Cruise of the Wanderer

Press, Volume LXXIV, Issue 22513, 22 September 1938, Page 8 (Supplement)

Cruise of the Wanderer

(By L.R, Hobbs)

The first |wo'day* out of- Akaroa, (With the .Wander er-hoqnd ; direct ifor Tahiti.werethe 'best Tom- had to far had -at sea. There was the novelty meeting pasaengerf—Tom ■ had ' to 'help serve gheir meals.ahd ph a small vessel like Wanderer' everyone soon. '|mwt^eiyorw-else. Some’of the" had only )the slightest smattering of English, gnd the,lew?words they did haveIthey used with <such a quaint acIcent that Tom could barely understand them. : But with Pierre, . the dark-jeyed 15-year-old, who in a year ■ at- -Akaroa ■ had- picked up, mostly, from-rthe _ English-speaking' (whalers roundabout, quite a working knowledge .of English,. he. soon ■truck, up si warm 'friendship. Idle time hung on Pierre’s hands, and he helped Tom get through his various jobs, so that , that way the two had much free'time, together. Pierre, who had been born near Paris, had a knowledge ;of ■; the world thait Tom was eager to share. Many ’ and long were the discussions on France and the French, their habits compared ■ with those of the English.. sport, religion,- and every subject under the hot Facigc sun. Pierre’s uncle, his father’s eldestbrother; had been - a soldier in NapoleonV regular army, and Pierre loved to pass on' to Tom stories and legends of the Little Corporal who had almost ruled the World. “But,” Tom would object at the beginning of every story, “Napoleon was- not a good man iike that. Look .at the way he fought England.” And he would always proclaim with pride that England had finally--beaten Napoleon.' Pierre would sigh and agree, but brightening up would go on' nevertheless to tell some personal story of Napoleon’s genius-or generosity, most of which left Toro with a feeling that the. scanty history, he - bad learned in the little, school at Riverton had only touched the fringe of reality. Few Pacific voyages - in the days of sail' could have been as. fortunate’ as that of the Wanderer to Tahiti. The weather began well, With wonderfully fine days: just otter leaving Akaroa; and it improved if ahythingstpwards the end of the trip. Winds were favourable; and Captain Howell was congratulating himself on the excellent (time made. : v • Both Tom and • Pierre thought shat,; beautiful as were their memories .of New Zealand, they had seen anything So beautiful as Tahiti the day they first sighted it. And as the Wanderer slowly canie bearer their admiration grew.' Tom worked like a nigger at unloading the goods for the- French passengers, hoping to-wheedle perIhwaion from, the captain to- go ■shore with Pierre. And next bay he did. Pierre’s parents were With;relatives, and the two boys bad a Pacific paradise to explore. Pa* town part they did not like so much. Beachcombers, saloons busy Ml day; and carousals by - sailors other boats in port held little ’Pderest for them. But .-there were ■ j g°o other things to do. Strange , eat; strange-natives to see if-Mthough these reminded Tom In ' B way of the Maoris—a glori- ’ ich to swim on. Tom envied that he was to live in such and was half tempted, if i ckness and a fear of Cap- ■ owell could have been ever- i to hide pud let the Sgapdanr i

sail'back toi. New Zealand without him. •■■■•<■ - -But the next morning all thoughts of staying, in.; Tahiti vanished as if they had - never been. Because strange, ,things were - happening; on the Wanderer., When Tom- awoke in his bunk’ in the: morning, with the Wanderer still lying peacefully in dock; he could hear voiejes raised in bitter argument. ‘T.won’t, do it; i. tell you,” Captain Howell; was booming in his deep voice. • “I’ve got to get back to New -Zealand.” ■ “If you don’t do it another equally ■ determined v°i ce said; “wfe’ll make you 'do it, cap’n. There’s 60 men on Tahiti with money to pay the fare to-San Fran-, cisco, "and yours is -’the .only, boat that can take them. A gold rush doesn’t - happen every day. man, and I tell you we’re desperate.

You’ve got to take us to California.” ~ And then the voices slipped away 1 and- Tom > could not ’ .distinguish What was being said, - ... Slipping out of his bunk quickly he rushed to Michael Hanlon in the galley. - . • “What’s all this about going to California?” be asked. . ■ ' “There’s a gold rush there,” said Hanlon. “Every man in the Pacific is bitten by the bug. They, say therie’s fortunes to be founds for the idigging. ■ Only the boss .doesn t want, to go.. A gold rysh is no place for us.” , ’ _ - And he went on and fold; Tom of the exciting, .roaring life of the mining camps, where fortunes quickly won were quicker " spent, 'crime flourished, and men • went mad for wealth,. “I'm thinking we’d' be better out of it, but it looks as if we may have to'go,” he said; “These men would stop at nothing to get there.” ■ Tom-privately thought that to go to such a life as Hainlon had pictured would be a marvellous experience, and be secretly hoped .bat lie Wanderer would go on. - His wish did not take long to fulfil. Captain .Howell was finally convinced—through- sheer - necessity —and -within' half. a» hour all the ship’s company knew that; that same day the Wanderer, living up J

to her name, was setting out on an even longer trip—right to the far side of the Pacific. The would-be diggers did not take long to load their possessions aboard. By suns"t the Wanderer was moving gently away, slowly, as if reluctant to leave such beauty, the palmy beaches of Tahiti. As Tom went to- bed< by fitful lamplight, he thought that some mistake must have been made, and one of the passengers put in his bed. Some one was certainly lying there. He pulled back the covers. It was Pierre.

“Whatever are you doing here?” he asked, shocked. ' “I too, like to go gold-mining,” said Pierre with a smile. “I left, what you say, a note, for my pere, and here I am.” “But what will Captain Howell say?” asked Tom. “He’ll be furious.” “He won’t put back • with : me, anyway. The miners would riot let him." ‘ ' ' ~

Sure enough Captain did hot put back to Tahiti, although he grumbled and called Pierre a reck-

less , young fopl. How would he f»et back- to Tahiti, he wanted to know. ' ■■■.■. 1 v , ; Pierre shrugged, his shoulders. “Did V°Ui too, not run away to sea, captain?’’ he asked, and the captain turned away. Pierre, from then, was ’one of the crew. The passengers on this stage of the trip were an entirely different lot from those who had come from sleepy Akaroa to Tahiti. They spent their . time gambling, some of them seemed to quarrel most of the time, and no matter how fast the Wanderer .went, and it was; still making good time, it was not fast; enough for their eager haste. To most of them adventures such as Tom had npver heard of were only the ordinary incidents of life. Some of the men were deserters from a ship run by Bully Hayes, and for months had been blackbirding in the South Seas. • The Wanderer’s good luck held. Save for one storm, which' made Tom realise that although he thought he had his sea-legs he had not yet finished for life with sea-sickness, the weather was good. Day' alter day passed with favourable winds tempering a blazing Pacific sun. . i The first view of the Golden Gate, entrance to the port of San Fran"cisco, was even more impressive to Tom and Pierre than Tahiti had been. Never before had they seen

such a harbour, and never before so many ships. "Half the ships of the world must be here,” Tom said to Pierre.

Perhaps they were, for San Francisco in the height of the Californian gold rush was the centre of the world’s excitement. From everywhere were diggers, all anxious to share in the great wealth they were told was to be taken from the ground lor the digging. Even the crew of the Wanderer was infected. Maoris and whites, everyone in fact except Captain Howell, whose chief concern was getting the Wanderer home safely, had had fired by the stories the passengers told them of life in a goldfield. If the rest of the world was in California making a fortune so easily, why should not New Zealand whalers also do their share. '

In fact, so strong- was this feeling that ■ before the • Wanderer set back again for New Zealand, its men should try their, fortune,- that the men approached Captain Howell with the plan. He raged against it. but in vain. The men were adamant, and for the second time on the trip had to give in. "We’re leaving the Wanderer In dock here for a while,” . Hanlon told an eager Tom • and Pierre. "We're joining the crowd in this search for gold. As soon.as we’re docked we’ll be. on, our way to the diggings.” (To be continued)

PEDRO

(Continued from page 7)

"Good-bye, Pedro. Come back when the anemones are in flower again.”

“Perhaps I shall, perhaps I shall never return, -but I leave you this present, Jane; and if you go on windy nights to the windmill and hold this to your eyes, pointing towards the pointed hill, you will sea me wandering through Spain and China and Africa and Australia. It is a magic present that must never be sold, for then it loses its magic. Good-bye, good-bye.” He goes down the valley, brushing through the jonquils, and the cart sways and he leans his left hand on the blue velvet saddle. “Good-bye, good-bye,” Jane la calling. “I shall watch for you on windy nights, Pedro.” The donkey cart is a speck on top of the hill, no larger than a bee flying ; among cherry blossom. Jane holds the gipsy’s present in her hand. It ia a long hollow willow stick, painted green and covered with tiny white donkeys, and- there is a strange piece of glass in one end which has all the colours of the rainbow in its surface. She carries it inside, inside her pink and grey cottage, but at night she will go down to the windmill in the corner of her garden, and she will hold the willow stick to her left eye, point* 'ihg.it to the hill, and she will see the gipsy, perhaps in Spain, perhaps in China; and the whirring of the windmill will sound in: her ears .like, birds’ wings. Now the - curtain is drawn, and the children, are telling Uncle Lawrence how much they have enjoyed his puppet show.. >Maria asked Nicky, what lie thought of it. Ijlut Nicky Dill didn’t answer. He lay curled up on the rag mat, and in his hands he held the little wooden gipsy. The fire shone on his Irish setter hair. For a long time he was silent, then v he said, “Marigolds and goldfish, some day rilbe a gipsy,”