26. CHAPTER XXVI.
WE ENTER THE HARBOR.—JIM THE PILOT.
Exhausted by the day's wassail, most of the men went
below at an early hour, leaving the deck to the steward and
two of the men remaining on duty; the mate, with Baltimore
and the Dane, engaging to relieve them at midnight. At that
hour, the ship—now standing off shore, under short sail—was
to be tacked.
It was not long after midnight, when we were wakened in
the forecastle by the lion roar of Jermin's voice, ordering a
pull at the jib-halyards; and soon afterward, a handspike
struck the scuttle, and all hands were called to take the ship
into port.
This was wholly unexpected; but we learned directly, that
the mate, no longer relying upon the consul, and renouncing
all thought of inducing the men to change their minds, had
suddenly made up his own. He was going to beat up to the
entrance of the harbor, so as to show a signal for a pilot before
sunrise.
Notwithstanding this, the sailors absolutely refused to assist
in working the ship under any circumstances whatever: to all
mine and the doctor's entreaties lending a deaf ear. Sink or
strike, they swore they would have nothing more to do with
her. This perverseness was to be attributed, in a great
measure, to the effects of their late debauch.
With a strong breeze, all sail set, and the ship in the hands
of four or five men, exhausted by two nights' watching, our
situation was bad enough; especially as the mate seemed more
reckless than ever, and we were now to tack ship several times
close under the land.
Well knowing that if any thing untoward happened to the
vessel before morning, it would be imputed to the conduct
of the crew, and so lead to serious results, should they ever be
brought to trial; I called together those on deck, to witness
my declaration:—that now that the Julia was destined for the
harbor (the only object for which I, at least, had been struggling),
I was willing to do what I could, toward carrying her
in safely. In this step I was followed by the doctor.
The hours passed anxiously until morning; when, being well
to windward of the mouth of the harbor, we bore up for it, with
the union-jack at the fore. No sign, however, of boat or pilot
was seen; and after running close in several times, the ensign
was set at the mizen-peak, union down in distress. But it was
of no avail.
Attributing to Wilson this unaccountable remissness on the
part of those ashore, Jermin, quite enraged, now determined
to stand boldly in upon his own responsibility; trusting solely
to what he remembered of the harbor on a visit there many
years previous.
This resolution was characteristic. Even with a competent
pilot, Papeetee Bay is considered a ticklish one to enter.
Formed by a bold sweep of the shore, it is protected seaward
by the coral reef, upon which the rollers break with great
violence. After stretching across the bay, the barrier extends
on toward Point Venus,[9]
in the district of Matavai, eight or
nine miles distant. Here there is an opening, by which ships
enter, and glide down the smooth, deep canal, between the
reef and the shore, to the harbor. But, by seamen generally,
the leeward entrance is preferred, as the wind is extremely
variable inside the reef. This latter entrance is a break in the
barrier directly facing the bay and village of Papeetee. It is
very narrow; and, from the baffling winds, currents, and sunken
rocks, ships now and then grate their keels against the
coral.
But the mate was not to be daunted; so, stationing what
men he had at the braces, he sprang upon the bulwarks, and,
bidding every body keep wide awake, ordered the helm up.
In a few moments, we were running in. Being toward noon,
the wind was fast leaving us, and, by the time the breakers
were roaring on either hand, little more than steerage-way
was left. But on we glided—smoothly and deftly; avoiding
the green, darkling objects here and there strewn in our path:
Jermin occasionally looking down in the water, and then about
him, with the utmost calmness, and not a word spoken. Just
fanned along thus, it was not many minutes ere we were past
all danger, and floated into the placid basin within. This was
the cleverest specimen of his seamanship that he ever gave us.
As we held on toward the frigate and shipping, a canoe,
coming out from among them, approached. In it were a boy
and an old man—both islanders; the former nearly naked,
and the latter dressed in an old naval frock-coat. Both were
paddling with might and main; the old man, once in a while,
tearing his paddle out of the water; and, after rapping his
companion over the head, both fell to with fresh vigor. As
they came within hail, the old fellow, springing to his feet and
flourishing his paddle, cut some of the queerest of capers; all
the while jabbering something which at first we could not
understand.
Presently we made out the following:—“Ah! you pemi,
ah!—you come!—What for you come?—You be fine for come
no pilot.—I say, you hear?—I say, you ita maitai (no good).—
You
hear?—You no pilot.—Yes, you d— me, you no pilot
't all; I d— you; you
hear?”
This tirade, which showed plainly that, whatever the profane
old rascal was at, he was in right good earnest, produced
peals of laughter from the ship. Upon which, he seemed to
get beside himself; and the boy, who, with suspended paddle,
was staring about him, received a sound box over the head,
which set him to work in a twinkling, and brought the canoe
quite near. The orator now opening afresh, it turned out
that his vehement rhetoric was all addressed to the mate, still
standing conspicuously on the bulwarks.
But Jermin was in no humor for nonsense; so, with a
sailor's blessing, he ordered him off. The old fellow then flew
into a regular frenzy, cursing and swearing worse than any civilized
being I ever heard.
“You sabbee[10]
me?” he shouted. “You know me, ah?
Well: me Jim, me pilot—been pilot now long time.”
“Ay,” cried Jermin, quite surprised, as indeed we all were,
“you are the pilot, then, you old pagan. Why didn't you come
off before this?”
“Ah! me sabbee,—me know—you piratee (pirate)—see you
long time, but no me come—I sabbee you—you ita maitai nuee
(superlatively bad).”
“Paddle away with ye,” roared Jermin, in a rage; “be off!
or I'll dart a harpoon at ye!”
But, instead of obeying the order, Jim, seizing his paddle,
darted the canoe right up to the gangway, and, in two bounds,
stood on deck. Pulling a greasy silk handkerchief still lower
over his brow, and improving the sit of his frock-coat with a
vigorous jerk, he then strode up to the mate; and, in a more
flowery style than ever, gave him to understand that the re
doubtable “Jim,” himself, was before him; that the ship was
his until the anchor was down; and he should like to hear
what any one had to say to it.
As there now seemed little doubt that he was all he claimed
to be, the Julia was at last surrendered.
Our gentleman now proceeded to bring us to an anchor,
jumping up between the knight-heads, and bawling out “Luff!
luff! keepy off! keepy off!” and insisting upon each time being
respectfully responded to by the man at the helm. At this
time our steerage-way was almost gone; and yet, in giving
his orders, the passionate old man made as much fuss as a white
squall aboard the Flying Dutchman.
Jim turned out to be the regular pilot of the harbor; a post,
be it known, of no small profit; and, in his eyes, at least, invested
with immense importance.[11]
Our unceremonious entrance,
therefore, was regarded as highly insulting, and tending
to depreciate both the dignity and lucrativeness of his office.
The old man is something of a wizard. Having an understanding
with the elements, certain phenomena of theirs are
exhibited for his particular benefit. Unusually clear weather,
with a fine steady breeze, is a certain sign that a merchantman
is at hand; whale-spouts seen from the harbor, are tokens of a
whaling vessel's approach; and thunder and lightning, happening
so seldom as they do, are proof positive that a man-of-war
is drawing near.
In short, Jim, the pilot, is quite a character in his way; and
no one visits Tahiti without hearing some curious story about
him.
