And the next day, as we heard the tramping far overhead and the dull pomp-e-te-pomp of engines, we both crept forth, moved our cramped, huddled limbs, and groaned. I chewed a morsel off one of our four coco-nuts. Then I caught a shadowy glimpse of O’Hara’s sweating black face as he took a drink from the water-bottle, and groped with his hands amongst the tiers of coal and terrific heat.
“Come on, this way!” I gasped, as I crawled along in that monstrous tomb where we found ourselves buried alive! “That’s better!” I said, as I felt a whiff of purer air come along some dark, labyrinthine way. O’Hara sat by me in the gloom, groping about as he carefully replaced the water-bottle and coco-nut in my portmanteau (an old green baize bag that I always carried when I travelled _incognito_).
Then O’Hara climbed up on my shoulders and peered through the little round hole just above our heads. For a long time he stared, gazing away to the far south-west horizon, where rose the rugged pinnacles of La Diadem, still visible.
“We’re safe enough now. They won’t catch us, I’ll bet,” said I.
“Ah, my darlint Fae Fae! I’ll never be happy again.”
“Yes, you will,” I murmured soothingly, as O’Hara still gazed through that dirty coal-bunker’s glass porthole, staring wistfully so as to get the last glimpse, as sunset touched the mountain palms of far-away Tahiti! We were stowaways down in the hold of a tramp steamer, far out at sea, outbound for Honolulu!
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CHAPTER VII. THE HEATHEN’S GARDEN OF EDEN
Tangalora the Samoan Scribe—Where the Gods and Goddesses first met in Council—The Materials of which the first Mortal Children were Fashioned—The first Wondering Men—The first Women—How the first Babies came to their Mothers.
IT was nearly three months before I found myself in Samoa again. O’Hara had shipped from Hawaii for the Solomon Isles, and I had signed on as “deckhand” on a fore-and-aft schooner that was bound for Apia. I missed the society of my Irish comrade; but we met long after, as will be seen in the last chapters of this book. However, I soon made another friend, for I came across a high chief, Tangalora, who was an aged Samoan. I came to value his friendship greatly. He dwelt in a cave on the shores of Savaii Isle, a cave wherein he lived in primitive comfort and seemed happy enough. He was one of the last of the wandering Samoan scribes—men who, with tappa robe flung across the left shoulder, wandered from village to village in pursuit of their romantic calling. These scribes would enter the small pagan villages at sunset, take their stand on the village forum-stump (sometimes a tree trunk or a heap of coral stone that denoted where some mighty warrior or poet was buried), then, lifting one arm towards the sky, commence to pour forth in dramatic fashion their own versions of the old mythological tales and legends. Such a scribe was Tangalora, with whom I became on the most intimate terms. As I have said, Tangalora was a very old man. I believe he was nearly eighty years of age. Consequently, he was unable to travel from village to village singing his romantic chants and legends to Samoan maids and youths. I found him a most agreeable old poet, perfect in every way, except that I noticed a tinge of jealousy arose whenever I spoke of his contemporaries. But even that very human failing was forgivable, for competition was keen among the poets of those days, and I myself heard many followers of the Muse, as they stood on those Parnassian heathen slopes, cursing the lying tongue of some wandering scribe who had forestalled them by arriving at the forum-stump before they did. However, it’s not my wish to go into detail over Tangalora’s failings; all I will attempt is to tell from my own impressions some of the incidents of the _extempore_ verse which he rattled off in his cavern homestead. I must first say that he used this cavern as a lecture hall as well as a homestead, charging a small fee to the native men and crowds of children who collected outside his rocky door at sunset. It was a sight worth seeing as those little native children, their eyes bright with mystery, waited to enter the cavern and hear the wonderful old wizard man, Tangalora, tell of the mysteries of shadowland. It was such a sight that met my eyes when I arrived at that cavern’s entrance, as eager as any of the forest children, I am sure.