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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
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
bullet through both hips.
Then it was that Mr. Haveby sent Bunster to Lord Howe, the falling-off place.
He celebrated his landing by mopping up half a case of gin and by thrashing
the elderly and wheezy mate of the schooner which had brought him. When the
schooner departed, he called the kanakas down to the beach and challenged them
to throw him in a wrestling bout, promising a case of tobacco to the one who
succeeded. Three kanakas he threw, but was promptly thrown by a fourth, who,
instead of receiving the tobacco, got a bullet through his lungs.
And so began Bunster’s reign on Lord Howe. Three thousand people lived in the
principal village; but it was deserted, even in broad day, when he passed
through. Men, women, and children fled before him. Even the dogs and pigs got
out of the way, while the king was not above hiding under a mat. The two prime
ministers lived in terror of Bunster, who never discussed any moot subject,
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but struck out with his fists instead.
And to Lord Howe came Mauki, to toil for Bunster for eight long years and a
half. There was no escaping from Lord Howe. For better or worse, Bunster and
he were tied together. Bunster weighed two hundred pounds. Mauki weighed one
hundred and ten. Bunster was a degenerate brute. But Mauki was a primitive
savage. While both had wills and ways of their own.
Mauki had no idea of the sort of master he was to work for. He had had no
warnings, and he had concluded as a matter of course that Bunster would be
like other white men, a drinker of much whiskey, a ruler and a lawgiver who
always kept his word and who never struck a boy undeserved. Bunster had the
advantage. He knew all about Mauki, and gloated over the coming into
possession of him. The last cook was suffering from a broken arm and a
dislocated shoulder, so Bunster made Mauki cook and general house-boy.
And Mauki soon learned that there were white men and white men. On the very
day the schooner departed he was ordered to buy a chicken from Samisee, the
native Tongan missionary. But Samisee had sailed across the lagoon and would
not be back for three days. Mauki returned with the information. He climbed
the steep stairway (the house stood on piles twelve feet above the sand), and
entered the living room to report. The trader demanded the chicken. Mauki
opened his mouth to explain the missionary’s absence. But Bunster did not care
for explanations. He struck out with his fist. The blow caught Mauki on the
mouth and lifted him into the air. Clear through the doorway he flew, across
the narrow veranda, breaking the top railing, and down to the ground.
His lips were a contused, shapeless mass, and his mouth was full of blood and
broken teeth.
“That’ll teach you that back talk don’t go with me,” the trader shouted,
purple with rage, peering down at him over the broken railing.
Mauki had never met a white man like this, and he resolved to walk small and
never offend. He saw the boat boys knocked about, and one of them put in irons
for three days with nothing to eat for the crime of breaking a rowlock while
pulling. Then, too, he heard the gossip of the village and learned why Bunster
had taken a third wife–by force, as was well known. The first and second
wives lay in the graveyard, under the white coral sand, with slabs of coral
rock at head and feet. They had died, it was said, from beatings he had given
them. The third wife was certainly ill-used, as Mauki could see for himself.
But there was no way by which to avoid offending the white man who seemed
offended with life. When Mauki kept silent, he was struck and called a sullen
brute. When he spoke, he was struck for giving back talk. When he was grave,
Bunster accused him of plotting and gave him a thrashing in advance; and when
he strove to be cheerful and to smile, he was charged with sneering at his
lord and master and given a taste of stick. Bunster was a devil.
The village would have done for him, had it not remembered the lesson of the
three schooners. It might have done for him anyway, if there had been a bush
to which to flee. As it was, the murder of the white men, of any white man,
would bring a man-of-war that would kill the offenders and chop down the
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precious cocoanut trees. Then there were the boat boys, with minds fully made
up to drown him by accident at the first opportunity to capsize the cutter.
Only Bunster saw to it that the boat did not capsize.
Mauki was of a different breed, and escape being impossible while Bunster
lived, he was resolved to get the white man. The trouble was that he could
never find a chance. Bunster was always on guard. Day and night his revolvers
were ready to hand. He permitted nobody to pass behind his back, as Mauki
learned after having been knocked down several times. Bunster knew that he had
more to fear from the good-natured, even sweet-faced, Malaita boy than from
the entire population of Lord Howe; and it gave added zest to the programme of
torment he was carrying out. And Mauki walked small, accepted his punishments,
and waited.
All other white men had respected his tambos, but not so Bunster.
Mauki’s weekly allowance of tobacco was two sticks. Bunster passed them to his
woman and ordered Mauki to receive them from her hand. But this could not be,
and Mauki went without his tobacco. In the same way he was made to miss many a
meal, and to go hungry many a day. He was ordered to make chowder out of the
big clams that grew in the lagoon. This he could not do, for clams were tambo.
Six times in succession he refused to touch the clams, and six times he was
knocked senseless. Bunster knew that the boy would die first, but called his