hiding by day on detached and uninhabited islets, or dragging their whale boat
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30
into the bush on the large islands. Thus they gained Guadalcanar, skirted
halfway along it, and crossed the Indispensable Straits to Florida Island. It
was here that they killed the San Cristoval boy, saving his head and cooking
and eating the rest of him. The Malaita coast was only twenty miles away, but
the last night a strong current and baffling winds prevented them from gaining
across. Daylight found them still several miles from their goal. But daylight
brought a cutter, in which were two white men, who were not afraid of eleven
Malaita men armed with twelve rifles. Mauki and his companions were carried
back to Tulagi, where lived the great white master of all the white men. And
the great white master held a court, after which, one by one, the runaways
were tied up and given twenty lashes each, and sentenced to a fine of fifteen
dollars. They were sent back to New Georgia, where the white men knocked seven
bells out of them all around and put them to work. But Mauki was no longer
house-boy. He was put in the road-making gang. The fine of fifteen dollars had
been paid by the white men from whom he had run away, and he was told that he
would have to work it out, which meant six months’ additional toil. Further,
his share of the stolen tobacco earned him another year of toil.
Port Adams was now three years and a half away, so he stole a canoe one night,
hid on the islets in Manning Straits, passed through the Straits, and began
working along the eastern coast of Ysabel, only to be captured, two-thirds of
the way along, by the white men on Meringe Lagoon. After a week, he escaped
from them and took to the bush. There were no bush natives on Ysabel, only
salt-water men, who were all Christians. The white men put up a reward of
five-hundred sticks of tobacco, and every time Mauki ventured down to the sea
to steal a canoe he was chased by the salt-water men. Four months of this
passed, when, the reward having been raised to a thousand sticks, he was
caught and sent back to New Georgia and the road-building gang. Now a thousand
sticks are worth fifty dollars, and Mauki had to pay the reward himself, which
required a year and eight months’ labor. So Port Adams was now five years
away.
His homesickness was greater than ever, and it did not appeal to him to settle
down and be good, work out his four years, and go home. The next time, he was
caught in the very act of running away. His case was brought before Mr.
Haveby, the island manager of the Moongleam Soap Company, who adjudged him an
incorrigible. The Company had plantations on the Santa Cruz Islands, hundreds
of miles across the sea, and there it sent its Solomon Islands’ incorrigibles.
And there Mauki was sent, though he never arrived. The schooner stopped at
Santa Anna, and in the night Mauki swam ashore, where he stole two rifles and
a case of tobacco from the trader and got away in a canoe to Cristoval.
Malaita was now to the north, fifty or sixty miles away. But when he attempted
the passage, he was caught by a light gale and driven back to Santa Anna,
where the trader clapped him in irons and held him against the return of the
schooner from Santa Cruz. The two rifles the trader recovered, but the case
of tobacco was charged up to Mauki at the rate of another year. The sum of
years he now owed the Company was six.
On the way back to New Georgia, the schooner dropped anchor in Marau Sound,
which lies at the southeastern extremity of Guadalcanar. Mauki swam ashore
with handcuffs on his wrists and got away to the bush. The schooner went on,
but the Moongleam trader ashore offered a thousand sticks, and to him Mauki
was brought by the bushmen with a year and eight months tacked on to his
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31
account. Again, and before the schooner called in, he got away, this time in a
whale boat accompanied by a case of the trader’s tobacco. But a northwest gale
wrecked him upon Ugi, where the Christian natives stole his tobacco and turned
him over to the Moongleam trader who resided there. The tobacco the natives
stole meant another year for him, and the tale was now eight years and a half.
“We’ll send him to Lord Howe,” said Mr. Haveby. “Bunster is there, and we’ll
let them settle it between them. It will be a case, I imagine, of Mauki
getting Bunster, or Bunster getting Mauki, and good riddance in either event.”
If one leaves Meringe Lagoon, on Ysabel, and steers a course due north,
magnetic, at the end of one hundred and fifty miles he will lift the pounded
coral beaches of Lord Howe above the sea. Lord Howe is a ring of land some
one hundred and fifty miles in circumference, several hundred yards wide at
its widest, and towering in places to a height of ten feet above sea level.
Inside this ring of sand is a mighty lagoon studded with coral patches. Lord
Howe belongs to the Solomons neither geographically nor ethnologically. It is
an atoll, while the Solomons are high islands; and its people and language are
Polynesian, while the inhabitants of the Solomons are Melanesian.
Lord Howe has been populated by the westward Polynesian drift which continues
to this day, big outrigger canoes being washed upon its beaches by the
southeast trade. That there has been a slight Melanesian drift in the period
of the northwest monsoon, is also evident.
Nobody ever comes to Lord Howe, or Ontong-Java as it is sometimes called.
Thomas Cook & Son do not sell tickets to it, and tourists do not dream of its
existence. Not even a white missionary has landed on its shore. Its five
thousand natives are as peaceable as they are primitive. Yet they were not
always peaceable. The Sailing Directions speak of them as hostile and
treacherous. But the men who compile the Sailing Directions have never heard
of the change that was worked in the hearts of the inhabitants, who, not many
years ago, cut off a big bark and killed all hands with the exception of the
second mate. The survivor carried the news to his brothers. The captains of
three trading schooners returned with him to Lord Howe. They sailed their
vessels right into the lagoon and proceeded to preach the white man’s gospel
that only white men shall kill white men and that the lesser breeds must keep
hands off. The schooners sailed up and down the lagoon, harrying and
destroying. There was no escape from the narrow sand-circle, no bush to which
to flee. The men were shot down at sight, and there was no avoiding being
sighted. The villages were burned, the canoes smashed, the chickens and pigs
killed, and the precious cocoanut trees chopped down. For a month this
continued, when the schooner sailed away; but the fear of the white man had
been seared into the souls of the islanders and never again were they rash
enough to harm one.
Max Bunster was the one white man on Lord Howe, trading in the pay of the
ubiquitous Moongleam Soap Company. And the Company billeted him on Lord Howe,
because, next to getting rid of him, it was the most out-of-the-way place to
be found. That the Company did not get rid of him was due to the difficulty of
finding another man to take his place. He was a strapping big German, with
something wrong in his brain. Semi-madness would be a charitable statement of
his condition. He was a bully and a coward, and a thrice-bigger savage than
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32
any savage on the island.
Being a coward, his brutality was of the cowardly order. When he first went
into the Company’s employ, he was stationed on Savo. When a consumptive
colonial was sent to take his place, he beat him up with his fists and sent
him off a wreck in the schooner that brought him.
Mr. Haveby next selected a young Yorkshire giant to relieve Bunster. The
Yorkshire man had a reputation as a bruiser and preferred fighting to eating.
But Bunster wouldn’t fight. He was a regular little lamb–for ten days, at the
end of which time the Yorkshire man was prostrated by a combined attack of
dysentery and fever. Then Bunster went for him, among other things getting him
down and jumping on him a score or so of times. Afraid of what would happen
when his victim recovered. Bunster fled away in a cutter to Guvutu, where he
signalized himself by beating up a young Englishman already crippled by a Boer