These travellers were not the only suspicious arrivals who sought the seclusion of the isles without letters of introduction. There also arrived, about that period, several stealthy-footed followers of Mohammed, a kind of mongrel, half-caste Chinese-Indian, hailing mostly from the Malay archipelagos. I think they had been expelled from Fiji for indulging in licentious orgies with natives. It was hard to tell their origin. The traders called them “B—— Kanakas.”
Some wore turbans and looked genuine specimens of the man tribe; but not one of them was as innocent, as artless-looking, as the little tapestry-carpet bag that he carried. This little bag was generally full of feminine linen and delicate Oriental silks, modest-looking merchandise that was their stock-in-trade, which they hawked for a living. A few worked on the copra, sugar or pineapple plantations. Their chief ambition seemed to be to try to get native converts to their creed and their moral codes.
A silk Oriental handkerchief, or a pair of bright yellow stockings, made the eyes of the native girls positively shine with avarice—and true belief!
Those swarthy men blessed Mohammed and had fine old times.
I would not wish to infer that Mohammedans are worse than others who are successful in their ambitions. But I would emphatically assert that the emigrant portion of Malay Indians of that day were a decidedly scummy lot. Briefly speaking, they made converts of many of the native women, reconverting them from Christianity to the bosom of Islam—and their own.
I recall that I had been in Tai-o-hae about two weeks when I heard that a native festival was in progress. My curiosity was at once aroused. I had read in South Sea reminiscent, missionary volumes about Marquesan native dances, but still I was eager to see the real thing in its natural element. Though I had secured a berth on a schooner that was going to Papeete, I was not over-anxious to sail. I had been to Papeete before, and knew well enough that I was as likely to be stranded there as at Nuka Hiva, so I let the job go. Indeed as that very schooner went seaward I stood in the forest thrilled with delight, as fierce, stalwart savage men and women danced around a monstrous wooden idol. The missionaries had long since issued an edict that no idols were to be worshipped. The penalty for so doing was the _calaboose_ (jail), or a fine that would plunge the culprit into life-long debt. It follows, naturally enough, that idols were worshipped in secret. Consequently, that secret pagan festival I witnessed was attended by all the adventurous half-caste girls and youths, and made the more fascinating from its being strictly forbidden. I must admit that the scene I witnessed was a jovial contrast to the dull routine of Christianised native life, and I count myself as the holiest culprit at the festival in question.