CHAPTER XIV.
LIFE AT NASOVA—FARMYARD—CONVICT THATCHERS—NATIVE FESTIVAL AT BAU—RETURN TO NASOVA—BATTLES WITH CRABS—BEGINNING OF CANNIBAL DISTURBANCE—FIJIAN FAIRIES—A STORM.
NASOVA, FIJI, _March 1, 1876_.
DEAR AUNT EMMA,—I have not yet written once direct to you, but I trust you nevertheless consider yourself bound to write to me; for you cannot realise how greatly we prize all home letters out here, and how we do watch for the mails. We have been so watching now for upwards of a week, the mail being long overdue, and a hundred times a-day we look up to see if no faint line of smoke on the horizon tells of its approach; and when it does come in with a whole month’s European news, can you not fancy what an anxious minute the opening of the mail-bag is? If only people at home could realise the delight their letters are to wanderers in far lands, I think they would surely write more regularly.
I wish I could look in at you all, just for a good chat, but I should wish to carry with me a flood of sunshine, and this calm blessed sea, for I fear London is hardly as pretty to-day as Fiji; and whatever disadvantages this place possesses, it certainly has no lack of beauty. At present, however, it is terribly isolated—a small steamer to New Zealand being our only direct communication with the outer world, the Australian boats having deliberately dropped us, declaring that we don’t pay! However, for the last three months the great steamers running between San Francisco, New Zealand, and Australia have touched at Khandavu, our outermost isle, bringing and taking mails and passengers; but they are fighting hard to get off doing so, and only do it at all because their agent signed a contract which they find they cannot at present legally break.
_March 7._—I began this letter a week ago, when we were waiting and watching for the mail. At last, when we were beginning to fear our little steamer had gone to the bottom, she returned with a few Australian letters, but the aggravating steamer from San Francisco never touched Khandavu at all; so all our English letters and papers have gone to New Zealand, and we shall not see them for six weeks. So much for being a poor colony, which cannot afford to build proper lighthouses. And poor it is with a vengeance. You cannot imagine anything more so. The whole white community are only just above starvation-point, and yet everything is very expensive.
I cannot give you a better proof of the general poverty than the fact that scarcely any one in Levuka (the capital) owns a boat—the only other means of locomotion being to tramp on weary feet along the vilest of shingly footpaths. Even the officials—the Colonial Secretary and Auditor-General—have none. The Judge (Sir William Hackett) and the Attorney-General (Mr de Ricci) have a rickety old tub between them, which they either pull themselves, or man with two labour-boys, each great arm of the law supplying one! Of course the Governor has his own boat, in which Lady Gordon goes for a small row two or three times a-week; but it takes six of the native police to man it, and they are not always available. Moreover, it is such a good boat that there are very few places where it can ever be allowed to touch; and above all, it must keep a very respectful distance from the beautiful coral-reefs and patches, which are to me the chief delight of this place. I always envy the native women, who are for ever playing, and fishing, and finding wonderful treasures on the reef, but here the whites do not understand the interest of such pursuits. So my enjoyment of the reef consists in looking down on it from the hill above us, and lovely indeed it is.
Just behind the house is a steep glen, with a rocky wee burn, overhung with good large trees, and these are matted with ferns and creepers. It is not a very fine piece of tropical scenery, but it is my own, in the sense that no one else ever takes the trouble to climb up. So there are few days that I do not scramble up to some pleasant perch among the grey boulders, whence I can look down through the fringe and frame of green leaves to the lovely blue sea, with the band of rainbow light that marks the coral-reef. I am writing there just now, in a cleft between two great rocks, and right glad to escape from the sound of many voices down at the house. For one of the aggravations of house-building out here (as in tropical countries generally) is, that to improve ventilation, the partitions between rooms always stop short of the ceiling. Consequently every word spoken in one is heard in all the others, to the great aggravation of the unwilling listener. How the gentlemen can concentrate their minds sufficiently to write business letters in their very noisy quarters, with people of all colours perpetually coming and going, is to me a standing mystery; and the annoyance is further aggravated by the fact that, in these one-storeyed houses, all rooms must of course be on the ground-floor, and all windows are shutterless glass doors, opening on to a public verandah; and you have to choose between sitting with several doors wide open to all comers, or stifling for lack of air by closing them. Certainly no one in Fiji can say that his house or his room is his castle, where he may rest undisturbed. I think, of all delights of a British house, there is none which we all shall henceforth prize more thankfully than the privilege of sitting at our own windows up stairs with closed doors. I am bound to say, however, that I am far better off than any one else in the house in this respect, having a very cosy nest in the new wing. But being next the nursery, the system of open roof makes the rooms virtually one; and though the two children, Jack and Nevil, are the very clearest and best of little chicks, and their Welsh nurse and Portuguese nursery-maid are likewise excellent, it does sometimes suggest itself that silence would be preferable. So then I creep up my glen and have an hour or two, with only the blue and gold lizards as companions.
Happily in Fiji we have really no noxious creatures except mosquitoes (and they do swarm). But the houses are full of cockroaches, which eat everything—boots, shoes, clothes, &c.—and what they spare the mildew destroys. My drawing-paper is already spoilt, and our dresses and boots are green with mildew every morning. So are our collections of spears, clubs, and bowls, which require daily rubbing with oil. Another foe is a lovely white cockatoo, which has a special fancy for eating the best table-cloths and the gentlemen’s dress-clothes! We have a good many parrots about the place, more or less tame, which will come and perch on the tea-cups, upsetting more than they drink; and there are tame kingfishers, which eat the cockroaches (in which useful art they are assisted by huge spiders, which we love and cherish). A pair of laughing-jackasses walk about the apology for a garden, and jeer at everything; and sometimes they and the pigeons come into the drawing-room, and have to be driven out; and all farmyard creatures, carefully reared by Abbey since our arrival, roam about on every side,—cows, sheep, turkeys, geese, and fowls; and don’t they all cackle and gobble! You see there is so very little available ground for anything here on this rocky island, that everything is huddled up into no space at all. A very pet dog, with her puppies of two generations, complete the family.
We are getting tolerably cosy at last; but it has been a slow process,—and it is little more than a month since we were able to take possession of the three new rooms which Sir Arthur has added to the old house—namely, a large drawing-room, a nursery, and bedroom, which last was built for Lady Gordon; but as she prefers remaining in the old house, it falls to my share. It is a simple wooden house; but so expensive is every detail of work here, that I believe it has cost Sir Arthur upwards of £1000; and as he refunds more than a third of his nominal salary as Governor to this wellnigh empty treasury, it follows that the post is by no means a lucrative one. Our new rooms are very nice; but in the wish to make the building less hideous than other houses here, Sir Arthur indulged in gable-ends, which, we are told, will probably result in our being left roofless the night of the first hurricane,—for which the weather prophets look about three weeks hence.
They tell us that this intense heat will last about six weeks longer, when, the rainy season being over, we may expect a long spell of beautiful weather. Meanwhile we only have occasional rain—very heavy when it does fall.
It was suddenly discovered that the roof of this old house (only four years old) was quite rotten—the thatch, I mean. So one hundred men were collected to repair it; and they are now crawling all over the roof like a swarm of ants, or else passing down the hill in long lines, bearing huge burdens of tall grass, ten feet high, with great white plumes of silky blossom. It is a very picturesque scene; but as they have been at it for about three weeks (and indeed there are always a tribe of workmen at some corner of the place, if not everywhere), we begin to wish they had finished, especially as many of them are unhappy-looking prisoners. One is a murderer, working in heavy chains; and though he looks very happy, generally climbing nimbly about the roof, notwithstanding this heavy weight, it makes me hot and miserable to see him. He was found guilty of the murder of a planter of the name of Burns, and his wife. It was a frightful story. I do not know why he was not hanged. He is working in chains because he has already escaped once and been recaptured; but from his extreme activity, I should think his fetters might prove a very slight impediment should he resolve to try his luck again. Another large body of men are working at the rough ground behind the house, turning it into a little garden. Already it is taking shape, and will doubtless be very nice by the time the capital is moved to another island, when it will probably be left to its fate. Sir Arthur is very anxious to effect this move, which undoubtedly will, in the long-run, prove a wise step; but in the meantime it will, of course, entail various hardships on many of these already hard-struggling people. But I daresay it will be a good while before anything is done about it. Everything here is very slow work, and the inhabitants have sore need of patience.
It is pleasant to turn from the many cares and sorrows of the whites to the cheerier dark side of the picture; for the Fijians are always laughing, and seem always ready to sing and dance. Certainly they, too, are wretchedly poor; but they need very little, and are well off, where a white man would starve.
_March 10._—I have just returned from a most delightful expedition, thanks, as usual, to the Wesleyan missionaries, to whose kind help I really am indebted for all I have yet seen of native life. Last week I had a letter from Andi Kuilla—_i.e._, Lady Flag—daughter of Thakombau, asking me to go and stay with her at Bau, the native capital, to be present at a grand gathering of the chiefs, when all their most striking Bau dances would be performed at the great annual missionary meeting. It is the custom here for every district to hold an annual social gathering, to which all the people bring their contributions for the funds of the mission. These they generally carry in their mouth for safety, and spit them on to a mat at the feet of the missionary. The advantage of this self-acting purse to men who have no pockets, and whose hands carry clubs or fans, is evident. Then they go off in grand procession and have a dance, which combines ballet with pantomime, all the dancers being dressed up in the most startling varieties of Fijian style. Paint of all colours; garlands of every sort of material, for every limb except the head, which is adorned with its own magnificent halo of spiral goldeny curls—tiny ones—the hair standing straight out from the head; it is dotted with one or two blossoms or sprigs of grass, coquettishly stuck in.
Well, this invitation was most tempting, but there seemed at first no means of accepting it—no boat was to be had, and no escort. At last, in despair, I went off to ask a nice English girl, who talks perfect Fijian, if she would venture on coming alone with me (twenty-five miles in an open boat, supposing I could hire one). She agreed, and we went together to consult Mr Wylie, the missionary here. He at once solved all difficulties, and sent his own good boat for us at daybreak, in charge of a native teacher, who, he said, was only waiting for an opportunity to go to Bau. At the last moment, Captain Havelock, the Colonial Secretary, found he could manage to allow himself a holiday—the very first since his arrival. So we started most happily. We had a lovely day for our long row (no wind for sailing, however); halted for luncheon at a small sandy island covered with cocoa-palms, and rested under a splendid Mbaka tree (Fijian banyan); then on again, and reached Bau at sunset. It is a tiny island just off the mainland.
We found kind Mr Langham waiting at the pier to welcome us and offer us comfortable quarters, as a Fijian house is not good for sleep on such occasions. It seemed to me the dancing was going on more or less for thirty-six hours, counting from the moment of our arrival, when a most picturesque rehearsal was going on in the bright moonlight! Of course there had been innumerable previous ones; for the figures are most elaborate, the movements very varied and like a complicated ballet in which every dancer (perhaps two hundred at once) must move in faultless time.
As we came up to Thakombau’s quarters a hundred and fifty ladies of Bau were beginning their dance, each carrying a paddle of polished wood, which they waved and turned with simultaneous action. The general effect was most stately. (I should have said ladies and their attendants, for nowhere is all etiquette of rank and birth so rigidly cared for. All rank comes through the mother.) The dancers were led by Andi Lytia and Andi Kuilla, the ex-queen and her daughter. Both are very tall and stout,—really fine stately women. No high-bred English duchess could carry herself more nobly than these born ladies leading their Tongan minuet. One of the sons has just married a Tongan princess, a very pretty woman.
Hitherto I had only seen them in the undress of their homes, with a white waist-cloth, and sometimes a tiny pinafore only just covering the breast. Even then no one could fail to be struck with their true dignity. It is just the same with the men—the fine old chief and his handsome sons. It is quite impossible to look at these people now and realise the appalling scenes in which at least the older ones have so often joined. Now the ladies were in full dress, consisting of a waist-cloth of very rare black _tappa_, tiny jackets of white silk edged with lace, and no ornament whatever save a small English locket, and a small tuft of scarlet flowers in their halo of hair—that of the old queen is quite grey. They both looked really handsome.
Next day crowds of canoes kept arriving from every neighbouring island, and dancing and feasting went on all day. The grand _mékés_ came off in the afternoon, but many of the occasional ones were quite as pretty. Each district has dances peculiar to itself. Here there was not one spear-dance,—all clubs or fans. The men on these occasions are generally so painted and dressed up that you cannot recognise your dearest friend; and we were quite puzzled by the king’s handsome sons, Ratu Joe and Ratu Timothy, appearing, one scarlet the other black, down to the waist. But we were chiefly puzzled and attracted by one very fine fellow, all painted black, with a huge wreath and neck-garland of scarlet hybiscus and green leaves, and rattling garters made of many hanging strings of large cockle-shells, and the usual _liku_ (a sort of kilt or waist-drapery) of fringes of coloured _pandanus_ leaves, or fresh ferns, &c. Of course he carried a club, and was barefooted. This man distinguished himself greatly, and afterwards acted the part of a huge dog in a dance where all the children appeared on all-fours as cats (“pussies”). Eventually we discovered him to be a European known as Jack Cassell.
One very pretty girl, Andi Karlotta, who is engaged to Ratu Joe, wore a rose-coloured bodice and _sulu_, and a tinge of red sprinkled over her hair, all to match. Very often now the girls wear streamers of English ribbon; but these Bau ladies hold their heads very high, and decided that, as girls on the mainland had adopted ribbon, they would _tambu_ it; so only a little lace-edging was allowed. In addition to the actual kilt, many of the men wear innumerable loops and folds, and even a trailing train, of white _tappa_, the effect of which is graceful. Some wore a headdress made of very delicate bands of it, from the forehead to the back of the neck, looking like tiny white wreaths; others wore a kind of turban of smoke-dried gauze, and large beautiful breast-plates of pearly shell inlaid with ivory.
Just when the principal _mékés_ were over, a tremendous shower came on; happily not till the people had gone home to feast. Later it cleared up, and they danced the whole night in the moonlight, though the rain had converted half the grass into a lake. But as they had no satin shoes to think about, they danced right through it, and seemed very happy. Their commonest figure is a great double circle, working opposite ways, the orchestra standing in the middle, singing and beating time with bamboos; and sometimes they dance off like a very curly letter S to join another double circle.
We sat up watching them from the mission garden till past 1 A.M.; for though we were all tired, there was a solemn conference going on at the house, the neighbouring brethren having all assembled to sit in judgment on the alleged delinquencies of a native minister. So, as their wives did not know whether they were to go home that night or not, all they could do was to lay their small children down to sleep in every corner. Finally one family departed, with two little ones, to row to a neighbouring isle and then carry the children a mile through the forest—one fair little thing carried by a Fijian child not much bigger than itself,—such a bright intelligent little monkey.
When we awoke next morning the dancers were still in full swing; but soon after sunrise all departed in their canoes, singing as they sailed away, and all declaring it had been a very pleasant time.
We foolishly allowed ourselves to be detained till towards noon, trusting to our host’s practice in catching tides (for only at certain hours can you cross the coral-reefs, and that only at certain points, miles apart). But a head-wind set in and made a nasty wobbly sea. Our men were not very fresh, and when we neared the isle where we had lunched on our way, we found we had lost the tide and had to row a long way round outside the reef, and then come in by a passage so very narrow that it was difficult to discern it in the very fitful moonlight. It was an anxious moment passing between the two great lines of breakers which mark the edge of every reef. Once inside, the danger is only of running aground on coral-patches.
It was nearly 9 P.M. before we reached a small island where we were carried ashore and had supper on the sands under the palm-trees while our men rested. It was pleasant sitting in the moonlight, but when we had re-embarked very heavy rain came on; however, we had good waterproofs, and our men had a good coating of fresh oil, so it did no harm. It was clear moonlight when at last, at 1 A.M., we reached the pier, whereon lay sleeping a row of labour-boys, who had chosen this _al fresco_ bedroom for the sake of the breeze. They are the servants from other isles, who work harder than Fijians. Fijians make most graceful table servants and good police. They look on their drill as a sort of _méké_, but they utterly abhor all hard work. So half the isles of the South Pacific are represented in the household. We woke the boys and got our things carried up to the house, crept up the verandah to my room without disturbing anybody, rigged up our mosquito-curtains, and had no further adventures save two battles with land-crabs, which came in and walked about clattering their claws against the woodwork, so that they had to be turned out. (I clubbed one one night in my anguish lest he should nip my toes, but the result was so horribly nasty, that now I always catch them and carry them down to the little stream hard by, to prevent their coming back)—rather an aggravating episode to occur twice in a night when you are very tired; and before I was well asleep again, a pathetic little cry came from the nursery, “Oh, I am so sick, and nurse has gone to bathe!” So I had to fly to the rescue, to find dear little Jack on the sick-list. He is better to-day, but the climate is a very trying one for children—debilitating, though not positively unhealthy.
We have had intense heat and damp, but I think it is over now, and we have a sweet breeze, so long as we can sit in it; but unfortunately it does not reach rooms round the corner, so some are always hot. However, thanks to moving about a good deal for change of air, we all keep very fairly well.
Though our household party is nominally a large one, two or three are generally absent. Captain Knollys and Mr Gordon have just returned from an expedition to the camp up in the mountains, in the heart of the disaffected district, among the wild big-heads, the Kai Tholos, or people of the mountains. Captain Olive was sent up there some time ago with a strong force of native police (very fine men, and he glories in them, and lives like them and with them). He made a regular fortified camp, on a plain in the heart of the mountains, and at first the mountaineers thought he certainly meant war; but by degrees they are getting tamer, and the one tribe which is most seriously antagonistic has been vainly trying to persuade others to back it up, and they have refused; so now we hope all fear of fighting is over. But it was necessary to send up some more armed men as a reinforcement, and a great mass of stuff for barter; so these two went in charge of it, and have brought us back very interesting sketches of places and people. Mr Gordon is a real artist, and his sketches are very clever.
Up in the mountains the people are still heathen, and the dress is yet primitive. For full dress, women wear a fringe of grass four inches long. The men of the mountains when fully dressed wear a strip of _tappa_ tied in a very large bow, and trailing train. Their heads are gigantic, about eighteen inches in diameter, and some much larger; the stiff hair being very long and bent back in large bunches, makes it grow inward among the roots: of course it is rarely, if ever, dressed, and forms magnificent cover! As the inmates are apt to tickle, every big-head wears a long pin stuck through the hair to scratch with, and when the irritation becomes unbearable, he kindles a fire of banana-leaves, and, placing his wooden neck-pillow close to it, gets his head thoroughly smoked.
These wooden neck-pillows occupy a prominent position in the annals of the Fijian police-courts. They are handy weapons; and a bolstering match in which they figure is apt to be a serious one. They are a great check on aggravating curtain-lectures, and are used everywhere all over the isles. Most pillows are a stick about one inch in diameter, resting on two legs.
These Kai Tholos (Highlanders) have many legends and fairy tales which, unfortunately, no one who has really mastered the language can find time to collect. One is, that the great _dakua_ or _kaurie_ pine-forests are haunted by tiny men called _Vélé_, with high conical heads. They carry small hand-clubs, which they throw at all trespassers, who go mad in consequence; but (mark the coincidence with German fairy tales) if you have the wit to carry in your hand a fern-leaf, they are powerless, and fall at your feet, crying, “Spare me.” Once they all fell in love with a pretty human girl who strayed into the forest. They were so charmed with her that they kept her there a year before she managed to escape.
I find that Mr Williams, one of the earlier missionaries, took some notes on this subject. He says:—
“The Fijian peoples with invisible beings every remarkable spot: the lonely dell, the gloomy cave, the desolate rock, and the deep forest. Many of these, he believes, are on the alert to do him harm; therefore, in passing their territory, he throws down a few green leaves to propitiate the demon of the place. Among the principal objects of Fijian superstition are demons, ghosts, witches, wizards, fairies, evil-eyes, seers, and priests, all of whom he believes to possess supernatural power. A very old Fijian used to talk to me of ‘those little gods,’ with a faith as strong as that of a Highlander in his fairies. And these ‘little gods’ are the fairies of Fiji. ‘When living near the Kauvandra mountains, I often used to hear them sing,’ said the old man; and his eyes brightened as he went on to tell how they would assemble in troops on the tops of the mountains and sing unweariedly. They were all little—‘like little children. I have often seen them and listened to their songs.’ These are the mountain fairies. There are other ‘little gods,’ called _luve-ni-wai_, children of the waters. My list contains more than fifty of their names, but I believe it is incomplete. They are represented as wild and fearful, and at certain festivals they visit their worshippers, who for several successive weeks assemble morning and evening to allure them by drumming with short bamboos. Little flags are placed at various inland passes to prevent these water-gods from passing on to the forests; so they halt at an enclosure where offerings have been prepared for them, and there the worshippers seat themselves and beat their bamboos, and others dance in most fantastic style, while one, called the _Linga Viu_, or shade-holder, dances in a circle all round the others, waving a sunshade which he alone is privileged to carry.”
“There is a warlock, called _Ndrudru Sambo_, who is very tall, and of a grey colour, with a wide flat head; he breathes hard, and makes a clattering noise as he moves. He steals fish from the fishermen, and dainty bits of food wherever he finds them. If touched with a spear he instantly takes the form of a rat.”
I find that is all I can learn of the fairies at present. Possibly the reward of £100, offered at Max Müller’s instigation, for a collection of such lore, may induce some one to find time to make one before it all dies out, as it invariably does when the people become civilised or Christianised and ashamed of old superstitions. Then good and bad all pass away together. But I must say the missionaries in Fiji have shown superlative common-sense in their method of dealing with native customs, discriminating between the innocent and the evil.
We are especially grateful to the Kai Tholos for proving that Christianity has no connection with broadcloth, and in every way discouraging the adoption of European garments. I have only seen one man foolish enough to appear in such—a native minister—and I rejoiced to hear his superiors indulging in gentle sarcasm, which would certainly have its effect. But in some neighbouring groups—Tonga for instance, where the people are even a finer race than these—everything native is dying out. To encourage the import of foreign goods, the people are _forbidden by law to make or wear native cloth_, and they are encouraged to make themselves objects of ridicule by adopting European dress. Imagine Parisian bonnets and absurd hats on these picturesque heads. This is the last news from Tonga just brought by H.M.S. Nymphe (Captain Grant Suttie), which went there to take Mr Layard, Consul of Tonga, on official duty. The cruise was delightful, but with some shadows. One officer, Mr Grey, died quite suddenly; the armourer also died, but he was very ill before they started.
Mr Gordon has gone off to-day to try and make an amicable temporary arrangement between some natives and a white settler, who all claim the same land. So the former spear the cattle of the latter and drive them down into the sea. The wretched beasts are dying of starvation; and as it may be a couple of years before the Lands Commission can decide on the ownership of the innumerable estates claimed by hundreds of people, the white man’s wife came here to crave some temporary interference. She wore a white dress and white lace, her hair in beautiful long ringlets, a large hat and feather, and is very interesting to look upon. I hear she is a splendid musician, and something of an artist. She is an Austrian lady who had money of her own, which her husband has invested in this charming way. I should think plantation life in Fiji was hard enough in any case; but when you come to being at logger-heads with the natives, it must be odious indeed.
Now I think I have given you a long enough screed. I am sure dear old Lady Ruthven will like to hear “A letter from Fiji.” Please give her my kindest love.
_March 16._—After all, our letters have never gone. The weather was so bad that it was impossible to finish necessary repairs to the Government steamer (which recently discovered a new coral-reef, greatly to her own discomfiture). The glass is falling steadily, and there is every symptom of an approaching hurricane, which will probably carry away our whole roof if it proves severe. Nor is this our only danger. This morning when daylight broke we found that my dear little burn in the rocky glen had swollen to an angry mountain torrent, and was tearing along, making new little streams and waterfalls in every direction—one right across the verandah. A squad of men have been working at a dike all the afternoon; but as it has rained steadily all day, and the bed of the stream is not ten feet from the drawing-room and nursery windows, we fully expect to be washed out to-night. So the drawing-room and my room have been entirely dismantled, and present a hideous sight of blank bare floors and packing-cases!
As for the poor little attempt at a garden, young rivers are careering all over it. As yet our only flowers are balsams, raised from seed, not very interesting flowers, but our only treasures in this flowerless region. But really, what pleasure is there in making anything nice in such a country? I thought I would have my room very dandy, so I invested in a pair of tall vases to stand on carved brackets and hold ferns and grasses. Almost the first day I put them up, one sudden gust of wind blew them both over, and I found only fragments!
The Governor has just come to despatch the gentlemen to dig out Mrs Macgregor, the doctor’s wife, who is being buried by a mud avalanche, and her husband is far too busy with his sick folk to look after her. The hospital is quite full, and he has out-patients in all directions. We certainly heard very false accounts of the healthiness of this place, especially the utter absence of sunstroke. At least three deaths have been due to it since we came. One victim was a Fijian, who dropped down dead at his work on Saturday; the other two were Engineers; and a labour-boy dropped down dead yesterday, but I do not know from what cause. A third Engineer died and was buried yesterday. They only landed here in September, and out of their corps of sixty men three have died, and many are on the sick-list. Just imagine that they have never yet got their sun-hats, or any white clothing, though this is by far the hottest place any of us have ever been in!
The cemetery lies on a hill beyond us, and it is so sad seeing all the funerals pass. The last was that of a poor American sailor, who died in hospital, and four labour-boys trotted past, carrying him with no more ceremony than if the coffin had been an old packing-case.
We have just had two interesting domestic events in the middle of the storm. The first was the arrival of a fine litter of young pigs, who chose this very awkward moment for their appearance. The other was the ruthless destruction of a cherished nest, just in front of the nursery window, where a Muscovy duck had made her home at the root of an old tree overhanging the water. We watched a sudden rush carry away her supporting-bank, and the poor thing looked up in despair, as, one after another, her eggs rolled into the stream. A Fijian rushed to the rescue up to his waist in water, saved the last six, and carried them and her off to the kitchen for safety, but she declines to sit on the surviving eggs.
A fresh access of storm. My door has just blown violently open. We are putting up hurricane-bars, and expect to have an anxious night. The new roof of the old house is leaking all over.
_March 17._—We have had a night of it, but as yet no hurricane. However, old hands tell us we cannot hope we are through the wood for ten days to come, after which we may count on six months of pleasant weather. The rainfall yesterday was 4½ inches, and all night the wind blew savagely; but the roof was very slightly damaged, and the stream kept in its proper channel. No harm was done, save that the boat-house was blown down. Luckily all the boats had been dragged up to the verandah for security.
Last night at sunset we were watching a poor little cutter trying to beat in at the passage through the coral-reef. Then we lost sight of her in the utter darkness. This morning we hear she did reach a passage farther along the coast, but struck the reef and went down like a shot. The men got to shore, but she and her hard-earned cargo are lost. Her story may interest you. She was the private property of a tribe near Khandavu, who had the sense to see the advantages of owning a ship for themselves. About eighty of the tribe bound themselves to work for three years on plantations in order to pay off her price; and their long service has only just expired. So you see it is a serious loss to these poor folk.
_March 18._—After a storm a calm. To-day is a dead calm—not a ripple on the sea. We do not know whether it is merely a case of _reculer pour mieux sauter_; but at all events, a vessel is to be despatched to-night to Khandavu on the chance of still being in time to catch the mail _viâ_ Torres Straits. Anyhow, we hope we shall get some English letters, unless the storm blew the mail-steamers past us. We are rather anxious about Baron von Hügel, as he has for months been wandering about the mountains alone with natives, and a fortnight ago wrote that he was very ill. We expected him by the steamer to-day, but have no word of him.