THE “DE FACTO” GOVERNMENT
“Bring the girl to me,” the count commanded.
The angry natives made way for the proud Tapau as she advanced toward
the governor. Phil read in their savage glances that this brave girl,
if she were left to their mercy, was in great danger.
In front of the count and Commander Tazewell, Avao stopped. Her eyes
were cast down, but she held her head high; then making a low bow she
bent her knee in sign of submission.
“Will you not sing for King Kataafa?” the count asked kindly. Phil
listened eagerly for her answer. The tumult about them was hushed.
“Alii,” Avao answered, “I have sung for the king of Kapua. Panu-Mafili
has been declared our king by the chief justice.”
Count Rosen’s face paled, and he bit his lips to suppress his great
annoyance and mortification. Klinger’s rough voice behind him was
distinctly audible.
“Throw her out. We can get another Tapau leader.”
“Will you not sing Kataafa’s praise?” the count asked, not heeding
Klinger’s interruption.
Avao gave her answer readily and distinctly.
“I will lead the song for Kataafa as a great chief, loved and honored
by his people.”
“Don’t bother with the cantankerous girl,” Klinger recommended brutally.
Commander Tazewell recognized the awkwardness of the situation. His
admiration was for the girl who had drawn down upon her head the anger
of most of her own race. Her loyalty to her father, Tuamana, and the
rightful king could not be shaken. He turned to the count, a smile on
his face.
“We are all greatly indebted,” he said, “for this delightful evening.
I thank you for myself, officers and men.” Then after wringing the
count’s hand, he turned gallantly to the silent Tapau.
“Will you take my arm?” he said.
To the surprise of everybody and the chagrin of the governor and
Klinger, Avao passed her arm through the American commander’s and
together they marched determinedly toward the gate. Phil, Sydney, and
Alice fell in behind, while the sailors, seeing that the other dancers
were not to be menaced by the crowd, the entire blame being placed
on the shoulders of their leader, the Tapau, quietly dispersed, and
withdrew from the grounds.
Having gained the road, Commander Tazewell relinquished his charge into
Alice’s keeping.
“You must come home with me,” the young girl declared. “Oh, Avao! I
could hug you, if it weren’t for all that smelly oil you have rubbed on
yourself.”
The midshipmen joined in praise of the heroine.
“Avao,” Commander Tazewell said as he was about to leave the party at
the dock to return to the ship, “your courage to-night was of a higher
order than mere men display. You have taught your own people and even
others a lesson in loyalty and honor. They did not see it then, but
some of them will after they have had time to think over your simple
words.
“What you said to the count,” he added as he shook her hand, “was
told to Kataafa by a chief at my side in his native tongue. The great
chief’s face showed no anger. I thought I read admiration and maybe a
consciousness of guilt. Kataafa, I fear, has been badly advised by his
trusted white friends.”
Avao was too greatly touched to express her gratitude in English. A
flood of her own poetic tongue, only partly understood by the American
captain, was her answer.
The midshipmen left the two young girls at the consulate and returned
toward the landing.
“It was the count’s own fault,” Phil declared. “He sent word to Avao
that she must lead, and by the Kapuan custom, a Tapau cannot refuse.”
“Well,” Sydney replied, “as O’Neil would say, ‘he got his!’”
The easy-going life of the natives in Kapua now seemed to have again
returned. Under the new government many improvements were made. The
streets of Ukula were cleaned, and a campaign was made by the new
government upon the native neglect in leaving their fruit to decay in
the open, thus increasing the great pest of flies. The trade of the
Kapuan firm flourished. The foreign traders, English and American,
complained to their consuls bitterly. No one would buy from them. When
they asked their farmer customers the reason, they received the smiling
answer, “We shall soon belong to Herzovinia, so we wish to see how we
like to buy our supplies from them.”
Several weeks thus went by without important disagreements between the
“de facto” government and the foreign consuls. Kataafa remained quietly
in Kulinuu. His army was not, however, disbanded. Their guns for the
time being were hidden from view, but the warriors who had assembled
from all parts of the islands in answer to the call of their choice
for king did not return to their homes. All the natives who had been
loyal to Panu, except the rightful king and his high chief Tuamana,
were again living their usual lives ashore. The latter two refused to
acknowledge Kataafa, and remained on board the “Sitka.” The two rival
factions lived side by side, apparently without discord. The women
engaged in many heated altercations, and frequently spread disquieting
alarms of impending strife between the two political parties, but
nothing ever came of these prophecies except now and then a personal
encounter between natives of diverging views, which was settled without
recourse to anything more hurtful than fists and clubs.
One day the whole town of Ukula was ringing with the news of a murder.
A black boy, a Solomon Islander, on the Kapuan firm’s plantation at
Vaileli had been deliberately shot and killed by a Kataafa warrior.
The latter after committing the crime strolled proudly into the town,
boasting that he had shot a “black pig.”
Phil and Sydney were in the consulate when Avao brought this
sensational news.
Killing during a war was looked upon by the foreigners as in the order
of things, but during peace times such crimes could not be tolerated.
“Give a child a gun,” Phil exclaimed, “and there’s no telling what will
happen.”
Alice drew all the gruesome particulars from her native girl friend,
and retailed them to the midshipmen.
“He did it just to see how his gun would shoot,” she told them. “And
when he found the bullet wouldn’t kill the black boy at the first shot
he walked up close and shot him twice more, then severed his head from
his body and brought it to town to show the wonderful power of the
rifle.”
“What will they do about it?” Sydney asked.
Alice shook her head.
“The murdered black belongs to the Kapuan firm,” she replied. “He
was worth about a thousand dollars. Under the Kapuan law there is no
penalty for murder, but under the laws of the treaty the penalty is
death.”
Every one was greatly surprised when they heard that the murderer
had been arrested by Johnny Upolu, on a warrant issued by the count
himself, and he would be tried by the native court of Ukula.
The midshipmen and Alice did not miss the trial. It was simple, and
after the episode was told, the accused refused to make any defense.
For three days the judges deliberated over their verdict.
“It’s a wonder to me,” Mr. Lee said, on his porch after the trial was
over and before the verdict had been given, “that there haven’t been
more of these terrible affairs. Nearly five thousand natives now have
guns hidden in their homes and there’s no telling when the lust to kill
will come to some of them. As I watched this murderer’s face during his
trial, I could see no signs of penitence. He seemed to be proud of his
exploit. If they would hang this fiery young warrior publicly it would
make me think more kindly of the count and his government.”
The midshipmen readily agreed to the sentiment.
“But,” Phil objected, “the count is trying to gain popularity with all
the natives, and if they hang this man for only killing a black slave,
the natives will consider they have been treated unjustly. I doubt
whether the man will be punished.”
“If he is not,” Mr. Lee exclaimed, “it will be a blot upon our
civilization, and I, as American consul, will strongly condemn the
morals of this unrighteous government that permits a murderer to move
among us unpunished; in fact, worshiped by the others as a hero.”
Mary Hamilton paid the consul and his family a long visit. Her husband
was one of the five judges who were still considering what to do and
she was eager to learn what the American “Alii” thought, in order that
she could go back and give good advice to her lord and master.
“It is very difficult,” she said in remarkably good English; “if they
find the man guilty and order his death all our people will cry out
upon the judges for hanging a brave warrior who has done nothing wrong
fa’a Kapua. To kill a ‘black’ man is all the same as shooting a pig.
And,” she added, “if they say what they would like to say and set the
man free, the count and Missi Klinger will be very angry, and after we
belong to their country will punish the judges severely.”
Mr. Lee laughed, despite the seriousness in Mary’s voice.
“It’s their duty, Mary,” he replied, “to find according to the facts.
If this man killed another deliberately and without provocation they
should condemn him to be hung. If the man were a white man and I were
the judge that is what I should be bound to do.”
Mary looked puzzled.
“But, Alii,” she replied, “this man is a very good man. He is a fine
fighter, and a leader among the men of his family. This black boy was
no good. Is it right that a good man be killed just because a bad black
boy is killed?”
“A life for a life, Mary,” Mr. Lee replied firmly. “That is the white
man’s law.”
The next day the judges gave their decision. It was that the native was
guilty of murder and must be hung.
The midshipmen were passing the jail a few days after the sentence had
been given. They saw the prisoner squatting quietly within the doorway
of the prison, talking unconcernedly with his policeman guard.
“I feel sorry for that poor chap,” Sydney said sadly. “He’s a victim of
white interference. Why should we force our laws upon these savages?
According to his method of thinking, he has done no more than step
on a cockroach, and he can’t see why we make so much fuss about it.
Anyway, he doesn’t seem to be worrying--nature has omitted nerves in
his make-up.”
Phil had drawn near and now spoke a few words to the condemned man, who
smiled affably and pointed gleefully into the next room, where several
natives were going through some mysterious looking pantomime.
“Go ahead; don’t mind us, Johnny,” Phil exclaimed as the chief of
police and his assistants stopped their performance and glanced
sheepishly at the midshipmen.
“By George!” Sydney exclaimed in horror. “A rehearsal before the
principal.”
One policeman was carefully greasing a wicked looking rope with a
knot and noose at one end. Three others were practicing pinioning and
“turning off”[33] the culprit. One, to make the scene realistic to
their admiring audience, was chained and placed in the corner of the
room. The other two then would approach with straps in their hands,
knock off the shackles from the supposed condemned man and quickly
pinion him. Then the three would march slowly to the middle of the
room. They adjusted an imaginary noose, drew on a real black cap over
the make-believe prisoner’s head, adjusted the straps and then at a
sharp word of command, all but the make-believe condemned man stepped
smartly aside, and then one went through the motion of springing the
trap upon which the blindfolded policeman was supposed to stand. Johnny
Upolu told the midshipmen proudly that they had practiced it over a
hundred times already, and hoped that it would be a sight worth seeing,
and advised them not on any account to miss the real hanging.
The prisoner understood sufficient English to understand and smiled,
adding his wish that they should not miss the show.
“How’s that for nerve?” Phil exclaimed. “Sitting there watching himself
hung and actually smiling over it. I’m certainly not going to miss the
real thing. I wonder if his splendid nerve will break down at the last?”
The day of execution was set at a week hence. The “de facto”
government, as the British and American consuls insisted upon calling
it, apparently had decided that in the interest of civilization the
dread sentence of the law should be carried out with due decorousness.
Stump, who was by trade a carpenter and who had in some unaccountable
way been experienced in erecting gallows, was seen directing the
erection of a novel sort of framework on the public “Malae”[34] at
Kulinuu.
“Who gave you the job?” O’Neil asked Stump, after he and Marley had
watched the work for several minutes.
Stump did not answer; instead he drew near the boatswain’s mate and
whispered anxiously:
“‘Bully’ Scott hasn’t left the islands yet. He and the ‘Talofa’ are
around at Saluafata harbor, the other end of the island. He sent me
word by a native to come back, or he’d come and get me.”
“You don’t believe he will, do you?” O’Neil asked.
“There ain’t many things he won’t do when he sets his mind to it,”
Stump replied nervously. “Klinger offered me this job,” he added. “I’ve
done some smart carpentering in my time. I’ve got to earn enough money
to pay my way back to ‘Frisco.’”
O’Neil’s sympathy was aroused at once.
“You’re an American,” he said. “Why don’t you ship in the navy? We need
a carpenter.”
Stump shook his head.
“No more going to sea for Ben Stump. I’m going home and look up my
folks.”
“When’s this show coming off?” O’Neil asked, changing the subject; he
saw Stump wasn’t keen to go in the navy again.
“Between you and me, Mr. O’Neil,” Stump confided, “I don’t believe
this here gallows will ever grow any fruit.” Stump was about to say
more, but perceiving Klinger riding his pony toward them, he shuffled
awkwardly away, and began again to direct his native workmen.
“Did he mean they ain’t going to hang this murderer?” Marley asked of
his friend.
O’Neil nodded. “I think he did,” he replied, “and I guess he’s about
right.”
The day before the execution a rumor passed through the native
population that the man who had killed the black boy would not be hung,
after all.
Alice brought the gossip to the consulate.
“They would hardly dare a rescue,” Mr. Lee declared.
“O’Neil said he had heard from Stump, the man who built the gallows,
that it wouldn’t be used,” Phil informed them.
“Just playing to the gallery, I reckon,” Commander Tazewell suggested.
“If I were only sure the poor fellow won’t be hung,” Alice said
earnestly, “I’d go and see the ceremony.”
“It’s no place for women,” Mr. Lee said reprovingly. “On the contrary,
if I thought the ‘de facto’ government was honest in its desire to
promote the Kapuan morals instead of making a fiasco out of it, I’d go
and occupy a front row seat.”
The next day when Phil and Sydney with many other curious white men,
both from shore and the war-ships, reached the Malae, they found
gathered a great throng of natives of both sexes.
“I guess Stump, O’Neil and all the rest of them were wrong,” Phil
said, after they had taken their seats and noted that the hour set had
nearly arrived. Below the gallows the prisoner sat in a chair, just
as unconcerned as he had been when he watched the pantomime rehearsal
of his own death. Mr. Carlson, in full consular uniform, was the only
official present. The king, with the count seated on his right hand,
was a few yards in front of the gallows. A company of native soldiers
under arms was drawn up near the high structure. Klinger was standing
off by himself apparently only an interested spectator.
Phil saw Stump behind the prisoner; apparently, he was to advise the
native hangman, and make sure that there would be no painful error in
the proceedings.
“It’s a life for a life,” Sydney exclaimed turning almost sick, as he
saw the prisoner jerked to his feet by Johnny Upolu and his two drilled
assistants. The irons were quickly struck off and the man’s arms
pinioned in a manner that reflected great credit upon Johnny. A native
band suddenly struck up a doleful march, and the death party, keeping
perfect time, moved off to the very foot of the ladder of the gallows.
“I’m sorry I came,” Phil said nervously. “I don’t want to see the poor
fellow put to death.”
“Look!” Sydney exclaimed. The Herzovinian consul had risen and was
walking toward the king. The music suddenly stopped. The prisoner, held
on each side by a policeman, was stopped, one foot already upon the
ladder to the platform.
The midshipmen gazed in wonder at the sudden interruption. They saw the
consul present a paper to the king, who quietly read it, then bowed his
affirmative answer.
“A reprieve,” Phil exclaimed. “I’m glad of it, and I’ll never go to
another hanging.” Both suddenly laughed nervously. They were glad in
their young hearts that the murderer was not to expiate his crime on
the gallows.
A talking man rose to tell the people. The midshipmen could not
understand a word, but the effect upon the crowd showed the news was
to their liking. Suddenly several voices were raised in song; slowly
the volume increased until every native had joined in. It was a song of
praise for Herzovinia.
“A play for popularity,” Sydney said disgustedly as they moved away
toward the road and back to the landing. “And another step toward
annexation.”