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It was on the evening of a
lovely day in early spring that a small boat with two sprit-sails set, one
on each side, could be seen towing a canoe over an expanse of water which
more resembled a lake than what it really was—an inlet of the sea.
The breeze was fair but
light, barely keeping the sails full - a tantalising breeze, which always
promised to freshen up, yet never did—a breeze which you would fain believe
made the boat go faster than it would if you took to the oars, and yet you
did not feel quite at rest on that point. However, there was nothing to be
done but either to furl the sails and unstop the masts and take to the oars,
or to be content to keep creeping lazily along and make the best of the
breeze, such as it was.
Two of the occupants of the
boat were evidently much more interested in the scenery around them than in
the rate at which the boat was sailing. Little wonder if they were so
engrossed, for the landscape was one of surpassing beauty. The boat had just
rounded a promontory, in doing which the travellers had opened up an
entirely new view.
A sheet of water lay
stretched before them about fourteen miles long by about six broad. From the
travellers' point of view it was landlocked. Here and there openings could
be seen, but more distant land filled up the background. These passages
appeared to wander round little islands, creating a desire to be able to
explore them all.
At the western extremity of
the inlet one of these little islands lay in mid-channel. The most
picturesque of little rounded mountains reared itself, as if guarding the
passage, and, proud of its own beauty, was not in the least ashamed that it
lay right in the "fairway," and blocked up the centre of the passage and the
view beyond. It was quite evident, as the boat headed for the centre of the
island, and not towards one of the passages on either side, that to the
island the travellers were bound.
The right-hand shore of the
inlet rose steeply from the water's edge, save here and there where little
bays broke into the continuity of the coast-line.
In these indentations—hardly
to be termed bays— there always could be seen a little plateau of level land
stretching from the shore to the base of the hills, which then rose
abruptly.
The eye rested with delight
on the evergreen foliage of primeval forest, wonderfully rich in the varied
contrast of its colours. Although the season was but early spring, winter
had laid its hand so gently on all nature that it changed but little the
aspect of the woods, which ever smiled, arrayed in a garment of richest
verdure.
And to Nature alone was due
all the beauty of the scenery our travellers, were revelling in, for as yet
her reign here had been undisturbed and all but supreme.
As the boat skirted
alongshore the eye was able to detect every few miles that one of these
diminutive valleys nestling at the base of the hills was less rich and
beautiful in the colour of its vegetation. It owed its change of appearance
to the clearing hand of man, for there he dwelt in an uncivilised and
primitive state. Canoes on the beach and low huts on the shore told our
travellers that they were passing native villages, and they seemed to
scrutinise more keenly those spots showing signs of life, as if they wished
to impress the respective localities well on the memory.
The boat meanwhile had its
head steadily steered for the still-distant island, and gradually drew
towards mid-channel, and the opposite shore became more distinct.
It was not nearly so
beautiful as that on the right hand it was destitute of forest, and was of
an open, undulating character, resembling uplands. In the direction of. the
island it opened into a deep bay, and at its head, the land being low, the
eye failed to detect where the waters ended and land commenced. Fatigued
with the search, the eye ran along the gradually-rising high land, which
ended in a bold headland just opposite the little island. This promontory
showed a face of yellow sandstone, and at its extremity it was crowned by a
magnificent clump of trees, while smaller shrubs hung over the edge of the
cliff, the green foliage thrown into startling relief by the yellow
background.
As you gazed on this plumed
headland of exquisite beauty you now and again laboured under the optical
illusion that it was moving; you thought at one time it was nearer the
island, and then again farther off. You imagined it was making obeisances to
the little island, and endeavouring, with the most graceful and quiet
movements, to attract attention towards its pretty plumed head and command
admiration. It was in vain the eye wandered away from this plumed headland
to the bare promontory behind to make certain of the perfect stability of
the whole. You found yourself again looking at and believing in the nodding
headland, and half feared, if you took your eye away, the next time you
looked the headland—plume and all—would be found to have thrown itself into
the arms of the little island's mountain, and hidden all its beauties in the
shadow of that mountain's bosom.
The boat had now gained
mid-channel, and had lessened the distance to the island by one-half since
we saw it rounding the opening, now seven miles away. The travellers thought
they had come at least two-thirds of the way, and that they were almost at
the end of their voyage. The island looked close ahead of them, not more
than a couple of miles off, for they had not yet become accustomed to
calculate distance correctly in that clear Southern hemisphere, and their
impatience was bridging over too quickly the yet intervening space.
And now, to add to the
deception, the sun sank behind the little island's little mountain, throwing
its shadow over the water and illumining the outline of the whole island so
vividly that it seemed close at hand, and that a few oar-strokes would bring
them to its shore.
There is still time, however,
before the shore is reached to pay a visit on board the boat and see in what
manner it is freighted.
There were seven persons on
board—three Palcehas, and four of the crew, who were Maories; the Pakehas
occupied the "stern sheets," one of them steering. Of the Maories two were
in attendance watching the sails; but as this did not entail much attention,
one of them was dreamily smoking a pipe, while the other was cutting up some
tobacco ready for his turn at the said pipe, for they had only one between
them. The other two of the crew were wrapped in sleep in the bottom of the
boat, one of them having pillowed his head on a grindstone, the other having
selected more wisely and chosen a bag of salt. In the bottom of the boat
could be seen in strange confusion the poles of a tent and the tent itself
rolled into a bundle—why this was not preferred to the grindstone Maori
ideas alone can say. Then there was a sack of flour, which would have made a
nice comfortable pillow; then the bag of salt, some large and small
three-legged gipsy pots, a frying-pan, a spade and a grubbing-hoe, a
hatchet, some kits of potatoes, kumeras and maize, and one of cold pork, as
the head and jowl sufficiently demonstrated; a large and very capacious
wooden chest, half a keg of negrohead tobacco, and a bundle, through the
corners of which could be seen striped cotton shirts, blankets, &c., and
there has now been summed up pretty nearly what constituted the ballast of
the boat on that voyage.
And truly it was but a very
primitive and scanty turn-out with which to make a "first settlement," as
was evidently the intention of the occupants of the boat, because with no
other could any one be wandering so far beyond the limits of civilisation
with so large a stock of commodities. No huts on the shore or canoes on the
beach had been seen by the travellers for some time. These seemed to have
been all left behind; and the boat, slipping quietly through the water
before the gentle but fair wind whilst nearing its haven, increased the
solitude of the surrounding scene.
Hark to that sharp, quick
bark! A noble dog, half bloodhound, half mastiff, which must have lain
concealed till now, bounded from the bow of the boat, and, smelling land,
thus proclaimed the boat's near approach to it, and rushed to the stern
sheets to tell the news to his masters, and then away again to place his
paws on the boat's gunwale at the bow and bark again.
The boat was now under the
shadow of the little island's little mountain. The sun had nearly set, the
breeze no longer filled the sails; they began to flap against the masts. The
steersman summoned the crew to their oars, the two sleepers were aroused,
the luxurious grindstone and bag of salt pillows can no longer be indulged
in, the pipe of lazy peace must be put aside, and the four natives twisted
their mats round their waists, and having first furled the sails and
unstepped the masts, took their seats, and their naked bronze shoulders soon
strained to the oars.
The canoe towing astern made
it a heavy pull, but they gave way with a will. We had only to look at the
hound in the bow of the boat to know that the island was all but reached; he
no longer went jumping along to expend his impatience in barking visits to
his masters; he only changed his paws from one side of the bow of the boat
to the other; his whining had changed into shorter and quicker barking; and
at last, unable to restrain himself, he jumped on gunwale, prepared himself
for a spring, and plunged into the water, and by the time he had reached the
shore the keel of the boat grazed on the beach—the island was gained.
The Maories adroitly slipped
out of their mats, and puris naturalibus they were over the boat's
side in a moment and dragged it up as far as they could, just sufficient to
keep it on even keel. Three of them commenced at once to carry the things on
shore, the fourth started off in search of fresh water and drift wood, and
before his companions had finished their work of emptying the boat he had
returned and and a brisk fire burning and pot of water nearly boiling.
The Pakehas meanwhile had
chosen a spot on which to pitch their tent; they had not been over-
fastidious in their selection, as the shades of evening were rapidly
closing, for there twilight has but little more than a name, and but a short
interval elapses after the sun sets ere night prevails. While stars were
already shining brightly, telling the travellers to make the best of their
time.
The tent was soon pitched,
and whatever was wanted for the night, and anything that would have been
damaged had a shower fallen, carried into it from the boat. It was only the
elements that had to be feared, and the beauty of the young night forbade
much apprehension in that direction.
From the intrusion of either
man or beast everything was safe—of the latter the land was destitute, as
has already been stated. Of the aborigines none were likely to intrude on
that lonely spot, and if they did, what matter? they would not steal, and as
to safety of life, why there was not a firearm amongst the whole party.
A lovely night succeeded what
had been a lovely day. And such nights! Who can know their beauty and
brilliancy but those who have seen them? The Southern Cross was brilliant in
its beauty. There was no moon, but it was as light as it is at home when the
moon is half at the full.
The Maories sat around a
blazing fire, variously occupied in the preparation of supper. The Pakehas
were arranging the tent, spreading their beds of fern, of which a sufficient
supply had already been brought to carpet the whole surface, and nothing
could look more comfortable. A little lamp burned on the top of the big
sea-chest which came out of the boat, and which served as a table for the
coming supper, which was very soon afterwards partaken of in a very
primitive manner. On the top of the chest was placed the inevitable
three-legged gipsy pot, with the inevitable pork and potatoes inside it, and
not far off were the inevitable tin pannikins with tea. Some woefully
brown-looking sugar, some equally brown-looking ship's biscuit, such as was
used in those days, and which Jack would turn his nose up at now, comprised
the evening's banquet. But the supper was discussed with no small relish;
and over it the plan for the morrow decided. We were to make the circuit of
the island in the canoe, and find out the best place to pitch the tent
permanently, for on the morrow two of the three Pakehas were to be left to
their own resources on the island, with the hound for company while the
other Pakehia, with his boat and Maori crew, proceeded still farther on
their journey.
All was darkness now within
the tent, and its curtain doors were drawn together, but Maori curiosity
peering between them saw at the farther end of the tent two of the Pakehas
endeavouring to court sleep; at the foot of the tent the Pakeha steersman
was already in the arms of Morpheus, which arms the peeping Maories wot not
of.
The boats crew then settled
down comfortably around a blazing fire to thoroughly enjoy their pipes.
Occasionally they heard a low murmuring in the tent, but the voices grew
fainter and fainter; and to the two courters of sleep in the tent it
appeared that the Maori fire blazed less and less brightly, and the soft
Maori language fell softer and softer on their ears.
But the fire still blazed as
brightly as ever; the Maori korero was not in less loud voice.
It was the sweet oblivion of
sleep stealing over the travellers in their fern bed.
The fire flickered more and
more—it went out. The voices died away—they ceased.
In reality the fire still
burned brightly. The korero was still in audible voice.
But the two Pakehia wanderers
from their far-oft home now lie tranquilly sleeping in their new home in the
land of their adoption.
But the spirit of their
dreams on this night hovered not over their fern couch nor under their
tented roof, but travelled afar to their fatherland.
There they trod the mountain
heath and explored the rocky glen, they gathered afresh the wild flowers and
berries with the companions of their youth, they mingled once more in the
sports of the field with the friends of their riper years, they lived over
again many bygone days, bright arid happy with the near and dear under the
parental roof.
Ah! are there not as
exquisite moments of happiness in our dreams as are ever enjoyed in our
waking hours?
The Maories no longer fed the
fire; one by one they drew their mats around them, stretched themselves on
the ground with but scanty sprinkling of fern underneath, and dropped
asleep.
The hound moved closer to the
tent-door and lay down so that no one "could enter without stepping over
him, and pillowed his head on his own body he too slept.
The night continued as serene
as ever—not a breath of wind moved the leaves, now drinking the early
clew-fall.
The stars shone down without
a cloud to obscure their brilliancy, and were reflected from the smooth sea
that girt the little island.
The ebbing waters receded
from the gravelly shore without a ripple.
Not a sound, even the
faintest, broke on the universal stillness.
All Nature slept.
And thus it was that the two
Rangatera Pakehas of the good old Kanini took possession of their new home.
For had he not sold to them
that lonely and faraway spot, the little island of Motu Korea? |
