Ballads by Robert Louis Stevenson Part 5

IN this ballad, I have strung together some of the more striking particularities of the Marquesas. It rests upon no authority; it is in no sense, like "Rahero," a native story; but a patchwork of details of manners and the impressions of a traveller. It may seem strange, when the scene is laid upon these profligate islands, to make the story hinge on love. But love is not less known in the Marquesas than elsewhere; nor is there any cause of suicide more common in the islands.

{61} Note 1, page 61. "_Pit of Popoi_." Where the breadfruit was stored for preservation.

{62a} Note 2, page 62. "_Ruby-red_." The priest's eyes were probably red from the abuse of kava. His beard (_ib._) is said to be worth an estate; for the beards of old men are the favourite head adornment of the Marquesans, as the hair of women formed their most costly girdle. The former, among this generally beardless and short-lived people, fetch to-day considerable sums.

{62b} Note 3, page 62. "_Tikis_." The tiki is an ugly image hewn out of wood or stone.

{67} Note 4, page 67. "_The one-stringed harp_." Usually employed for serenades.

{69} Note 5, page 69. "_The sacred cabin of palm_." Which, however, no woman could approach. I do not know where women were tattooed; probably in the common house, or in the bush, for a woman was a creature of small account. I must guard the reader against supposing Taheia was at all disfigured; the art of the Marquesan tattooer is extreme; and she would appear to be clothed in a web of lace, inimitably delicate, exquisite in pattern, and of a bluish hue that at once contrasts and harmonises with the warm pigment of the native skin. It would be hard to find a woman more becomingly adorned than "a well-tattooed" Marquesan.

{72} Note 6, page 72. "_The horror of night_." The Polynesian fear of ghosts and of the dark has been already referred to. Their life is beleaguered by the dead.

{74} Note 7, page 74. "_The quiet pa.s.sage of souls_." So, I am told, the natives explain the sound of a little wind pa.s.sing overhead unfelt.

{78} Note 8, page 78. "_The first of the victims fell_." Without doubt, this whole scene is untrue to fact. The victims were disposed of privately and some time before. And indeed I am far from claiming the credit of any high degree of accuracy for this ballad. Even in a time of famine, it is probable that Marquesan life went far more gaily than is here represented. But the melancholy of to-day lies on the writer's mind.

TICONDEROGA A LEGEND OF THE WEST HIGHLANDS

TICONDEROGA

THIS is the tale of the man Who heard a word in the night In the land of the heathery hills, In the days of the feud and the fight.

By the sides of the rainy sea, Where never a stranger came, On the awful lips of the dead, He heard the outlandish name.

It sang in his sleeping ears, It hummed in his waking head: The name-Ticonderoga, The utterance of the dead.

I. THE SAYING OF THE NAME

ON the loch-sides of Appin, When the mist blew from the sea, A Stewart stood with a Cameron: An angry man was he.

The blood beat in his ears, The blood ran hot to his head, The mist blew from the sea, And there was the Cameron dead.

"O, what have I done to my friend, O, what have I done to mysel', That he should be cold and dead, And I in the danger of all?

Nothing but danger about me, Danger behind and before, Death at wait in the heather In Appin and Mamore, Hate at all of the ferries And death at each of the fords, Camerons priming gunlocks And Camerons sharpening swords."

But this was a man of counsel, This was a man of a score, There dwelt no pawkier Stewart In Appin or Mamore.

He looked on the blowing mist, He looked on the awful dead, And there came a smile on his face And there slipped a thought in his head.

Out over cairn and moss, Out over scrog and scaur, He ran as runs the clansman That bears the cross of war.

His heart beat in his body, His hair clove to his face, When he came at last in the gloaming To the dead man's brother's place.

The east was white with the moon, The west with the sun was red, And there, in the house-doorway, Stood the brother of the dead.

"I have slain a man to my danger, I have slain a man to my death.

I put my soul in your hands,"

The panting Stewart saith.

"I lay it bare in your hands, For I know your hands are leal; And be you my targe and bulwark From the bullet and the steel."

Then up and spoke the Cameron, And gave him his hand again: "There shall never a man in Scotland Set faith in me in vain; And whatever man you have slaughtered, Of whatever name or line, By my sword and yonder mountain, I make your quarrel mine. {103} I bid you in to my fireside, I share with you house and hall; It stands upon my honour To see you safe from all."

It fell in the time of midnight, When the fox barked in the den And the plaids were over the faces In all the houses of men, That as the living Cameron Lay sleepless on his bed, Out of the night and the other world, Came in to him the dead.

"My blood is on the heather, My bones are on the hill; There is joy in the home of ravens That the young shall eat their fill.

My blood is poured in the dust, My soul is spilled in the air; And the man that has undone me Sleeps in my brother's care."

"I'm wae for your death, my brother, But if all of my house were dead, I couldnae withdraw the plighted hand, Nor break the word once said."

"O, what shall I say to our father, In the place to which I fare?

O, what shall I say to our mother, Who greets to see me there?

And to all the kindly Camerons That have lived and died long-syne- Is this the word you send them, Fause-hearted brother mine?"

"It's neither fear nor duty, It's neither quick nor dead Shall gar me withdraw the plighted hand, Or break the word once said."

Thrice in the time of midnight, When the fox barked in the den, And the plaids were over the faces In all the houses of men, Thrice as the living Cameron Lay sleepless on his bed, Out of the night and the other world Came in to him the dead, And cried to him for vengeance On the man that laid him low; And thrice the living Cameron Told the dead Cameron, no.

"Thrice have you seen me, brother, But now shall see me no more, Till you meet your angry fathers Upon the farther sh.o.r.e.

Thrice have I spoken, and now, Before the c.o.c.k be heard, I take my leave for ever With the naming of a word.

It shall sing in your sleeping ears, It shall hum in your waking head, The name-Ticonderoga, And the warning of the dead."

Now when the night was over And the time of people's fears, The Cameron walked abroad, And the word was in his ears.

"Many a name I know, But never a name like this; O, where shall I find a skilly man Shall tell me what it is?"

With many a man he counselled Of high and low degree, With the herdsmen on the mountains And the fishers of the sea.

And he came and went unweary, And read the books of yore, And the runes that were written of old On stones upon the moor.

And many a name he was told, But never the name of his fears- Never, in east or west, The name that rang in his ears: Names of men and of clans; Names for the gra.s.s and the tree, For the smallest tarn in the mountains, The smallest reef in the sea: Names for the high and low, The names of the craig and the flat; But in all the land of Scotland, Never a name like that.

II. THE SEEKING OF THE NAME

AND now there was speech in the south, And a man of the south that was wise, A periwig'd lord of London, {109} Called on the clans to rise.

And the riders rode, and the summons Came to the western sh.o.r.e, To the land of the sea and the heather, To Appin and Mamore.

It called on all to gather From every scrog and scaur, That loved their fathers' tartan And the ancient game of war.

And down the watery valley And up the windy hill, Once more, as in the olden, The pipes were sounding shrill; Again in highland suns.h.i.+ne The naked steel was bright; And the lads, once more in tartan Went forth again to fight.

"O, why should I dwell here With a weird upon my life, When the clansmen shout for battle And the war-swords clash in strife?

I cannae joy at feast, I cannae sleep in bed, For the wonder of the word And the warning of the dead.

It sings in my sleeping ears, It hums in my waking head, The name-Ticonderoga, The utterance of the dead.

Then up, and with the fighting men To march away from here, Till the cry of the great war-pipe Shall drown it in my ear!"

Where flew King George's ensign The plaided soldiers went: They drew the sword in Germany, In Flanders pitched the tent.

The bells of foreign cities Rang far across the plain: They pa.s.sed the happy Rhine, They drank the rapid Main.