with a handful of men armed with rifles of the latest device, as
against three hundred natives armed with spears, had been decorated
and was very proud. He also continued to exhibit his unique collection
of arms to all comers, when the mail boats came in. Nor did he see
their pathos. And in the jungles of the interior, where most of them
lived, the natives never knew of the existence of the little red flag,
and would not have understood if they had been told. Why? The white
men were kind and considerate. Easy and indulgent masters who in no
wise interfered with life as lived in the jungle. But with the native
troops who had fired upon their brothers it was different.
Thus it happened that the small coastwise steamer, going her usual
cruise among the islands and along the coast of one of the Seven Seas,
carried unusual freight. Being a very little boat, with a light cargo,
she was sometimes severely buffeted by the northeast monsoon, which
was blowing at that time of the year. On these days, when the monsoon
was strongest, the few passengers she carried were not comfortable. On
other days, when she found calm weather among the islands, it was very
pleasant. She dropped anchor from time to time in little bays
bordered with cocoanut tree, and from the bays emerged sampans with
vivid painted eyes on their prows, seeking out the steamer and the
bales of rice she carried, or the mails. The mails, consisting of half
a dozen letters for each port, were tied up in big canvas sacks,
sealed with big government seals, and the white men who lived on these
remote, desert islands, would come themselves to fetch them. They
paddled themselves to the steamer in pirogues or in sampans, white
faced, anæmic, apathetic, devoid of vitality. The great, overwhelming
heat of the Tropics, the isolation of life, in unknown islands in the
southern seas, makes one like that. Yet they were "making money" on
their island plantations of rubber or cocoanut, or expecting to make
it. It takes seven years of isolation in the tropic seas, after one
has started a plantation--and even then, many things may happen----
So the little steamer stopped here and there, at little, unknown bays,
at places not mentioned in the guide books, and from the beautiful,
desolate islands came out sampans and junks, with the lonely figure of
a white man sitting despondent among the naked rowers, eager to get
his letters from home. It was his only eagerness, but very dull and
listless at that. At night, the islands loomed large and mysterious in
the darkness, while now and then a single ray of light from some light
house, gleaming from some lost, mysterious island of the southern
seas, beamed with a curious constancy. There were dangerous rocks,
sunken reefs. And always the soft wind blew, the soft, enervating wind
of the Tropics.
On the fore part of the little steamer, that wound its way with
infinite care, slowly, among the sunken rocks, the shoals and
sandbars, sat a company of fifty men. Natives, such as you might see
back there in the jungle, or harnessed to the needs of civilization,
bearing the white man in rickshaws along the red streets of the little
town. These, however, were native troops--the rickshaw runner used in
another way. They were handcuffed together, sitting in pairs on the
main deck. In the soft, moist wind, they eat rice together, with their
free hands, out of the same bowl. Very dirty little prisoners, clad in
khaki, disarmed, chained together in pairs. A canvas was stretched
over that part of the deck, which sheltered them from the glaring sun,
and prevented the odour of them from rising to the bridge, a little
way above, where stood the Captain in yellow crêpe pyjamas. For they
were dirty, handcuffed together like that, unexercised, unwashed. They
would be put ashore in three days, however, to work on the roads,
government roads. Notoriously good roads, the colony has too. Their
offense? Grave enough. With the European world at war, this colony,
like those of all the other nations, had called upon its native
troops. The native troops had been loyal, had responded, had
volunteered to go when told they must. Proof of that? Forty thousand
of them at the moment helping in this devastating war. It was a good
record--it spoke well----
Only this handful had refused. Refused absolutely, flagrantly defiant.
Just this little group, out of all the thousands. So they were being
sent off somewhere, handcuffed, to make roads. Prisoners for three
years to make roads, useless roads that led nowhere. Good roads,
excellent, for traffic that never was. Some said they were the
soldiers who had been forced to kill their brothers a while
back--after that paltry revolution. One didn't know. They are stupid,
these natives. Chewing betel nut all day, their mouths a red, bloody
gash across their faces.
The ship stopped finally in some bay. Then a big, unwieldy junk put
out from shore, and tacked back and forth, for two hours, against a
strong head wind, coming to rest finally against the steamer's side.
Two big iron rods were put out, with a padlock at each end, and places
for twenty-five feet to be locked in. Then came European guards, with
rifles, and revolvers in big leather cases hanging at their sides. The
prisoners were very docile, but it was well to take precautions. When
all was ready, the prisoners filed out slowly and with difficulty,
because of their chains, and descended the gangway ladder to the
uncouth junk, with its painted, staring eyes. After that, the junk
slowly detached itself from the ship, unrolled its ragged matting
sails, and made towards the mainland with the docile cargo.
The third passenger leaned over the rail. A sweet breeze blew in from
the island, a scented breeze, laden with the heavy scents of the
Tropics. For three years, he said, they would labour at the futile
roads, the roads that led nowhere. Really, commented the third
passenger, it was impossible to understand the Oriental mind. They had
chosen this--this isolation, this cutting off from home and friends,
rather then go to Europe to serve the race that had treated them so
well. Afraid? Oh, no--too ignorant to be afraid. Brave enough when it
came to that--just obstinate. Just refused to serve, to do as they
were told. Refused to serve, to fight for the race that had treated
them so well, by and large, take it all in all. That had built them
towns and harbours, brought in ships and trade--had done everything,
according to best western standards. It was incomprehensible--truly it
was difficult to fathom the Oriental mind! The revolt a year ago? Oh,
nothing!
The big junk with the staring eyes carried them off, the supine,
listless prisoners, handcuffed together, foot-locked to an iron bar.
They must build roads for three years. Somewhere at the back of those
slow minds was a memory of the race course, of the brothers they had
slain. Perhaps. Who knows. But the Occidental mind does not understand
the Oriental mind, and it was good to be rid of them, dirty little
creatures, who smelled so bad under the awning of the main deck.
The anchor chain wound in, grating link on link. The soft, sweet wind
blew outward from the cocoanut trees, from the scented earth of the
island. The third passenger watched the junk disappear in the shadows
of the warm night, then he went below to get another drink.
PRISONERS
VI
PRISONERS
Mercier was writing his report for the day. He sat at a rattan table,
covered with a disorderly array of papers, ledgers and note books of
various sorts, and from time to time made calculations on the back of
an old envelope. He finally finished his work, and pushing back his
chair, lighted a cigarette. Unconsciously, he measured time by
cigarettes. One cigarette, and he would begin work. One cigarette and
he would start on the first paragraph. One cigarette, to rest after
the first paragraph before beginning the second, and so on. It was
early in the morning, but not early for a morning in the Tropics.
Already the sun was creeping over the edge of the deep, palm-shaded
verandah, making its way slowly across the wooden floor, till it would
reach him, at his table, in a very short time. And as it slowly crept
along, a brilliant line of light, so the heat increased, the moist,
stagnant heat, from which there was no escape. Outside some one was
pulling the punkah rope, and the great leaves of linen, attached to
heavy teak poles, swayed back and forth over his head, stirring
slightly the dense, humid atmosphere.
Mercier was a young man, not over thirty. He had come out to the East
three years ago, to a minor official post in the Penal Settlement,
glad of a soft position, of easy work, of an opportunity to see life
in the Tropics. At a port on the mainland, he transshipped from the
liner to a little steamer, which two days later dropped anchor in the
blue bay of his future home. At that time, he was conscious of being
intensely pleased at the picture spread before him. Long ago, in
boyhood, he had cherished romantic dreams of the Tropics, of islands
in southern seas, of unknown, mysterious life set in gorgeous, remote
setting. It had all appealed to his fancy, and then suddenly, after
many long years, sordid, difficult years, the opportunity had come for
the realisation of his dreams. He had obtained a post as minor
official in one of the colonies of his country--overseas in the Far
East--and he gladly gave up his dull, routine life at home, and came
out to the adventures that awaited him. The island, as he saw it for
the first time, was beautiful. Steep hills, rocky and mountainous,
rose precipitately out of the blue waters, and the rising sun glinted
upon the topmost peaks of the hills and threw their deep shadows down
upon the bay, and upon the group of yellow stucco bungalows that
clustered together upon the edge of the water, upon the narrow strip
of land lying between the sea and the sheer sides of the backing
mountains. The bay was a crescent, almost closed, and a coral reef ran
in an encircling sweep from the headland beyond, and the translucent,
sparkling waters of the harbour seemed beautiful beyond belief. His
heart beat wildly when for the first time he beheld his new home--it
exceeded in beauty anything that he had ever dreamed of. What mattered
it whether or no it was a Penal Settlement for one of the great,
outlying colonies of his mother country, two days' sail from the
nearest port on the mainland, the port itself ten thousand miles from
home. It was beautiful to look upon--glorious to look upon, and it was
glorious to think that the next few years of his life would be spent
amidst such surroundings. The captain of the coasting steamer told him
it would be lonely--he laughed at the idea. How could one be lonely
amidst such beauty as that! His thirsty soul craved beauty, and here
it was before him, marvellous, complete, the island a gem sparkling in
the sunlight, veiled in the shadow of an early morning. Lying
somewhere, all this beauty, one degree north or south of the Equator!
No, assuredly, he would not be lonely! Were there not many families on
the island, the officials and their families, a good ten or fifteen of
them? Besides, there was his work. He knew nothing of his work, of his
duties. But in connection with the prisoners, of course--and there
were fifteen hundred prisoners, they told him, concentrated on those
few square miles of island, off somewhere in the Southern Seas, a few
miles north or south of the Equator. He was anxious to see the
prisoners, the unruly ones of the colony. Strange types they would
appear to his conventional, sophisticated eyes. He saw them in
imagination--yellow skins, brown skins, black skins, picturesque,
daring, desperate perhaps. The anchor splashed overboard into the
shallow water, and the small steamer drifted on the end of the chain,
waiting for a boat to come out from shore. With the cessation of the
steamer's movement, he felt the heat radiate round him, in an
overpowering wave, making him feel rather sick and giddy. Yet it was
only six o'clock in the morning. Before the boat arrived from shore,
the sun had passed over the highest peak of the mountains and was
glaring down with full power upon the cluster of hidden bungalows, the
edges and ends of which bungalows protruded a little from the shelter
of vines and palm trees. White clad men came down to the beach, and a
woman or two appeared on the verandahs, and then disappeared back into
the verandahs, while the men came down to the water's edge alone. The
rowboat was pulled ashore by strong rowers, dark skinned, brawny men,
and as the boat neared the beach, other dark skinned brawny men took a
carrying chair and splashed out to meet the boat, inviting him by
gestures to step into the chair and be carried ashore. He forgot the
heat in the novelty of this new sensation--being carried ashore in a
chair, with the clear, transparent water beneath him, and wavy sands,
shell studded, over which the bearers walked slowly, with precision.
And then came his first hours on shore. How calmly they had welcomed
him, those white faced, pale men, with the deep circles beneath their
eyes. They looked at him with envy, it seems, as a being newly come
from contact with civilization, and they looked upon him with pity, as
a being who had deliberately chosen to shut himself off from
civilization, for a period of many years. He was taking the place of
one who was going home--and the man was in a desperate hurry to get
away. He looked ill, withal he was so fat, for he was very fat and
flabby, extraordinarily white, with circles beneath his puffy eyes
blacker and more marked than those on the other faces. The departing
official shook hands hurriedly with Mercier, and kissed his old
companions good-bye hurriedly upon both cheeks, and then hastened into
the chair, to get to the rowboat, to get to the steamer as soon as
possible. The other officials on the beach commented volubly on his
good fortune--ah, but he had the chance! What chance! What luck! What
fortune! They themselves had no luck, they must remain here how long,
ah, who knew how long! They all stood there upon the beach watching
the departing one until he reached the steamer, drifting idly at the
length of her anchor chain.
Then they remembered Mercier again, and surrounded him, not eagerly,
listlessly, and asked him to the office of the Administrator, to have
a cup of champagne. A cup of champagne, at a little after six in the
morning. As they walked slowly up the beach, Mercier spoke of the
beauty of the place, the extraordinary beauty of the island. They
seemed not to heed him. They smiled, and reminded him that he was a
newcomer, and that such was the feeling of all newcomers and that it
would soon pass. And in a body, ten of them, they conducted Mercier to
the bureau of the Administrator, a tired, middle aged men, who shook
hands without cordiality, and ordered a boy to bring a tray with a
bottle and glasses and mouldy biscuits, and they all sat together and
drank without merriment. It was dark in the Administrator's office,
for the surrounding verandah was very wide and deep, and tall bamboos
grew close against the edges of the railing, and a little way behind
the bamboos grew banana trees and travellers' palms, all reaching high
into the air and making a thick defence against the sunlight. The
stone floor had been freshly sprinkled with water, and the ceiling was
high, made of dark teak wood, and it was very dark inside, and damp
and rather cool. There was a punkah hanging from the ceiling, but it
stood at rest. Its movement had come to make the Administrator
nervous. He was very nervous and restless, turning his head from side
to side in quick, sharp jerks, first over one shoulder and then the
other, and now and then suddenly bending down to glance under the
table. Later on, some one explained to Mercier that the Administrator
had a profound fear of insects, the fierce, crawling, stinging things
that lived outside under the bamboos, and that crept in sometimes
across the stone paved floor, and bit. Only last week, one of the
paroled convicts, working in the settlement, had been bitten by some
venomous evil thing, and had died a few hours later. Such accidents
were common--one must always be on guard. Most people became used to
being on guard, but with the Administrator, the thing had become a
nightmare. He had been out too long--his nerves were tortured. It was
the heat, of course--the stifling, enervating heat. Few could stand it
for very long, and the authorities back home must have forgotten to
relieve the old man--he was such a good executive, perhaps they had
forgotten on purpose. The sub-officials were changed from time to
time, but the old man seemed to have been forgotten. He could not
stand it much longer--that was obvious.
Mercier went thoughtfully to the bungalow assigned to him, installed
his few meagre possessions, and entered without zest upon his work.
Somehow, the keenness had been taken out of him by that hour's
conversation in the darkened bureau of the Chief. The weeks passed
slowly, but Mercier never regained his enthusiasm. The physical
atmosphere took all initiative away. His comrades were listless
beings, always tired, dragging slowly to their daily rounds, and
finishing their work early in the morning before the heat became
intolerable. Then for hours they rested--retired to their bungalows or
that of a comrade, and rested, to escape the intense heat which never
varied, winter or summer, although it was a farce to speak of the
seasons as winter or summer, except in memory of home. Mercier soon
fell in with their ways. He drank a great deal, beginning very early
in the morning, and measured time by cigarettes, postponing his
duties, such that claimed him, till he had just finished another
cigarette. They were cheap and bad, but there was a solace in them,
and they whiled away the time. The only joviality about the place came
in the evenings, after many cigarettes, which made him nervous, and
after very many little glasses of brandy, which unfitted him for work
but which were necessary to stimulate him for what work he had to do.
Near the group of bungalows belonging to the officials and to the
prison guards, stood the prison building itself, a large, rambling,
one storeyed structure, with many windows fitted with iron bars. Here
the newcomers were kept, about eight hundred of them, and nearby, in
an adjacent compound, were quarters for about seven hundred prisoners
out on parole, by reason of good conduct. The confined prisoners did
not work, being merely confined, but those out on parole, on good
conduct, and whose terms would soon come to an end, were trusted to
work about the island in various capacities. They made the roads--such
few as there were. The island was so small that many roads were not
required, and since there was no traffic, but little labour was
required to keep the roads in repair. They also worked in the rice
fields, but, again, there were not many rice fields. It was easier to
bring rice from the mainland. There was a herd of water buffaloes,
used for ploughing during the season, and the buffaloes needed some
attention, but not much. So the paroled convicts were employed in
other ways about the island, in cooking for the prisoners, in cleaning
the various buildings, and as servants in the households of the
officials. Only the most trusted, however, were given such posts as
that. Yet it was necessary to trust many of them, and each official
had a large retinue of servants, for there was little settlement work
to be done, and something must be done with the men on parole, since
the prison itself was too small to hold fifteen hundred men under lock
and key at the same time. Moreover, these trusted ones were rather
necessary. In the Tropics, work is always done in a small,
half-hearted way, by reason of the heat which so soon exhausts the
vitality, consequently many people are required to perform the
smallest task.
Mercier, therefore, was obliged to accept the life as he found it, and
he found it different from the romantic conception which he had formed
at home. And he became very listless and demoralised, and the lack of
interests of all sorts bored him intolerably. He was not one to find
solace in an intellectual life. The bi-monthly call of the supply ship
with its stocks of provisions, the unloading of which he must oversee,
was the sole outside interest he had to look forward to. Old
newspapers and magazines came with the supply ship, and these were
eagerly read, and soon abandoned, and nothing was left but cigarettes
and brandy to sustain him between whiles.
On a certain morning, when he had been at the settlement for over a
year, he finished his daily report and strolled over to lay it upon
the desk in the office of the Administrator. The supply ship was due
in that day, and he wandered down to the beach to look for her. There
she was, just dropping anchor. His heart beat a little faster, and he
hastened his steps. It was cattle day. Bullocks from the mainland,
several hundred miles away, which came once a month for food. He took
his boat and rowed, out to the ship, and then directed the work of
removing the bullocks.
It was nasty work. The coolies did it badly. The hatch was opened, and
by means of a block and pulley, each bullock was dragged upward by a
rope attached to its horns. Kicking and struggling, they were swung
upwards over the side of the ship and lowered into the lighter below.
Sometimes they were swung out too far and landed straddle on the side
of the lighter, straddling the rail, kicking and roaring. And
sometimes, when the loosely moored lighter drifted away a little from
the ship's side, an animal would be lowered between the ship's side
and the lighter, and squeezed between the two--so crushed that when it
was finally hauled up and lowered safely into the boat, it collapsed
in a heap, with blood flowing from its mouth. The coolies did it all
very badly--they had no system, and as Mercier could not speak to them
in their language, he could not direct them properly. Besides, he was
no organiser himself, and probably could not have directed them
properly had he been able to speak to them. All he could do,
therefore, was to look on, and let them do it in their own way.
Sometimes as an animal was being raised, its horns would break, and it
would be lowered with a bleeding head, while the coolies stood by and
grinned, and considered it a joke. Mercier was still sensitive on some
points, and while long ago he had ceased to find any beauty in the
island, he was nevertheless disgusted with needless suffering, with
stupid, ugly acts.
There were only twenty cattle to be unloaded on this day, but it took
two hours to transfer them to the lighter, and at the end of that time
the tide had fallen so that they must wait for another six or eight
hours, in the broiling sun, until the water was high enough for the
lighter to approach the landing stage, where another block and pulley
was rigged. Which meant that later in the day--possibly in the hottest
part--Mercier would be obliged to come down again to oversee the work,
and to see that it was finished. For the cattle must be ashore by
evening--meat was needed for the settlement, and some must be killed
for food that night. Mercier was thoroughly disgusted with his work,
with his whole wasted life. Ah, it was a dog's life! Yet how eagerly
he had tried to obtain this post--how eagerly he had begged for the
chance, pleaded for it, besought the few influential people he knew to
obtain it for him.