CAPTAIN FOLGER’S APPARITION 29 September, 1789
Our cargo of rum and gin at Hobart Town unloaded, Our lust spent on the portholes of palliasses, we Sallied nor’easterly across great southern seas Quick and light as a swallow under the bowsprit, Where blinding azure dabbed turquoise in soundings shallow; Peacock plumes in a palette of azul. Yet the boomboom of distant rollers crashing bleached cays Echoed battery cannonades across Boston Harbour And flashes of parrots ‘mid feathery palms raised Cain. To procure seal skins for the China trade our intent, A flight of forked frigates acting escort. One evening, despairing of water and fresh bellycheer, Stunned we were to observe in that longitude A lateral smudge, a littoral of horizon haze, Where no ribband of land was laid down. Mirage? we wondered. Hunger of a June crow? Or the mockery of the Devil? We bent our course toward a floating table afaroff Split atwain on the horizontal by a paler mantle above, For such it seemed to our fancy. But before the day was dead and done, imagine Our joy to make out the figure and extent of an island, a Bosky, ridgebacked plateau with lofty mount its extremity. But in lightman’s fading embers our joy was snuffed. Durst we bell the cat? Rugged cliffs, giant breakers Ruffling sheer black rocks, the lack of safe haven . . . We stood a full league out through darkmans, When Captain Folger, who kept lookout at the masthead, Pointed to a ledge at an elevation of some hundred feet: Blinks aglow like a scattering of silkworms in a hedge! We might pitch upon the natives for water on the morrow.
Before sunrising we closed a small bay and dropped Bower. Through his glass, Captain Folger espied A muster of figures on a narrow shelf of beach Hard by a thatched hut. A rude, palmbowered track Corkscrewed up the cliffface and wisps of smoke Rose behind a stand of trees from the ledge. Lo and behold, young native scagwags were sliding, Aye sliding, across breakers on bellies; others Shouldered canoes, such as we saw in Otaheite. Quicker than hell would scorch a feather, A double canoe was making a dash through The boiling bubble of surf, plunging oars Athwart the dragon’s gills. Heart alive! Two Spindles of hollowed logs turning prow for the Topaz, As if hunted by old Poger. Noble Savages, indeed! Like winking, the canoe, tilting skywards on the crests, Hurtling deep into troughs, had bumped alongside. Three stout mermen waved shorthafted oars and hailed. The tallest tar in the stern stood up to air his tongue. Of dusky hue, about six feet in height, a shred of cloth Girding his loins, knife tucked in belt, straw hat Broadbrimmed stuck with black cock feathers. Wibout you gwen? Wibout you come from? Dumbfoozled we were. Flapped aghast. English he spoke uncommonly well, but in strange dialect. Come aboard, said Folger. We will do you no harm Dardeway, said the chief. Darset. The Captain ordered two lines over the side. These marmosets Sprang up alongside, goggling about the deck’s tackle. Their full lips suddenly lapsed into smiles like a brewer’s horse. In manner most pleasing: goodnatured, willing to be of service and Artless of fubbery; thin as a purser’s grin all three, loose of limb, Young hearties of good parts, dark leather; Polynesians, not full bred But suspicion of the European about their countenance. We were struck with admiration; they with curiosity.
What is the name of this island? Captain Folger asked. I larn you Peetcairn, sir,’ replied the leader, with laughing, black eyes. Hattay. Nor gwen? Were you born and bred here? Whaa? Are you English? Aye, Eengleesh. Uclun, he said, encompassing his two beanstick mates. Tulla me, you Eengleesh? No. We are from America. Amereeca? Is dat in Ayerland? No. A long way from there. The boys’ faces clouded briefly, then lit up again. Yorlyee? Tull story, no? Listen, said Folger, pointing to his ear. Da lug. No, listen. What is your name? Me, Christian, sir. Wut a way you? said one, giggling. Know you Captain Bligh? Captain Folger’s eyes widened, his voice trailed away. Your name, he grated. Who are you? The lad hesitated, flashed the ivories with a flourish of pride, then played the mischief: Thursdee October Christian da First.
Michael Small
November 29December 8, 2003