The Wild White Girl—The Wagner of Storms—A Pagan Citadel—Pagan Democracy—Ye Old Britisher—A Battle in the Dark. FIRST I must state that G—— was a casual member of the Charity Organization, an Englishman, and, from the general run of his conversation and manner, gave one the impression that he had seen better days. But there was nothing wonderful about that, for it is a fact that many of the apparent rogues of those days betrayed something of past polish, and possessed a personality infinitely more interesting than that of men who had never stepped over the border-line.
G—— was a big lump of a fellow, just over six feet in height, and had fine, expressive eyes full of humour and sometimes revealing a lingering sadness that made one’s heart go out to him. Personally, I liked him immensely. He could play the flute as well as he could tell a yarn, and that’s saying something!
But I would say, right here, that the story that he told me, and which I will tell here, is told not so much for the presumable interest that it might give as a mere yarn, as for my absolute confidence in the veracity of the man who told me it, his manner whilst telling it leaving such a possibility as doubt or exaggeration quite out of the question. Nor was there any justifiable reason why one should be sceptical, since G—— had lived, as I have said, in Fiji when cannibalism was in vogue, and white men arrived at the islands and did very much as they liked,—some resorting to savagery, some giving 288their hand in marriage to dusky queens, ascending thrones and holding full sway over swarthy populations of heathenland.
It was a glorious tropical eventide when G——, O’Hara, and I sat under the palms as the fireflies commenced to dance in the bamboos by the shore lagoons. G—— took his pipe from his lips, stroked his bearded chin in his characteristic way, and commenced:
“You must know, boys, that things were very different in these parts in the old semi-heathen times. I had arrived for the second time in Levuka then, had left a trading schooner, and was spending my time in looking round. I was a bit of a romantic loony in those days, and when my pal, Mick Deny, who had been shipmate with me for two years, heard that a Britisher, a fugitive from justice, was living like a wild man up in the Kai Tholos mountains with his daughter, we got interested, I can tell you. We got the whole facts of the case out of one of the Kai Tholos natives who had come into Levuka to get fish. Deny was a bit gone on girls, and when he heard that the Britisher had brought that young daughter of his out to these infernal regions and had brought her up as a heathen amongst those tribal natives, he was as eager as I to visit the stronghold in the mountains and see how matters stood. It appeared that this fugitive Britisher had assumed command over the tribe with whom he dwelt, styled himself as Roko (high chief), taken unto himself several native wives, and resorted to the unbridled lust and degradation of savagery.
“‘How old is the girl?’ queried Deny, as the native trader told us these facts.
“‘She nicer Marama, grow up beautifuls, nicer crown hair, nicer eyes, colour of moani ali (the ocean).’
“As that Fijian gabbled away, waxing enthusiastic over the beauty of the exiled white girl up there, imprisoned 289from the sight of her own race, Deny and I fairly gasped over the idea of it all. We got no sleep that night. The idea of that girl being cruelly treated by her criminal parent seemed to set our brains afire with romantic ideas. By the morning we had made our minds up, and had decided to make an expedition up into the Tholos mountains. The first thing to do was to get some goods, so I went down to the schooners that lay in the harbour, cadged some sugar, tea, tobacco plug, and those essentials which I guessed would meet our requirements. Deny’s eyes flashed with delight at the idea of it all. The risk of the job we were undertaking did not deter us, it only added spice to the business. And the natives, I can tell you, were not as chummy in those days as they are now. Old Thakombau had only just been converted to Christianity, had swallowed four casks of sacramental rum, and had shaken hands with all the missionaries. But he was a sly old fellow, and didn’t know anything about the tribal fights and the missing bodies of the dead after the Bokolai feast (cannibal feast). Oh no! Not he. He was quite converted! When we had packed up our few traps, not forgetting my flute, and were quite ready to start off, little Sanga, the native girl who did our cooking in the beach shanty (only one store in Levuka in these days), started crying,
“‘You no-e takeer little Sanga longer you?’
“‘Let the kid come,’ said Deny; ‘besides, she’ll be useful, knows the lingo, and that kind of thing,’ he added.
“‘All right, Sanga; don’t grizzle,’ said I.
“Then Deny and I went into the village to get permission from Sanga’s parents.
“She couldn’t go off on an excursion like that without getting permission from her parents. Sanga’s mother, a fine-looking half-caste, gave us the kid in complete confidence.
290“‘You noble Papalagis; me trust her with you.’
“‘Yes, we’re holy beggars,’ thought I, as we walked away across the rara, Sanga somersaulting with delight like a puppy at our heels, as we left the village and started on our trip to find out all about the Britisher and his daughter. We did take care of that kiddie too, although we had some rough times ere bringing her safely back to her village.
“By midday next day we had tramped many miles inland, and had already crossed the lower ranges of the mountains to the N.N.W.
“Sanga was a blessing to us, and sang weird heathen songs as she tramped by our side. I had dressed her up in a little blue kimono which I had cut out of a large silk handkerchief, cutting holes in it for the armpits. When she looked at herself in the lagoon hard by, she chuckled with delight. The first night was all that could be desired as we slept beneath the palms, side by side, and Deny sang a highland song till I fell asleep.
“The next night a typhoon blew. It was something that I had never heard before in the way of nature’s extempore musical expression. As you know, I am not much of a musician. I can play the flute and knock out the common chords for a song and dance on the piano; but to describe the harmonies that storm made in the mountains is quite beyond me. We were all tired out, just going off to sleep. In fact, I heard Deny snoring. Sanga lay at my feet, her head on my calf, as she hummed in the dark. Then it came—no warning, mind you. Bang! It seemed as if there had been some tremendous upheaval in interstellar space, that worlds and planets were exploding like vast bombs somewhere beyond the moon, the south-western horizon being repeatedly blown out as the débris struck the mountains around us. The enormous breadfruits and banyans, all 291bending and howling like the sails, rigging, and masts of ships in a hurricane, moaned a wild symphony in the pitch darkness, for the clouds had slid over, puff! and put the moon out without any warning. Once a star gleamed as the wrack raced across the sky. Sanga huddled close up to Deny as I put my hand out to see where they were. Then the moon burst through the cloud and the shadows went racing across the gullies till it seemed that the mountains themselves were moving along, sailing before a head wind! Then the deluge began. We were sheltered in a native hut, but the rain came in by the bucketful. Oceans seemed to crash down from the sky. Mighty trees were uplifted, and before they fell to the earth were carried across the gullies like twigs before the tremendous violence of the wind. Then there started the most wonderful thing in the way of sound that I have ever heard, or shall ever hear again. It seemed that a thousand demons had come out to carouse and play ghostly instruments in some phantom military band. I never heard anything to resemble it. Drums began to beat, a thousand strong, bassoons, horns, double basses, clarionets, ’cellos, saxaphones, bugles, cornets—all wailing and bellowing forth in the wildest orchestral combination that human ears ever heard. ‘God! What is it pal?’ yelled Deny in my ear, and his voice sounded like the wail of a child. My own heart thumped. ‘Strange that I should live to see the end of the world,’ thought I, as that terrible nightmare of sound suddenly subsided, while the typhoon stopped a moment to take breath! We didn’t know it then, but that typhoon was a kind of mighty Wagner of the elements that came by night with universal breath to blow the terrific diapasons, vast bassoons and thunderous wails, whistles, and timpani effects in the mightiest orchestral instrument that creation has made, so far as I know. It was like this: those 292mountains were volcanic, and so were fairly honeycombed with precipitous tunnels and big cavernous hollows, each hollow possessing its own peculiar, specific quality of sound, so that when the typhoon arrived, and its ten thousand orchestral members, so to speak, placed their phantom lips and blew terrifically into each crevice, the noise resembled something like ten thousand Easter Monday steam-organs and beating-drums going hard and strong on some holiday down in shadowland!
“I don’t exaggerate when I say that some of the notes rang out in clear, silvery, bugle tones, some full and mellow, tremulous with throbbing expression; then the muffled sound of a mighty drum would boom out in that infinite harmony of the dark and wind! When you consider that a typhoon’s terrific and tremendously varied breathing powers blew through a thousand thousand deep-voiced bugles and trumpets with curling tubes that went running right down into the volcanic bowels of the Fijian Isles, there wasn’t much wonder in the fact that wonderfully marvellous subtle musical effects and perfect intonation should crop up somewhere. Of course, Deny and I hadn’t the slightest idea then as to how that pandemonium of sound came about.
“‘The end of the world arrived and they sent some kind of a brass band to lead the battalions of the dead heathens into shadowland; that’s what it is,’ yelled Deny, cheering up when I touched him, to assure myself that we were still in the flesh.
“I think Sanga cheered us up more than anything. She even laughed, just as we thought we were about to die too!
“She was a plucky youngster, and good-looking to boot.
“When dawn came the sun burst through the sky as though it was in a hurry. It seemed to boil the soaking 293mountain forests. We could see the chameleon-like colours sparkling, as the steam from the heated tropical vegetation rolled away over the rugged hills. We were drenched through. By nightfall I was seized with pains in the back. It was a kind of malaria. My limbs began to quiver. By midnight I was delirious.
“‘Don’t die, pal,’ said Deny, as I begged him, for old-time’s sake, to strangle the mighty heathen god who kept peering through the clouds, putting his stinking mop-head against my nose as he struck me tremendous blows on the head with a war-club! But I could not die. When I had slept for an hour and got a bit sane, things seemed as bad. For the thousands of insects that had sought refuge from the storm in our hut attacked me. Scorpions, fat-bodied lizards, and huge red ants, as big as walnuts, and red land-crabs formed up in regiments and attacked us. I felt strange things creeping up the inside of my pants as they flapped their rudimentary wings. Then Deny took me outside and gave me a drink of rum. In a few minutes the fever had abated. By midday I was as fit as a fiddle.
“Deny was a splendid cook. He gathered some feis (bananas) and yams from the garden of the deserted heathen hut, and made a glorious meal.
“Then we started off, Sanga singing cheerily behind us as we trekked it up into the higher ranges.
“By this time we were near Nisao, and had already sighted one of the native villages to the S.W. Though we had heard that the natives of that part were friendly, still we were not taking any risks, so we sent Sanga across the gullies as an advance-guard. She whipped off like an arrow, without the slightest fear. When she came back she was accompanied by four stalwart chiefs and two women. To our relief they were waving their hands friendly-wise, welcoming us to their village.
294“As we crossed the gully bridge—a huge breadfruit trunk—the sight of the small conical homesteads beneath the feathery palms, the beautiful moss-ferns, and scarlet-flowered ndralas, gave one the impression that we were entering some perfect, pagan city of shadowland. Romping children stopped their games, rushed out of the shadows and hut doorways to gaze on Deny and me in astonishment. The shaggy-haired women by the huts were smoking clay pipes, squatting on mats, and staring stolidly at the pretty native girls, who fawned about us, stroked our hands, and said in their own lingo, ‘O beautiful Papalagis, with blue eyes!’
“It was all right, I can tell you. Suddenly a giant of a fellow stood up from among a huddled group of savages and come towards us. By the distinguished tattooesque coat-of-arms on his massive chest and shoulders, I knew that he must be the tribal chief. Besides, as he came towards us, he was followed by an obsequious retinue of eight half-decayed-looking old women, who were crawling on their wrinkled stomachs as they placed their travelling hands in their august master’s footprints. They were his old, cast-off wives. The new batch of young wives were squatting by the big palavana, showing their pearly teeth and making eyes at Deny and me. One cheeky little wench, who was clad in a tappa-gown of two inches in width and half a yard in length, took a flower from her hair and threw it towards us.
“I can remember it all as though it were yesterday. I can even hear the strange bird that was singing up in the citron trees, which grew just over the little plot where they buried their dead. We felt a bit swaggery when the military band came out of the chief palavana, formed up with their instruments (vuvis, bone flutes, human bones, gourds with strings across, lais, wooden drums, and bamboo flutes), and commenced to play an anthem 295of welcome as we entered the stockade gateway that led into that portion of the village where the head chief received ambassadors in council. I think the sight of all was Sanga, as she marched just ahead of us, a flower dangling in her hair, and her little chest swelled majestically, as she looked sideways on the tribal children, who were staring at her with awestruck eyes.
“If I had had any poetic idea in my head about that village being some dwelling-place of fairy-land, I’m sure it was soon dispelled when we passed by the village dustbin.
“‘Phew!’ said Deny, as Sanga and I sniffed and held our noses. Even in those high altitudes of the Fijian mountain villages there was considerable room for sanitary improvement.
“Such was our reception in Nisao just twenty years ago.
“That same night we got pally with the high chief, Roko (meaning ‘high-born’). He gave us all the direct information that we required; told us that, true enough, a white man did dwell up in the cool mountain villages of the cannibal Kai Tholos. Then he told us how the White Roko had lorded it over the village folk of Tumba for quite ten years, after having made himself their chief. It seemed as though we dreamed it all as we stood there, Deny and I, and heard the astounding facts as we warily got the friendly chief on the tack that we were most interested in. He nodded his head and said:
“‘Yes, Papalagi, beautiful white Marama (white girl) live up there too; nicer chiefess; smoother shoulders, whiter skin.’
“Saying this, old Roko made various descriptive signs in an attempt to convey to our minds the wondrous beauty of the White Roko’s daughter. It was then that we learnt that the Englishman was known to his tribe by the name 296of Yoraka. Whether his name was Yorick, and this name that he was known by was a bastardized equivalent of it, I don’t know; possibly it was so.
“I recall that that old chief was immensely amused when he discovered that Deny and I were after the white girl.
“‘How does she dress? What does she do with herself? Is she wild? Is she married?’ and such-like questions did we put to Roko.
“Roko did not know much about the girl’s habits, for she was seldom allowed out of the Tholos stronghold, and Old chief Roko dared not go up there to his neighbour’s stronghold because they were enemies. We were delighted to hear that he was not on friendly terms with this extraordinary Yoraka, for it enabled us to extract a promise from him to help us out of it should we get into difficulties. We arranged that, should our countryman ‘turn up rough’ and set his tribal heathen on us, we should send Sanga back to his village for help.
“‘Things are going all right,’ chuckled Deny, when the old chief took a vow to help us.
“‘Vinaka, O le tani—geroot!’ yelled the tribal warriors. Then they lined up; and I can tell you, Deny and I felt considerably relieved as we inspected Roko’s bodyguard—the war chiefs who would come to our help if we needed them. We felt like two seasoned generals as we passed along the lines, inspecting those weird-looking, tattooed warriors. They swelled their massive chests, their big war-club handles standing on end up to their shoulders. They had tremendous mouths, the teeth darkened with the juice of the betel-nut; and such mops of hair, I’d never seen the like before.
“‘Thank God they’re on our side!’ was my mental comment, as the great Roko shouted ‘Karoot!’ and up went fifty war-clubs, ere down they came, crash! in the 297thunderous drill that would show us how easily they could smash the thickest of skulls with one well-aimed blow!
“Twelve hours after that experience we had done the eight miles that divided Roko’s village from the Tholos stronghold. We were actually in sight of that tiny mountain citadel wherein had dwelt for nearly ten years that fugitive Britisher, Yoraka.
“There was something terribly weird in the thought that up there was one of our own race who had degenerated into complete savagery and held full sway over the wild Kai Tholos natives. It were impossible for me to attempt to find a name for the atmosphere that my imagination conjured up as Deny and I stood there, our white helmet hats pushed back on our heads, our hands arched to our eyes as we stared towards the sunset that gleamed on the far-off tribal huts of that solitary stronghold.
“‘What would they think of us? How would they greet us? Would the white girl scream and faint away at the delight of it all when she realized that Deny and I had come to rescue her? Had she seen white men—other than that damnable parent of hers? Or had she been a close prisoner from childhood, kept in utter darkness of the great civilized world beyond the seas?’
“A thrill of romance warmed my soul, pulsing through my veins like wine, as the novelty, the wonder of it all seemed to shine in the magical ultramarine of the far-off sea horizon and the mountain sunset. Within an hour of our romantic contemplation of the village, we had actually entered the stockade gates. I clutched my revolver, and Deny did likewise.
“Just as the children had done in the last village, out ran the kiddies from the huts, rushed up to us and shouted, ‘Vinaka! Vinaka!’
“‘They’ve seen plenty of white people before, that’s 298certain,’ said I to Deny, as the old, squat-looking chiefs and shaggy-haired chiefesses stared stolidly at us as we walked by. Possibly it was our tremendous cheek and helpless appearance that disarmed the suspicions of those wild-looking men and women as they shouted forth their acclamations of welcome.
“We gave them bits of tobacco plug. Thinking it was wisest to make no delay in letting them know that we were there on a friendly visit, we straightway asked them to show us into the presence of the great White Roko, Yoraka. Approaching a monstrous-looking chief who was heavily decorated with insigniatorial tattoo, we expressed our wish. In a moment a bodyguard had been formed and was solemnly walking ahead of us, leading us through the village. Sanga walked between Deny and me. I noticed that she too looked a bit serious as she clutched hold of the knee of my trousers. Passing through a large archway, that seemed to be of natural rock formation, we entered another district of the village. As we turned the bend by the orange and citron trees, our hearts thumped. We were standing before a large, conical-shaped building that had evidently been built on European lines. We guessed that we were at last standing before the residence of the ex-Britisher.
“It seemed incredible as we stood there and thought of the man who had exiled himself from his race and had resorted to the unbridled lust and squalor of all that we saw around us—girls and women in all stages of undress and motherhood. But it was not so strange when one thinks of the criminals and unbridled lust and squalor of the dens of great cities—cities superintended by vigilant police officials with the power of a nation to help them put down crime. And who will deny that, notwithstanding Scotland Yard, London, and White House, New York, crime does exist, that men do revert back 299to their primitive instincts, resort to bestiality, murder, and all that’s utterly opposed to the instincts of decently trained, clean-minded men. However, the fact remains that there was a white man who dwelt in complete savagery in the mountains to the N.N.W., however incredible it may seem. And nothing could be more certain than the sound of a drunken voice singing an English song, the melody of ‘There is a tavern in the town, in the town!’ coming from the inside of that primitive but palatial-looking dwelling before us!
“‘Keep close to me, Sanga,’ said I, as the chiefs turned and beckoned us. Then Deny’s tall form stooped as he bent forward and entered the doorway, while Sanga and I closely followed him.
“Though I had conjured up all kinds of picturesque types in my mind as to what kind of a man I should see when I entered there, I’ll swear that I was quite unprepared for the villainous type that I did see. Squatting on a mat, native fashion, was a burly-looking man of about fifty years of age. His face was a dull, pasty brown; indeed, the man before us was more like a half-caste than any type I could think of at the moment. Even his hair was done up in a large mop, native style. But the reddish colour of the beard, and the deep-set, keen grey eyes were unmistakable—there squatted a degenerate Britisher, robed in all the glory of primitive royalty. Hanging from the wide, low roof were some forty coconut-oil lamps which added to the mystery of the scene before us. In a semicircle, almost up to his feet, squatted several native women, some of them young girls, presumably his wives. To our astonishment he nodded his head, as though courteously to acquaint us with the fact that he was pleased to see us. This welcome of his seemed incongruous enough, since he wore only a tasselled sulu about his loins, a garb that barely reached 300to his muscular, hairy knees. As he stood up he resembled nothing so much as some primitive blacksmith who wore a leather apron only—had forgotten to put his trousers on.
“The walls were decorated with fibre matting, skulls, old men’s beards, and other gruesome articles that make up the furniture of barbarian homesteads. On the floor in front of him were large calabashes, some full of fruits, others containing fermenting toddy. These facts I took in at a glance as Deny stood speechless on one side of me and Sanga clutched my hand on the other side.
“Suddenly he looked up, and said: ‘Vinaka, sirs! glader to see you, o le su, ter-day, savve?’
“So long had it been since he had spoken to his countrymen that he had actually got into the habit of speaking pigeon English! For a little while he regarded us with suspicion, then, as he took another drink of toddy from the calabash that the native girls held to his lips, he became garrulous. As he spoke on I noticed that his speech improved; one could almost hear the awakening in his brain of words that had lain dormant for years.
“Though I courteously refused to drink of the toddy that he ordered to be handed to me, Deny, to my regret, swallowed more than was good for him. This convivial understanding of like appetites seemed to awaken his interest in us, for ere long Deny stood before him and sang some old Scottish songs—‘Robin Adair,’ and ‘Will ye no’ come back again?’ I think. He gave orders to his concubines to fetch us sweet taro, pineapples, and many mixed dishes that were made from indigenous fruits. Then he shifted himself, squatted right opposite me, and commenced to ask me questions about England.
“‘Whas London loiker? He! he! he! Does the ole Queen still sit on her throne at Windsor? He! he!’
“Saying that, he gave a lurch forward, and I saw that 301the pose he had assumed when we entered his dwelling-place had been dispelled by drivelling intoxication. Still he raved on, nudged me in the ribs, and shouted toasts to other days! Thrusting his pallid face forward, he lifted the coco-nut goblet, and yelled again and again, ‘’Ows ye b—— ole Queen!’ then he gave me another violent nudge, and roared with laughter.
“‘Nasty-looking ole swine!’ said Deny, as Sanga pinched my arm and said in a quiet voice:
“‘Come away! Come away, Papalagi!’
“I saw that the kiddie didn’t like the look of that man of my race, who leered towards her, and touched her smooth arms. Then Deny and he became reminiscent as they discovered they were both familiar with Fleet Street. I must say I felt a bit ashamed of my comrade, as he too lurched forward and nudged that vile Britisher in the ribs. It was plain as plain could be that that cursed toddy stuff had made Deny forget himself.
“‘Deny, Deny!’ I said reprovingly.
“Alas, my pal responded only by looking up at me in an insane way and gurgling out, ’Awl ’ight, pal!’
“As for Yoraka, he opened his slit mouth, drivelled like an imbecile, poked his pallid tongue out over his sharp-edged, blackened teeth, and yelled:
“‘Do the b—— natives on ye old Thames still wear clothes? He! he! How’s ther Derby racecourse? By the gods of my fathers, I’d giver something for a soda and whisky ter-night!’
“Saying this much, as near as I can recall all that he said, he lurched, put his head forward, and pinched little Sanga’s small fat leg! The kiddie almost screamed in her terror.
“‘It’s all right, Sanga. Don’t mind him. He’s only a drunken Britisher,’ said I swiftly, as the degenerate stooped over his toddy calabash and offered Deny another 302gobletful. And all the while this was going on his women and girl wives and servants, squatting on a mat in a semicircle round him, were regarding Deny and me with curious stare.
“Then, once again, in hoarse acclamations, he yelled of England.
“‘Do they still read their Bibles—the pot-bellied, wassailed-eyed English? Ye souls of missionaries, I’ve eaten better men than you blooder Englishman!’
“Listening to those wild remarks from a drunken man, and a fugitive British criminal into the bargain, I put his wild sayings down as figures of speech that represented some bitterness in his heart over memories of other days. By now he was drivelling copiously at the mouth, the mop of hair had fallen and hung in ringlets on ............