PLOTTING FOR POWER
The Herzovinian consul sat upon his wide verandah gazing out upon the
quiet bay of Ukula. His usually serene face wore a troubled look. Count
Rosen paced the porch restlessly. His well-knit figure was becomingly
clad in a military khaki riding suit, and he held a heavy rhinoceros
hide whip in his hand. Consul Carlson was over fifty. Rosen was not
over thirty, and appeared even younger.
Count Rosen was talking while Mr. Carlson listened with an unusual air
of deference.
“When Kataafa was hurried here from Malut, the island of his exile, our
foreign office expected you to have paved the way to make him king.”
The speaker struck a picturesque stand in front of the consul’s chair.
“Instead you have been fraternizing with these other consuls. The chief
justice has you under his thumb. Is that the way to bring on a crisis?”
The Herzovinian consul swallowed a lump in his throat. It was hard to
be taken to task by such a young man.
“Count Rosen,” he answered, a sudden spark of resentment coming into
his small eyes, “if I have displeased the foreign office, I can resign.”
“Resign,” the count exclaimed disgustedly. “Why talk of resigning with
such an opportunity before you? Have you no ambition? Will you permit
Herzovinia to be robbed of what naturally belongs to her? We have
worked long and spilled Herzovinian blood in order to acquire these
beautiful rich islands. And with the end in sight will you resign?”
Mr. Carlson roused himself from his dejection.
“I agreed with the other consuls to try to prevent a war. Cannot we
succeed without bloodshed? I don’t believe the foreign office really
wishes that.”
Count Rosen’s eyes flashed.
“What are these puny wars to our statesmen?” he asked. “Has anything
worth while ever been attained without the shedding of blood? But,” he
added, “you were about to tell me of some important news.”
“I have reliable information that a letter has been received by Judge
Lindsay, written some years ago by our government, which demands that
Kataafa shall never be king,” Mr. Carlson said earnestly. “I knew of
the letter, but believed it was withdrawn when England and America
refused to agree.”
“It was never withdrawn,” Count Rosen replied. “The chief justice then
will decide for this foolish boy Panu-Mafili. That decision must bring
on a war.”
Mr. Carlson looked surprised, his round red face a picture of timid
anxiety. “Kataafa will break his oath?” he questioned aghast.
“Of course, and now for the political side of this issue,” the count
nodded and continued. “Under the treaty the three consuls must act in
concert to uphold the decisions of the chief justice. Will you, knowing
the aim of your government and loving the natives as your friends, give
your support to such a wicked decision? Will you call for your sailors
and force upon these honest, childlike natives a king not of their
choosing?”
Mr. Carlson glanced up appealingly. “Count,” he exclaimed, “what would
you do if you were in my place?”
Count Rosen smiled enigmatically. “Mr. Carlson,” he replied, “I have
no credentials. I have been sent by our foreign office to study the
situation in the South Seas. At Fiji I received a letter to go to
Ukula. I am here. Advice without responsibility is not good. You must
decide for yourself, for you alone are responsible for your acts to
our government. I can, however, show you,” he added earnestly, “how
the situation will develop if you continue to act in harmony with the
other consuls in upholding the decision, if it is against Kataafa. The
natives will arm and fight. The Kataafa warriors are in vastly superior
numbers and will soon win a victory. The sailors of three nations
will be landed to fight the victorious side. With their superior guns
and training many innocent natives must be killed. It would then be a
general war, the whites against the natives.”
“And if I refuse to stand with the others?” the consul asked earnestly.
“That will greatly simplify everything,” the count replied. “The
Kataafa warriors would declare him king. The Panu natives in such
great inferiority of numbers cannot resist except with the aid of the
sailors, and that could not be given as long as you refuse to join.
The treaty distinctly stipulates that action may be taken unanimously.
There would be no war. The next mail from home would bring the recall
of this partial judge. Kataafa would remain king, and then he must soon
seek annexation to our Herzovinia. I hope to see our flag hoisted over
the Kapuan Islands. And of course,” he added, “you will get all the
credit. The order of the Black Eagle will be yours.”
The consul’s face was now fairly beaming upon this kind prophet.
“My mind is made up,” he said. “I shall refuse to be used by those who
have only selfish aims. I shall write and refuse to agree with the
other consuls.”
Count Rosen smiled triumphantly as he rode his pony along the main road
of Ukula.
“Carlson has been here too long,” he said to himself. “He thinks
there’s nothing beyond his narrow horizon. His lonesome life has made
him timid; he needed stirring to life. Herzovinia’s aims must be kept
always before us. Our statesmen decided years ago to own these islands.
Our money is invested here and they are a link in our colonial chain. A
war! a little bloodshed! What does it matter?”
At the Kapuan firm’s store the count dismounted, giving his pony in
care of a native.
Klinger, the manager, met him at the door-step. No word was spoken
until they reached the office in the rear of the store and the door
closed behind them.
“I see in your face you are successful,” Klinger said as the count took
the proffered chair.
“Everything so far has been wonderful,” the count exclaimed. “Judge
Lindsay will give the decision to Panu, Kataafa will revolt, and
Carlson will refuse to do anything. The hands of our friends the enemy
are tied.”
“I too have news,” Klinger said. “Kataafa has bought all the guns
coming in the ‘Talofa.’ Also he has answered Judge Lindsay’s letter,
that he cannot agree to give his word to remain peaceful if the
decision is against him, as he considers the right to be king is his,
and he has already been acknowledged king by one power. What do you
think of that?” he asked delightedly.
“I saw Kataafa to-day and he says he is anxious for annexation to
Herzovinia,” Klinger continued. “The Americans, you know, have acquired
title to land in the harbor of Tua-Tua on the island of Kulila. That
must be broken up.”
The count nodded. “Go ahead, you have a free rein. And now what about
the whereabouts of our friend Captain ‘Bully’ Scott?”
“I am looking for him daily,” Klinger replied. “He is bringing enough
guns to arm every Kataafa warrior. All day long I have been getting
receipts from the natives for gun to be delivered.”
“Always an eye for business,” the count exclaimed in half jesting
disgust. “You merchants own these poor natives body and soul.”
[Illustration: THREE AMERICAN OFFICERS WERE STANDING IN THE ROAD]
“What would you have us do?” Klinger answered defensively. “I have
spent many thousands of dollars upon these rifles. I am taking great
risks in getting them here, for if either of the war-ships seize them
they will be confiscated under the treaty, and I have no redress. And,
count,” he added, “you know it is all for our country.”
Count Rosen nodded his head, but his steel gray eyes looked squarely
into those of the manager of the Kapuan firm until the latter’s fell
in quick embarrassment. The count knew that the man’s natural cupidity
was a large measure of the driving force stimulating his patriotic
enthusiasm.
“There’s nothing to do but wait,” the count said as they reached the
door of the store.
Three American officers were standing in the road at the front.
“The American commander will have to be handled carefully,” the
count said in a low voice to Klinger, as he turned his back upon the
officers. “He’s a fine type; I can see it in his face. He’d make a
stanch friend, but a difficult enemy.” This last to himself. Sentiment
was wasted upon the selfish manager of a grasping firm.
“I must contrive to know him,” the count added aloud.
The American officers had now continued along the road.
“Don’t be too precipitate,” the count cautioned as he whistled to the
native boy, holding his pony’s bridle.
The count mounted his pony, walking it slowly down the road. At the
Tivoli Hotel he stopped and dismounted. Within a half hour he walked
from the hotel, carefully dressed in a spotless white linen suit and
helmet. He turned his steps toward Matautu.
He turned in at the American consulate gate, and walked with an air of
high bred assurance up the steps of the porch.
Mr. Lee arose to receive him, a frank smile of cordiality upon his face.
“Count Felix Rosen.” The visitor pronounced his name slowly; there was
the smallest of accents. “I have come to pay my respects,” he said
quietly. “We tourists often forget our social duties.”
“It is I who should apologize, Count Rosen,” Mr. Lee exclaimed,
introducing the visitor to his daughter and Commander Tazewell. “You
have been in Ukula for several days, and I should have called upon you
and bid you welcome to our little island.”
“Truly, sir, I should not expect you to take so much trouble,” the
count returned suavely. “I am but a globe-trotter, as you say in
America. I have no aim, no business. I go where I may be amused.”
The count accepted the cup of tea offered him by Miss Lee and sipped it
meditatively. He felt the awkward silence and hastened to relieve it.
“My time here is likely to be so short,” he added, “that I hope if
there must be war among the natives they will wait until after I can
explore the islands. In my few days I have ridden miles and have been
everywhere charmed with the natural beauty of the country and the
charming hospitality of the natives.”
“We also, count, are hoping that there will be no war,” Mr. Lee
replied. “And if your consul will stand with the British consul and
myself it can be averted.”
“So!” the count exclaimed surprisedly. “Does Mr. Carlson then desire
a war? Sometimes I lose all patience with my stubborn countryman. It
is very strange,” he added. “I lunched with him to-day and he seemed
aggrieved that you and the British consul would not support him to
prevent a war.”
Commander Tazewell had been carefully studying the speaker’s face.
He read there only disinterested amusement over the situation. What
business could this cultured Herzovinian have with Klinger? He decided
to endeavor to find out.
“Most of the disturbances among the natives,” Commander Tazewell said
quietly, “are brought about by the merchants. Arms, you know, Count
Rosen, are merchandise upon which an enormous profit is realized.
A war, though, is required to create a market. I believe that Mr.
Klinger could allay your uneasiness over the possibility of a war more
certainly than can either of the consuls.”
The count raised his eyes slowly to the speaker’s face. Their eyes met
and for a moment each gauged the other. The count shifted his gaze
first; a faint suspicion of a flush had come under his tanned cheeks.
“Klinger has been good enough to arrange some trips for me into the
interior of the island,” the count explained quickly. “I was arranging
details with him for a trip to the Papasea,[10] the sliding rock, when
you passed his store.” A smile of delight spread over his handsome face
as he suddenly asked: “Can’t we make up a party for that trip? I should
be charmed to play host. But,” he added, “I suppose with you it is an
old story.”
Mr. Lee declined for himself. The uncertainty of the situation demanded
his continuous presence in Ukula.
After some discussion it was arranged that the party start the next
morning. Alice and the midshipmen returned in time to be included,
together with Commander Tazewell and Miss Lee.
“I cannot express to you the honor you have done me in accepting my
invitation,” the count exclaimed, as he bade good-bye. “This morning I
was a lonesome stranger, and now I am rich in friends.”
“Who is he?” Commander Tazewell asked the consul as his straight figure
passed out of sight down the road.
Mr. Lee shook his head.
“Some well connected Herzovinian of the smaller nobility, I suppose,”
he replied. “His consul called upon him almost at once after he arrived
on the last steamer from the South. A title carries a great deal of
dignity with it.”
“He is certainly very fine looking,” Miss Lee said admiringly.
“And knows how to talk,” Phil added.
“I believe he is a past master in the art of talk,” Alice said
pointedly. “And the worst of it is we know what he says and not what he
means.”
All laughed at the girl’s quaint mode of expression.
“Call me silly and a rebel all you please,” she added turning upon her
sister, who at once denied even the thought of any such accusation,
“but I am and always will be suspicious of a Herzovinian in Kapua.
Anywhere else he may be honest and mean what he says, but here, no!”
She shook her head vigorously.
While the two midshipmen with Commander Tazewell were returning in the
captain’s gig to the “Sitka,” Phil spoke of the sailing vessel they
had seen from Alice’s “lookout.”
“Probably it isn’t Captain Scott’s ‘Talofa,’” he added deprecatingly.
“It was too far away to see anything but the tops of her sails.”
Commander Tazewell listened earnestly.
“‘Bully’ Scott is usually on hand where there is a chance for his
nefarious trade in guns,” he replied. “Miss Alice Lee may have no real
grounds for her belief that it is the ‘Talofa,’ but that young girl
is more than usually clever for one of her age, and her father tells
me she is worshiped by the native women, to whom she is a veritable
administering angel. Tuamana’s daughter, Avao, is her particular
friend. You know,” he added, “in Kapua, the women are the tale bearers;
no bit of interesting news escapes them.”