53. CHAPTER LIII.
The planters were both whole-souled fellows; but in other
respects, as unlike as possible.
One was a tall, robust Yankee, born in the backwoods of
Maine, sallow, and with a long face;—the other was a short little
Cockney, who had first clapped his eyes on the Monument.
The voice of Zeke, the Yankee, had a twang like a cracked
viol; and Shorty (as his comrade called him), clipped the aspirate
from every word beginning with one. The latter, though
not the tallest man in the world, was a good-looking young fellow,
of twenty-five. His cheeks were dyed with the fine Saxon
red, burned deeper from his roving life; his blue eye opened
well, and a profusion of fair hair curled over a well shaped head.
But Zeke was no beauty. A strong, ugly man, he was well
adapted for manual labor; and that was all. His eyes were
made to see with, and not for ogling. Compared with the
Cockney, he was grave, and rather taciturn; but there was a
deal of good old humor bottled up in him, after all. For the
rest, he was frank, good-hearted, shrewd, and resolute; and
like Shorty, quite illiterate.
Though a curious conjunction, the pair got along together
famously. But, as no two men were ever united in any enterprise,
without one getting the upper hand of the other; so, in
most matters, Zeke had his own way. Shorty, too, had imbibed
from him a spirit of invincible industry; and Heaven only knows
what ideas of making a fortune on their plantation.
We were much concerned at this; for the prospect of their
setting us in their own persons an example of downright hard
labor, was any thing but agreeable. But it was now too late to
repent what we had done.
The first day—thank fortune—we did nothing. Having
treated us as guests thus far, they no doubt thought it would be
wanting in delicacy, to set us to work before the compliments
of the occasion were well over. The next morning, however,
they both looked business-like, and we were put to.
“Wall, b'ys” (boys), said Zeke, knocking the ashes out of
his pipe, after breakfast—“we must get at it. Shorty, give
Peter there (the doctor), the big hoe, and Paul the other, and
let's be off.” Going to a corner, Shorty brought forth three of
the implements; and distributing them impartially, trudged on
after his partner, who took the lead with something in the shape
of an axe.
For a moment left alone in the house, we looked at each
other, quaking. We were each equipped with a great, clumsy
piece of a tree, armed at one end with a heavy, flat mass of iron.
The cutlery part—especially adapted to a primitive soil—
was an importation from Sydney; the handles must have been
of domestic manufacture. “Hoes”—so called—we had heard
of, and seen; but they were harmless, in comparison with the
tools in our hands.
“What's to be done with them?” inquired I of Peter.
“Lift them up and down,” he replied; “or put them in motion,
some way or other. Paul, we are in a scrape—but hark!
they are calling;” and shouldering the hoes, off we marched.
Our destination was the farther side of the plantation, where
the ground, cleared in part, had not yet been broken up; but
they were now setting about it. Upon halting, I asked why a
plough was not used: some of the young wild steers might be
caught, and trained for draught.
Zeke replied, that, for such a purpose, no cattle, to his
knowledge, had ever been used in any part of Polynesia. As
for the soil of Martair, so obstructed was it with roots, crossing
and recrossing each other at all points, that no kind of a
plough could be used to advantage. The heavy Sydney hoes
were the only thing for such land.
Our work was now before us; but, previous to commencing
operations, I endeavored to engage the Yankee in a little
further friendly chat, concerning the nature of virgin soils in
general, and that of the valley of Martair in particular. So
masterly a stratagem made Long Ghost brighten up; and he
stood by ready to join in. But what our friend had to say
about agriculture, all referred to the particular part of his
plantation upon which we stood; and having communicated
enough on this head, to enable us to set to work to the best
advantage, he fell to, himself; and Shorty, who had been looking
on, followed suit.
The surface, here and there, presented closely amputated
branches of what had once been a dense thicket. They
seemed purposely left projecting, as if to furnish a handle,
whereby to drag out the roots beneath. After loosening the
hard soil, by dint of much thumping and pounding, the Yankee
jerked one of the roots, this way and that, twisting it round
and round, and then tugging at it horizontally.
“Come! lend us a hand!” he cried, at last; and, running
up, we all four strained away in concert. The tough obstacle
convulsed the surface with throes and spasms; but stuck fast,
notwithstanding.
“Dumn it!” cried Zeke, “we'll have to get a rope; run to
the house, Shorty, and fetch one.”
The end of this being attached, we took plenty of room, and
strained away once more.
“Give us a song, Shorty,” said the doctor; who was rather
sociable, on a short acquaintance. Where the work to be
accomplished is any way difficult, this mode of enlivening toil
is quite efficacious among sailors. So, willing to make every
thing as cheerful as possible, Shorty struck up, “Were you
ever in Dumbarton?” a marvelously inspiring, but somewhat
indecorous windlass chorus.
At last, the Yankee cast a damper on his enthusiasm, by
exclaiming, in a pet, “Oh! dumn your singing! keep quiet,
and pull away!” This we now did, in the most uninteresting
silence; until, with a jerk, that made every elbow hum, the
root dragged out; and, most inelegantly, we all landed upon
the ground. The doctor, quite exhausted, stayed there; and,
deluded into believing, that, after so doughty a performance, we
would be allowed a cessation of toil, took off his hat, and
fanned himself.
“Rayther a hard customer, that, Peter,” observed the
Yankee, going up to him: “but it's no use for any on 'em to
hang back; for, I'm dumned if they haint got to come out,
whether or no. Hurrah! let's get at it agin!”
“Mercy!” ejaculated the doctor, rising slowly, and turning
round. “He'll be the death of us!”
Falling to with our hoes again, we worked singly, or together,
as occasion required, until “Nooning Time” came.
The period, so called by the planters, embraced about three
hours in the middle of the day; during which it was so excessively
hot, in this still, brooding valley, shut out from the
Trades, and only open toward the leeward side of the island,
that labor in the sun was out of the question. To use a hyperbolical
phrase of Shorty's, “It was 'ot enough to melt the nose
h'off a brass monkey.”
Returning to the house, Shorty, assisted by old Tonoi,
cooked the dinner; and, after we had all partaken thereof,
both the Cockney and Zeke threw themselves into one of the
hammocks, inviting us to occupy the other. Thinking it no
bad idea, we did so; and, after skirmishing with the musquitoes,
managed to fall into a doze. As for the planters, more
accustomed to “Nooning,” they, at once, presented a nuptial
back to each other; and were soon snoring away at a great
rate. Tonoi snoozed on a mat, in one corner.
At last, we were roused by Zeke's crying out, “Up! b'ys;
up! rise, and shine; time to get at it agin!”
Looking at the doctor, I perceived, very plainly, that he had
decided upon something.
In a languid voice, he told Zeke, that he was not very well:
indeed, that he had not been himself for some time past;
though a little rest, no doubt, would recruit him. The Yankee,
thinking, from this, that our valuable services might be lost to
him altogether, were he too hard upon us at the outset, at once
begged us both to consult our own feelings, and not exert ourselves
for the present, unless we felt like it. Then—without
recognizing the fact, that my comrade claimed to be actually
unwell—he simply suggested, that, since he was so tired, he
had better, perhaps, swing in his hammock for the rest of the
day. If agreeable, however, I myself, might accompany him
upon a little bullock hunting excursion, in the neighboring
hills. In this proposition, I gladly acquiesced; though Peter,
who was a great sportsman, put on a long face. The muskets
and ammunition were forthwith got down from overhead; and,
every thing being then ready, Zeke cried out, “Tonoi! come;
aramai! (get up) we want you for pilot. Shorty, my lad, look
arter things, you know; and, if you likes, why, there's them
roots in the field yonder.”
Having thus arranged his domestic affairs to please
himself, though little to Shorty's satisfaction, I thought;
he slung his powder-horn over his shoulder, and we started.
Tonoi was, at once, sent on in advance; and, leaving
the plantation, he struck into a path, which led toward the
mountains.
After hurrying through the thickets for some time, we came
out into the sunlight, in an open glade, just under the shadow
of the hills. Here, Zeke pointed aloft, to a beetling crag, far
distant; where a bullock, with horns thrown back, stood like a
statue.
