A real discovery. Polynesia analyzed. The astounding nature of the Filberts. Their curious sound, and its reason. We make a landing. Our first glimpse of the natives. The value of vaudeville.
There is nothing better, after a hurricane, than six hours' sleep. It was high noon when we were awakened by William Henry Thomas and the odor of coffee, which drew us to the quarter-deck. There, for the first time, we were able to make an accurate survey of our surroundings and realize the magnitude and importance of what had befallen us. While we slept Captain Triplett had warped the denuded Kawa through a labyrinth of coral and we now lay peacefully at anchor with the island lying close in-board.
Its appearance, to put it mildly, was astonishing. Let me remind the reader that for the previous four months we had been prowling through the Southern Pacific meeting everywhere with disappointment and disillusionment. We had inspected every island in every group noted on every map from Mercator to Rand-McNally without finding any variation in type from, "A," the low lying coral-atoll of the well-known broken doughnut formation, to, "B," the high-browed, mansard design popularized by F. O'Brien. [Footnote: This is the type "E". of Melville's overrated classification—Ed.] In a few of the outlying suburbs of Melanesia and the lower half of Amnesia, we had found a few designs which showed sketchy promise of originality: coral reefs in quaint forms had been begun, outlining a scheme of decoration in contrast with the austere mountains and valleys. But everywhere these had been abandoned. Either the appropriation had given out, or the polyps had gotten to squabbling among themselves and left their work to be slowly worn away by the erosive action of sea and shipwrecked bottoms. [Footnote: In Micronesia it was even worse, the islands offering a dead-level of mediocrity which I have never seen equalled except in the workingmen's cottages of Ampere, New Jersey, the home of the General Electric Company.] Add to the geographic sameness the universal blight of white civilization with its picture post-cards, professional hula and ooh-la dancers, souvenir and gift shops, automat restaurants, movie-palaces, tourists, artists and explorers, and you have some idea of the boredom which had settled down over the Kawa and her inmates.
Only a few days before Whinney, usually so philosophical, had burst out petulantly with: "To hell with these islands. Give me a good mirage, any time." Swank and I had heartily agreed with him, and it was in that despondent spirit that we had begun our Fourth of July celebration.
As we sat cozily on deck, sipping our coffee, it slowly dawned on us that we had made the amazing discovery of an absolutely new type of island!—something so evidently virgin and unvisited that we could only gaze in awe-struck silence.
"Do you know," whispered Swank, "I think this is the first time I have ever seen a virgin"—he choked for an instant on a crumb—"island."
We could well believe it.
The islands lay before us in echelon formation. The one in our immediate foreground was typical of the others. Its ground-floor plan was that of a circle of beach and palm enclosing an inner sea from the center of which rose an elaborate mountain to a sheer height of two thousand, perhaps ten thousand, feet. The general effect was that of a pastry masterpiece on a gigantic scale. [Footnote: Oddly enough the scene struck me as strangely familiar but it was not until weeks afterward that I recalled its prototype in the memory of a decoration worn by General Grosdenovitch, Minister very-extraordinary to America from Montenegro just before the little mountain kingdom blew up with a faint pop and became absorbed by Jugo-Slovakia (sic).] We could only stare in open-mouthed amazement, thrilled with the thought that we were actually discoverers. A gorgeous feature of our find, in addition to its satisfactory shape, was its color. Sand and vegetation were of the conventional hues, but where the flanks of the rock rose from the enclosed pool we observed that they were of the pure elementary colors, red, blue and yellow, fresh and untarnished as in the latest masterpiece from the brush of the Master of All Painters. Here before our eyes was an unspoiled sample of what the world must have looked like on varnishing day.
Swank, who is ultra-modern in his tendencies, was in ecstasies over the naive simplicity of the color scheme. "Look at that red!" he shouted. "Look at that blue!! Look at that yaller!!!" He dove below and I heard rattling of tubes and brushes that told me he was about to commit landscape. This time I knew he couldn't possibly make the colors too violent.
Fringing the exquisitely tinted coral strand were outlying reefs, alternately concave and convex, which gave the shore edge a scalloped, almost rococo finish, which I have heard decorators call the Chinese-Chippendale "effect." Borne to our nostrils by an occasional reflex of the zooming trades came, ever and anon, entrancing whiffs of a brand new odor.
It is always embarrassing to attempt to describe a new smell, for, such is our inexperience in the nasal field, that a new smell must invariably be described in terms of other smells, and by reason of a curious, inherited prudery this province has been left severely alone by English writers. I know of but one man, M. Sentant, the governor of Battambang, Cambodia, who frankly makes a specialty of odors. [Footnote: See Journal des Debats, '09, "Le nez triomphant" de Lucien Sentant.]
"J'aime les odeurs!" he said to me one day as we sat sipping a siem-bok on the piazza, of the residency.
"Mais il y en a des mauvaises," I deprecated.
"Meme les mauvaises," he insisted, "Oui, surtout les mauvaises!"
But Sentant is unique. I can only say that as I sat sniffing on the deck of the Kawa there was about us a soupcon of the je-ne-sais-quoi tropicale, half nostalgie, half diablerie. It was ... but what's the use? You will have to go out there some time and smell it for yourself.
It is doubtful if a camera's eye ever recorded the presence of a more remarkable group than that presented on the opposite page. Here we see the ship's company of the yawl Kawa, assembled under the shade of the broad panjandrus leaves which fringe the Filbert Islands. They are, reading from left to right, William Henry Thomas, the crew; Herman Swank, Walter E. Traprock, Reginald Whinney. At their feet lies Kippiputuona (Daughter of Pearl and Coral). The black and white of photography can give no idea of the magnificent tropical coloring, nor of the exquisite sounds and odors which permeate every inch of the island paradise. At the moment of taking this picture, which was obligingly snapped by Captain Triplett, the entire party was listening to the thrilling cry of the fatu-liva bird. Captain Triplett had just requested the group to "listen to the little birdie" when the distant wood-notes were heard, the coincidence falling in most happily with the photographer's attempts to secure the absolute attention of his subjects.]
I have mentioned the contour, color and fragrance of our island. I now come to the strangest feature of all. I refer to its sound. I had for some time noticed a queer, dripping noise which I had foreborne to mention fearing it might be inside my own head—a devilish legacy of our recent buffeting. You can imagine my relief when Whinney asked apologetically, "Do you fellows hear anything?"
"I do!" was my rejoinder, seconded by Swank who had come up for air.
We all listened intently.
Though the sky was cloudless, a distinct pattering sound as of a light rain reached us.
"Nuts..." said Captain Triplett suddenly, spitting on the nose of a fish that had made a face at him. A glance through our mercifully preserved field-glasses corroborated the Captain's vision.
"For the love of Pete!" I gasped. "Take a squint at those trees." They were literally crawling with nuts and tropical fruits of every description. In the shadow of the broad panjandrus leaves we could see whole loaves of breadfruits falling unassisted to the ground while between the heavier thuds of cocoanuts and grapefruit we heard the incessant patter of light showers of thousands of assorted nutlets, singing the everlasting burden and refrain of these audible isles. It was this predominant feature—though I anticipate our actual decision—which ultimately settled our choice of a name for the new archipelago,—the Filbert Islands, now famous wherever the names of Whinney, Swank and Traprock are known.
It was now about half-past two bells and an excellent time to make a landing, preparations for which were forthwith set in motion. Now, if ever, we had occasion to bless the tightness of the Kawa, for in the confusion below, somewhat ameliorated by the labors of William Henry Thomas, we found most of our duffle in good order, an occasional stethoscope broken or a cork loose, but nothing to amount to much. Our rifles, side-arms, cartridges, camera and my bundles of rejected manuscript were as dry as ever. I was thankful as I had counted on writing on the other side of them. A tube of vermilion had run amuck among Swank's underclothes but, in the main, we were intact.
After some delay in getting our folding-dory stretched on its frame, due to Whinney's contention that the bow and stern sections belonged on the same end, we finally shoved off, leaving William Henry Thomas to answer the door in case of callers.
In the brief interval of our passage, I could not help noticing the remarkable submarine flora over which we passed. The water, perfectly clear to a depth of four-hundred and eighty-two feet, showed a remarkable picture of aquatic forestry. Under our keel spread limeaceous trees of myriad hues in whose branches perched variegated fish nibbling the coral buds or thoughtfully scratching their backs on the roseate bark. Pearls the size of onions rolled aimlessly on ocean's floor. But of these later; for the nonce our tale leads landward.
As our canvas scraped the shingle we leaped out, tossing the dory lightly beyond the reach of the waves, and fell into the agreed-upon formation. Triplett in the van, then Whinney, Swank and myself, in the order named. Beyond the beach was a luxuriant growth of haro. [Footnote: Similar to the photographer's grass; is used in the foreground of early Sarony full lengths. I have seen a similar form of vegetation just off the fairway of the third hole at Garden City.] Into this we proceeded gingerly, intrepid and alert, but ready to bolt at the slightest alarm.
The nut noises became constantly more ominous and menacing, but still we saw no sign of human life. Near the edge of the forest we came to a halt. Plainly it would be unwise to venture within range of the arboreal hailstones without protection, for though our pith-helmets were of the best quality they were, after all, but pith, and a cocoanut is a cocoanut, the world over. While we were debating this point and seeking a possible way into the jungle which was not overarched by trees I heard a low bird-call, as I supposed, the even-song of the cross-billed cuttywink. On the instant a towering circle of dark forms sprang from the haro and at a glance I saw that we were completely surrounded by gigantic Filbertines!
Darting a look over my shoulder I noted to my dismay an enormous land-crab towing our dory seaward. It was a harrowing moment. As agreed upon, we waited for Triplett to take the initiative and in the interim I took a hasty inventory of our reception committee. The general impression was that of great beauty and physique entirely unadorned except for a narrow, beaded water-line and pendent apron (rigolo in the Filbertine language) consisting of a seven-year-old clam shell decorated with brightly colored papoo-reeds. The men's faces were calm, almost benign, and as far as I could see unarmed except for long, sharply pointed bundles of leaves which they carried under their arms. Their tattooing was the finest I have ever seen.
At this moment, however, my observations were concluded by Triplett's suddenly wheeling and saying sharply, "Traprock! ... target practice!" This was a stunt we had often performed for the amusement and mystification of kindly cannibals in the Solomons. I had seen it in vaudeville and taught it to Triplett. As was my custom, I had in the pocket of my singlet a number of ship biscuit. Plucking out one of these I placed it on my forehead and nose, holding it in place with the index finger. Triplett leveled his Colt a good yard above my head and fired, I on the instant pressing the biscuit so that it fell in pieces to the ground.
The effect on the Filbertines was marvelous.
They were too simple to be afraid. Their one emotion was wonder. Then Swank, grinning broadly, uttered the one word, "Cinch!"
To a nation which had never heard a word ending in a consonant, this was apparently intensely humorous. They burst into loud guffaws, supplemented with resounding slaps of their cupped hands on their stomachs, at the same time raising an imitative cry of "Sink-ka! Sink-ka!"
This was our welcome to the Filbert Islands, and also the beginning of the months was to mean so much to our small but absolutely intrepid band.
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