“Pureekee!” said Exploding Eggs, meaning bourrique, the French for donkey.  And Vanquished Often related that once hundreds of these beasts roamed through the jungle, descendants of a pair of asses escaped from a ship decades before, but that most of them had starved to death in dry periods, or been eaten by hungry natives.

Farther on we passed acres of the sensitive plant, called by the Marquesans teita hakaina, the Modest Herb.  A wide glade in a curve of the mountains was filled with a sea of it, and my companions delighted in dashing through its curiously nervous leafage, that shuddered and folded its feathery sprays together at their touch.  If shocked further it opened its leaflets as if to say, “What’s the use?  I’m shy, but I can’t stay under cover forever.”

In such artless amusements the day passed, a day that remains forever an idyl of simple loveliness to me, such as any man is the richer for having known.  When darkness overtook us, we made for ourselves the softest of ferny beds, and slept serenely, untroubled by anything, under the light of the stars.

As we returned next day to the village in the valley, we found upon a hill far from the beach the tombs of the sailors who first raised the standard of France in these islands.  The eternal jungle had so housed in their monuments that we had hot work to break through the jealous lantana and pandanus to see the stones.  Neither Vanquished Often nor Exploding Eggs had ever cast eyes on them, and neither had but a legendary memory of how these men of the conquering race had met their death.

A great slab of native basalt eroded by seventy years of sun and rain bore the barely discernible epitaph: 

“Ci Git
Edouard Michel Halley
Capitaine de Corvette
Officier de la Legion d’honneur
Fondateur de la colonie de Vait-hua
Mort au champ d’honneur
Le 17 ——­bre, 1842”

I read it to my friends.  They pressed their hands to their brows to conjure up a vision of this dead man whom their grandfathers had fought and slain, as I told them the story of his death in the jungle at our feet.

It was at Vait-hua that the French first took possession of the Marquesas.  Here already were missionaries and beach-combers of many nationalities, ardent spirits all, fighting each other for the souls of the natives; gin and the commandments at odds, ritual and exploitation contending.  Unable to subdue the forces that threatened the peace of his people, Iotete, Vait-hua’s chief, sent a message asking the help of the French admiral.  It came at once; a garrison was established on the beach, and the tricolor rose.

Whatever the cause, it had been upraised barely two months when chief and people in a body deserted their homes and fled to the hills.  Commander Halley, having vainly exhorted and commanded them to return, declared war on them in punishment for their disobedience, and marshaling his forces in three columns set out to seek them.