used to imagine them falling to the ground in showers of microscopic cinders
as fast as they entered his whiskey-sodden aura. No one loved him, not even
germs, while he loved only whiskey, and still he lived.
I was puzzled. I could not understand six thousand natives putting up with
that withered shrimp of a tyrant. It was a miracle that he had not died
suddenly long since. Unlike the cowardly Melanesians, the people were
high-stomached and warlike. In the big graveyard, at head and feet of the
graves, were relics of past sanguinary history–blubber-spades, rusty old
bayonets and cutlasses, copper bolts, rudder-irons, harpoons, bomb guns,
bricks that could have come from nowhere but a whaler’s trying-out furnace,
and old brass pieces of the sixteenth century that verified the traditions of
the early Spanish navigators. Ship after ship had come to grief on Oolong. Not
thirty years before, the whaler BLENNERDALE, running into the lagoon for
repair, had been cut off with all hands. In similar fashion had the crew of
the GASKET, a sandalwood trader, perished. There was a big French bark, the
TOULON, becalmed off the atoll, which the islanders boarded after a sharp
tussle and wrecked in the Lipau Passage, the captain and a handful of sailors
escaping in the longboat. Then there were the Spanish pieces, which told of
the loss of one of the early explorers. All this, of the vessels named, is a
matter of history, and is to be found in the SOUTH PACIFIC SAILING DIRECTORY.
But that there was other history, unwritten, I was yet to learn. In the
meantime I puzzled why six thousand primitive savages let one degenerate
Scotch despot live.
One hot afternoon McAllister and I sat on the veranda looking out over the
lagoon, with all its wonder of jeweled colors. At our backs, across the
hundred yards of palm-studded sand, the outer surf roared on the reef. It was
dreadfully warm. We were in four degree south latitude and the sun was
directly overhead, having crossed the Line a few days before on its journey
south. There was no wind–not even a catspaw. The season of the southeast
trade was drawing to an early close, and the northwest monsoon had not yet
begun to blow.
“They can’t dance worth a damn,” said McAllister.
SOUTH SEA TALES
38
I had happened to mention that the Polynesian dances were superior to the
Papuan, and this McAllister had denied, for no other reason than his
cantankerousness. But it was too not to argue, and I said nothing. Besides, I
had never seen the Oolong people dance.
“I’ll prove it to you,” he announced, beckoning to the black New Hanover boy,
a labor recruit, who served as cook and general house servant. “Hey, you, boy,
you tell ‘m one fella king come along me.”
The boy departed, and back came the prime minister, perturbed, ill at ease,
and garrulous with apologetic explanation. In short, the king slept, and was
not to be disturbed.
“King he plenty strong fella sleep,” was his final sentence.
McAllister was in such a rage that the prime minister incontinently fled, to
return with the king himself. They were a magnificent pair, the king
especially, who must have been all of six feet three inches in height. His
features had the eagle-like quality that is so frequently found in those of
the North American Indian. He had been molded and born to rule. His eyes
flashed as he listened, but right meekly he obeyed McAllister’s command to
fetch a couple of hundred of the best dancers, male and female, in the
village. And dance they did, for two mortal hours, under that broiling sun.
They did not love him for it, and little he cared, in the end dismissing them
with abuse and sneers.
The abject servility of those magnificent savages was terrifying. How could it
be? What was the secret of his rule? More and more I puzzled as the days went
by, and though I observed perpetual examples of his undisputed sovereignty,
never a clew was there as to how it was.
One day I happened to speak of my disappointment in failing to trade for a
beautiful pair of orange cowries. The pair was worth five pounds in Sydney if
it was worth a cent. I had offered two hundred sticks of tobacco to the owner,
who had held out for three hundred. When I casually mentioned the situation,
McAllister immediately sent for the man, took the shells from him, and turned
them over to me. Fifty sticks were all he permitted me to pay for them. The
man accepted the tobacco and seemed overjoyed at getting off so easily. As for
me, I resolved to keep a bridle on my tongue in the future. And still I mulled
over the secret of McAllister’s power. I even went to the extent of asking him
directly, but all he did was to cock one eye, look wise, and take another
drink.
One night I was out fishing in the lagoon with Oti, the man who had been
mulcted of the cowries. Privily, I had made up to him an additional hundred
and fifty sticks, and he had come to regard me with a respect that was almost
veneration, which was curious, seeing that he was an old man, twice my age at
least.
“What name you fella kanaka all the same pickaninny?” I began on him. “This
fella trader he one fella. You fella kanaka plenty fella too much. You fella
kanaka just like ‘m dog–plenty fright along that fella trader. He no eat you,
fella. He no get ‘m teeth along him. What name you too much fright?”
SOUTH SEA TALES
39
“S’pose plenty fella kanaka kill m?” he asked.
“He die,” I retorted. “You fella kanaka kill ‘m plenty fella white man long
time before. What name you fright this fella white man?”
“Yes, we kill ‘m plenty,” was his answer. “My word! Any amount! Long time
before. One time, me young fella too much, one big fella ship he stop outside.
Wind he no blow. Plenty fella kanaka we get ‘m canoe, plenty fella canoe, we
go catch ‘m that fella ship. My word–we catch ‘m big fella fight. Two, three
white men shoot like hell. We no fright. We come alongside, we go up side,
plenty fella, maybe I think fifty-ten (five hundred). One fella white Mary
(woman) belong that fella ship. Never before I see ‘m white Mary. Bime by
plenty white man finish. One fella skipper he no die. Five fella, six fella
white man no die. Skipper he sing out. Some fella white man he fight. Some
fella white man he lower away boat. After that, all together over the side
they go. Skipper he sling white Mary down. After that they washee (row) strong
fella plenty too much. Father belong me, that time he strong fella. He throw
‘m one fella spear. That fella spear he go in one side that white Mary. He no
stop. My word, he go out other side that fella Mary. She finish. Me no
fright. Plenty kanaka too much no fright.”
Old Oti’s pride had been touched, for he suddenly stripped down his lava-lava
and showed me the unmistakable scar of a bullet. Before I could speak, his
line ran out suddenly. He checked it and attempted to haul in, but found that
the fish had run around a coral branch. Casting a look of reproach at me for
having beguiled him from his watchfulness, he went over the side, feet first,
turning over after he got under and following his line down to bottom. The
water was ten fathoms. I leaned over and watched the play of his feet, growing
dim and dimmer, as they stirred the wan phosphorescence into ghostly fires.
Ten fathoms–sixty feet–it was nothing to him, an old man, compared with the
value of a hook and line. After what seemed five minutes, though it could not
have been more than a minute, I saw him flaming whitely upward. He broke
surface and dropped a ten pound rock cod into the canoe, the line and hook
intact, the latter still fast in the fish’s mouth.
“It may be,” I said remorselessly. “You no fright long ago. You plenty fright
now along that fella trader.”
“Yes, plenty fright,” he confessed, with an air of dismissing the subject. For
half an hour we pulled up our lines and flung them out in silence. Then small
fish-sharks began to bite, and after losing a hook apiece, we hauled in and
waited for the sharks to go their way.
“I speak you true,” Oti broke into speech, “then you savve we fright now.”
I lighted up my pipe and waited, and the story that Oti told me in atrocious
bech-de-mer I here turn into proper English. Otherwise, in spirit and order of
narrative, the tale is as it fell from Oti’s lips.