upon this, the doctor gave him such a piece of his mind, that the consul furiously commanded him to hold his peace, or he would instantly have him seized into the rigging, and flogged. There was no help for either of us—we were judged by the company we kept.

  All were now sent forward; not a word being said as to what he intended doing with us.

  After a talk with the mate, the consul withdrew, going aboard the French frigate, which lay within a cable’s length. We now suspected his object; and since matters had come to this pass, were rejoiced at it. In a day or two the Frenchman was to sail for Valparaiso, the usual place of rendezvous for the English squadron in the Pacific; and doubtless, Wilson meant to put us on board, and send us thither to be delivered up. Should our conjecture prove correct, all we had to expect, according to our most experienced shipmates, was the fag end3 of a cruise in one of her majesty’s ships, and a discharge before long at Portsmouth.

  We now proceeded to put on all the clothes we could—frock over frock, and trowsers over trowsers—so as to be in readiness for removal at a moment’s warning. Armed ships allow nothing superfluous to litter up the deck; and therefore, should we go aboard the frigate, our chests and their contents would have to be left behind.

  In an hour’s time, the first-cutter of the Reine Blanche came alongside, manned by eighteen or twenty sailors, armed with cutlasses and boarding-pistols—the officers, of course, wearing their side-arms, and the consul in an official cocked hat, borrowed for the occasion. The boat was painted a “pirate black,” its crew were a dark, grim-looking set, and the officers uncommonly fierce-looking little Frenchmen. On the whole they were calculated to intimidate—the consul’s object, doubtless, in bringing them.

  Summoned aft again, every one’s name was called separately; and being solemnly reminded that it was his last chance to escape punishment, was asked if he still refused duty. The response was instantaneous: “Ay, sir, I do.” In some cases followed up by divers explanatory observations, cut short by Wilson’s ordering the delinquent into the cutter. As a general thing, the order was promptly obeyed—some taking a sequence of hops, skips, and jumps, by way of showing, not only their unimpaired activity of body, but their alacrity in complying with all reasonable requests.

  Having avowed their resolution not to pull another rope of the Julia’s—even if at once restored to perfect health—all the invalids, with the exception of the two to be set ashore, accompanied us into the cutter. They were in high spirits; so much so, that something was insinuated about their not having been quite as ill as pretended.

  The cooper’s name was the last called; we did not hear what he answered, but he stayed behind. Nothing was done about the Mowree.

  Shoving clear from the ship, three loud cheers were raised; Flash Jack and others receiving a sharp reprimand for it from the consul.

  “Good-by, Little Jule,” cried Navy Bob, as we swept under the bows. “Don’t fall overboard, Ropey,” said another to the poor land-lubber, who, with Wymontoo, the Dane, and others left behind, was looking over at us from the forecastle.

  “Give her three more!” cried Salem, springing to his feet and whirling his hat round. “You sacre dam raskeel,” shouted the lieutenant of the party, bringing the flat of his sabre across his shoulders, “you now keepy steel.”

  The doctor and myself, more discreet, sat quietly in the bow of the cutter; and for my own part, though I did not repent what I had done, my reflections were far from being enviable.

  CHAPTER 28

  RECEPTION FROM THE FRENCHMAN

  In a few moments, we were paraded in the frigate’s gangway; the first lieutenant—an elderly, yellow-faced officer, in an ill-cut coat and tarnished gold lace—coming up, and frowning upon us.

  This gentleman’s head was a mere bald spot; his legs, sticks; in short, his whole physical vigor seemed exhausted in the production of one enormous moustache. Old Gamboge,1 as he was forthwith christened, now received a paper from the consul; and, opening it, proceeded to compare the goods delivered with the invoice.

  After being thoroughly counted, a meek little midshipman was called, and we were soon after given in custody to half-a-dozen sailor-soldiers—fellows with tarpaulins and muskets. Preceded by a pompous functionary (whom we took for one of the ship’s corporals, from his ratan2 and the gold lace on his sleeve), we were now escorted down the ladders to the berth-deck.

  Here we were politely handcuffed, all round; the man with the bamboo evincing the utmost solicitude in giving us a good fit from a large basket of the articles of assorted sizes.

  Taken by surprise at such an uncivil reception, a few of the party demurred; but all coyness was, at last, overcome; and finally our feet were inserted into heavy anklets of iron, running along a great bar bolted down to the deck. After this, we considered ourselves permanently established in our new quarters.

  “The deuse take their old iron!” exclaimed the doctor; “if I’d known this, I’d stayed behind.”

  “Ha, ha!” cried Flash Jack, “you’re in for it, Doctor Long Ghost.”

  “My hands and feet are, any way,” was the reply.

  They placed a sentry over us; a great lubber of a fellow, who marched up and down with a dilapidated old cutlass of most extraordinary dimensions. From its length, we had some idea that it was expressly intended to keep a crowd in order—reaching over the heads of half-a-dozen, say, so as to get a cut at somebody behind.

  “Mercy!” ejaculated the doctor with a shudder, “what a sensation it must be to be killed by such a tool.”

  We fasted till night, when one of the boys came along with a couple of “kids”3 containing a thin, saffron-colored fluid, with oily particles floating on top. The young wag told us this was soup: it turned out to be nothing more than oleaginous warm water. Such as it was, nevertheless, we were fain to make a meal of it, our sentry being attentive enough to undo our bracelets. The “kids” passed from mouth to mouth, and were soon emptied.

  The next morning, when the sentry’s back was turned, some one, whom we took for an English sailor, tossed over a few oranges, the rinds of which we afterward used for cups.

  On the second day nothing happened worthy of record. On the third, we were amused by the following scene.

  A man, whom we supposed a boatswain’s mate, from the silver whistle hanging from his neck, came below, driving before him a couple of blubbering boys, and followed by a whole troop of youngsters in tears. The pair, it seemed, were sent down to be punished by command of an officer; the rest had accompanied them out of sympathy.

  The boatswain’s mate went to work without delay, seizing the poor little culprits by their loose frocks, and using a ratan without mercy. The other boys wept, clasped their hands, and fell on their knees; but in vain; the boatswain’s mate only hit out at them; once in a while making them yell ten times louder than ever.

  In the midst of the tumult, down comes a midshipman, who, with a great air, orders the man on deck, and running in among the boys, sets them to scampering in all directions.

  The whole of this proceeding was regarded with infinite scorn by Navy Bob, who, years before, had been captain of the foretop4 on board a line-of-battle ship.5 In his estimation, it was a lubberly piece of business throughout: they did things differently in the English navy.

  CHAPTER 29

  THE REINE BLANCHE

  I can not forbear a brief reflection upon the scene ending the last chapter.

  The ratanning of the young culprits, although significant of the imperfect discipline of a French man-of-war, may also be considered as in some measure characteristic of the nation.