“They fed us taro to fatten us up, and gave us Kava to keep us under control. I had to make my men stop drinking it, or they’d be in the soup ... so to speak,” West was saying when Wembly returned.
“Captain West, did you say your boat is named the Salvation?” Wembly said.
“Yes.”
“Where did you get her?” the patrol officer asked.
West knew something was up, but he remained calm. “Actually, I won her in a card game in Port Moresby. I have my papers to prove ownership.”
Wembly surprised everyone by taking his pistol out of its holster and pointing it at West. “Unfortunately, we have reason to believe you took those papers off the dead body of its previous owner, Philip Honore, a French planter. Mr. Gale, make sure he hasn’t any weapons.”
Gale searched him and removed a knife from his belt. “That’s all I see, sir,” he said. West sat down in a nearby chair.
Wembly continued. “Do you recall a visit to an island known as Schyler’s Delight? It used to belong to the Germans.”
“I’ve been to thousands of islands. I don’t remember that one.”
“But they remember you quite well. A band of cutthroats killed the trading post operator there. They left in a boat named the Salvation.”
“You can’t take the word of a bunch of stinkin’ natives. We was never there.”
McDuff intruded. “I thought you said there weren’t any trading posts in the islands,” he said.
“Precious few, thanks to the likes of West here.” Wembly almost stood at attention as he said, “The Crown hereby places you under arrest for murder and piracy. We’ll take you back to the mainland with us. In the meantime, Gale, use the extra head in the bow for a brig, and put iron on his wrists and ankles.”
“I will arm our crew so we can take his men into custody.”
Chapter 5
The Australians commandeered the Salvation without so much as raising their voices. Shim-shi and Bano had no idea what they were being arrested for. They had just arrived, so how could they have broken any laws? The events at Schyler’s Dream were all mixed up in their memories, with several other places where they had robbed whites and natives alike. Usually, they were so drunk details were impossible to recall. One thing they agreed upon, however, was that if there was any shooting it had to be West who did it. He never let any of his crew touch firearms — lest they use them on him.
The interrogations took place right on the pier where they were arrested. The Patrol Officers spoke Pidgin as well as they did English. Bano and Shim-shi told a story different from West’s regarding Chase Island, and how they had gotten there. It was considerably closer to the truth. Yani was largely ignored until the other two had finished their tales. Most important, they verified that Yani certainly had not been with them at Schyler’s Dream. Also, he did not stow away on their boat, but was, in fact, kidnapped by West.
Yani had never seen an Australian Patrol Officer before, but Ooma had described them from the time they had made the natives of Chase Island aware that they were under Australian rule and owed their allegiance to the King. Australian soldiers had shot a number of Ooma’s pooja in a pitched battle, and while the white men were not aware of it, those deaths had not yet been avenged. The story was all part of the sacred knowledge of the tribe Ooma had passed on to the young man.
There was one thing of which Yani was sure — the Wombat was Kilibob’s boat. In his wildest dreams, using the most potent image-inducing drugs, he could not have pictured anything so wonderful. The officers and men were so proud of their craft’s panels of polished mahogany, scintillating brass fixtures, and white enamel paint, that they often used their own money to keep it looking like the pleasure yacht it had once been.
Poor Yani was terrified. He saw them leading his crew-mates on to Kilibob’s boat, and they disappeared below decks. He wondered if they were being taken to see Kilibob himself.
“Well, Leslie, what do we do with our lost soul here?” Wembly asked in English. “I’m not about to take him back to Chase Island. I just want to get West and his assassins back to Port Moresby. Somebody there can hang them.”
“It’s going to knock hell out of our schedule. We’re behind already. Maybe we should hang them ourselves in the interest of efficiency,” Gale answered.
“I’m afraid his lordship would take a dim view of that. If West wasn’t an Englishman, we might put them all ashore at Chase Island. That would solve the problem neatly, but we had better stick to the regulations.
“In the meantime, let’s talk to this Blackfella here and figure out what to do about him.”
“What is your name, boy?” Gale asked in Pidgin.
“I am called Yani,” he said in the same.
“Where did you learn to speak Pidgin?”
“Shim-shi, Bano, Gash teach Yani speak sing-song.”
“Who is Gash?”
“He Witman. Lose head on island. He throw me on Witman boat. Westfella take hair.” After a few trials, he managed to demonstrate how West had dragged him on board by his hair.
While Yani spoke Pidgin as well as his teachers, he was limited by their vocabulary. The Patrol Officers had a wider grasp of the language, and had to narrow down their questions to very simple ones.
Yani’s fear faded, and the white men found him cooperative and non-threatening. Jeremy Thompson stopped to say good-by and said a few words to Yani in the language of the residents of Christ’s Despair. To their amazement, the language was similar enough for them to understand each other. Considering the hundreds of languages spoken in the Pacific islands it was a minor miracle.
After Thompson left, Wembly said, “I have the germ of an idea. I first thought of giving him to Thompson as a laborer, but if he can speak the local Booga-booga, maybe we can let him be an interpreter for Dr. McDuff. He might be able to translate well enough to get him started. We’d be killing two birds with one stone, as they say.”
“Bob, there’s only one thing wrong with your idea,” Gale said.
“Oh? What’s that?”
“We don’t know if McDuff speaks Pidgin.”
“Well, he’s a god-damned doctor. Let the son-of-a-bitch learn.”
***
Pairing Yani up with Dr. McDuff was well within the plans of the Administration. It was clear that the missionary was not going to be very effective converting the natives on Christ’s Despair unless he had some serious help. Thompson had made it clear that his priorities lay elsewhere, and the Chase Islander was better off with McDuff, since there was no predicting if the locals would work with him on the plantation. It cost an extra bottle of Scotch, but the plantation manager gave in on some points.
Wembly and Gale were standing on deck, next to the gangway, watching Thompson’s native boys unloading the Scotch and other special supplies they had brought. McDuff’s crates and boxes were stacked at the end of the pier in wild profusion. Anything that was not destined for the plantation was dumped on a huge pile.
The missionary himself appeared, carrying a number of sacks and a satchel full of hymnals and assorted church papers.
“Where are you planning to settle down, Dr. McDuff,” Wembly asked, anticipating the answer.
“I thought I would get everything ashore, and then look about for accommodations. I have a tropical tent to live in when we locate a place to build our church, of course ...”
Wembly interrupted him. “Dr. McDuff, it is my considered opinion that you should return with us to Port Moresby and do a great deal more planning. You are totally unprepared for the project you are about to undertake. There are no accommodations, just as there are no stores or trading posts.
“All the goods you have stacked at the end of the pier will be gone by tomorrow morning. The natives will remove every can of food you have brought with you. And when the boxes are empty they will find a use for every last splinter of wood.”
McDuff was silent. He seemed to be piecing together how to best explain his situa
tion. “I cannot go back. I have given my word. For me to return to Port Moresby would be the source of a great deal of personal embarrassment and would create problems I do not wish to discuss.
“My church is a small one, and getting me here has consumed most of our funds. I cannot go back to Boston until I have established a successful church here in the islands ... Beyond that I can say no more. I will go ashore on the island.”
The Australians had to respect his obvious resolve and integrity, if not his judgment. “In that case, Doctor, I have taken it upon myself to at least keep you alive until we return in a few months.
“Mr. Thompson has agreed to allow you to move into the Big House with him while you find a place to set up your church. I fear that you will not survive the week, unless you do so. I have never seen anyone so ill-prepared for a life and death struggle as you appear to be. And, as a white man and a Christian I can’t abandon you to the wilds of the jungle.”
Gale asked, “Do you speak Pidgin English?”
McDuff’s face brightened. “Me Churchfella. Come this place tell Blackfella Big Boss longa sky makum inside glad. Takem walkabout longa too much good fella. No more fright — Big Name fella longa me.”
“Very good, Doctor. It seems you have been studying. Sounds like you could carry on a good conversation.”
McDuff showed Gale a dog-eared sheaf of mimeographed papers, stapled in one corner. “I have been studying since I left Boston. That’s why I have neglected the social amenities. I believe I am ready to preach the word of God in Pidgin.”
“Yes ... too bad the natives only speak Booga-booga. Thompson learned their language since they wouldn’t learn ours.”
The minister was almost in a state of shock. “Then Mr. Thompson will have to teach me the native tongue. My mission depends upon it.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. He has a number of problems to solve, and he is not inclined to missionary work.” When he saw McDuff droop visibly, Gale added, “But I think I have somewhat of a solution to your language problem, however.”
“What might that be, sir, an English to Booga-booga dictionary?”
“Much better. When we arrested West and his crew last night we found that they had kidnapped a young native boy whom they taught to speak Pidgin. He is really quite good, considering his experience. I propose to give him to you as an apprentice ... what we call a Churchboy in this part of the world. You can speak to him in Pidgin and he can translate into the native tongue. By a marvelous coincidence they speak pretty much the same language on his island and this one.”
“Is he civilized?” McDuff asked.
“More so than many I’ve seen,” Gale said. “He’s young enough for you to train to do things your way.
“I will tell him that you are his Big Man from now on. You, in turn, are responsible for providing him with food, clothing and a place to sleep. But, if I know my natives he will be able to provide those things for himself even if you can’t.
“As I see it, he should be your first convert. If you can’t Christianize him, you had best come back on the next supply ship.”
“Speaking of supply ships, Mr. Wembly, please be sure to make the proper arrangements with the trading company. I don’t know what I should do if they don’t bring me the material I will need to survive here and build a church.”
Handing Gale an envelope addressed to a bank in Boston, he said. “Will you please post this as soon as possible. I have had to seriously alter my financial plans in light of what I have found out in the past 12 hours.”
“Had you asked sooner, we could have told you the facts of life before we left Port Moresby. We thought you were experienced in this missionary work.”
“Unfortunately, only among the Irish Catholics in the Boston slums. But there, I could go back to my family’s home in the evening.”
The three men descended the gangplank to the pier. Wembly pointed to the Salvation, which was tied up to the jetty, and said, “Had any sailing experience, Dr. McDuff?”
“I spent all my summers on Cape Cod, if you know where that is. And the McDuffs have been members of the Cambridge Yacht Club for three generations. The greatest disappointment of my college years was to not be selected for the crew of one of Sir Thomas Lipton’s entries in the races because I was an American.”
“Pity. That would have been an adventure.”
Yani was not in the boat. Instead, they found him looking over the stack of boxes that belonged to Dr. McDuff. Although he could not read, he was familiar with cartons of canned food from West’s storage locker. He was literally salivating, at the thought of so much canned goods in one place.
Mr. Gale called to him. Then observing the island greeting ritual as much as he was familiar with it, he introduced the missionary. He told him McDuff was a Big Man and all these boxes were his. He was ready to share his wealth with this Blackfella if he listened and learned the Big Man’s rituals and chants. He had much power and Yani needed to learn to have the powers of this Churchfella. Yani would be his Churchboy.
McDuff got into the conversation, and by the time the Patrol Officers were ready to leave, Yani had a pretty good idea of what was expected of him. He understood that the Churchfella was to be his replacement for Ooma. He would learn McDuff’s sacred knowledge, as well as his secular knowledge in how to build a church. In return, he would share in the treasure of tinkens. Judging from the quantity of boxes at the end of the pier, the Churchfella was richer by far than the West-fella.
As they turned to leave, Wembly remembered another piece of unfinished business. He handed a folded sheet of paper to Dr. McDuff. “These are the ownership papers for the Salvation. Fill in your name in the right places. If I tow it back to Port Moresby, it will slow us down by at least a day. Furthermore, I will have to do more paperwork than I wish to, just to turn it over to the Admiralty. I will leave it in your custody. You may find a use for it — to go fishing if nothing else.”
Yani watched them go back aboard Kilibob’s beautiful ship with mixed emotions. He would have really liked to meet one of the famous brothers, but maybe he would have a chance in the future when he learned the sacred knowledge that appeared to have done these Witmen a great deal of good.
Chapter 6
McDuff was anxious to get things started now that he was here. It had been more than a month and a half since he left Boston to travel on a cargo ship to Brisbane, Australia. It was more than a year since he had started negotiations through the mail with the Administration for him to set up a church. He left the selection of which island to them, feeling they knew better than anyone where the services of a new church were needed.
Judging from the way the crowd of islanders were eyeing his possessions, the minister realized that the Patrol Officers were right. Left in the open, everything would disappear into the village overnight. His first thought was the often-discussed logic problem of the three missionaries and the three cannibals trying to cross a river with a canoe that only held two people. The idea was that anytime the balance was disturbed, the cannibals would kill the missionaries. He was not concerned with being killed in this case, since he believed that the natives regarded white men as inviolate. They wouldn’t dare kill a white man — he was sure. But leaving his goods unprotected while he “arranged his accommodations,” as he put it, was another question. The answer clearly lay in the services of his new Churchboy, Yani. He would leave him to guard the stack.
He spoke to the young man in Pidgin, reinforcing their verbal contract to his satisfaction. It became clear that Yani expected his pay in tinkens. Indeed, there was nothing closer to the Chase Islander’s heart than this mountain of cartons filled with tinkens of beef and other tasty delights.
“Yani no have food in bel-bel one sun-come-up past,” he complained to McDuff, who understood. He had not eaten since yesterday and was looking for breakfast. The minister pried the lid loose on the nearest box and gave him a can of bully beef. Before McDuff could find his can opener, Yani had
opened the top of the can using only his prized possession, the steel knife he carried at his waist. His speed and precision was amazing. The lid was hinged up and his fingers plunged into the boiled beef in less than 15 seconds.
The local natives watching were envious. They believed they were entitled to cans as well, and pushed forward behind one of the larger men. Yani was tall for an islander, but this man was taller. He addressed McDuff in a definitely aggressive tone of Booga-booga, not so much asking for a can as demanding one.
The minister did not know what to do. “Yani, tell him tinken bilong churchfella. Him no have.”
The concept of a bodyguard was foreign to Yani’s culture, but McDuff was his Big Man and he resented anyone treating him with disrespect. More important, his understanding was that he was a joint owner of this cache of food. He was not disposed to share it with these strangers.
Yani understood enough of the man’s language to make him decide to act. The native shoved McDuff backwards and said, “Witman trash man. You have no scars of battle. You have no tattoo. I am full man.” He swaggered back and forth in front of the crowd. “I have three heads before spirit house. I take tinkens from trash man. I claim all tinkens for my tambaran.”
Yani put down his can of beef with his left hand, and held his knife in his right. Speaking in his own language, with a sprinkling of Pidgin, he said, “This Blackfella no trashman. This fella pooja.” He pointed to the welts and tattoos on his well-muscled body. His chest markings were recognized by the other islanders as those of a shaman. With a flick of his wrist, his cotton shorts fell to the ground and he stepped out of them.
McDuff was shocked and embarrassed. Yani was standing there stark naked. Pointing to his circumcised penis, he said, “None of my mother’s blood runs in me. I am full man of tambaran.”
As far as the natives were concerned, this was a showdown. If their man backed away without a fight, he would be disgraced. He had to continue his bluff. He made a mocking noise and reached into the open crate to take out a can of beef.
When John Frum Came Page 5
