A Child of American Democracy—Rajah Barab—Barbarossa—Brown-Slave traffic Methods—Motavia’s Grave—The Magic Casement—The Splendour of Rose-coloured Spectacles—Mohammedanistic Desires—Giovanni’s Love Affairs—Exit Barab. I WAS more than pleased to make the acquaintance of Giovonni as I wandered about Apia. This newfound comrade was a clever artist on the guitar, and our kindred tastes and mutual cashlessness was the direct cause of our forming a trio for troubadour purposes. To our great satisfaction, we came across another who was in a hard-up state: he was a derelict Yankee sailorman, and he told us he had been an operatic singer in his youth. Whether he strayed from the truth in swearing that he had charmed select audiences by his vocal accomplishments, I cannot say. I do know that, when he sang, his peculiar twang and extraordinary facial contortions at our wandering concerts amply made up for the disinteresting drone of his wheezy voice. He accompanied Giovanni and myself on our wanderings for many miles, as we visited Savaii Isle and the old townships, Palaulae, Asaua, Matautu, Safune, Monono, also Sufatea, and all the important native villages. Our Yankee comrade’s swashbuckling deportment at our numerous engagements at the high-class native fale-po-ula (court dance houses) caused Giovanni and myself a good deal of embarrassment. The fact is that his facial contortions and voice seemed to appeal especially to the seasoned shellbacks and traders who congregated outside 239the grog-shanties as we stood beneath the palms and sang and played on our instruments. And if it is a complimentary sign to have had a large bouquet in the shape of a putrid crab put into the collecting calabash-dish at our great mixed concert-festival down at Apia, then, all I can say is that the mêlée that followed the aforesaid donation was a decided success. Anyhow, Billy-goat whiskers, for so we called him, was not to blame. He was the natural child of a vast Republic that has no historical, dynastic background such as the Samoans and most of the South Sea races can claim in their history. Consequently Billy-goat whiskers had based all his ideas and ideals on the tinker-president-everyman-as-good-as-another creed, and he was a fine specimen of the Yankee swanker. The American is unborn who could imitate the splendid bearing that distinguishes a Fijian or Samoan chief. Most of the savage races have a splendid historical and legendary background that has influenced their actions from earliest childhood, much the same as French boys are influenced by the elegant bearing and gallant manners of the characters in their country’s historical novels, such as Dumas’ works, etc. And so our Yankee’s apparently vulgar ways were only the perfectly natural expression of a great democracy that has grown out of the soul of the people. But our pal was a brave, right down good fellow. His one fault was rum and gin. He carried his rum-flask, beard-comb, and pack of cards in a large handkerchief that was emblazoned with the stars and stripes. He had short, supple legs, and could suck his big toe like a baby. I can swear to that peculiarity of his, for when he had a touch of the D.T.’s he sat up in bed the whole night long and made a most irritating noise while using his big toe as a dummy in lieu of whisky. But, withal, it is not my intention to write about our Yankee comrade. I will 240just finish him off by saying that it was he who introduced us to Rajah Barab the Mohammedan. Rajah Barab was a Malayo-Indian. He had once lived in German New Guinea, but for sound reasons had hastily migrated to Samoa. He lived just outside Apia.
Though this Mohammedan’s dwelling looked like some three-roomed cow-shed, it was really the deserted ancestral hall of the great chief O Le Sula Motavia, a heathen divine who had had his skull blown off in the tribal war of 1885. This dwelling was situated about two miles south-west, on the slopes of Vaea and not so far from Robert Louis Stevenson’s old home, Vailima. And while O Le Sula Motavia slept on in his cold bed within eight yards of his ancestral front door, with the large orange tree spread above, and the blue jungle flowers blowing over him, Rajah Barab, the sinful Mohammedan, sat in Motavia’s old halls drinking deeply, as warm-eyed native girls danced and sang before him. Now this old heathen’s homestead had not been turned exactly into a tambu-house after the New Guinea style, for Barab had no idols within. But, to make up for those wooden images that were usually carved so as to express a heathen’s ideas of Venus and jovial Bacchus, Barab himself would stand erect so that the native maidens could worship the light of his living eyes and kneel in complete obeisance at his sandalled feet. He made a fine idol. He was a tall, broad-shouldered sinner. He wore a richly-coloured turban and waist-swathing which he well knew pleased the eyes of romantic Samoan girls. Perhaps his chief adornment was his long iron-grey beard. He swore by it and pulled it thoughtfully when he appeared to meditate over his infinite wisdom. And when he squatted half-erect on his fibre mat before the admiring, awestruck maids, his eyes had a far-away 241gaze in them that seemed to have kinship with the vers libre and the poetic grin that enshrined his ugly mug. I say “mug” because it resembled the rim of a mug, and did not look like a human mouth at all. And I should know, because I was a witness of his far-away-looking gaze and poetic grin, for I dined with him. Truth to tell, Rajah Barab had plenty of cash, and so Giovanni and myself, both in a cashless state, were compelled to accept the liberal fee which he offered us should we perform on our instruments at one of his special Mohammedan festivals. Our Yankee friend was down with the delirium tremens at Apia at the time. It was unfortunate, because I know that he would have been a great help to us that night.
When Giovanni and I arrived at the festival in question there were several young Indian bloods present amongst the visitors. It was a select gathering, inasmuch as Barab had invited only those whose sensual desires were akin to his own. The moon was well up, and not only were the palms visible around his tambu-temple, but also the native maids who danced beneath them. Ava and gin were plentiful. Barab stood under the large palm tree, pulling his revered beard and swearing by his Malayan gods and Allah as he watched the scene. As Giovanni rippled pizzicatos from his guitar and I played my violin, we watched the scene with intense interest. There was something phantom-like about the whole business as the girls danced amongst the gnarled pillars of that primitive forest-hall of giant trees. The native girls, who had stolen away from the solicitude of the missionaries, gave muffled screams of delight and did such high kicks that the coco-nut-oil lamps swayed violently. I might say that these lamps hung from the palm branches that were immediately over the dancers’ heads. One maid was decidedly 242attractive. Her name was Barbarossa. She was tastefully arrayed in some diaphanous material that reached down to her ankles. Flowers bedecked her thick, wavy hair that rolled loose over her neck and shoulders. Moonlight somehow intensified the musical rhythm and charm of her form, as she swerved in many semi-barbarian postures. While all this was going on, Barab squatted on his old coco-nut-fibre mat, his body erect. His pose was that of an Indian seer, and the chant that he mumbled added to the peculiar weirdness of the scene. Even the low-caste Samoans, who stood aside watching the performance, called out, “Talofa! Talofa!” demanding an encore when Barbarossa finished her dance. As soon as the dance was over, someone banged a drum, and that barbarian thump seemed to echo in my heart and made me drop my fiddle, so startled was I. For though my kind ancestors handed down to me a pair of rose-coloured spectacles so that I might see life as they saw it, they also presented me with a nervous temperament; consequently anything of a sudden surprise is peculiarly hateful to me. This inherited nerve of mine was possibly the cause of my accepting the drink of gin and lime-juice that Barab so artfully offered to Giovanni and myself as we sat that night at the festival board of his tambu-harem. Giovanni sat beside Barbarossa, and I sat right opposite them. I was wedged in by Barab on one side of me and a Malay Chinaman on the other side. I confess here that I felt the degradation of my position, and can assume from that fact that I must have been perfectly sober. It was a low, long table lit up by a host of small hanging-lamps that were suspended from the wooden ceiling by threads from sennit string. I remember that the girls, who sat along each side, were all more or less in a maudlin condition as the fumes of the gin and “ava” rose to their weak, feminine brains. My memory 243is a brilliant one! I distinctly recall the wonder and feverish look that shone in their dark eyes as the glasses clinked, when Barab and the few remaining young bloods of his kidney roared forth toasts to their beauty. I even remember the smell of the Chinaman who sat next to me. You can always smell a Chinaman; it is a peculiar odour that suggests something between orange-pekoe and chloroform, and is not absolutely offensive unless you happen to be chewing delicate food when he is by. As the maids drank on, Barab grew extremely excited, and banged his fists on the low table in some wild delight of anticipation. Poor Giovanni had fallen madly in love with Barbarossa. The fact was only too evident by all that he did. True enough, Barbarossa was the queen of the evening. As she sat there at the table, her eyes ashine and her loosened tresses stirred by the scented winds that blew through the open doorway, she looked out of place amongst the other thick-lipped, sensual-looking girls. It was very evident, by the look in Barab’s eyes, that he regarded her as the pièce de résistance of that festival meeting. However, Giovanni was handsome and Barab’s chances were small. Giovanni was evidently not letting the grass grow under his feet. I shall simply state that he behaved like the true Italian cavalier that he was, and that I more than once lifted my glass and drank secretly to my pal’s success in his romantic courtship. I felt a bit muddled, it was all so unexpected and sudden. At that time I was not aware that Barab’s festival programme was to get the girls quite drunk and then close and tightly bolt the door of his tambu-house. I really thought that he had taken a violent fancy to Barbarossa and intended to offer her his swarthy hand in marriage according to the Malay Mohammedan rites. I must admit that I was not at all aware of the Malay Mohammedan marriage rite 244procedure when one of the sect took a fancy to a certain maid. I know that Barbarossa was an innocent girl. I discovered afterwards that she had been enticed to attend that festival by a dissolute native missionary who had accepted a large bribe from Barab. Just as there are dissolute houses in European cities, where men indulge in the white-slave traffic, so were there establishments for trafficking purposes in Samoa, and Barab’s house was one of them. When Giovanni and I saw through the drift of the whole vile business, we determined that pretty Barbarossa should not fall into Barab’s clutches if we could help her. We both knew that Barab had a bad reputation; and, though he was our host and had paid us well, our self-respect should have prevented us from accepting his money. But it must be confessed here that Giovanni and I were not to be numbered amongst those virtuous folk who would rather die than sell their honour. Alas, many and many a time I would much rather have sold my honour than nearly died! The best of men have their weaknesses. I know that even that dear old tattooed clergyman, O Le Langi, had often fallen before the lure of a few half-crowns when victuals were scarce.
As soon as the festival itself was finished, Giovanni and I stole outside the tambu-house and talked the matter over. In a very little time we had decided to secure Barbarossa’s person by force sooner than she should fall into Barab’s hands.
“Ah, comrado, he cursed una vipera!” said my Italian chum. Then he looked at me sadly and said: “Will you stick to me, and mine friend be?”
“I will!” I responded most emphatically. Giovanni was a big lump of a fellow and had courage written in the light of his magnificent eyes; also, the idea of rescuing Barbarossa from her peril suited my temperament 245exactly. We counted out the cash that Barab had given us directly the feast was over, then we looked significantly at each other, for he had paid us several marks more than were due to us. “He wants to get rid of us at once, no doubt of that,” was my reflection, as I looked at Giovanni’s handsome face and then on the moonlit solitude of the mountain slopes around dead Motavia’s old homestead. Then we walked back, treading very softly through the jungle as we approached the tambu shed. Already the small lamp-lights on the palms and within those wooden walls were burning low. We listened, and heard the low wail of some Malayan chanty; then the drunken song ceased.
“What’s that?” whispered Giovanni. The door had suddenly opened, and we saw two of the young bloods departing. Off they went, with three drunken native girls staggering between them. So brilliant was the light of the moon that we distinctly observed the girls’ faces as they tossed their legs and shook the brass arm-lets, and kissed the shoulders of the men who were leading them away. As soon as the men were out of sight we listened again. All was quiet; it was evident that most of the girls who remained within the tambu had fallen off into drunken slumber. Barbarossa had sung her swan-song (so thought Rajah Barab). We heard a click; the Rajah had closed the door and bolted it! That much we discovered as we crept around the walls of that den and endeav............