“Is she a cannibal now?” said I, as I stared beneath the palms and spied the old queen and her obsequious retinue of dusky chiefs on the verandah of her wooden palace. She had been a kind of Helen of Troy in the pre-Christian times of Tai-o-hae.
“Ah, no, monsieur, she is not zee cannibal now.” So saying, the gendarme, as he smiled and shrugged his shoulders, banged a native convict over the head with his bamboo truncheon by way of harmless digression. At this moment several natives, handsome youths and Marquesan maids, went laughing by. As they passed me they called out, “Aloah, monsieur!” One pretty chiefess, who had a figure like a goddess, arrayed in hibiscus blossoms and weaved grass, threw me a kiss.
“I’m going to stop on this isle,” murmured I to myself as I walked on. The shadows fell over the mountain range and hid the pinnacles of Ua Pu. I was still tramping inland, once more alone. The scene, as night fell, changed to one of magical beauty. Such a change! I heard the wild shouts of laughter, and the musical cries of approval, as the sailors and native girls met and whirled under the palms by the shanties. Those maids seemed to prefer English sailors. I recall that I often heard the Frenchmen say: “Ze Englese sailors are ze very deevils when they are tousand of miles from Londres.”
Often when the French officials were sipping their light wines and absinthe and gave out their toast: “Vive la France,” those sinful maids would gaze into the English sailors’ eyes and murmur (out of earshot): “Vive la Angleese!”
The missionaries had a great deal of trouble to keep them away from those old sea salts, and the French authorities passed all sorts of peculiar Acts to keep them in order. It was a sight worth seeing when a missionary suddenly appeared on the scene where they all danced with the white men: off they bolted into the forest like frightened rabbits! I suppose the missionaries had gone over to Hatiheu that night, for as I passed the shanty the laughter and wild song was in full swing.
The deserted schooners lay out in the bay, not a soul aboard. I saw a canoe shoot across the still waters, paddled by frizzly-headed savages. The darkened lagoons, fringed by feathery palms, mangroves and guavas, loomed into view for miles along the shore, looking like a natural stockade that protected the approaches to fairyland.