On his way back along the Broom Road, under the lighted lamps that
marked the entrance to the palace grounds, Grief encountered a short,
rotund gentleman, in unstarched ducks, smooth-shaven and of florid
complexion, who was just emerging. Something about his tentative,
saturated gait was familiar. Grief knew it on the instant. On the
beaches of a dozen South Sea ports had he seen it before.
“Of all men, Cornelius Deasy!” he cried.
“If it ain't Grief himself, the old devil,” was the return greeting, as
they shook hands.
“If you'll come on board I've some choice smoky Irish,” Grief invited.
Cornelius threw back his shoulders and stiffened.
“Nothing doin', Mr. Grief. 'Tis Fulualea I am now. No blarneyin' of
old times for me. Also, and by the leave of his gracious Majesty King
Tulifau, 'tis Chancellor of the Exchequer I am, an' Chief Justice I am,
save in moments of royal sport when the king himself chooses to toy with
the wheels of justice.”
Grief whistled his amazement. “So you're Feathers of the Sun!”
“I prefer the native idiom,” was the correction. “Fulualea, an' it
please you. Not forgettin' old times, Mr. Grief, it sorrows the heart
of me to break you the news. You'll have to pay your legitimate import
duties same as any other trader with mind intent on robbin' the gentle
Polynesian savage on coral isles implanted. ----Where was I? Ah! I
remember. You've violated the regulations. With malice intent have you
entered the port of Fitu-Iva after sunset without sidelights burnin'.
Don't interrupt. With my own eyes did I see you. For which offence are
you fined the sum of five pounds. Have you any gin? 'Tis a serious
offence. Not lightly are the lives of the mariners of our commodious
port to be risked for the savin' of a penny'orth of oil. Did I ask: have
you any gin? Tis the harbour master that asks.”
“You've taken a lot on your shoulders,” Grief grinned.
“'Tis the white man's burden. These rapscallion traders have been
puttin' it all over poor Tui Tulif, the best-hearted old monarch
that ever sat a South Sea throne an' mopped grog-root from the imperial
calabash. 'Tis I, Cornelius--Fulualea, rather--that am here to see
justice done. Much as I dislike the doin' of it, as harbour master 'tis
my duty to find you guilty of breach of quarantine.”
“Quarantine?”
“'Tis the rulin' of the port doctor. No intercourse with the shore till
the ship is passed. What dire calamity to the confidin' native if
chicken pox or whoopin' cough was aboard of you! Who is there to protect
the gentle, confidin' Polynesian? I, Fulualea, the Feathers of the Sun,
on my high mission.”
“Who in hell is the port doctor?” Grief queried.
“'Tis me, Fulualea. Your offence is serious. Consider yourself fined
five cases of first-quality Holland gin.”
Grief laughed heartily. “We'll compromise, Cornelius. Come aboard and
have a drink.”
The Feathers of the Sun waved the proffer aside grandly. “'Tis bribery.
I'll have none of it--me faithful to my salt. And wherefore did you not
present your ship's papers? As chief of the custom house you are fined
five pounds and two more cases of gin.”
“Look here, Cornelius. A joke's a joke, but this one has gone far
enough. This is not Levuka. I've half a mind to pull your nose for you.
You can't buck me.”
The Feathers of the Sun retreated unsteadily and in alarm.
“Lay no violence on me,” he threatened. “You're right. This is not
Levuka. And by the same token, with Tui Tulifau and the royal army
behind me, buck you is just the thing I can and will. You'll pay them
fines promptly, or I'll confiscate your vessel. You're not the first.
What does that Chink pearl-buyer, Peter Gee, do but slip into harbour,
violatin' all regulations an' makin' rough house for the matter of a
few paltry fines. No; he wouldn't pay 'em, and he's on the beach now
thinkin' it over.”
“You don't mean to say----”
“Sure an' I do. In the high exercise of office I seized his schooner. A
fifth of the loyal army is now in charge on board of her. She'll be sold
this day week. Some ten tons of shell in the hold, and I'm wonderin'
if I can trade it to you for gin. I can promise you a rare bargain. How
much gin did you say you had?”
“Still more gin, eh?”
“An' why not? 'Tis a royal souse is Tui Tulifau. Sure it keeps my wits
workin' overtime to supply him, he's that amazin' liberal with it. The
whole gang of hanger-on chiefs is perpetually loaded to the guards. It's
disgraceful. Are you goin' to pay them fines, Mr. Grief, or is it to
harsher measures I'll be forced?”
Grief turned impatiently on his heel.
“Cornelius, you're drunk. Think it over and come to your senses. The
old rollicking South Sea days are gone. You can't play tricks like that
now.”
“If you think you're goin' on board, Mr. Grief, I'll save you the
trouble. I know your kind, I foresaw your stiff-necked stubbornness. An'
it's forestalled you are. 'Tis on the beach you'll find your crew. The
vessel's seized.”
Grief turned back on him in the half-belief still that he was joking.
Fulualea again retreated in alarm. The form of a large man loomed beside
him in the darkness.
“Is it you, Uiliami?” Fulualea crooned. “Here is another sea pirate.
Stand by me with the strength of thy arm, O Herculean brother.”
“Greeting, Uiliami,” Grief said. “Since when has Fitu-Iva come to be
run by a Levuka beachcomber? He says my schooner has been seized. Is it
true?”
“It is true,” Uiliami boomed from his deep chest. “Have you any more
silk shirts like Willie Smee's? Tui Tulifau would like such a shirt. He
has heard of it.”
“'Tis all the same,” Fulualea interrupted. “Shirts or schooners, the
king shall have them.”
“Rather high-handed, Cornelius,” Grief murmured. “It's rank piracy. You
seized my vessel without giving me a chance.”
“A chance is it? As we stood here, not five minutes gone, didn't you
refuse to pay your fines?”
“But she was already seized.”
“Sure, an' why not? Didn't I know you'd refuse? 'Tis all fair, an' no
injustice done--Justice, the bright, particular star at whose shining
altar Cornelius Deasy--or Fulualea, 'tis the same thing--ever worships.
Get thee gone, Mr. Trader, or I'll set the palace guards on you.
Uiliami, 'tis a desperate character, this trader man. Call the guards.”
Uiliami blew the whistle suspended on his broad bare chest by a cord
of cocoanut sennit. Grief reached out an angry hand for Cornelius, who
titubated into safety behind Uiliami's massive bulk. A dozen strapping
Polynesians, not one under six feet, ran down the palace walk and ranged
behind their commander.
“Get thee gone, Mr. Trader,” Cornelius ordered. “The interview is
terminated. We'll try your several cases in the mornin'. Appear promptly
at the palace at ten o'clock to answer to the followin' charges, to
wit: breach of the peace; seditious and treasonable utterance; violent
assault on the chief magistrate with intent to cut, wound, maim, an'
bruise; breach of quarantine; violation of harbour regulations; and
gross breakage of custom house rules. In the mornin', fellow, in the
mornin', justice shall be done while the breadfruit falls. And the Lord
have mercy on your soul.”