Dr. McDuff approached the purser and Thompson, who was holding the other man’s elbow in a friendly manner.
“How do you do? I’m the Reverend Moses McDuff,” he said to the officer, and they shook hands.
“I’m Jake Vogel, the Purser for the Fenestra — the pride of the Port Moresby Trading Company’s merchant fleet.”
“Not to mention the only ship in the Company’s merchant fleet,” Thompson added, laughing heartily.
“An what might a man of the cloth be doing here on Christ’s Despair?” he said with a strong Australian accent, slurred a bit by its alcohol content. “Even its name tells you that they gave up on this island — savage and white man alike. Hell, even the Germans couldn’t shake the natives out of the jungle, and get them to work like people are supposed to.”
“I’m here to bring them the light of Christianity, Mr. Vogel. I really don’t want to get involved in the economics of whether the Protestant Work Ethic is a universal good.”
“Listen to him,” Thompson said to Vogel, his growing inebriation becoming more evident.
“Talking about economics,” Vogel said, “How do you support yourself on this island. Are you living off the land ... depending on the contributions of your parishioners? I took the last preacher off this place half crazy for trying that. I think he’s still in hospital in Sydney, trying to get his health back.”
“I brought a good deal with me, and I depend on whatever you have brought me on your ship,” McDuff said. “I gave Major Wembly all my money, and a list of what I thought we would need when they brought me here.”
Vogel opened his eyes wide and turned to Thompson. In a disbelieving tone said, “Did he really give his money to Wembly the Weasel?”
“That’s what he did,” said Thompson. “I didn’t want to get in the middle. I depend on those fellas to keep me supplied with Scotch, so I kept my mouth shut.”
“You mean he never gave the money and my list to you?” McDuff said, feeling his heart sink.
“You didn’t think he keeps the Wombat looking like a luxury cruiser on a Patrol Man’s pay. Did you? He’s one of the biggest con artists and rum-runners in the South Pacific.”
“Oh, Good Lord,” The minister cried out. “That was all I had. I depended on him to contact you and place my order. What am I going to do?”
“Have a drink?” Thompson suggested. “That’s what any real man would do.” He offered him the bottle of Scotch.
McDuff brushed it away. “Solutions to problems don’t come in bottles,” he said with a manner that indicated that he had said it many times to other men. “I will need a little time to think,” he told Vogel. “There must be a way out of this.”
“Why don’t you just get on the Fenestra and let Mr. Vogel take you back to Moresby or someplace,” Thompson said sarcastically.
“No. I have promised the Lord that I would stay here, and bring his Word to the heathen. I cannot be released from that promise because of the first setback.”
Thompson and Vogel looked at each other, and at the seamen who had moored their boat and caught up with them. Slowly, a grin spread across Vogel’s face, and he burst out laughing. The sailors, who were also in on the joke all joined in. The purser put his hand on McDuff’s shoulder and said, “Good show, Reverend McDuff. You’ve got balls. I’ve got to hand it to you.”
“Hand what?” he asked, not sure what was going on.
“We’ve got your bloody supplies onboard. Major Wembly gave us your list and paid for everything.”
McDuff was giddy. It was all a joke. He was so relieved he almost broke into tears. Instead, he joined in the laughter and playfully slapped Vogel on the arm. “You really had me going there for a few minutes,” he said. “That was a nasty trick to pull on me. I believed you.”
“Call it an initiation, if you like,” the purser said. “I guess we must pull that one on all the new hands in the South Seas at least once.”
Thompson’s expression, however, turned sour. “Shit, I thought we were rid of him. Well, he ain’t using my barge to bring his stuff ashore.”
“Come on, Jeremy, it was just a joke,” Vogel said.
“I’m not joking. Let him use his own boat to fetch his stuff. He ain’t using my barge, and he ain’t using my boys.”
“I think that Yani and I will be able to manage for ourselves in the Salvation, Mr. Vogel. We have a little yawl we can take out to your ship. We will unload the crates into it, thank you.”
The purser looked surprised, and said. “You can sign for your stuff here, and then go out and pick it up.” He leafed through the papers on his clipboard, and handed the manifest to McDuff to sign. He gave a copy to the minister, and added, “Oh, another thing. Your church wired a letter of credit to our headquarters, so you can give me a new list of whatever you want us to bring the next time. Let me know when you have all your stuff off our ship. My men and I are going up to the Big House with Jeremy for a little shore leave. You’ll find me there when you’re ready.”
The two men put their arms around each other’s shoulders and walked up the long hill toward the plantation.
___
In addition to his daily solo bathing sessions over the side of the Salvation, Reverend McDuff had taken Yani out with him in the boat to catch fish. He did it often enough that the islander was comfortable with just the two of them managing the boat. They brought it alongside the Fenestra quite skillfully, and the crew lowered nets full of boxes and crates into the sailboat. Dr. McDuff expected his money would have bought a lot more than it did, but at least he now had considerably more than the small quantity of food he had arrived with.
Yani was thoroughly pleased with the amount of goods they received from the freighter. He wanted to climb aboard the huge iron-hulled vessel, but there as no ladder hanging down. If Kilibob wasn’t on the Wombat, he certainly must be aboard this ship. It was the biggest structure he had ever seen on land or sea — it was even bigger than the men’s spirit house on Chase Island.
___
The rain and wind from an approaching storm made the trip back rougher than they were accustomed to. McDuff was worried that they would capsize and lose all the precious cargo he had waited for so long. It was dark by the time they finally reached the pier, and they could see Thompson’s barge being unloaded by the light of torches and bonfires. Even if the plantation manager were there, he certainly could not object to their taking advantage of the light from the burning palms.
They tied up the yawl and began the strenuous process of lifting the individual boxes from the deck of the small craft on to the dock. Yani said, “Them Blackfella help churchfella take boxes bilong church,” meaning he would get Thompson’s boys to carry the heavy stuff up to the church clearing.
“No. Them Thompson-fella,” he explained.
“Blackfella churchfella. Serve God get tinken.”
Before the missionary could stop him, Yani was talking to the work gang. He explained to the men who had been to the church that this was a shipment from Heaven. This was good cargo made by their ancestors in Heaven. Big Man Duff had said his magic chants and now all these gifts from God were here. If they wanted to share in “the glory of God” they would be well advised to help him and Big Man Duff to transport everything up to the clearing.
In a matter of minutes, there was a string of men toting bags and boxes from the beach to the jungle. Yani led the way, carrying a large torch. When everything that belonged to the church had been removed from the Salvation and the pier, Yani handed out a can of meat to each of the twenty-odd natives who had helped. He opened them with his knife, and a sheltered fire burned brightly, fanned by the storm breezes whistling through the brush. Everyone, including The Reverend Doctor Moses McDuff sat in a circle around the fire eating stewed mutton. He didn’t even bother to wait for it to get warmed up by the fire — he was ravenous from the exercise.
McDuff told Yani that he wanted to thank the men for their help, and the two stepped into the
center of the circle. The natives fell quiet and the minister said, “Blackfella makum Big Boss longa sky inside glad.”
Yani translated into the local tongue: “Witman God happy with island people.”
“Blackfella no sorry him sit down longa Big Name allatime,” McDuff said. “You sit at Witman God’s fire all the time. You receive more cargo.”
There was an appreciative murmur among the men at the prospect. They liked the idea. “Churchfella thank Blackfella help move cargo to church. You come church Sunday. Blackfella praise God. I teach sing hymn-song.”
Yani was not certain of the message to be conveyed, but he, too, was beginning to see that if they gave cans of food every Sunday to those who came to church, it wouldn’t last very long.
He told them: “You come see Big Man Duff and Yani in ceremony clothes. Big Man Duff tell us magic words make more cans come from Heaven. You learn secret words, you get more tinkens.”
___
When the storm abated some, Dr. McDuff decided to let Mr. Vogel know that the job was complete, and to deliver his long list of needs for the next visit of the Fenestra. As he walked past the pier, it was too dark to see anything, but he knew that Thompson’s crates were being soaked by the rain, since the natives had all abandoned the barge to work for him. There would be hell to pay in the morning, but he took perverse glee in knowing that the manager would be furious.
As he approached the Big House, he saw that there was a campfire in the native living quarters. The tropical building was nothing more than a thatched roof supported by palm logs that kept the rain off the floor. However, the wind was blowing through the open sides, fanning a struggling fire like the one he had left at the church.
He could make out several figures dancing around the fire and singing. He did not approve of native ceremonies, since Dr. Paton’s book said they were bad. But he did find them interesting from a theological standpoint. He approached in the dark, unnoticed. To his amazement, two of the figures were white. They were the seamen who had rowed the dory ashore, and were waiting for Vogel to come out of the Big House.
They were drinking whiskey and prancing about clumsily with some of the native women. They were trying to teach them an English sea chanty. He was stricken with the absurdity of it all. Here, ten thousand miles from England, were two grown men who probably had families back home singing with black whores.
He listened to the words:
“What shall we do with a drunken sailor
What shall we do with a drunken sailor
What shall we do with a drunken sailor
Earl-lie in the morning!
Way hay and up she rises
Way hay and up she rises
Way hay and up she rises
Earl-lie in the morning!”
The native girls, who were also drunk, made some unintelligible response that captured the tune but not the words. He entered the open structure in the dim light of the fire and said, “What are you men doing?”
The two men stopped short in their dance and looked at him, dumbfounded. In the murkiness, they couldn’t make him out. Straining his eyes the taller of the two said, “Who the hell wants to know?”
“I am Dr. McDuff, the pastor of the church on this island. I want to know what you men think you are doing with these two young women?”
“Having a fuckin’ good time, I’d say, until you stuck your nose in here. Who the hell do you think you are?” the taller sailor said. “Get your arse out of here before I bury my boot in it. We don’t belong to your fuckin’ church and neither do these girls.”
The second man threw a nearly empty whiskey bottle at him that glanced off his shoulder. “The next one will catch you right in yer big mouth. Get the fuck out’a here.”
The fire was between McDuff and the men and they started to come around it toward him. They were serious.
He turned and walked quickly toward the steps up to the Big House. “It’s time I had a word with Mr. Vogel,” he muttered as he walked through the now driving rain.
He could see the warm yellow glow of the kerosene lamps against the curtains on the French windows. He felt a longing stir within him to return to his family’s summer home that looked amazingly similar to this house. He wondered if he would ever see it again.
He rapped on the small square panes of glass in the door, but no one answered. He rapped again.
It probably sounded like the wind rattling the door to the men inside, so he made the bold move of turning the little brass lever handle. The door opened and he entered quickly, turning toward the doors to close out the storm behind him.
His eyes adjusted to the room light and he saw Vogel and Thompson standing next to the wicker couches that furnished the room. They were both stark naked, and were — in delicate terms — in a state of active, hot-blooded manliness. At first, he thought they were interested in each other, but his perception was not complete. Crawling around on the floor at their feet, vying for individual attention were the three native women who belonged to Thompson.
One of them seemed to be climbing up Vogel’s leg, while the other two were on their hands and knees. They were making a show of covering each other with wet kisses.
As though this were a London drawing room and the parson had just dropped in from his walk on the moors, Thompson said, “Ah, the Reverend McDuff has decided to join us. Would you care for a drink, sir?”
Vogel was so drunk as to be speechless for the moment. He stood there smiling, as he lifted his glass in a toast to the late arriving guest.
“There are three sheilas, Dr. McDuff. Which one would you like? Or don’t you think you can rise to the occasion.”
The Australians laughed at the weak joke.
“I think Lucille, here, would be the most docile of the bunch. They’re nothing like your reluctant white women, you know. They participate. White women are mattresses by comparison.” Thompson said something to Lucille, and she began to creep toward McDuff like a big cat stalking its prey.
“I am shocked at you both,” McDuff said. “I thought you were here to civilize the natives, not to lead them down Satan’s path of sin. I’m especially surprised at you, Mr. Vogel. A ship’s officer behaving in this manner.”
Vogel did not take well to being criticized. “Where the hell does an American get off telling us how to run our lives here in the islands? You don’t know anything about me. Why should you be surprised? We all take turns going ashore on these bloody, stinkin’ islands. This happens to be one of the better ones for shore leave, thanks to Jeremy here. It was my turn at Christ’s Despair, so who are you to criticize my behavior? Damned Yank.”
“Does the Administration know that you turn the native women into whores? It’s no wonder that you have trouble getting them to work for you. What kind of an example do you set?”
“I think you’ll find the Patrol has more important things to do besides play pussy police, Dr. McDuff,” Thompson said as his girl slithered up behind him and stuck her tongue in his ear. “They couldn’t care less what we do, as long as we don’t kill anybody and don’t start any native uprisings.”
“I demand you respect my position as the pastor of the church on this island, and curtail your vulgar language,” he said.
“Pastor my arse,” Thompson said. “You ain’t even a British subject, and you set yourself up here as some sort of authority on what everyone is supposed to do.”
Lucille was only three feet from McDuff’s knees and was making purring noises. He took two steps backward, toward the door.
“They ain’t Christians, Doctor. They’re bloody headhunters, and you’ll be lucky if you don’t become part of their trophy collection. In the past ten years, we’ve had two missionaries just plain disappear, and lots more grab the first available transportation out of here after a month.”
“The Administration has authorized me to set up an evangelical program on this island, and I expect the cooperation of any white man who lives here,” the minister sai
d. “I may not know what your official reasons are for being here, but I doubt if the government approves of unbridled debauchery.”
Thompson, still making no effort to hide his nakedness, showed no change in his virility from the encounter. He sipped his drink, smiled contemptuously at the clergyman, and chose not to answer.
After a brief silence, Vogel voiced his thoughts. “Didn’t you ever hear of the ‘White Man’s Burden,’ Reverend? We teach it in our schools. That’s why Jeremy’s here. That’s why I’m here. There’s many a bloke who can’t remember the words to God Save the King who’ll deliver the entire works of Rudyard Kipling to ya`.”
Vogel started and Thompson joined him as though on cue. They pushed the girls aside, locked elbows and the two men recited together like schoolboys in a class pageant:
‘Take up the White Man’s burden —
Send forth the best ye breed —
Go, bind your sons to exile
To serve your captive’s need;
To wait, in heavy harness,
On fluttered folk and wild —
Your new-caught sullen peoples,
Half devil and half child.’
They finished by clinking their glasses and downing the remainder of the Scotch in them.
“That’s it. Isn’t it, Jeremy? It’s our duty as citizens of His Majesty’s Empire to teach the conquered races the joys of being British.”
“Yes, but we don’t want them to learn English,” Thompson said, glaring at McDuff.
“The other thing we won’t let them do, that’s very British, is to get quietly drunk. They get loud and rambunctious when they get drunk. We maintain our gentlemanly dignity — even when we get thoroughly pissed,” Vogel said. “Your average native reverts to his savagery, and picks up the first sharp instrument he can find and starts swinging — especially at us — the White Man.
“So you see, Doctor, we have no choice. As long as there’s an Empire, we are the chosen ones, who have to run it. In compensation, some of us get to screw the natives — who it turns out are more fun than our own women.”
Thompson was not as mellow as Vogel and said, “Now you know, Reverend McDuff, why this is really all none of your God damned business. So go back to your little church in the Wildwood, or better yet, why don’t you leave on the Fenestra tomorrow and go back to the States where you belong.”
When John Frum Came Page 9
