Raka-hanga is a dot of an island in the mid-Pacific, and so far from
anywhere that it doesn't belong to a group--as most islands do--but is
all by its lonesome in the heave and roll of the emptiest ocean in the
world. In my time it was just big enough to support two traders, not
counting old man Fosby, who had sort of retired and laid down life's
burden in a Kanaka shack, where if he did anything at all it was making
bonito hooks for his half-caste family or playing the accordion with his
trembly old fingers.
It was me and Stanley Hicks that divided the trade of the place, which
was poor to middling, with maybe a couple of hundred tons of copra a
year and as much pearl shell as the natives cared to get. It was deep
shell, you understand, and sometimes a diver went down and never came
up, and you could see him shimmering down below like the back of a
shark, as dead as a doornail. Nobody would dive after that, and a whole
year might pass with the Kanakas still holding back unless there was a
church assessment or a call for something special like a sewing machine
or a new boat. It averaged anywhere from five tons to sixty, and often,
as I said, nothing at all.
I had got rooted in Raka-hanga, and so had Stanley Hicks, and though we
both had ideas of getting away and often talked of it, we never
did--being like people half asleep in a feather bed, with life drifting
on unnoticed, and the wind rustling in the palms, and one summer day so
like another that you lost count of time altogether.
You would have to go far to see a prettier island than Raka-hanga, or
nicer, friendlier, finer-looking people; and when I say they never
watered their copra on us, nor worked any of those heartbreaking
boycotts to bring prices down, you can realize how much out of the
beaten track it was and how little they had yet learned of civilization.
They were too simple and easy-going for their own good and that's a
fact, for they allowed David, the Tongan pastor, to walk all over them,
which he did right royal with his great, fat, naked feet; and when
anything didn't please this here David nor the deacons, they stuck him
or her in the coral jail and locked the door on him--or her--as the case
might be and usually was.
We were what might be called a republic, having no king and being
supposed to be ruled by the old men, who met from time to time in a
wickerwork building that looked more like a giant clothes-basket than
anything resembling a house. Yes, Raka-hanga was an independent country,
and no flag floated over us but our own--or would have if we had had
one, which we hadn't. Of course Stanley and I knew it could not last
like this forever, and even the natives weren't unprepared for our being
annexed some day by a passing man-of-war--though all hoped it would go
on as it was, with nobody interfering with us nor pasting proclamations
on trees. It is all very fine to see "GOD SAVE THE QUEEN" _or_
"VIVE LA REPUBLIQUE" at the bottom of a proclamation, but
Stanley and I knew it meant taxes and licenses and penal servitude if
you did this or failed to do that, and all those other blessings that
are served out to a Pacific island when one of the great powers suddenly
discovers it on the map.
Our republic was more in name than anything else, for old David, the
missionary, ruled the island with a rod of iron, and was so crotchety
and tyrannical that no Kanaka could call his soul his own. Every night
at nine he stood out in front of his house and rang a hand bell, and
then woe betide any one who didn't go to bed instanter and shut up, no
matter if it were in the full of the moon and they in the middle of a
game of cards or yarning sociable on an upturned boat.
One had to get up just as military and autocratic--and as for dancing,
why the word itself could hardly be said, let alone the actual thing,
which meant the jail every time and a dose of the pastor's whip thrown
in extra. It was a crime to miss church, and a crime to flirt or make
love, and the biggest crime of all was not to come up handsome with
church offerings when they were demanded. If you will believe me it was
a crime to _grieve_ too much if somebody died--if the dead person were
married that is, and if you were of the opposite sex and not closely
related!
As I said before, the natives were so easy-going that they took it all
lying down, and allowed this here David to swell into a regular despot,
though there must have been coming on two thousand of them, and him with
nothing but his bell and his whip and his big roaring voice. Naturally
he did not dare interfere with us white men, though Stanley and I toed
the line more than we liked for the sake of business and keeping clear
of his ill will. The only one who wasn't scared of the old Tartar, and
stood right up to him, was a hulking big Fijian, named Peter Jones.
Nobody knew how he came by that name for there wasn't a white drop in
his body, he being unusually dark and powerful and full of the Old Nick,
and with a mop of hair on him like you never saw, it was that thick and
long and stood out on end all round his head which was the Fiji fashion
of wearing it.
Peter could lick his weight in wildcats, as the saying goes, and was
always ready to do it at the fall of a hat. He was a bullying,
overbearing individual and had terrorized his way into a family and
married their daughter, helping himself promiscuous, besides, to
anything he fancied, with nobody daring to cross him nor complain.
Stanley and I were afraid of him and that's the truth, and gave him a
little credit for peace and quietness' sake, which was well worth an
occasional can of beef or a fathom or two of Turkey cotton.
Once, when there was a ship in, he got most outrageously drunk, and
rolled about the village, singing and yelling--swigging from the bottle
he carried and stumbling after the girls, trying to hug them. If ever
there was a scandal in Raka-hanga it was the sight of this
six-foot-three of raving, roaring savage, rough-housing the place upside
down and bellowing insults at the top of his lungs. But nothing was done
to stop him till the liquor took its course, and then old David, he
gathered the Parliament about him, and ran him into the jail with a
one-two-three like a sack of oats.
But Peter Jones was none of your stand-up-at-the-altar-and-repent-boys,
being a white man by training, if not by blood, and after he had sobered
up, what if his wife didn't smuggle him in a knife, and what if he
didn't dig his way out! Yes, sir, that's what Peter Jones did--dug
through the gravel floor and tunneled out, rising from the grave, so to
speak, to the general uproar and hullabaloo of the entire settlement.
Then--no one stopping him--he armed himself with an old Springfield
rifle and an ax and a crowbar, and the cry went up he was going to
murder the pastor, with the children running along in front and the
women screaming.
But Peter wasn't gunning for any missionary, which even in Raka-hanga
might have had a nasty comeback--the natives being mild but not cowards,
and beginning to buzz like hornets and reach for their shark-tooth
spears. No, what Peter was inflamed against was the coral jail, which he
set at most ferocious with crowbar and ax until it was nothing but a
heap of rubbish. Then he shot holes through the galvanized roofing, and
burned it in a blazing fire along of the iron-studded door and window
framing. By this time the missionary was trying to raise the multitude
against Peter, but they were none too fond of the coral jail themselves
and did nothing but hoot and shout like a pack of boys at a circus,
which indeed it was and enough to make you split your sides laughing.
After that Peter was let alone and nobody dared cross him, no matter
what he did.
But this is all by the way to give you an idea of what Raka-hanga was
like, and make the rest of the yarn the easier to understand. I shall
always feel sorry all my life that Stanley and I were off fishing on the
windward side of the island and thereby missed Clemm's arrival in the
lagoon, which was well over before we got there, with the stern of a
ten-oared boat heading for a man-of-war, and Clemm himself standing
kind of helpless on the beach in the midst of all his chests and boxes
and bedding.
He made a splendid appearance in his white clothes and shirt and
pipe-clayed shoes and pith-helmet, being a short, thick-set man with
gray hair and a commanding look. When we came running up he spoke to us
very grand, though genial, saying: "Gentlemen, I am the new Resident
Deputy Commissioner, and I call on you to assist me raise the flag and
annex this island in the name of her Royal and Imperial Majesty, Queen
Victoria!"
At this he took his hat off, and we did the same, though I am an
American, and then went on to tell us that he had just been landed by
H.M.S. _Ringarooma_ to take possession of the island, and would we
kindly inform the natives and escort him to the king.
On learning we were a republic and that it would take time to assemble
the old men, he condescended to accept my hospitality for a spell, and
was most pleased and gracious at the little we could do in his honor.
Meanwhile messengers were sent to gather in the chiefs and tell them the
great news, and how the Commissioner was soon coming to meet them in the
"Speak-house," as the natives called the wickerwork. Mr. Clemm said the
_Ringarooma_ had been sent under hurry orders to annex right and left in
order to forestall the French, who had broken their international
agreement and were hoisting their flag all over the place. He also
explained that was the reason why the man-of-war could not stop, it
being a neck-and-neck race between her and the French which could reach
the Tokelaus first. Between drinks he likewise showed us his commission,
which was written very big and imposing on crinkly paper, with seals,
where he was called "Our well-beloved and right trusty James Howard
Fitzroy Clemm, Esquire,"--as well as the flag he had brought with him,
which was an eight-by-twelve ensign, with the halyards all ready to run
it up.
I can tell you Stanley and I were mighty proud to escort the Deputy
Commissioner to the Parliament, which we did slow and stately in our
best pajamas, with the natives reverencing him as he passed and eying us
two most respectful. The old men were there in rows, and also David, the
pastor, who took the interpreting out of my hands and as usual hogged
the whole show. Perhaps it was as well he did, for he had a splendid
voice and a booming way of speaking that suited the grandeur of the
occasion.
Then Mr. Clemm's commission was read aloud, first by him in English and
then by David in Kanaka, and afterwards the Commissioner made a rousing
speech, all about the loving English and the low, contemptible French,
and at the end he asked everybody to hold up his right hand who wished
to be a loyal, faithful, obedient subject of the Great Queen.
Up shot every hand most grateful at the narrow escape they had had of
being French; and then outside it was again repeated, even the children
holding up their little paws, and the flag hoisted temporary to a
coconut palm amid shouts of rejoicing led off by Stanley and me and
Peter Jones who had followed along after us.
The next question was where to lodge the Commissioner till a proper
house could be built for him, and he showed he wasn't a gentleman to be
trifled with by cutting short their jabber, and choosing Fono's, which
was the finest in the settlement, and ordering him to clear out, bag and
baggage--which Fono didn't want to do and objected very crossly till
Peter Jones snatched up a rock and ran at him like he meant to pound his
head in. This pleased Mr. Clemm so much that he right off appointed
Peter marshal of his court at a salary of forty dollars a month, and put
him in charge of shifting his things into his new quarters.
I took the liberty of warning Mr. Clemm against the Fijian, but he only
threw back his head and told me most cutting to kindly mind my own
business. But any rancor I might have felt at this disappeared when he
made me clerk of the court, and Stanley tax collector, each at a salary
of sixty dollars a month, with David "Native Adviser and Official
Interpreter" at the same figure.
This was the beginning of the new government, with everything old done
away with, and the first official sign of it was a brand-new,
white-painted flagpole with crosstrees and ratlines in front of the fine
big house that was next built for the Commissioner to live in. The
natives had to do this for nothing, supplying forty men, turn and turn
about, though the galvanized iron, hardware, paint, varnish and what not
were bought of Stanley and me, and paid for in taxes. It was a very fine
place when done, with a broad veranda in front and an inner court
behind, where Mr. Clemm used to lie in a striped hammock, waited on hand
and foot.
But I fancy the wicked French couldn't have taxed the Kanakas any harder
than Mr. Clemm did, which was the best thing in the world for them,
considering how slack they were by nature and not given to doing
anything they could help. It only needed a little attention to double
the copra crop of the island, not to speak of shell--so that the taxes
were a blessing in disguise, the natives being better off than they had
ever been before. Of course they didn't like it and put up a great deal
of opposition till Mr. Clemm raised a Native Constabulary of seven men,
commanded by Peter Jones, and all of them armed any way he could,
including Stanley's shotgun and my Winchester repeater, old man Fosby's
Enfield and several rusty Springfields pounced on here and there as
against the law to own them.
They were tricked out very smart in red _lavalavas_ and white drill
coats, and being all of them of the obstreperous, no-good class like
Peter, they were soon the terror of the island. Not that Mr. Clemm
didn't keep them tight in hand, but when it came to an order of court or
any backwardness in taxes he never seemed to care much whom they
plundered and beat, which was what they reveled in and thirsted for the
chance of.
Old David was the first to feel the weight of authority, and I believe
his job of Native Adviser was merely a plan to keep him in good humor
till Mr. Clemm was ready to squash him, which Mr. Clemm did three months
later most emphatic. The Kanakas were forbidden to contribute to the
church, and the pastor's private laws were abolished, and there was no
more excommunicating nor jail for church members nor any curfew either.
The natives went wild with joy--all except a few old soreheads that are
always to be found in every community--and the only folks who were now
forced to go to church were the Native Constabulary, who lined up
regular to keep tab on what the missionary preached, and arrest him for
sedition in case he let his tongue run away with him.
In private, however, old David made all the trouble he dared, and tried
to hearten up his followers by saying there would be a day of reckoning
for Mr. Clemm when the missionary vessel arrived on her annual
visit--at which the Commissioner pretended to laugh but couldn't hide he
was worried. Leastways he asked a raft of questions about the _Evangel
of Hope_, and that with a ruminating look, and about the character of
the people in charge which were Captain Bins and the Reverend T. J.
Simpkins. The _Evangel of Hope_ never stayed any longer than to land a
few stores and hymn books for the pastor and take off what copra and
shell he had acquired by way of church subscriptions. At that time she
was about due in two months, and we all laughed at the empty larder she
was going to find, though, as I said, Mr. Clemm seemed worried,
remarking it was hard to be misrepresented and slandered when his only
thought was for the good of the island.
He was certainly upsetting things very lively and bossed the island like
it belonged to him. If the natives could play all they wanted, now that
David was deposed, they had bumped into something they had never known
before and that was--work. The Commissioner couldn't abide laziness in a
Kanaka, and went at them terrific, building a fine road around the
island and another across it, with bridges and culverts, where he used
to ride of a sundown in a buggy he had bought off Captain Sachs of the
_H. L. Tiernan_, with men tugging him instead of horses, and the Native
Constabulary trotting along in the rear like a Royal Progress.
He built a fine-appearing wharf, too, and an improved jail with a cement
floor, and heaven help anybody who threw fish-guts on the shore or
didn't keep his land as clean as a new pin. There was a public well made
in the middle of the settlement, with cement steps and a white-painted
fence to keep away the pigs, and the natives, though they hated to work,
were proud, too, of what they had done, and I doubt if they had ever
been so prosperous or freer of sickness. I know Stanley and I doubled
our trade, in spite of having to take out heavy licenses, which meant
that not only we, but everybody else were that much better off. Petty
thieving disappeared entirely, and likewise all violence, and one of the
Commissioner's best reforms was a land court where titles were
established and boundaries marked out, that stopping the only thing the
Kanakas ever seriously quarreled about. Six months of the Commissioner
had revolutionized the island, and few would have cared to go back to
the old loose days when your only Supreme Court was the rifle hanging on
your wall.
Well, it grew nearer and nearer for the _Evangel of Hope_ to arrive, and
Mr. Clemm he began to do a most extraordinary thing, which was nothing
else than a large cemetery! Yes, sir, that's what Mr. Clemm did, tearing
down five or six houses for the purpose on the lagoon side, nigh the
wharf, and planting rows on rows of white headstones, with low mounds
at each, representing graves. There must have been a couple of hundred
of them, and often it was a whitewashed cross instead of a stone or
maybe a pointed stake--the whole giving the impression of a calamity
that had suddenly overtaken us.
It was no good asking him what it was for; the Commissioner wasn't a man
to be questioned when he didn't want to be; all he said was that Stanley
and I were to stick inside our stores when the ship came and not budge
an inch till we were told. With us orders were orders, but the Kanakas
were panicky with terror, and that cemetery with nobody in it seemed to
them like tempting Providence. It took all of Mr. Clemm's authority to
keep them quiet, and it got out that the Commissioner was expecting the
end of the world, and the graves were for those that wouldn't go to
heaven! Kanakas are like that, you know--spreading the silliest rumors
and making a lot out of nothing--though in this case they couldn't be
blamed for being considerable scared. But Mr. Clemm knew how to turn
everything to account, and on the principle that the church was the
safest place to be found in on the Day of Judgment, ordered that
everybody should go there the moment he fired three pistol shots from
his veranda. I noticed, however, that the Native Constabulary seemed to
be taking the end of the world mighty calm, which looked like they had
been tipped off ahead for something quite different.
But the meaning of the cemetery appeared later when one morning, along
of ten or so, my little boy came running in to say the _Evangel_ was
sighted in the pass. Of course, I stuck indoors, mindful of
instructions, though that didn't prevent me from looking out of my upper
window and taking in all that happened. The first was a tremendous
yellow flag raised on the Commissioner's staff, and the second were
those three pistol shots which were to announce the Day of Judgment.
Then you ought to have seen the settlement scoot! There was a rush for
the church like the animals at the Ark, though old David, the pastor,
wasn't any Noah. Him and the deacons were led down to the jail and
locked in, and then Peter Jones and his constables divided into two
parties--three of them returning to the church, while the other three
with Peter got a boat ready, with another yellow flag in the stern.
By this time the missionary vessel was well up under a spanking spread
of canvas, with the water hissing at her bows and parting white and
sparkling in a way dandy to watch. You could almost feel her shiver at
the sight of Peter's yellow flag rowing towards her, and through the
glass I noticed a big commotion aboard, with half a dozen racing up the
rigging and making signs at those below. It was plainer than words that
they had seen the cemetery and were struck of a heap, which was no
wonder considering how new and calamitous it looked, with them rows on
rows of neat little headstones and nicely mounded graves.
She never even dropped her anchor nor lowered her gangway, but hove to,
short; and when Peter came up he was made to lay on his oars and keep
his distance, yelling what he had to say with both hands at his face
while the captain he yelled back with a speaking trumpet. Of course I
didn't hear a word, but it was easy enough to put two and two together,
remembering the sea meaning of a yellow flag which is seldom else than
smallpox. Yes, that was why we had all took and died in the new
cemetery, and that was why the settlement looked so lifeless and
deserted! After no end of a powwow they hoisted out a boat, and when it
was loaded to the gunwales with stores and cases, it was cast off for
Peter to pick up and take in tow. It held half a ton of medical
comforts, and I often had the pleasure of drinking some of them
afterwards on Mr. Clemm's veranda, where we all agreed it was prime
stuff and exactly suited to our complaints.
What old David thought of it all through the bars of the coral jail can
only be left to the imagination. He had been banking on the _Evangel_ to
turn the scales against Mr. Clemm, and there she was heading out of the
lagoon again, not to return for another year! We celebrated it that
night with medical comforts unstinted, while the natives they
celebrated, too, thankful to find the world still here and the Day of
Judgment postponed. Old David wrote a red-hot protest, countersigned by
the deacons, and not knowing what else to do with it, sealed it in a
demijohn and threw it into the sea, where like enough it still is,
bobbing around undelivered to the missionary society and still waiting
for the angels to take charge of it.
Mr. Clemm's next move was to start building a small cutter of twenty
tons, which he named the _Felicity_ and charged to the government as an
official yacht. Old man Fosby had been a shipwright in years gone by,
and under his direction the Kanakas made a mighty fine job of the little
vessel, which was fitted up regardless and proved to be remarkably fast
and weatherly. She was the apple of the Commissioner's eye, with a crew
of four in uniform, and a half-caste Chinaman named Henry for captain,
whom he had persuaded to desert from a German schooner where he was
mate. Mr. Clemm was so fond of taking short cruises in the _Felicity_
that we never gave his coming and going much thought, till one day he
went off and never came back! Yes, sir, clean disappeared over the
horizon and was never seen again from that day to this, nor the party
with him which included several very fine-looking young women!
The natives took it like the loss of a father, which indeed it was, Mr.
Clemm being a grand man and universally beloved--kindly yet strict, and
always the soul of justice. After giving him up altogether for lost, we
put seals on his private effects, and Peter Jones took charge of the
government, advised by Stanley and me. It showed the splendid influence
Mr. Clemm had had that Peter had become quite a model, and instead of
breaking loose was all on the side of law and order. Our idea was to
hold the fort until a new Commissioner might be sent, and the only
slight change we made was to double our salaries. The natives had grown
so used to civilized government that they made no trouble, and we three
might have been governing the island yet if a man-of-war hadn't suddenly
popped in.
It was the _Ringarooma_, the self-same ship that had landed Mr. Clemm
some eighteen months before, and Stanley and I were the first to board
her, meeting the captain at the break of the poop, just when he had come
down from the bridge.
"I have the honor to report the disappearance of Deputy Commissioner
James Howard Fitzroy Clemm," said I. "He sailed from here on March
sixteenth in the government yacht _Felicity_, and has never been seen
nor heard from since."
The captain, who was a sharp, curt man, looked puzzled.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, as abrupt as a
thunderbolt.
"Why, sir, you landed him yourself," said Stanley, "and the same day he
took possession of the island and hoisted the British flag."
"Annexed us," said I.
The captain frowned very angry, like if we were making sport of him we
should fast rue it.
"I never landed anybody here but a fellow named Baker," he said. "I
deported him from the Ellice Islands for sedition, bigamy, selling gin
to the natives, suspected arson and receiving stolen goods. If he called
himself a Deputy Commissioner he was a rank impostor, and had no more
authority to annex this island than you have."
* * * * *
Months afterwards we learned that instead of being lost in the
_Felicity_ like we all had thought, Clemm had turned pirate in a small
way down to the Westward till the natives took and ate him at
Guadalcanaar.