A Child of American Democracy—Rajah
Barab—Barbarossa—Brown-Slave traffic Methods—Motavia’s
Grave—The Magic Casement—The Splendour of Rose-coloured
Spectacles—Mohammedanistic Desires—Giovanni’s Love
Affairs—Exit Barab.
I WAS more than pleased to make the acquaintance of Giovonni as I
wandered about Apia. This newfound comrade was a clever artist on the
guitar, and our kindred tastes and mutual cashlessness was the direct
cause of our forming a trio for troubadour purposes. To our great
satisfaction, we came across another who was in a hard-up state: he was
a derelict Yankee sailorman, and he told us he had been an operatic
singer in his youth. Whether he strayed from the truth in swearing that
he had charmed select audiences by his vocal accomplishments, I cannot
say. I _do_ know that, when he sang, his peculiar twang and
extraordinary facial contortions at our wandering concerts amply made up
for the disinteresting drone of his wheezy voice. He accompanied
Giovanni and myself on our wanderings for many miles, as we visited
Savaii Isle and the old townships, Palaulae, Asaua, Matautu, Safune,
Monono, also Sufatea, and all the important native villages. Our Yankee
comrade’s swashbuckling deportment at our numerous engagements at the
high-class native _fale-po-ula_ (court dance houses) caused Giovanni and
myself a good deal of embarrassment. The fact is that his facial
contortions and voice seemed to appeal especially to the seasoned
shellbacks and traders who congregated outside the grog-shanties as we
stood beneath the palms and sang and played on our instruments. And if
it is a complimentary sign to have had a large bouquet in the shape of a
putrid crab put into the collecting calabash-dish at our great mixed
concert-festival down at Apia, then, all I can say is that the mêlée
that followed the aforesaid donation was a decided success. Anyhow,
Billy-goat whiskers, for so we called him, was not to blame. He was the
natural child of a vast Republic that has no historical, dynastic
background such as the Samoans and most of the South Sea races can claim
in their history. Consequently Billy-goat whiskers had based all his
ideas and ideals on the tinker-president-everyman-as-good-as-another
creed, and he was a fine specimen of the Yankee swanker. The American is
unborn who could imitate the splendid bearing that distinguishes a
Fijian or Samoan chief. Most of the savage races have a splendid
historical and legendary background that has influenced their actions
from earliest childhood, much the same as French boys are influenced by
the elegant bearing and gallant manners of the characters in their
country’s historical novels, such as Dumas’ works, etc. And so our
Yankee’s apparently vulgar ways were only the perfectly natural
expression of a great democracy that has grown out of the soul of the
people. But our pal was a brave, right down good fellow. His one fault
was rum and gin. He carried his rum-flask, beard-comb, and pack of cards
in a large handkerchief that was emblazoned with the stars and stripes.
He had short, supple legs, and could suck his big toe like a baby. I can
swear to that peculiarity of his, for when he had a touch of the D.T.’s
he sat up in bed the whole night long and made a most irritating noise
while using his big toe as a dummy in lieu of whisky. But, withal, it is
not my intention to write about our Yankee comrade. I will just finish
him off by saying that it was he who introduced us to Rajah Barab the
Mohammedan. Rajah Barab was a Malayo-Indian. He had once lived in German
New Guinea, but for sound reasons had hastily migrated to Samoa. He
lived just outside Apia.
Though this Mohammedan’s dwelling looked like some three-roomed
cow-shed, it was really the deserted ancestral hall of the great chief O
Le Sula Motavia, a heathen divine who had had his skull blown off in the
tribal war of 1885. This dwelling was situated about two miles
south-west, on the slopes of Vaea and not so far from Robert Louis
Stevenson’s old home, Vailima. And while O Le Sula Motavia slept on in
his cold bed within eight yards of his ancestral front door, with the
large orange tree spread above, and the blue jungle flowers blowing over
him, Rajah Barab, the sinful Mohammedan, sat in Motavia’s old halls
drinking deeply, as warm-eyed native girls danced and sang before him.
Now this old heathen’s homestead had not been turned exactly into a
_tambu-house_ after the New Guinea style, for Barab had no idols within.
But, to make up for those wooden images that were usually carved so as
to express a heathen’s ideas of Venus and jovial Bacchus, Barab himself
would stand erect so that the native maidens could worship the light of
his living eyes and kneel in complete obeisance at his sandalled feet.
He made a fine idol. He was a tall, broad-shouldered sinner. He wore a
richly-coloured turban and waist-swathing which he well knew pleased the
eyes of romantic Samoan girls. Perhaps his chief adornment was his long
iron-grey beard. He swore by it and pulled it thoughtfully when he
appeared to meditate over his infinite wisdom. And when he squatted
half-erect on his fibre mat before the admiring, awestruck maids, his
eyes had a far-away gaze in them that seemed to have kinship with the
_vers libre_ and the poetic grin that enshrined his ugly mug. I say
“mug” because it resembled the rim of a mug, and did not look like a
human mouth at all. And _I_ should know, because I was a witness of his
far-away-looking gaze and poetic grin, for I dined with him. Truth to
tell, Rajah Barab had plenty of cash, and so Giovanni and myself, both
in a cashless state, were compelled to accept the liberal fee which he
offered us should we perform on our instruments at one of his special
Mohammedan festivals. Our Yankee friend was down with the delirium
tremens at Apia at the time. It was unfortunate, because I know that he
would have been a great help to us that night.
When Giovanni and I arrived at the festival in question there were
several young Indian bloods present amongst the visitors. It was a
select gathering, inasmuch as Barab had invited only those whose sensual
desires were akin to his own. The moon was well up, and not only were
the palms visible around his tambu-temple, but also the native maids who
danced beneath them. Ava and gin were plentiful. Barab stood under the
large palm tree, pulling his revered beard and swearing by his Malayan
gods and Allah as he watched the scene. As Giovanni rippled pizzicatos
from his guitar and I played my violin, we watched the scene with
intense interest. There was something phantom-like about the whole
business as the girls danced amongst the gnarled pillars of that
primitive forest-hall of giant trees. The native girls, who had stolen
away from the solicitude of the missionaries, gave muffled screams of
delight and did such high kicks that the coco-nut-oil lamps swayed
violently. I might say that these lamps hung from the palm branches that
were immediately over the dancers’ heads. One maid was decidedly
attractive. Her name was Barbarossa. She was tastefully arrayed in some
diaphanous material that reached down to her ankles. Flowers bedecked
her thick, wavy hair that rolled loose over her neck and shoulders.
Moonlight somehow intensified the musical rhythm and charm of her form,
as she swerved in many semi-barbarian postures. While all this was going
on, Barab squatted on his old coco-nut-fibre mat, his body erect. His
pose was that of an Indian seer, and the chant that he mumbled added to
the peculiar weirdness of the scene. Even the low-caste Samoans, who
stood aside watching the performance, called out, “Talofa! Talofa!”
demanding an encore when Barbarossa finished her dance. As soon as the
dance was over, someone banged a drum, and that barbarian thump seemed
to echo in my heart and made me drop my fiddle, so startled was I. For
though my kind ancestors handed down to me a pair of rose-coloured
spectacles so that I might see life as they saw it, they also presented
me with a nervous temperament; consequently anything of a sudden
surprise is peculiarly hateful to me. This inherited nerve of mine was
possibly the cause of my accepting the drink of gin and lime-juice that
Barab so artfully offered to Giovanni and myself as we sat that night at
the festival board of his tambu-harem. Giovanni sat beside Barbarossa,
and I sat right opposite them. I was wedged in by Barab on one side of
me and a Malay Chinaman on the other side. I confess here that I felt
the degradation of my position, and can assume from that fact that I
must have been perfectly sober. It was a low, long table lit up by a
host of small hanging-lamps that were suspended from the wooden ceiling
by threads from sennit string. I remember that the girls, who sat along
each side, were all more or less in a maudlin condition as the fumes of
the gin and “ava” rose to their weak, feminine brains. My memory is a
brilliant one! I distinctly recall the wonder and feverish look that
shone in their dark eyes as the glasses clinked, when Barab and the few
remaining young bloods of his kidney roared forth toasts to their
beauty. I even remember the smell of the Chinaman who sat next to me.
You can always smell a Chinaman; it is a peculiar odour that suggests
something between orange-pekoe and chloroform, and is not absolutely
offensive unless you happen to be chewing delicate food when he is by.
As the maids drank on, Barab grew extremely excited, and banged his
fists on the low table in some wild delight of anticipation. Poor
Giovanni had fallen madly in love with Barbarossa. The fact was only too
evident by all that he did. True enough, Barbarossa was the queen of the
evening. As she sat there at the table, her eyes ashine and her loosened
tresses stirred by the scented winds that blew through the open doorway,
she looked out of place amongst the other thick-lipped, sensual-looking
girls. It was very evident, by the look in Barab’s eyes, that he
regarded her as the _pièce de résistance_ of that festival meeting.
However, Giovanni was handsome and Barab’s chances were small. Giovanni
was evidently not letting the grass grow under his feet. I shall simply
state that he behaved like the true Italian cavalier that he was, and
that I more than once lifted my glass and drank secretly to my pal’s
success in his romantic courtship. I felt a bit muddled, it was all so
unexpected and sudden. At that time I was not aware that Barab’s
festival programme was to get the girls quite drunk and then close and
tightly bolt the door of his tambu-house. I really thought that he had
taken a violent fancy to Barbarossa and intended to offer her his
swarthy hand in marriage according to the Malay Mohammedan rites. I must
admit that I was not at all aware of the Malay Mohammedan marriage rite
procedure when one of the sect took a fancy to a certain maid. I know
that Barbarossa was an innocent girl. I discovered afterwards that she
had been enticed to attend that festival by a dissolute native
missionary who had accepted a large bribe from Barab. Just as there are
dissolute houses in European cities, where men indulge in the
white-slave traffic, so were there establishments for trafficking
purposes in Samoa, and Barab’s house was one of them. When Giovanni and
I saw through the drift of the whole vile business, we determined that
pretty Barbarossa should not fall into Barab’s clutches if we could help
her. We both knew that Barab had a bad reputation; and, though he was
our host and had paid us well, our self-respect should have prevented us
from accepting his money. But it must be confessed here that Giovanni
and I were not to be numbered amongst those virtuous folk who would
rather die than sell their honour. Alas, many and many a time I would
much rather have sold my honour than nearly died! The best of men have
their weaknesses. I know that even that dear old tattooed clergyman, O
Le Langi, had often fallen before the lure of a few half-crowns when
victuals were scarce.
As soon as the festival itself was finished, Giovanni and I stole
outside the tambu-house and talked the matter over. In a very little
time we had decided to secure Barbarossa’s person by force sooner than
she should fall into Barab’s hands.
“Ah, comrado, he cursed una vipera!” said my Italian chum. Then he
looked at me sadly and said: “Will you stick to me, and mine friend be?”
“I will!” I responded most emphatically. Giovanni was a big lump of a
fellow and had courage written in the light of his magnificent eyes;
also, the idea of rescuing Barbarossa from her peril suited my
temperament exactly. We counted out the cash that Barab had given us
directly the feast was over, then we looked significantly at each other,
for he had paid us several marks more than were due to us. “He wants to
get rid of us at once, no doubt of that,” was my reflection, as I looked
at Giovanni’s handsome face and then on the moonlit solitude of the
mountain slopes around dead Motavia’s old homestead. Then we walked
back, treading very softly through the jungle as we approached the tambu
shed. Already the small lamp-lights on the palms and within those wooden
walls were burning low. We listened, and heard the low wail of some
Malayan chanty; then the drunken song ceased.
“What’s that?” whispered Giovanni. The door had suddenly opened, and we
saw two of the young bloods departing. Off they went, with three drunken
native girls staggering between them. So brilliant was the light of the
moon that we distinctly observed the girls’ faces as they tossed their
legs and shook the brass arm-lets, and kissed the shoulders of the men
who were leading them away. As soon as the men were out of sight we
listened again. All was quiet; it was evident that most of the girls who
remained within the tambu had fallen off into drunken slumber.
Barbarossa had sung her swan-song (so thought Rajah Barab). We heard a
click; the Rajah had closed the door and bolted it! That much we
discovered as we crept around the walls of that den and endeavoured to
see what was going on within.
“Wait a bit!” said Giovanni, as we suddenly heard someone commence to
drone out a weird heathen melody. It was a girl’s voice. Then all was
silent again. We both knew that Barab would soon be drunk and in a
suitable condition for our immediate desires, and so we strolled up and
down under the palms. Then we heard the _O Le mao_ commence to sing
somewhere up in the lime trees.
“It’s pretty silent now; that bird wouldn’t sing if there were any
suspicious noises about,” said I.
“Yes, comrade, ’tis so,” whispered Giovanni, pushing his curls off his
forehead and puffing his cigarette. I noticed that his lips were tightly
set as he swung his huge, knotted stick to and fro and gave swift
glances towards the dark-walled homestead before us. Then we slowly
crept towards the den again. The brilliant moonlight lit up the thatched
roof and sent a ghostly glimmering all along the front of the bamboo
verandah. I was standing just over old chief Motavia’s grave; the
moonbeams were softly falling through the branches of the orange tree
and had spread a silver radiance on my feet, which stood close to the
wooden cross that said: “Here lies the brave chief, O Le Sula Motavia.”
I felt sad to think how soundly dead men slept. I knew how handy that
chief would have been to us that night, how gladly he would have jumped
from his slumber to help us to repel the base intruder from his old
homestead.
“Come on!” I whispered to Giovanni, as we brushed the ferns aside and
stole softly towards the single window of the den. In a moment we were
both eagerly peering through the lattice-work of the wide, low
window-hole. It was a true South Sea magic casement that opened on the
feathery foam of palms, leafy tamanu, and _masa’ oi_ trees which grew
right up to the mountain slopes. There was something fairy-like but
tragic in the silent moonlit scene outside that window. But the most
wonderful sight to be seen through the casement was the scene before our
eyes as we both stared between the twisted wicker-work and saw behind
the shutter into the gloom of that room. There sat Rajah Barab, quite
visible by the dim light of the hanging roof oil-lamp. He was so drunk
that he could hardly stoop forward to pull off his sandals. Two of the
young bloods still remained, but, to our relief, we noticed that they
were prone, quite drunk. Pretty Barbarossa, Maroa, Niue, Singa Saloo,
Fae moa Oi, and Winga, the native missionary’s daughter—and who was not
a day older than fourteen years—lay on the mats in deep slumber. I know
that my heart echoed the sigh that Giovanni gave, as, with eyes glued to
the casement, we gazed in mute astonishment. There lay the victims of
the Mohammedan’s gold, _vers libres_, and hyprocrisy. No sign of vice
was expressed on the girls’ faces as they lay there, their bodies
half-couched in the flood of moonlight that fell across the corner of
the room. The sham jewellery that had evidently tempted them was
distinctly visible—bangles on their legs, arm-lets on their arms. Two or
three had silk handkerchiefs of brilliant colours about their throats,
the ends tied bow-wise, native-fashion, in the folds of their
much-disordered hair. The heat was terrific. A few fireflies had entered
the room. We distinctly saw them gleam and flash as they danced like
miniature starry constellations over the prone forms of the girls. In
the helpless abandonment of their drink-enforced slumber, their limbs
were thrown about in the various attitudes of restless sleep. Three of
the girls lay with their arms half-entwined, as though in some swift
realization and fright over their position they had clung to each other
ere they fell and lost consciousness. “Cara, bellissima!” Giovanni
breathed forth as he gazed on Barbarossa’s slumbering abandonment. Her
pretty blue robe was disarranged, revealing the curves of one tiny
ankle; her olive-hued heel was visible too, for the ribbon had become
loose, the tiny sandal had fallen half off.
“Mia bella! mia bellissima!” whispered Giovanni, as he gazed in romantic
rapture on her form. “Yes, she must be saved,” I said, as Giovanni
murmured on in his musical, impassioned language, saying things that
needed no translation for my sympathetic ears and eyes! No shame have I
in writing down these things for the eyes of whoever may wish to read. I
think, if anything, that my thoughts were less creditable than
Giovanni’s. My Italian comrade was in love, but where was the excuse for
my own impassioned glance? Why should the curves of an ankle haunt my
dreams for days? But let it pass. There are many who may understand and
forgive. A maiden’s ankle, a tress of hair, a side glance from lustrous
eyes, a ribbon round a throat, have turned the good thoughts of many a
man from the immediate matter in hand. Just beside the large calabash
and overturned pickle barrel lay Barbarossa’s boon friend, Mademoiselle
Singa Saloo; and the helpless abandonment of her sensuous beauty
expressed a fascinating twinship with all that Barbarossa’s enforced
recumbency revealed. It seemed that even the moon would abet the
inquisitiveness of our curious eyes, for its light streamed through the
chinks of the bolted door and so revealed the dusky beauty of the girls’
faces. The cool night winds swept down the mountain slopes, stirred the
palms that silently threw their shadows over the wooden walls and along
the floor where Barab’s huddled victims lay. Lying there, victims of
Barab’s peculiar desires, they looked like big sleeping babies. One had
her arm outstretched as though she knew the limpness of death, while the
other hand pillowed her head. Only the faint flutter of her delicate
blue throat-kerchief, following the regular intervals of her breathing,
told that life existed.
Barab had risen to his feet. His eyes shone with some terrible light as
he gazed on the helpless girls. “By the gods of Olympus!” blurted out
Giovanni as a puff of wind blew his hat off. The Mohammedan had lifted a
goblet of liquor to his lips. We saw him sway violently as he drank.
“He’s half-seas-over!” was my joyful comment. He had drawn himself erect
and had passed his hand across his brow as though he would muster up his
drowsy senses. Suddenly one of the girls in the farther corner lifted
her head and looked about her with vacant eyes. She lifted one hand and
swayed it as though she were dreaming that she conducted some musical
chant in her native village. She staggered to her feet. Giovanni and I
watched, breathless, in our excitement and intense curiosity. What was
she going to do? Had she in that moment realized the degradation of her
position, and would she attempt to escape? Our very breath frightened us
as it stirred the slender vine leaves that clustered there by our open
mouths and eyes as we stared through the casement. The girl was
staggering across the room, making for Barab. He stood erect, his turban
askew, one swarthy hand holding his beard as if he had the impertinence
to pose for the occasion. We saw the girl’s bare feet slip on the wooden
floor as she lurched to his side and gave him a drunken leer! “Well
now!” was our only comment, as she tossed her left leg till the brass
bangles that encircled her limbs jingled!
“Oh, handsome Mohamy clergyman!” she babbled.
“Phew!” was our simultaneous ejaculation, when she lifted her face and
kissed Barab’s shoulder! Such a look in a man’s eyes I had never seen
before. The girl had embraced him, her head was nursed in the folds of
his beard. She had commenced to sing some weird heathen melody or chant,
the chorus of the strain she had doubtless been singing ere she lost
consciousness. There was something indescribably weird in the sounds of
her muffled voice as she still sang on, her mouth buried deep in the
bushy growth of that Islamic beard! Barab seized her and was about to
lead her from the room into the inner chamber wherein Giovanni and I had
not been invited to enter.
“Now’s the time! Come on!” said I, as Giovanni nudged me in the ribs to
intimate that he had successfully placed his arm through the window-hole
and pulled the door-bolt back! Crash! The door opened and swung
violently to and fro, so fierce had been my thrust as I threw my whole
weight against it. In a moment Barab let the girl drop to the ground and
turned towards us. The muscles stood out on his swelling throat like
whipcord. He had whipped his _kris_ from beneath his jerkin. “_Iîu tidak
baik Tûan!_” (this is not friendly of you), he roared, as we stood
before him. Then he noticed the look in our eyes, and yelled “_Tôtong!_”
(help) at the top of his voice. Fast asleep in the corner of the room
lay two young bloods, Malays. In a moment they had leapt to their feet.
The immediate outlook was pretty dark for Giovanni and me. We possessed
no firearms at all. In a moment I placed my rose-coloured spectacles on,
so to speak, then, bang! it went. And the reader can rest assured that
that Islamic cranium received such a thump that its scheming interior
was out of action for some time. My violin case was broken, cracked down
the whole length. I cared not. I carefully laid it down by the door in
readiness for my coming hasty exit. Giovanni, who was taking no risks,
lifted the wooden table and let it drop most artistically on to Barab’s
prostrate form. “Allow me!” said I, then I lifted the large calabash of
pickle oil and dashed the whole thing in the face of the young blood who
had come to tackle me. Then the left cheek of the other one received an
Olympic punch from Giovanni. And then, as carefully as possible, I,
according to the Scriptures, smote him on the right cheek as he turned
towards me. By this time the native girls had staggered to their feet
and were staring about them, rubbing their eyes as though they had risen
in astonishment to the trump of the resurrection.
“Quick! out with her!” I said.
In a moment Giovanni and I had grabbed Barbarossa by the arm.
“Aue! Aue! seo, levu!” she wailed, as she looked around her in wonder.
But still we dragged her on by the arms. As I rushed back into the den
to seize my violin, the large table was already being lifted towards the
roof as the stricken Barab heaved his back up! He was roaring forth
terrible oaths in Malayan lingo as I once more made a hurried exit.
Barbarossa’s dishevelled tresses were streaming to the caress of the
night wind when I got outside. In a moment I had once more gripped her
arm. Arriving at the top of the slope Giovanni shook her rather roughly.
“Barbarossa, remember!” he whispered.
For a moment she stared vacantly at us, and then cried, “Aue! Aue!” and
to my intense relief voluntarily gripped our arms as we ran down the
slopes. Barbarossa became our eager guide after that. And though it is
years ago now, I can still hear the sounds of her feet pattering like
falling rain over the dead leaves of the forest ferns as we follow her
across the wild country to Mootuoa. Again Giovanni and I lift the
coco-nut-shell goblets and drink a toast with the big tattooed chief who
is Barbarossa’s father. For Barbarossa took us safely into her village
that night. And when the old chiefs and their womenkind heard about
Barab’s sinful ways and of our blessed missionary work, they swore to
club Barab, and cheered us exceedingly. But alas! I lost my dear chum
Giovanni. For I composed and performed a special betrothal chant,
playing it at the festival that made Giovanni Barbarossa’s legitimate
tribal _fiancé_. And was he faithful to the Samoan maid? I know not.
But, still, I do know that Giovanni was young and romantic. And I would
not be surprised if, as the years rolled by Barbarossa was happy, and
little children who could speak both Italian and Samoan romped about her
knees. Fine children too, I should think, from such a splendid
combination from the two romantic lands of the Sunny South.
Such was my personal experience of the Samoan Brown-Slave Traffic. And I
might say, it is an experience that I have considerably toned down in
the aforesaid narrative. As I have already intimated, I have included
this experience here only that my readers may have a view of both sides
of native life, and realize that native girls and women are subject to
the temptations of sensualists much the same as their sisters in the
large cities of the civilized world. And I would say that it is a
pleasure for me to be able to record here that Barab’s dwelling was
razed to the ground by the wrathful chiefs of Barbarossa’s village. True
enough, it was really the last homestead of that brave old chief O Le
Matavia; but he was a good and holy heathen. And so one might well
imagine that the flames of his corrupted ancestral halls gave cheerful
warmth to his ghost and cold bones as he slept on under the orange-tree,
just outside.
And what became of Barab the Mohammedan? All I can say is, the good work
that Giovanni and I began was finished off by the missionaries. Barab
was expelled from Samoa, and hastened seaward, doubtless to seek fresh
converts for his creed in other lands.
* * * * *
After losing Giovanni’s welcome companionship, I felt very lonely, and
so decided to go seaward again. Though I was not a sailor by profession,
it was always an easy matter for me to get a ship. I think I had an
ingratiating way with me when I approached the mates and skippers. And
when I came across a skipper or mate with a face like cast-iron and eyes
like a shark’s, which I often did, I changed my tactics. For I
approached him with my violin in one hand and a bottle of the best
Hollands in the other hand. I invariably found that, if music does not
soothe the savage breast, Hollands gin comes pretty near the mark.
Anyway, I got a berth and sailed before the mast outbound for old
Tai-o-hae, Nuka Hiva. I had been to the Marquesas many times, but in the
next chapter I shall tell a few incidents that I have not recorded
before.
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