58. CHAPTER LVIII.
THE HUNTING-FEAST; AND A VISIT TO AFREHITOO.
Two bullocks and a boar! No bad trophies of our day's
sport. So by torchlight we marched into the plantation, the
wild hog rocking from its pole, and the doctor singing an old
hunting-song—Tally-ho! the chorus of which swelled high
above the yells of the natives.
We resolved to make a night of it. Kindling a great fire
just outside the dwelling, and hanging one of the heifer's quarters
from a limb of the banian-tree, every one was at liberty
to cut and broil for himself. Baskets of roasted bread-fruit, and
plenty of taro pudding; bunches of bananas, and young cocoa-nuts,
had also been provided by the natives against our return.
The fire burned bravely, keeping off the musquitoes, and
making every man's face glow like a beaker of Port. The
meat had the true wild-game flavor, not at all impaired by our
famous appetites, and a couple of flasks of white brandy, which
Zeke, producing from his secret store, circulated freely.
There was no end to my long comrade's spirits. After
telling his stories, and singing his songs, he sprang to his feet,
clasped a young damsel of the grove round the waist, and
waltzed over the grass with her. But there's no telling all the
pranks he played that night. The natives, who delight in a
wag, emphatically pronounced him “maitai.”
It was long after midnight ere we broke up; but when the
rest had retired, Zeke, with the true thrift of a Yankee, salted
down what was left of the meat.
The next day was Sunday; and at my request, Shorty accompanied
me to Afrehitoo—a neighboring bay, and the seat
of a mission, almost directly opposite Papeetee. In Afrehitoo
is a large church and school-house, both quite dilapidated; and
planted amid shrubbery on a fine knoll, stands a very tasteful
cottage, commanding a view across the channel. In passing, I
caught sight of a graceful calico skirt disappearing from the
piazza through a doorway. The place was the residence of
the missionary.
A trim little sail-boat was dancing out at her moorings, a few
yards from the beach.
Straggling over the low lands in the vicinity were several
native huts—untidy enough—but much better every way, than
most of those in Tahiti.
We attended service at the church, where we found but a
small congregation; and after what I had seen in Papeetee,
nothing very interesting took place. But the audience had a
curious, fidgety look, which I knew not how to account for,
until we ascertained that a sermon with the eighth commandment
for a text was being preached.
It seemed that there lived an Englishman in the district, who,
like our friends, the planters, was cultivating Tombez potatoes
for the Papeetee market.
In spite of all his precautions, the natives were in the habit
of making nocturnal forays into his inclosure, and carrying off
the potatoes. One night he fired a fowling-piece, charged with
pepper and salt, at several shadows which he discovered stealing
across his premises. They fled. But it was like seasoning
any thing else: the knaves stole again with a greater relish than
ever; and the very next night, he caught a party in the act of
roasting a basket full of potatoes under his own cooking-shed.
At last, he stated his grievances to the missionary; who, for the
benefit of his congregation, preached the sermon we heard.
Now, there were no thieves in Martair; but then, the people
of the valley were bribed to be honest. It was a regular business
transaction between them and the planters. In consideration
of so many potatoes “to them in hand, duly paid,” they were to
abstain from all depredations upon the plantation. Another
security against roguery, was the permanent residence upon
the premises, of their chief, Tonoi.
On our return to Martair, in the afternoon, we found the
doctor and Zeke making themselves comfortable. The latter
was reclining on the ground, pipe in mouth, watching the doctor,
who, sitting like a Turk, before a large iron kettle, was
slicing potatoes and Indian turnip, and now and then shattering
splinters from a bone; all of which, by turns, were thrown into
the pot. He was making what he called “Bullock broth.”
In gastronomic affairs, my friend was something of an artist;
and by way of improving his knowledge, did nothing the rest
of the day but practice in what might be called Experimental
Cookery: broiling and grilling, and deviling slices of meat,
and subjecting them to all sorts of igneous operations. It was
the first fresh beef that either of us had tasted in more than a
year.
“Oh, ye'll pick up arter a while, Peter,” observed Zeke
toward night, as Long Ghost was turning a great rib over the
coals—“what d'ye think, Paul?”
“He'll get along, I dare say,” replied I; “he only wants to
get those cheeks of his tanned.” To tell the truth, I was not a
little pleased to see the doctor's reputation as an invalid fading
away so fast; especially, as on the strength of his being one,
he had promised to have such easy times of it, and very likely,
too, at my expense.
