COUNT ROSEN TAKES CHARGE
The signal victory won by Kataafa and his warriors and the
acknowledgment from the Powers increased many-fold his trust in the
two papalangi, who had so ably advised him and supplied the necessary
weapons for success. As the old chief surveyed the work of destruction,
however, his heart sank within him. The fear of the war-ships and their
thunderbolts, and a vivid recollection of the last war against the
papalangi spurred him to consult that man of few words, Count Rosen,
whom Klinger had said was vested with high powers from that great
nation beyond the seas, more powerful than both England and America.
The English and Americans, he knew, would soon be crying aloud for
retribution. Their property had been destroyed by his warriors. The
life of the chief justice, an American, had even been endangered, and
his valuable house unlawfully burned. To Kataafa, the papalangi were
terrible people. Those in Kapua he did not fear; he had seen that they
could be killed and beheaded as easily as men of his own race; but the
intangible nations that protected them, sending war-ships “bursting
through the clouds,” as the Kapuans express the slow approach of a ship
coming up over the sea horizon--of these Kataafa stood in mortal fear.
As the blood lust subsided among his warriors, already gossip bared its
disquieting head. Some said many war-ships of England and America would
come and destroy, as if by a volcano, their beautiful islands.
Kataafa with his trusted chiefs marched solemnly to the Herzovinian
consulate at Matafeli. Count Rosen had taken up his abode in the
consulate. He received the chiefs in silence, and sent word at once for
Klinger to appear to act as interpreter. The count had that morning
been appointed by the rebel king his prime minister, and the three
consuls had acknowledged, in grudging terms, the “de facto” government,
as they pointedly expressed it.
Klinger did not appear and finally the native messenger returned with
the information that Missi Klinger was very sick. The count excused
himself to the chiefs, telling them to wait, and hurried away to see
what was the matter. There on a low couch in the store office he
found the manager, but just regaining consciousness. A white doctor
was attending him, examining his entire body carefully for serious
injuries. The story of the encounter with the Americans was told most
graphically to the count by a number of native eye-witnesses, and each
described the strength of the “young David” as greater than that of
“Sampson” himself. The Kapuans are well up on the Bible and glory in
airing their knowledge.
Klinger, when he came to himself, made a great effort to rise, thinking
his antagonist was still before him, but the doctor’s strong hands,
applying wet bandages to a very ugly contusion over his temple, upon
which he had struck in his fall, held him quiet. The count had taken
a seat at his side. He wore a displeased frown as he listened to the
babble about him.
“Clear them out, please,” he exclaimed irritably. The women were sent
away, all but Klinger’s wife, Fanua, who waited patiently to be told
what to do.
Klinger at length sat up and gazed about him. He raised a hand to
his aching head and felt the great bulk of wet dressing plastered by
the doctor over his cut. Then he read the displeasure evident in the
count’s face.
“They did me,” he exclaimed. “One of them hit me with a black-jack.”
“You’ve made yourself the laughing stock of the town,” the count
declared angrily. “I’ve heard the story. It was simply science against
unwieldy beef.”
“I’ll show the young aristocrat,” the manager began to bluster, but the
count cut him short impatiently.
“You’ll just drop this thing where it is,” he commanded authoritatively.
“It was a childish piece of folly to put up that cartoon, and the
youngster has my admiration. You should thank your stars you haven’t a
broken neck instead of only a small cut in your hard head. He used
jujitsu on you.”
Such words did not sound sweet to Klinger’s ears. He was unaccustomed
to being taken to task thus wise, and the sullen expression on his face
showed plainly his displeasure.
“Get yourself in shape,” the count added, his voice less severe in
tone. “Kataafa and his chiefs have come to the consulate, and I won’t
trust any of these professional native interpreters.”
Klinger rose slowly to obey the summons. The count waited impatiently
on the porch of the store. He was not slow in seeing that the encounter
had hurt their cause. Anything that can be held up to ridicule by so
much is seriously injured. For policy’s sake he would have liked to
severely punish this young, athletic American. To do so would help the
prestige of the new government in the natives’ eyes, but he feared
that such high-handed measures might injure the cause for which he was
working by opposition from the Powers.
When the count and Klinger reached the consulate the rebel chiefs laid
before them the plan which they had been discussing among themselves.
On request of the count, Kataafa so far transgressed the ancient
Kapuan custom as to talk without the delay of speaking through the
“talking man,” while Klinger readily translated his well chosen and
eloquent words.
He desired the count to be at the head of the government as governor.
To take the place of chief justice of Kapua--to hoist the Herzovinian
flag by the side of the Kapuan flag and by so doing receive the support
of their war-ship. Further, he had written a “cry”[32] which he desired
be sent to the king of the count’s country, asking annexation. He
said the Kapuans were but children, and Kapua was but a bone between
three hungry dogs. He feared the coming of more war-ships, and would
willingly leave everything in the count’s wise hands.
Count Rosen was deeply thoughtful. The wanton pillage of the Kataafa
warriors and their barbarous killing and beheading of the native
supporters of the chief justice’s choice for king had greatly shocked
him. He had failed to appreciate the natural cruelty of even the
gentlest savages when their primitive passion for bloodshed is
aroused. Now to accept this petition and hoist the flag could not be
considered. If there had been no bloodshed, then his countrymen at home
might have upheld him if he hoisted the flag and even formally annexed
the islands. But he could offer as his excuse in accepting the office
of governor the desire to bring about peace and allow the commerce of
the islands to continue unchecked and in accordance with civilized law.
But first he must feel his ground slowly. The other two Powers looked
on with jealous eyes.
“I cannot be chief justice,” he said after a long pause, “until Judge
Lindsay has resigned that office. Send and ask him to continue in that
position, and if he refuses, Kataafa has the right to appoint another.”
A letter was quickly written and dispatched. Within a half hour a
verbal answer was returned to the effect that Judge Lindsay did not
recognize any king of Kapua save Panu, and that he, Lindsay, was yet
the chief justice.
The count smiled sardonically.
“I shall accept the position of governor and perform also the duties
of chief justice,” he said, “under the de facto government, but
annexation we shall discuss later. First we must begin to repair all
damage done, especially to the foreigners.”
Kataafa and his chiefs withdrew. They smiled triumphantly. They
believed all trouble had been lifted from their shoulders. This man,
the count, had relieved them of all disagreeable consequences of their
acts of violence. The men-of-war were undoubtedly afraid of him. So
argued the chiefs of the rebel leader. Upon the announcement that the
count was to be the adviser of Kataafa, the papalangi had carried their
sailors back to their ships. Now, since the count was equal to the king
or governor, maybe the war-ships would sail away “under the sea” and
not return. The other war-ships that people said were coming would be
afraid to let loose their thunder when they learned that this count and
representative of a powerful papalangi king was at the head of the new
government. With these quieting thoughts the stately chiefs filed out
of the consulate and turned toward the king’s residence at Kulinuu.
Count Rosen was not afraid of the consequences of his act. He gloried
in the thought that his country was nearer a settlement of the Kapuan
difficulty than she had ever been. Yet there were points in the
proceedings which gave him considerable concern. The principal one was
his knowledge that the American commander had discovered the source of
the Kataafa guns and doubtless also suspected that the rebellion of
the old warrior had been planned in order to create just the situation
by which the Americans and English now found themselves confronted. If
he only dared raise his country’s standard over the islands! The count
reasoned that Kapua would be taken by the country whom the natives
chose to govern them. Now he had the opportunity of showing them what
good government really meant, and if he could succeed in winning the
native confidence, his country would be the choice of the people. In
the last war the natives, when maltreated and coerced by the Kapuan
firm and the Herzovinian war-ships, appealed to England for annexation.
England would have liked to grant the request, but her rival’s
friendship at that time was needed more than were the Kapuan Islands;
so no notice was paid by the British Cabinet to the pitiful cry from
the far-away South Sea monarchy.
“Klinger,” the count said seriously, “you must take charge of the
native laborers. Repair all damage possible to foreign property and
guarantee to all just compensation. I shall grant full amnesty to all
the supporters of Panu-Mafili. Be careful,” he added severely. “Don’t
antagonize the foreigners. Don’t grab too much, or we may lose all.”
Within a week Ukula and the surrounding country was as peaceful as
before the death of the old king Laupepe. New houses were going up
on every hand, a sure sign of future peace in Kapua. By order of the
count, who had taken charge of the government of the islands in fact as
well as in fancy, guns could not be carried by the natives. The natives
were encouraged to indulge in their Siva-Siva dances, at which the
count made it his business to be present.
The English and American consuls maintained a haughty reserve when
they transacted business with the governor, as the natives called the
count, but a semi-friendly relation was soon established between him
and the naval officers.
The count provided himself a new house, built within a month, on the
bungalow style, but of native workmanship, and invited all to a dance
given in celebration of the opening.
The lawn in front of the house was on this occasion reserved for the
Siva-Siva dancers.
The count received his guests in the lanai. The stately figure of
Kataafa stood by his side and all visitors shook hands with him most
cheerfully as they entered to greet the host.
Phil and Sydney accompanied Commander Tazewell. Alice and her sister
came also, but Mr. Lee sent his regrets on account of indisposition.
The mail had not arrived from home, and both the British consul and
Mr. Lee considered it wiser in their official positions to refrain
from an act which might savor of a recognition of the justice of the
government. Judge Lindsay returned his invitation unopened.
The house was decorated profusely with bright bush flowers, and their
perfume mingling with the odor of cocoanut oil with which all Kapuans
plentifully adorn their skins, gave the occasion a distinction which
remained long in Phil’s memory.
Herzovinian and Kapuan flags entwined were everywhere in evidence.
Everybody of any consequence, whatever their nationality, was there
and the count moved at ease among them. He was, however, particularly
attentive to the American commander.
The best Siva-Siva dancers had been collected, and as the house was
entirely too small for the European dances, the guests were soon
gathered on the lawn, where many chairs and benches had been placed.
Two great bonfires had been built to furnish light in order to see the
graceful movements of the dancers.
The count had escorted Commander Tazewell to the lawn. Phil and his
friends fell in behind and found themselves in the front row where an
excellent view was to be had when the dancers appeared.
“Those old women are the orchestra,” Alice told them, pointing to a
dozen or more figures huddled up on mats beyond the illumination of the
bonfires.
Even as she spoke the count had raised his hand as a signal to begin.
Immediately the dim figures began to beat time with sticks upon their
mats; while from the darkness a volume of savage melody burst forth.
Then came slowly forward from the shadow into the illumination a score
of men in single file, their arms on each other’s shoulders. To Phil
it resembled the prison-gang step, but every move of their half-naked
bodies was graceful. The light reflected from their shiny skins gave a
startling effect. On each head was a green wreath. Gummed to cheeks,
ears and nose were hanging pendants of the leaves of the crimson
hibiscus flower. About their necks were worn circles of boar tusks
mixed with scarlet peppers and bright berries.
They entered, first slowly, singing a low and slow measure which
increased as their movements quickened, until with a final rush they
threw themselves into a squatting position on the ground facing the
numerous audience.
Great was the applause when an equal number of women suddenly made
their appearance from the opposite direction. Phil watched them
fascinated. On they came with pride and consciousness of exalted
position and importance. They were redolent and glistening with
perfumed oil. Garlands of bright leaves and vivid flowers, wonderfully
made, crowned their flowing locks. Like the men, necklaces from their
beloved bush adorned their graceful necks. About their slender waists
and hanging to the knee were fabulously valuable soft mats, their only
garments. Garlands of green leaves encircled their knees and ankles.
All this Phil knew vaguely before. His eager eyes clung to the leading
dancer’s face and did not leave it to define the marvelous costumes of
those following. The girl was Avao, and leading the Siva-Siva given by
Count Rosen and Kataafa. So surprised was he that he turned suddenly
toward Alice, a question bursting on his lips.
“Wait,” she breathed.
Avao, the Tapau of Ukula, daughter of Tuamana, the irreconcilable
loyalist, was dancing before his enemies, while he was still a
self-imposed exile on board the American war-ship. What did it mean?
Could it be that even Tuamana had been won by this remarkable foreign
nobleman?
At length the dancers were in place, in two rows, the women in front,
and all seated cross-legged. The Tapau with her marvelous head-dress
of human hair and mother of pearl, glistening in the firelight, sat
smiling proudly in the middle of her troupe. The orchestra, now
reinforced by many good voices, was keeping time. The dancers were
motionless as if struck from gleaming marble and then Avao raised her
arms, flinging them out with graceful ease, and as if the twoscore men
and women had been molded into a single figure, every arm was flung
out in perfect unison with their girlish leader. It was a drill of
the most difficult kind, requiring years of daily practice. No single
person seemed to lag or get out of time, while all the while a weird
chant rose and fell and finally as the movements, at first slow and
deliberate, took on a galloping pace, the high treble of the women and
the harsh bass of the men mounted to a pitch of delirious and savage
ecstasy and then suddenly stopped. A thunder of applause greeted the
marvelous performance. Phil for the first time withdrew his eyes from
the savage beauty of the scene and saw that hundreds of sailors of
all three nations had been admitted to the show. He recognized the
uniform of the American sailors and smiled with pleasure at their warm
reception to the efforts of Avao, to whom was due the credit for the
perfect dancing of the youth and maids of Ukula.
Figure after figure was performed. The enthusiasm of the natives rose
higher as the evening wore on.
Suddenly the band began to play the Kapuan national air, and all rose
to their feet. After it had finished all eyes were again turned to the
dancers.
Slowly, gracefully they swayed their supple bodies and arms. The
orchestra was silent except for the staccato time made by the sticks
striking the dry mats. The dancing and singing seemed to be done
subconsciously. No effort seemed to be used, yet all followed in
movement, in tune and in word, the leading Tapau, each performer
linking his own consciousness with the mind of the maiden as if
swayed by her will. What she did and said was done and said without
appreciable interval by each of the dancers. Such was the marvelous
degree of the training.
“This is the last,” Phil heard the count say. “It is a song in honor of
the king.”
Alice heard and smiled. Phil saw her lips tremble and her color pale in
the firelight.
“Panu-Mafili o le Tupu-e-Kapua--ah!”
A solemn hush came over the assemblage. The song gained volume, faster
and faster. Then a roar shook the air and the great concourse of native
spectators had risen to their feet.
The performers appeared not to appreciate the meaning of the crowd.
Phil had risen suddenly from his chair--ready, but for what he did not
know. The song had conveyed nothing to his mind. He had not understood
the words, so swiftly were they sung. A glance at the count told that
he, too, was in the dark. Phil was conscious of Alice’s trembling hand
on his arm and heard her whisper, “They are praising Panu-Mafili as
king instead of Kataafa. Avao is getting her revenge for being asked
to lead. You know a Tapau cannot refuse to dance if asked by a chief.”
With a final graceful sway the dancers jumped to their feet, their
hands held aloft in sign of finality. The audience had now completely
drowned the voices of the singers. Phil saw several chiefs rush toward
the dancers. The crowd was in an uproar. The dancers gave way before
the threat of those who had advanced, menacing them with bodily injury.
Avao stood almost alone, a smile of defiance upon her handsome face.
“Is she in danger?” Phil asked excitedly of Alice at his side. “Would
they dare injure her?” Before Alice could answer Phil perceived the
distorted countenance of Klinger. He had risen from his seat at some
distance from the count. Phil saw him talking and gesticulating with a
group of natives, pushing them forward, as if directing them to commit
some act which they were reluctant to do.
Avao, with unconcern in her face, appeared not to hear the torrent of
abuse heaped upon her from all sides. Several women darted toward her
and endeavored to tear her costume to pieces. She evaded these angry
rushes, but Phil saw that the temper of the crowd would not be appeased
until revenge upon this daring girl had been taken.
“Look,” Alice cried out joyfully; “the sailors are coming to her
rescue.” Phil saw a mass of white suddenly encircle the cringing
dancers and then face outward toward the crowd. He recognized O’Neil as
their leader, and wondered what would happen next.
Klinger was talking excitedly to the count. The latter had ceased to
smile. A dark frown was in his face. Then Phil noticed him raise his
hand to quell the disturbance. A loud voice of a chief at his side
warned all to silence. Slowly the babel died away.