The Wild White Girl—The Wagner of Storms—A Pagan
Citadel—Pagan Democracy—Ye Old Britisher—A Battle in the
Dark.
FIRST I must state that G—— was a casual member of the Charity
Organization, an Englishman, and, from the general run of his
conversation and manner, gave one the impression that he had seen better
days. But there was nothing wonderful about that, for it is a fact that
many of the apparent rogues of those days betrayed something of past
polish, and possessed a personality infinitely more interesting than
that of men who had never stepped over the border-line.
G—— was a big lump of a fellow, just over six feet in height, and had
fine, expressive eyes full of humour and sometimes revealing a lingering
sadness that made one’s heart go out to him. Personally, I liked him
immensely. He could play the flute as well as he could tell a yarn, and
that’s saying something!
But I would say, right here, that the story that he told me, and which I
will tell here, is told not so much for the presumable interest that it
might give as a mere yarn, as for my absolute confidence in the veracity
of the man who told me it, his manner whilst telling it leaving such a
possibility as doubt or exaggeration quite out of the question. Nor was
there any justifiable reason why one should be sceptical, since G—— had
lived, as I have said, in Fiji when cannibalism was in vogue, and white
men arrived at the islands and did very much as they liked,—some
resorting to savagery, some giving their hand in marriage to dusky
queens, ascending thrones and holding full sway over swarthy populations
of heathenland.
It was a glorious tropical eventide when G——, O’Hara, and I sat under
the palms as the fireflies commenced to dance in the bamboos by the
shore lagoons. G—— took his pipe from his lips, stroked his bearded chin
in his characteristic way, and commenced:
“You must know, boys, that things were very different in these parts in
the old semi-heathen times. I had arrived for the second time in Levuka
then, had left a trading schooner, and was spending my time in looking
round. I was a bit of a romantic loony in those days, and when my pal,
Mick Deny, who had been shipmate with me for two years, heard that a
Britisher, a fugitive from justice, was living like a wild man up in the
Kai Tholos mountains with his daughter, we got interested, I can tell
you. We got the whole facts of the case out of one of the Kai Tholos
natives who had come into Levuka to get fish. Deny was a bit gone on
girls, and when he heard that the Britisher had brought that young
daughter of his out to these infernal regions and had brought her up as
a heathen amongst those tribal natives, he was as eager as I to visit
the stronghold in the mountains and see how matters stood. It appeared
that this fugitive Britisher had assumed command over the tribe with
whom he dwelt, styled himself as Roko (high chief), taken unto himself
several native wives, and resorted to the unbridled lust and degradation
of savagery.
“‘How old is the girl?’ queried Deny, as the native trader told us these
facts.
“‘She nicer Marama, grow up beautifuls, nicer crown hair, nicer eyes,
colour of _moani ali_ (the ocean).’
“As that Fijian gabbled away, waxing enthusiastic over the beauty of the
exiled white girl up there, imprisoned from the sight of her own race,
Deny and I fairly gasped over the idea of it all. We got no sleep that
night. The idea of that girl being cruelly treated by her criminal
parent seemed to set our brains afire with romantic ideas. By the
morning we had made our minds up, and had decided to make an expedition
up into the Tholos mountains. The first thing to do was to get some
goods, so I went down to the schooners that lay in the harbour, cadged
some sugar, tea, tobacco plug, and those essentials which I guessed
would meet our requirements. Deny’s eyes flashed with delight at the
idea of it all. The risk of the job we were undertaking did not deter
us, it only added spice to the business. And the natives, I can tell
you, were not as chummy in those days as they are now. Old Thakombau had
only just been converted to Christianity, had swallowed four casks of
sacramental rum, and had shaken hands with all the missionaries. But he
was a sly old fellow, and didn’t know anything about the tribal fights
and the missing bodies of the dead after the _Bokolai_ feast (cannibal
feast). Oh no! Not he. He was quite converted! When we had packed up our
few traps, not forgetting my flute, and were quite ready to start off,
little Sanga, the native girl who did our cooking in the beach shanty
(only one store in Levuka in these days), started crying,
“‘You no-e takeer little Sanga longer you?’
“‘Let the kid come,’ said Deny; ‘besides, she’ll be useful, knows the
lingo, and that kind of thing,’ he added.
“‘All right, Sanga; don’t grizzle,’ said I.
“Then Deny and I went into the village to get permission from Sanga’s
parents.
“She couldn’t go off on an excursion like that without getting
permission from her parents. Sanga’s mother, a fine-looking half-caste,
gave us the kid in complete confidence.
“‘You noble Papalagis; me trust her with you.’
“‘Yes, we’re holy beggars,’ thought I, as we walked away across the
_rara_, Sanga somersaulting with delight like a puppy at our heels, as
we left the village and started on our trip to find out all about the
Britisher and his daughter. We _did_ take care of that kiddie too,
although we had some rough times ere bringing her safely back to her
village.
“By midday next day we had tramped many miles inland, and had already
crossed the lower ranges of the mountains to the N.N.W.
“Sanga was a blessing to us, and sang weird heathen songs as she tramped
by our side. I had dressed her up in a little blue kimono which I had
cut out of a large silk handkerchief, cutting holes in it for the
armpits. When she looked at herself in the lagoon hard by, she chuckled
with delight. The first night was all that could be desired as we slept
beneath the palms, side by side, and Deny sang a highland song till I
fell asleep.
“The next night a typhoon blew. It was something that I had never heard
before in the way of nature’s extempore musical expression. As you know,
I am not much of a musician. I can play the flute and knock out the
common chords for a song and dance on the piano; but to describe the
harmonies that storm made in the mountains is quite beyond me. We were
all tired out, just going off to sleep. In fact, I heard Deny snoring.
Sanga lay at my feet, her head on my calf, as she hummed in the dark.
Then it came—no warning, mind you. Bang! It seemed as if there had been
some tremendous upheaval in interstellar space, that worlds and planets
were exploding like vast bombs somewhere beyond the moon, the
south-western horizon being repeatedly blown out as the débris struck
the mountains around us. The enormous breadfruits and banyans, all
bending and howling like the sails, rigging, and masts of ships in a
hurricane, moaned a wild symphony in the pitch darkness, for the clouds
had slid over, puff! and put the moon out without any warning. Once a
star gleamed as the wrack raced across the sky. Sanga huddled close up
to Deny as I put my hand out to see where they were. Then the moon burst
through the cloud and the shadows went racing across the gullies till it
seemed that the mountains themselves were moving along, sailing before a
head wind! Then the deluge began. We were sheltered in a native hut, but
the rain came in by the bucketful. Oceans seemed to crash down from the
sky. Mighty trees were uplifted, and before they fell to the earth were
carried across the gullies like twigs before the tremendous violence of
the wind. Then there started the most wonderful thing in the way of
sound that I have ever heard, or shall ever hear again. It seemed that a
thousand demons had come out to carouse and play ghostly instruments in
some phantom military band. I never heard anything to resemble it. Drums
began to beat, a thousand strong, bassoons, horns, double basses,
clarionets, ’cellos, saxaphones, bugles, cornets—all wailing and
bellowing forth in the wildest orchestral combination that human ears
ever heard. ‘God! What is it pal?’ yelled Deny in my ear, and his voice
sounded like the wail of a child. My own heart thumped. ‘Strange that I
should live to see the end of the world,’ thought I, as that terrible
nightmare of sound suddenly subsided, while the typhoon stopped a moment
to take breath! We didn’t know it then, but that typhoon was a kind of
mighty Wagner of the elements that came by night with universal breath
to blow the terrific diapasons, vast bassoons and thunderous wails,
whistles, and timpani effects in the mightiest orchestral instrument
that creation has made, so far as I know. It was like this: those
mountains were volcanic, and so were fairly _honeycombed_ with
precipitous tunnels and big cavernous hollows, each hollow possessing
its own peculiar, specific quality of sound, so that when the typhoon
arrived, and its ten thousand orchestral members, so to speak, placed
their phantom lips and blew terrifically into each crevice, the noise
resembled something like ten thousand Easter Monday steam-organs and
beating-drums going hard and strong on some holiday down in shadowland!
“I don’t exaggerate when I say that some of the notes rang out in clear,
silvery, bugle tones, some full and mellow, tremulous with throbbing
expression; then the muffled sound of a mighty drum would boom out in
that infinite harmony of the dark and wind! When you consider that a
typhoon’s terrific and tremendously varied breathing powers blew through
a thousand thousand deep-voiced bugles and trumpets with curling tubes
that went running right down into the volcanic bowels of the Fijian
Isles, there wasn’t much wonder in the fact that wonderfully marvellous
subtle musical effects and perfect intonation should crop up somewhere.
Of course, Deny and I hadn’t the slightest idea then as to how that
pandemonium of sound came about.
“‘The end of the world arrived and they sent some kind of a brass band
to lead the battalions of the dead heathens into shadowland; that’s what
it is,’ yelled Deny, cheering up when I touched him, to assure myself
that we were still in the flesh.
“I think Sanga cheered us up more than anything. She even laughed, just
as we thought we were about to die too!
“She was a plucky youngster, and good-looking to boot.
“When dawn came the sun burst through the sky as though it was in a
hurry. It seemed to boil the soaking mountain forests. We could see the
chameleon-like colours sparkling, as the steam from the heated tropical
vegetation rolled away over the rugged hills. We were drenched through.
By nightfall I was seized with pains in the back. It was a kind of
malaria. My limbs began to quiver. By midnight I was delirious.
“‘Don’t die, pal,’ said Deny, as I begged him, for old-time’s sake, to
strangle the mighty heathen god who kept peering through the clouds,
putting his stinking mop-head against my nose as he struck me tremendous
blows on the head with a war-club! But I could not die. When I had slept
for an hour and got a bit sane, things seemed as bad. For the thousands
of insects that had sought refuge from the storm in our hut attacked me.
Scorpions, fat-bodied lizards, and huge red ants, as big as walnuts, and
red land-crabs formed up in regiments and attacked us. I felt strange
things creeping up the inside of my pants as they flapped their
rudimentary wings. Then Deny took me outside and gave me a drink of rum.
In a few minutes the fever had abated. By midday I was as fit as a
fiddle.
“Deny was a splendid cook. He gathered some _feis_ (bananas) and yams
from the garden of the deserted heathen hut, and made a glorious meal.
“Then we started off, Sanga singing cheerily behind us as we trekked it
up into the higher ranges.
“By this time we were near Nisao, and had already sighted one of the
native villages to the S.W. Though we had heard that the natives of that
part were friendly, still we were not taking any risks, so we sent Sanga
across the gullies as an advance-guard. She whipped off like an arrow,
without the slightest fear. When she came back she was accompanied by
four stalwart chiefs and two women. To our relief they were waving their
hands friendly-wise, welcoming us to their village.
“As we crossed the gully bridge—a huge breadfruit trunk—the sight of the
small conical homesteads beneath the feathery palms, the beautiful
moss-ferns, and scarlet-flowered ndralas, gave one the impression that
we were entering some perfect, pagan city of shadowland. Romping
children stopped their games, rushed out of the shadows and hut doorways
to gaze on Deny and me in astonishment. The shaggy-haired women by the
huts were smoking clay pipes, squatting on mats, and staring stolidly at
the pretty native girls, who fawned about us, stroked our hands, and
said in their own lingo, ‘O beautiful Papalagis, with blue eyes!’
“It was all right, I can tell you. Suddenly a giant of a fellow stood up
from among a huddled group of savages and come towards us. By the
distinguished tattooesque coat-of-arms on his massive chest and
shoulders, I knew that he must be the tribal chief. Besides, as he came
towards us, he was followed by an obsequious retinue of eight
half-decayed-looking old women, who were crawling on their wrinkled
stomachs as they placed their travelling hands in their august master’s
footprints. They were his old, cast-off wives. The new batch of young
wives were squatting by the big palavana, showing their pearly teeth and
making eyes at Deny and me. One cheeky little wench, who was clad in a
tappa-gown of two inches in width and half a yard in length, took a
flower from her hair and threw it towards us.
“I can remember it all as though it were yesterday. I can even hear the
strange bird that was singing up in the citron trees, which grew just
over the little plot where they buried their dead. We felt a bit
swaggery when the military band came out of the chief palavana, formed
up with their instruments (vuvis, bone flutes, human bones, gourds with
strings across, lais, wooden drums, and bamboo flutes), and commenced to
play an anthem of welcome as we entered the stockade gateway that led
into that portion of the village where the head chief received
ambassadors in council. I think the sight of all was Sanga, as she
marched just ahead of us, a flower dangling in her hair, and her little
chest swelled majestically, as she looked sideways on the tribal
children, who were staring at her with awestruck eyes.
“If I had had any poetic idea in my head about that village being some
dwelling-place of fairy-land, I’m sure it was soon dispelled when we
passed by the village dustbin.
“‘Phew!’ said Deny, as Sanga and I sniffed and held our noses. Even in
those high altitudes of the Fijian mountain villages there was
considerable room for sanitary improvement.
“Such was our reception in Nisao just twenty years ago.
“That same night we got pally with the high chief, Roko (meaning
‘high-born’). He gave us all the direct information that we required;
told us that, true enough, a white man did dwell up in the cool mountain
villages of the cannibal Kai Tholos. Then he told us how the _White
Roko_ had lorded it over the village folk of Tumba for quite ten years,
after having made himself their chief. It seemed as though we dreamed it
all as we stood there, Deny and I, and heard the astounding facts as we
warily got the friendly chief on the tack that we were most interested
in. He nodded his head and said:
“‘Yes, Papalagi, beautiful white _Marama_ (white girl) live up there
too; nicer chiefess; smoother shoulders, whiter skin.’
“Saying this, old Roko made various descriptive signs in an attempt to
convey to our minds the wondrous beauty of the White Roko’s daughter. It
was then that we learnt that the Englishman was known to his tribe by
the name of Yoraka. Whether his name was Yorick, and this name that he
was known by was a bastardized equivalent of it, I don’t know; possibly
it was so.
“I recall that that old chief was immensely amused when he discovered
that Deny and I were after the white girl.
“‘How does she dress? What does she do with herself? Is she wild? Is she
married?’ and such-like questions did we put to Roko.
“Roko did not know much about the girl’s habits, for she was seldom
allowed out of the Tholos stronghold, and Old chief Roko dared not go up
there to his neighbour’s stronghold because they were enemies. We were
delighted to hear that he was not on friendly terms with this
extraordinary Yoraka, for it enabled us to extract a promise from him to
help us out of it should we get into difficulties. We arranged that,
should our countryman ‘turn up rough’ and set his tribal heathen on us,
we should send Sanga back to his village for help.
“‘Things are going all right,’ chuckled Deny, when the old chief took a
vow to help us.
“‘Vinaka, O le tani—geroot!’ yelled the tribal warriors. Then they lined
up; and I can tell you, Deny and I felt considerably relieved as we
inspected Roko’s bodyguard—the war chiefs who would come to our help if
we needed them. We felt like two seasoned generals as we passed along
the lines, inspecting those weird-looking, tattooed warriors. They
swelled their massive chests, their big war-club handles standing on end
up to their shoulders. They had tremendous mouths, the teeth darkened
with the juice of the betel-nut; and such mops of hair, I’d never seen
the like before.
“‘Thank God they’re on _our_ side!’ was my mental comment, as the great
Roko shouted ‘Karoot!’ and up went fifty war-clubs, ere down they came,
crash! in the thunderous drill that would show us how easily they could
smash the thickest of skulls with one well-aimed blow!
“Twelve hours after that experience we had done the eight miles that
divided Roko’s village from the Tholos stronghold. We were actually in
sight of that tiny mountain citadel wherein had dwelt for nearly ten
years that fugitive Britisher, Yoraka.
“There was something terribly weird in the thought that up there was one
of our own race who had degenerated into complete savagery and held full
sway over the wild Kai Tholos natives. It were impossible for me to
attempt to find a name for the atmosphere that my imagination conjured
up as Deny and I stood there, our white helmet hats pushed back on our
heads, our hands arched to our eyes as we stared towards the sunset that
gleamed on the far-off tribal huts of that solitary stronghold.
“‘What would they think of us? How would they greet us? Would the white
girl scream and faint away at the delight of it all when she realized
that Deny and I had come to rescue her? Had she seen white men—other
than that damnable parent of hers? Or had she been a close prisoner from
childhood, kept in utter darkness of the great civilized world beyond
the seas?’
“A thrill of romance warmed my soul, pulsing through my veins like wine,
as the novelty, the wonder of it all seemed to shine in the magical
ultramarine of the far-off sea horizon and the mountain sunset. Within
an hour of our romantic contemplation of the village, we had actually
entered the stockade gates. I clutched my revolver, and Deny did
likewise.
“Just as the children had done in the last village, out ran the kiddies
from the huts, rushed up to us and shouted, ‘Vinaka! Vinaka!’
“‘They’ve seen plenty of white people before, that’s certain,’ said I to
Deny, as the old, squat-looking chiefs and shaggy-haired chiefesses
stared stolidly at us as we walked by. Possibly it was our tremendous
cheek and helpless appearance that disarmed the suspicions of those
wild-looking men and women as they shouted forth their acclamations of
welcome.
“We gave them bits of tobacco plug. Thinking it was wisest to make no
delay in letting them know that we were there on a friendly visit, we
straightway asked them to show us into the presence of the great White
Roko, Yoraka. Approaching a monstrous-looking chief who was heavily
decorated with insigniatorial tattoo, we expressed our wish. In a moment
a bodyguard had been formed and was solemnly walking ahead of us,
leading us through the village. Sanga walked between Deny and me. I
noticed that she too looked a bit serious as she clutched hold of the
knee of my trousers. Passing through a large archway, that seemed to be
of natural rock formation, we entered another district of the village.
As we turned the bend by the orange and citron trees, our hearts
thumped. We were standing before a large, conical-shaped building that
had evidently been built on European lines. We guessed that we were at
last standing before the residence of the ex-Britisher.
“It seemed incredible as we stood there and thought of the man who had
exiled himself from his race and had resorted to the unbridled lust and
squalor of all that we saw around us—girls and women in all stages of
undress and motherhood. But it was not so strange when one thinks of the
criminals and unbridled lust and squalor of the dens of great
cities—cities superintended by vigilant police officials with the power
of a nation to help them put down crime. And who will deny that,
notwithstanding Scotland Yard, London, and White House, New York, crime
does exist, that men _do_ revert back to their primitive instincts,
resort to bestiality, murder, and all that’s utterly opposed to the
instincts of decently trained, clean-minded men. However, the fact
remains that there _was_ a white man who dwelt in complete savagery in
the mountains to the N.N.W., however incredible it may seem. And nothing
could be more certain than the sound of a drunken voice singing an
English song, the melody of ‘There is a tavern in the town, in the
town!’ coming from the inside of that primitive but palatial-looking
dwelling before us!
“‘Keep close to me, Sanga,’ said I, as the chiefs turned and beckoned
us. Then Deny’s tall form stooped as he bent forward and entered the
doorway, while Sanga and I closely followed him.
“Though I had conjured up all kinds of picturesque types in my mind as
to what kind of a man I should see when I entered there, I’ll swear that
I was quite unprepared for the villainous type that I did see. Squatting
on a mat, native fashion, was a burly-looking man of about fifty years
of age. His face was a dull, pasty brown; indeed, the man before us was
more like a half-caste than any type I could think of at the moment.
Even his hair was done up in a large mop, native style. But the reddish
colour of the beard, and the deep-set, keen grey eyes were
unmistakable—there squatted a degenerate Britisher, robed in all the
glory of primitive royalty. Hanging from the wide, low roof were some
forty coconut-oil lamps which added to the mystery of the scene before
us. In a semicircle, almost up to his feet, squatted several native
women, some of them young girls, presumably his wives. To our
astonishment he nodded his head, as though courteously to acquaint us
with the fact that he was pleased to see us. This welcome of his seemed
incongruous enough, since he wore only a tasselled sulu about his loins,
a garb that barely reached to his muscular, hairy knees. As he stood up
he resembled nothing so much as some primitive blacksmith who wore a
leather apron only—had forgotten to put his trousers on.
“The walls were decorated with fibre matting, skulls, old men’s beards,
and other gruesome articles that make up the furniture of barbarian
homesteads. On the floor in front of him were large calabashes, some
full of fruits, others containing fermenting toddy. These facts I took
in at a glance as Deny stood speechless on one side of me and Sanga
clutched my hand on the other side.
“Suddenly he looked up, and said: ‘Vinaka, sirs! glader to see you, o le
su, ter-day, savve?’
“So long had it been since he had spoken to his countrymen that he had
actually got into the habit of speaking pigeon English! For a little
while he regarded us with suspicion, then, as he took another drink of
toddy from the calabash that the native girls held to his lips, he
became garrulous. As he spoke on I noticed that his speech improved; one
could almost hear the awakening in his brain of words that had lain
dormant for years.
“Though I courteously refused to drink of the toddy that he ordered to
be handed to me, Deny, to my regret, swallowed more than was good for
him. This convivial understanding of like appetites seemed to awaken his
interest in us, for ere long Deny stood before him and sang some old
Scottish songs—‘Robin Adair,’ and ‘Will ye no’ come back again?’ I
think. He gave orders to his concubines to fetch us sweet taro,
pineapples, and many mixed dishes that were made from indigenous fruits.
Then he shifted himself, squatted right opposite me, and commenced to
ask me questions about England.
“‘Whas London loiker? He! he! he! Does the ole Queen still sit on her
throne at Windsor? He! he!’
“Saying that, he gave a lurch forward, and I saw that the pose he had
assumed when we entered his dwelling-place had been dispelled by
drivelling intoxication. Still he raved on, nudged me in the ribs, and
shouted toasts to other days! Thrusting his pallid face forward, he
lifted the coco-nut goblet, and yelled again and again, ‘’Ows ye b—— ole
Queen!’ then he gave me another violent nudge, and roared with laughter.
“‘Nasty-looking ole swine!’ said Deny, as Sanga pinched my arm and said
in a quiet voice:
“‘Come away! Come away, Papalagi!’
“I saw that the kiddie didn’t like the look of that man of my race, who
leered towards her, and touched her smooth arms. Then Deny and he became
reminiscent as they discovered they were both familiar with Fleet
Street. I must say I felt a bit ashamed of my comrade, as he too lurched
forward and nudged that vile Britisher in the ribs. It was plain as
plain could be that that cursed toddy stuff had made Deny forget
himself.
“‘Deny, Deny!’ I said reprovingly.
“Alas, my pal responded only by looking up at me in an insane way and
gurgling out, ’Awl ’ight, pal!’
“As for Yoraka, he opened his slit mouth, drivelled like an imbecile,
poked his pallid tongue out over his sharp-edged, blackened teeth, and
yelled:
“‘Do the b—— natives on ye old Thames still wear clothes? He! he! How’s
ther Derby racecourse? By the gods of my fathers, I’d giver something
for a soda and whisky ter-night!’
“Saying this much, as near as I can recall all that he said, he lurched,
put his head forward, and pinched little Sanga’s small fat leg! The
kiddie almost screamed in her terror.
“‘It’s all right, Sanga. Don’t mind him. He’s only a drunken Britisher,’
said I swiftly, as the degenerate stooped over his toddy calabash and
offered Deny another gobletful. And all the while this was going on his
women and girl wives and servants, squatting on a mat in a semicircle
round him, were regarding Deny and me with curious stare.
“Then, once again, in hoarse acclamations, he yelled of England.
“‘Do they still read their Bibles—the pot-bellied, wassailed-eyed
English? Ye souls of missionaries, I’ve eaten better men than you
blooder Englishman!’
“Listening to those wild remarks from a drunken man, and a fugitive
British criminal into the bargain, I put his wild sayings down as
figures of speech that represented some bitterness in his heart over
memories of other days. By now he was drivelling copiously at the mouth,
the mop of hair had fallen and hung in ringlets on his brow. He
resembled some giant chimpanzee as he squatted before us, his narrow
eyes glittering, his reddish beard bunched to his neck, as he looked at
Deny and me and volleyed forth terrible oaths.
“’Ow’s ole Fleet Street? Did yer chance ter know the barmaid at ole
M——’s, Alice M’Gill eh? She was a fine wench; hell, what a figure, a
body, he! he! she had!’
“Then he yelped forth another volley of disgusting ribaldry that I
wouldn’t repeat if you wanted me to.
“While all this was going on, my eyes were squinting round, wondering
where on earth the girl was whom we had heard so much about.
“Deny had started to sing with Yoraka, who had begun to sing in a
drivelling voice:
‘There is a tavern in the town, in the town,
Where my true love sits him down, sits him down.’
“Then Yoraka continued:
‘I’ll ’ang me ’arp oner weepin’ willer tree
And may ther worle go well with thee.’
“Not liking to be left out of the ensemble, as the assembled wives,
girls, and servants beat their hands in a kind of chant,—I saw that the
Britisher had taught them all that song, for they chanted it in a rather
effective manner,—I took my flute from my breast pocket and commenced to
play. It must have been an incongruous sight to see and to hear as that
disgusting relic of our race squatted there, a grin on his blubbery
jowls, as Deny, with lifted hand, sang and made eyes at the
passable-looking girls of the royal retinue, and I stood, _maestro_
fashion, my helmet hat bashed against the low roof, performing on the
flute. It was whilst this quartette was in progress that the improbable
occurred. Suddenly the row of tattooed Fijians, who were huddled by the
door of some inner compartment, all moved as though to make way for
someone. The tappa curtains were drawn aside. I stopped my
flute-playing; Deny opened his mouth and gasped aloud. There she stood,
her pale blue eyes open with astonishment as she stared wistfully, like
a shadowy-figure in a South Sea picture, on Deny and then on me. It was
Yoraka’s, that loathsome British criminal’s, daughter!
“To my eyes, which had never before seen a pure-blooded white girl in
native costume, expressing all the innocent abandonment of natural life
in the pose of her figure and movement of her shapely limbs, she seemed
the most impressively beautiful example of charming womanhood that my
eyes had ever beheld. She was sun-tanned from head to feet, as though
she had been varnished by some artist with a wondrous mixture that
resembled a Cremona violin’s hue mixed up with sunlight. The picturesque
raiment of threaded fern grass that swathed her thighs, like a
loin-cloth, increased the beauty of the picture of that wild white girl
who stood there before us. She looked like the pictures I have seen of
Queen Boadicea. Her hair was a bright golden-bronze hue, like that deep
shade seen in the sunset’s aftermath, her rough, loosened tresses
falling down to the exquisitely curved shoulders, while one or two stray
locks fell in front, rippling down over her bosom to the tasselled
raiment that fell in modest modulation to her knees. I had a suspicion
that she had been told we were there in that palavana, that she had
peeped through the tappa-curtains and seen us, and had then gone and
arranged her secret toilet to please our eyes. I discovered afterwards
that the hue of her hair and the length of her tresses were the pride of
the whole tribe, the chiefs giving cattle to Yoraka that they might
breathe through her tresses, and so treating her as a goddess!
“I think Deny’s heart went out to her at once. However, I know that when
the strains of the flute mingled with the notes of the Scottish songs he
sang that night, it was very hard to know which sounded the most
beseeching!
“That which struck me forcibly as I scanned the girl’s clear eyes and
fine brow was, that she should really be the daughter of the
chimpanzee-like debauchee squatting there before us. But, recalling to
mind the trite old saying, ‘’Tis a wise child that knows its own
father,’ I gave the girl the benefit of the doubt; nor did this opinion
of mine cast a slur on the mother, for by the character of the man
before us, none could blame her for bestowing her secret affections on
another than her ‘rightful lord.’ I confess that the girl had her
failings. But they seemed only some natural expression of the innate
instincts that are prominent in all the actions of her more fortunate,
civilized white sisters. For, as I watched, it was quite evident that,
notwithstanding Deny’s boisterous manner as he ogled her, twirling his
moustache and assuming a massive gallantry that I had not thought him
capable of, she favoured his advances; indeed, she actually returned
with interest his admiring looks as her eyes roamed up and down his
giant figure, that swayed, drunken-wise, before her.
“‘He! he! nicer girl—eh?’ leered Yoraka, as he observed Deny’s
infatuated glances.
“Then that heathen scoundrel lurched forward and pinched Sanga’s leg
again, putting on such an unholy look as he gazed on her, that I felt
like giving him a punch under the ear. I’ve seen Chinamen, Niggers,
Kaffirs, Turks, all grades of followers of Mohammed, Borneo cannibals,
and what not, gaze on young native girls, but the look in that
degenerate Britisher’s eyes beat them all for downright wickedness. He
looked like some personification of all the guile, hypocrisy, power,
indescribable lust, and bestiality of white man, that have blighted
native life in these isles, crammed into one skull, gleaming forth from
one pair of terrible eyes, drivelling and chuckling from one mouth,
expressed on one iron brow, voiced by one filthy, fang-like tongue.
“Deny’s dead now. I won’t say a word of the further doings of that
night. He’d been down with fever too; the weather was terribly muggy
into the bargain, and that does put a thirst into a man. And, moreover,
notwithstanding the hideousness of all Yoraka’s actions, and the fright
that we both confessed we felt afterwards, through being in his power,
there was something fascinating in the novelty of it all. I think it
took twelve high chiefs to carry Deny across the _rara_ (space) and lay
him down in the hut that had been allotted to him, Sanga, and my humble
self.
“I rubbed my eyes in the morning, wondering if I had dreamed it all. It
was no dream though; there was no mistaking the reality of the wild
bird’s song that sang in the mountain banyans just outside our hut door.
Besides, there sat little Sanga, rubbing her sleepy eyes, and Deny was
as real as real could be, as he sat there with his head in a large
calabash of cold water, cooling his fevered skull!
“We had no sooner eaten the food that the natives brought to us than we
were outside in the clear morning air. Our great desire was to see that
white girl again.
“‘We must get her away from this hell of a hole,’ said Deny, turning his
eyes away from me as though he felt a bit ashamed of himself. Then he
said: ‘You got a bit rocky last night, didn’t you, pal?’
“‘A bit rocky!’ said I, feeling disgusted at such an insinuation from my
comrade, who had lowered my prestige in that village by his drunken
behaviour the night before. But I said nothing. I saw how the wind blew.
And it says something for Deny that he was enough ashamed of himself to
try and make out that I was as bad as he.
“I won’t go into all the details as to how we finally got to know where
the girl was to be found. It will be sufficient to say, that Deny gave
two natives plugs of tobacco and promised them another drink from his
rum-flask if they’d lead us to the den where the girl resided. For I
must tell you that we had found out by the merest chance that the girl
did not live with her parent, but dwelt at the other end of the village,
where the high chiefs resided.
“As the natives led us across the cleared village space, we wondered
what the girl would think to see us so eager to seek her presence. At
last we stood outside a thatched den, just on the outskirts of the
village.
“‘She in there, Marama, savvy?’
“In a moment Deny and I made up our minds and entered the hut. The first
thing that I did was to upset a cradle wherein lay two whitish-looking
kiddies.
“‘Look like damned half-caste kids,’ said Deny, as we cursed and made a
swift attempt to pick them up before the distracted mother appeared.
They opened their reddish mouths like two young crows, and made terrific
caw-like sounds. Deny put his hand over one’s mouth!
“Suddenly we felt a draught, the tappa-curtain was flung aside, the
white girl stood before us, her eyes blazing as we both held the kids!
She really _did_ look like a wild girl, as she stood there before us
with her mouth open, in _déshabillé_, an old torn sulu dangling to her
thighs. For a moment I felt embarrassed as I looked at her bare bosom.
Then I swiftly realized that she did not understand the novelty of the
sight,—a girl of our race dressed like that, showing so much of what
should have been her secret toilet, to say the least.
“Perhaps she saw the romantic light in Deny’s eyes as she stared up at
our flushed faces. Anyway, she cooled down, and asked us into her
homestead.
“Then she looked up at us in a startled way, and said, ‘You be killer;
go way! go way!’
“That was the first thing she said, as we got out of earshot of the
sly-looking old hags who were leaning against the palms smoking
cigarettes.
“‘We’ve come to save you!—to take you away from this village,’ whispered
Deny, giving her a ravishing look. ‘Take you away to another country
where the white men and women live,—understand?—savvy?’ continued Deny,
as the girl looked up and simply stared at us.
“At first we thought it might be some haunting remembrance of her
childhood days in England that made her stare so. It may have been so.
However, the only response she made was to put forth her hand and
commence to caress the pendant, the brass compass, that dangled at the
end of my silver watch chain! Then she giggled and showed us _her_
babies!
“‘Yours!’ almost yelled Deny.
“The scales fell from our eyes when we learnt from her own lips that
those pallid, demon-like-looking kids were hers—twins too!
“‘Where’s he?’ we both ejaculated in a tense whisper, as we looked
around.
“She shook her head, did not understand.
“‘The old man, your husband?—the father of the kids?’ said Deny, trying
to make her understand.
“Pointing to the floor, she said, ‘He go under, goodee job tooer!’
“‘Dead!’ was Deny’s and my comment. Nor did we shed any tears over the
dead heathen’s demise, I can tell you.
“There she stood before us, innocent-looking as a child, a splendid
specimen of what an English girl was like when reared up as a savage.
Even as I watched, I thought of the interest she would create in the
souls of those who went in for anthropology.
“I discerned at a glance that she had the instincts of a white woman the
world over. As she stared at us she hastily put her hand up to her hair
to see if the hibiscus blossoms were in an attractive position. As she
squatted on the mat and boldly looked into our eyes, she pulled her
picturesque raiment down over the curves of her knees. ‘That’s something
that a native woman wouldn’t do,’ was my mental comment. That one little
action convinced me that there is an inherent modesty in women of the
white races that is not conspicuous in many of the brown races. For,
_how_ did she know that women of our race wore long dresses? All the
native women about her wore barely anything at all! Besides, there was
the swift, instinctive action of an act that could only be the result of
_inherent_ modesty. Knowing the chance I had of testing the difference
between the white and the brown races, I went through all sorts of
artful dodges to find out the various shades of her character. I put my
hand out in a caressing way, softly touching her fingers so that she
might be assured that I was there only out of friendship. Deny did the
same.
“To our delight she repsonded by saying, ‘Yorana, Papalagi,’ and then,
in a soft, fawning, cat-like way, returned the caress, touched my wrist,
looked into my eyes, and murmured, ‘Oh, whi! whi, nicer,’ alluding to
the whiteness of my flesh just up under my coat-sleeve. Then, in a
really fascinating way, she admired the smoothness of our boyish faces;
put her fingers through my golden hair;—I had hair then.” (He was bald
as a badger as he sat there telling us these things.) “Then Deny took
the flask from his pocket and, to my surprise, asked her to take a nip
of rum! She gave one sip, and made a wry face as she spat the liquid
out.
“I looked into her eyes, held her hand, and said:
“‘Wouldn’t you like to leave this village and go across the seas to your
own people, see the big cities, large buildings?’
“She only stared at me. I saw that it was all Greek to her. Then I tried
to explain civilization to her. I told her that women wore beautiful
silken robes to the feet, robes that were adorned with flashing gems.
Her eyes sparkled with wonder for a while. She seemed to show true
interest only when I described English life, told of the comfortable,
cosy homes, the hearth-fires in cold weather, and of the little
children. Deny looked up at me, noticed my earnest manner, and thought I
was mad. So he said after. Sanga squatted just behind us the whole time,
staring at the girl with wonder in her eyes, and never said one word.
“As I told her these things, I watched for some evidence of a desire in
her heart to come with us; but the only effect it seemed to have on her
was that which one notices on a child when it listens to a fairy story.
There was something infinitely sad about it all as she sat there—a girl
of our race, lost to the world, irreclaimable, doomed to live on in that
hell of a village,—a girl with natural beauty shining from her soft,
almost wistful-looking eyes. The wind blew gently through the doorway,
the palms sighed mournfully on the mountain slopes, and it seemed that
the very zephyrs caressed her with sorrow as they touched the
picturesque robe she had put on since we had arrived.
“I can never tell you how Deny and I appealed to that girl, beseeching
her to come away with us. For a moment she gazed at us as though in
grief, then she put forth her hand and appealed to Deny to give her one
of his coat buttons. In a moment my pal had ripped a button off and
handed it to her. She held it up in the ray of sunlight that trickled
through the doorway, and gave a childish cry of pleasure.
“‘Look at her feet,’ said Deny.
“I had never seen such pretty feet before. The nails were like pearls,
and, through the foot having never been cramped up in boots, the toes
were exquisitely curved, the lower contours running up and finishing at
the ankles in a charming way. Deny took the liberty of tenderly holding
her leg up so that I might admire the curves of the calf, the perfect
roundness of the knee. She kept a wary eye on him: I’m _sure_ that _was_
the look that I noticed in her eyes. Then, on hearing our impassioned
exclamations, and seeing the appreciative glances of our eyes over the
beauty of her shape, she gave in; vanity was stronger than modesty. Then
Deny spoilt it all; as he held the leg in a graceful position, he
deliberately kissed the knee! That’s what my eyes saw! Deny swore that
it was a mistake, that he fell forward. But I knew Deny well enough, and
never before saw anything so deliberate in the way of impassioned acts.
“From that moment she became reserved in her attitude and manner. But,
still, I noticed that her eyes softly gleamed as Deny and I and Sanga
crept out of the door to answer the command of Yoraka. It was nearly
dusk then, and we had to be in Yoraka’s presence by dark.
“It was quite dark when we again stood outside Yoraka’s palatial hut,
hesitating before we entered. Then, seeing no way out of it, we entered
that home of licentiousness. All the hanging coco-nut-oil lamps were
ablaze as we stood there once more in the presence of Yoraka, the native
girls all staring at us. I think that I preferred the sight of them to
the drunken ribaldry of that British heathen. There was something
terrible in his gaze as he looked up at us. I saw the domineering gaze
of savagery staring from those cold, blue, British eyes. All the
inherent might of my own race—the might that had overthrown nation after
nation, conquered the world, making all the primitive tribes suppliant
at her Imperial Feet—seemed to shine forth in the terrible glare of that
red-bearded Britisher as he stared at us with _sober_ eyes! By the dim
light of the oil-lamps I discerned the tattoo that marked his massive
chest and shoulders. It seemed impossible that he was a white man at
all, so villainous did he look. Then he commenced to ask a thousand
questions as to what we wanted with him. We told him we didn’t want
anything of him. Deny came to the rescue like a brick, for Yoraka was
getting fierce; he handed him the remainder of his rum. In a moment the
man seemed to forget his suspicions; he smacked his lips, looked up, and
gripped Deny’s hand. After that he drank more toddy. He was soon
drivelling drunk again. I shall never forget that night if I live to be
a thousand years old. As the tribal girls waited on him, he roared forth
disgusting songs—putting words of his own to them—and at each loathsome
epithet spat up in the faces of the frightened harem-women. Looking up
into my face he chuckled and roared out uproariously, making remarks
about civilized life.
“‘Go back ter your ole Queen on the Thames! He! he! I’d giver ’er——
“‘Ugh! Ugh! who’ thater girl? She belonger you? I eater better girler
than that on toast! Savvy?’
“Still I did not gather the terrible import of his remarks as he looked
up, drivelling spittle from betel-nut between his clenched black teeth,
and pinched pretty Sanga’s soft arms!
“‘Comer way! Comer way! Master, don’t your know?’ whispered little
Sanga, inclining her curly head sideways as she slightly lifted her
pretty eyes, giving me a meaning look.
“But still Deny stared and I stared, as Yoraka grovelled on his belly
and made loathsome remarks to the women around him. Once more he sought
Deny’s conversation, and plied him with that vile toddy stuff. The night
was far advanced when the great climax came. Yoraka was poking Deny in
the ribs, and Deny was nudging Yoraka. The savage Britisher’s brain had
once more become reminiscent, for he was shouting and yelling disgusting
ribaldry about his memories of London, Fleet Street, the Strand, and
Marble Arch. Then he seemed to become breathless through his own
obscenity. He drivelled at the mouth, his head swaying like an imbecile
as he lurched forward on his stomach. Then, leaning forward, he took
hold of Sanga’s little robe, looked with some terrible meaning into her
eyes, took hold of her arm’s soft, semi-white flesh between his thumb
and forefinger—and pinched it deliciously!
“His hideous mouth was emitting spittle from between the gaps of his
filthy betel-nut-blackened teeth. I distinctly saw him give a fiendish,
hungry leer at the girl as he stroked her leg and said something very
unguardedly about ‘Long pig!’ and chuckled ‘Kai! kai! I eater nicer
girler!’ He was looking up into Deny’s astonished face as he said that.
Then he lifted his drunken eyes to my comrade and said, ‘You giver
girler me? I make you great chief here!’
“‘Heavens!’ gasped Deny, as he looked at me. ‘Why, he’s a cannibal!’
“Before I knew, or even realized the terror of the whole business, Deny
had expressed his horror of that fiend’s remarks in a most forcible way.
It all looked like some unreal picture of horror as Yoraka crouched
there, grovelling on his stomach, the rows of coco-nut-oil lamps sending
a ghastly, unreal glare over his face and on the barbarian furniture,
boxes, ornamental matting, calabashes, and human skulls that hung on the
walls. He was paralyzed!—as though he’d had a stroke and had died with
his mouth and eyes still half-open with astonishment. The native girls,
who had been bringing in platters of cooked yams and gourds of toddy,
stood transfixed, like wonderful life-like statues of terra-cotta hue,
so still did they all stand there in the dim light, some with arms still
outstretched, one leg placed forward, one arm uplifted, their eyes
glassy, petrified with astonishment—so sudden was the onslaught!
“That representative of a British criminal in savage ‘state,’ rolled his
eyes thrice; he seemed to strive to believe his own senses; his mouth
was wide open with astonishment and pain, revealing his sharp, dirty
teeth, as crash! a second blow knocked them down his throat!
“‘Ugh! Ugh!’ came like vomited sound from that devil’s entrails as Deny
stood there at his full height, his eyes afire with rage and drink. My
helmet hat was bashed down over my eyes as I leapt forward to stay Deny
from quite killing our host. In a flash I saw that Deny’s impulsiveness
would place us at the mercy of the whole tribe. But what cared old
Deny?—not a damn! He proceeded to demolish Yoraka’s palavana. The native
girls, seeing their master prostrated, recovered and bolted! Catching
hold of the central post, that was the mainstay for the hut’s support,
Deny tore it right out of the ground—crash! the roof had fallen on the
top of us!
“In the pandemonium that followed, amid the wild yells of Yoraka, the
screams of his concubines and children, I could hardly collect my
senses. Sanga was still trembling beside me, was clutching my hand. We
were on our stomachs, the heavy débris, planks, etc., nearly smothering
us.
“‘Comer, Master!’ murmured Sanga, as she tugged my coat and wriggled on.
By some wonderful instinct she found a pathway through that
terror-stricken group of clutching figures, all huddled in mad terror to
get out of the smothering débris into the open air. Outside the night
was pitch-black, not a star relieving the intense overhead dark as I
peered around, calling aloud to my comrade, ‘Deny! Deny!’
“As I stood there, hesitating, for I could not rush off into the forest
and leave a pal like that, I felt something brush against me, like the
rushing of a wind. It was a regiment of those damned cannibals. They had
rushed forth from their huts to rescue their master, the White Roko,
from the murderous hands of the two Papalagis. They were evidently
seeking to locate the exact spot of our host’s late homestead!
“‘Comer way, Master! They killer you!’ said little Sanga, as she tugged
my hand, and I glared round in the darkness, envying that little one’s
all-seeing eyes in the gloom. I felt the exultation of battle seize my
soul. I no longer regretted the fact that Deny had pulled down that
homestead of unbridled lust about the b—— cannibal Englishman’s ears! I
rushed forward, calling for my pal. Suddenly I collided with the soft,
naked bodies of those who were seeking Deny and myself. I heard Deny’s
voice just by me. ‘Thank God he’s all right,’ was my mental comment.
Then, to my astonishment, I heard Deny roaring forth an old sea chanty
at the top of his voice as he clubbed away at the natives in the
darkness! ‘O for Rio Grande!’ came to my ears as I too entered the fray,
and wondered if the whole business was some nightmare. My strength was
superhuman. For I tell you I was in a terrible funk, and there’s nothing
like true, unadulterated funk to make a man brave as a lion, and fight
splendidly for his own life!
“I had no weapon whatsoever to defend myself with. Deny had a club, I
know. Feeling a mass of tangled arms clutching for me in the dark, I
made a dive and, by good luck, caught what I meant to use as a club—it
was a soft, slippery, nude savage! I felt the bones creak as I swung
that living weapon round and round and aimed unseen blows at the bodies
of the savages who tried to catch hold of me in that inky darkness.
“‘Go it, pal!’ yelled Deny. Crash! came the sound of his falling club,
then a groan; another had gone under. Again and again came howls of pain
to my ears as the natives fell to the forest floor before my tremendous
onslaught as I wielded that soft, bulky weapon—a weapon that gave
terrified shrieks as it attempted to save itself, for the poor devil
made frantic clutches at the bodies I swung him towards as his hands
tore at their mops of hair in terror.
“Then Deny came to my assistance, just in time too. But though I’d got a
nasty knock on the head and nearly fell, I managed to follow Deny and
Sanga as they called me. Then the three of us rushed away down the
slopes. By daybreak we were miles away from that cursed village. And I
don’t think we stopped more than an hour to rest before we got down to
the seaboard.
“When we arrived back in Levuka we made up our minds to go out to the
man-o’-war boat that was lying out in the bay, and tell them about
Yoraka and his daughter up there in the Kai Tholos village. We were
determined to get our own back off that bloodthirsty Britisher. We
decided to let the matter slide for a day or so. Deny had got a blow on
the back of the head during the mêlée and wanted to sleep for a day or
so before he had any more excitement.
“It was during this interval that that happened which is history now. It
was like this. Some sailors from a man-o’-war—three, I think—had gone
off up in the mountains on a spree. They were never heard of again. So
Commander Goodenough, of the British man-o’-war lying off Levuka, sent a
crew of Jack Tars up to the tribal villages of the mountains to give
them a lesson and see if they could hear anything of the missing men.
They blew the Kai Tholos villages to smithereens! And it is common
knowledge amongst the missionaries and traders to this day that, when
they searched amongst the débris, to see if they could find any trace of
their comrades, they came across the body of a white girl, clad in
barbarian costume and riddled with bullets. Just by her side was the
body of a white man, clad in a sulu gown. He was tattooed and sunburnt,
but there was no mistake about his being a white man. They buried them
both up there in the mountains, and put a cross on the girl’s grave; no
name, just the date of the day when they had found her. Then they buried
the man by her side, and, as he was a Britisher, they sounded the _Last
Post_ and fired a volley over his grave. And Deny wrapped him up in the
Union Jack!”
“Well, now! if that’s not the irony of fate, and the way of this world
all over!” was all I could mutter, as G—— knocked the ashes out of his
pipe and finished his story, took his flute from his pocket, and began
to warble sweetly, “Scenes that are brightest.”
G—— was a kind of hero to O’Hara and myself after that. We followed him
about, and felt the glamour of romance shine whenever we stood in his
remarkable presence. I think it was the very next day that he took us
down the river, then across country to a native village, and introduced
us both to a fine-looking, native woman. She treated us in good style
when G—— told her that we were his friends. I noticed that she looked up
into his eyes as though she were some sister of his.
“Who is she?” I ventured to ask him at last.
“It’s her,—the kid we took up into the Kai Tholos mountains that
time,—little Sanga,” he replied.
------------------------------------------------------------------------