The sounds triggered a now familiar response, and he reached for his worn copy of “Missionary in the New Hebrides” by John G. Paton. Next to the Bible, this was his only guide to dealing with the problems that surrounded him. He read:
“When I first beheld these Natives in their paint and nakedness and misery, my heart was as full of horror as of pity. My heart bleeds for the Heathen, and I long to see a Christianized native from some other island such as Samoa or Tonga for every tribe and a Missionary for every island of the New Hebrides. We found ourselves face to face with black Heathenism. They were but children and full of superstition.
“The first visible difference betwixt a Heathen and a Christian is that the Christian wears some clothing, the Heathen wears none. When these poor creatures began to wear a bit of calico or a kilt, it was an outward sign of change, though far from civilization.
“Concerning my former flock in Glasgow, though chiefly working girls and lads in trades and mills, their deep interest led them to unite their pence and sixpences and to buy web after web of calico, print and woolen stuffs, which they themselves shaped and sewed into dresses for the women, and kilts and pants for the men in the New Hebrides. This continued to be repeated year after year, long after I had left them.
The chiefs at both stations willingly sold sites for houses and appeared to desire Missionaries to live amongst them; but perhaps it was with an eye to the axes, knives, fishhooks, blankets and clothing, which they got in payment, or hoped for in plunder.”
McDuff looked up from his book. Somehow, dressing up the natives in western clothes does not seem to be the key to the problem, he thought. If I did not have Yani, I would not have gotten as far as I have. I have no idea what these people are saying, much less thinking. How do I convey abstract ideas to a bunch of Stone Age people who can’t even figure out how to use a shovel? What do I do about a white man who wants to keep them the way they are?
But Reverend Paton is right; their eyes are on the knives and axes. I wish I had thought to order some fishhooks.
He was musing on these points when Yani burst into the room. “All men go village. Elder give feast. Big Man Tomsin give one hand pigs. Him call coconut spirit. Make much sorry. You come see,” he said in one continuous stream of words.
What would Reverend Paton do in a case like this? He said:“... for the love of our Lord and God we put an end to their barbaric ways. We forbade dancing, feasting, singing, and drumming.” Dr. McDuff was thoroughly perplexed. Fat lot of good it would do for me to forbid them to hold a feast ... or do anything. I fear they hold Yani in higher regard than me.
Unfortunately, he was right.
“Spirit worship is sinful,” he told Yani. “It would be wrong for me to take part in the feasting. I must be true to my church. We do not allow such goings on.”
The Chase Islander looked at him with a quizzical expression on his face. He was not sure he understood what the missionary was saying. He had never heard of someone not going to a feast. What could possibly be wrong with it? “Pastor McDuff sick? Have pain in bel-bel?” Then he remembered that the minister did not like native food. “You no eat’em pig-fella. You come see. You dance.”
Not knowing how to explain himself, McDuff gave in. I guess I should witness the activity so I know what I am fighting, he justified to himself. “OK. You .. me go. You stay with Pastor. Tell what happens.”
“OK!” Yani said with a big smile.
***
When it got dark, Yani led the way through the jungle to the site of the big feast. Five fully-grown pigs were cooking in a massive bed of glowing coals and hot rocks and greenery. The smell of the roasting meat was almost more than McDuff could handle. He had been dying for a piece of fresh meat (anything but dog) since he arrived. Now here was more roast pork than he had ever seen in one place. He was almost drooling.
He was guided to a place of honor next to Thompson and several native Big Men before the huge spread. Apparently, they had not waited for him to begin. Someone handed him a coconut shell full of pineapple juice that tasted like it had been mixed with muddy water. When he was seated on the ground, Thompson arose and talked for ten minutes in Booga-booga. Even though McDuff did not understand a word, he could hear the contrition in the white man’s voice.
“What did he say?” he asked Yani.
“Big Man Tomsin say Coconut Tree Spirits not angry with men who cut down trees. He has whispered magic formula to the hurt trees. They will grow another time. Tree cut down now burns in the pig fire. He give these pigs to the Coconut Tree Spirits and they accept them. One pig left in jungle where we cut trees. Everybody eat the rest.”
McDuff was bothered. He called over the noise to Thompson, who sat diagonally to him. “How could you tell these people such claptrap. You are a white man, and I presume were nominally a Christian at some point in your life. It’s outrageous for you to pander to their pagan beliefs!”
“What should I tell them, Yank ... That they’ll go to Heaven if they learn to sing some hymns written by a bunch of Huns two hundred years ago?”
Thompson had already had a number of shells full of palm wine and said, “Hey, mate. When in Rome ... and all that shit!”
Before the minister could respond, the elder playing the role equivalent to Master of Ceremonies said in his own language, “Big Man Tomsin has a present for all the men who work for him — steel knife or hatchet. If he has more left over he will give them to the men who have none.” He held one in each hand, waving them for all to see.
There was a flurry of approval, and Yani translated the statement into Pidgin.
“It’s about time,” McDuff said to Thompson, raising his voice again. “You have been exploiting these people long enough. You make paying their wages sound like some great act of kindness on your part.”
“Is that so?” Thompson said somewhat unsteadily. “We’ll see who is capable of the greatest act of kindness before the evening is over.
“By the way, Reverend, these people believe that eating specific body parts of the pigs has healing value. If you want to see better to strengthen your tracking skills you eat the eyes. If you want to be as brave as a boar, you eat the heart. I have my own special interests — I think you call them mountain oysters in your country.” With that, he used his knife to cut off the boar’s gonads and made a special show of eating them with gusto amid approving cheers from the men next to him.
___
A totally naked young woman gave Pastor McDuff a large piece of roast pork on a banana leaf. He couldn’t decide which was more disconcerting — the naked woman or the roasted pig flesh. He gave into his uncontrollable urge and grabbed the roasted meat. In spite of himself, he attacked it with the gusto demonstrated by his fellow diners. The woman’s bare body held no allure for him. He acknowledged her as a female, but hot necessarily as a member of the same species. He found the chunk of partially cooked pig far more attractive.
“Father, forgive me, for I am about to sin,” he said and took a huge bite out of the piece of meat. He literally lost control. His eating style could not be easily distinguished from the savages around the pit. His meat hunger had overwhelmed him. He was totally ashamed, but could not do anything about it. Even Yani was surprised.
A few minutes later, his attention was drawn to the drums that had started. A man started to dance to the rhythm and did a sequence of intricate movements. He was joined by the woman who had served him his pork, and what they did together he could only describe as lascivious. McDuff looked away, too embarrassed to watch.
He drank another coconut shell full of muddy-tasting pineapple juice. In his obvious attempt to avoid watching the dance, he gladly focused on the juice. He drank it down, in spite of the taste, and it was refilled almost immediately.
When the dance was done, Thompson stood up again and spoke to the group. He pointed at McDuff and said something that met with the crowd’s approval. And sat down.
“Come on, preacher, they’re wai
ting for you to make a statement.” Thompson said.
“About what?” he asked.
“You are a Big Man at a feast. You are supposed to make some kind of contribution to the peasantry.”
“I have nothing to give,” the Pastor protested.
“Not so, Big Man Duff. I already told them that you would give them all your tools, knives, hatchets and the store of machetes I hear you have in large numbers,” Thompson sneered.
“These are for my church members,” McDuff protested.
“I warn you, Reverend, they don’t take lightly to cheap bastards who go back on their promises ... and as far as they are concerned, you’ve promised.”
“That was a low down trick, Thompson,” McDuff said.
“Tough shit, preacher. The chief has men ready to go back to your storehouse and carry the tools here. You and your church-boy better get a move on before the natives get restless...” He laughed with a sinister cackle.
The chief’s porters stood next to Yani, ready to get the tools. When he went to stand up, the minister discovered that his legs were numb. The pineapple juice had been heavily spiked with kava. All he really wanted to do was sit quietly. He leaned back and felt like Alice taking a tumble down the rabbit hole.
An hour later, when Yani got back to the feast after watching the natives take all the tools, he found McDuff asleep. Yani roused him up to report what happened, but McDuff awoke to another shock. There was Thompson doing a native dance with the girl to the accompaniment of the drums ... without a stitch of clothing on his pale white body.
Chapter 13
As the islanders were going down to the lagoon for their morning swim, the Wombat came into view. Its profile was now modified by the addition of a quad-50 — a four barreled .50-caliber machine gun. As soon as Yani saw the boat, he left the water and ran back to the church clearing to tell Pastor McDuff. The two of them were down on the pier by the time the Patrol boat tied up.
There was no sign of Thompson, who was assumed to be sleeping off last night’s celebration.
As Mr. Wembly and Mr. Gale stood on the deck prepared to climb over the side, the missionary greeted them. They stretched across to the pier and offered a handshake. “Thank the Lord you are here, gentlemen. I was wondering how to get in touch with you. Now, God in His infinite wisdom has brought you to me.”
“Didn’t Jeremy tell you we were coming? We spoke to him on the wireless yesterday,” Wembly said. “Apparently there are a number of problems with the natives according to him. And we have some very important news and changes of concern to both of you — and all of us, for that matter.”
“I’m afraid he and I do not engage in civil conversations, Mr. Wembly. Our views of the world and the natives on the island are at opposite ends of the spectrum,” McDuff told him.
“Oh?” said Wembly, pretending not to know. “Would you care to tell us about it?”
“I’m not one for telling tales out of school, but I don’t know what else to do about it.”
He was invited aboard the Wombat and climbed gingerly over the railing. At the same time, a large, muscular native with a shaved head and features similar to Yani’s climbed in the opposite direction. He was wearing a patrol uniform without any insignia, or markings. He smiled and said, “Good morning, sir. I’d like to speak to your Churchboy if you don’t mind,” in perfect English with an Australian accent.
“Good morning to you,” McDuff answered. “Go right ahead,” he said as the man headed toward Yani, standing a few yards away.
“Who is that?” the missionary asked, amazed at hearing a black man speak English.
“He is our head Policeboy, Percy. I’ll tell you about him later. Right now he wants to talk your boy ... What’s his name?”
“Yani.”
“Yes, Yani. I remember now,” Wembly said. “By the way, remember those pirates that kidnapped him? They hanged the lot of them back in Sydney.”
The minister did not like to hear of any violence, even of the legal variety. He had hoped they would have put them in jail and persuaded them to change their lives.
The three men made themselves comfortable in the large living room-like main cabin.
“Well, how are you making out with your Christianizing program,” Gale said. “Do you have any converts?”
“I think I am making great headway with Yani, but I have run into some snags with the local population, thanks to Mr. Thompson.”
“What kind of snags?” Gale asked.
“I hardly know where to begin. He doesn’t pay them. He takes sexual advantage of the women. He shot one of the men yesterday, and last night … well, you wouldn’t believe last night,” he said shaking his head.
They listened to Dr. McDuff’s tale of debauchery and dishonor without indicating how they felt about the matter. Then, at length Wembly said, “I think I had best go up to the Big House and talk to Mr. Thompson. We have a number of things to discuss in addition to the items you just described.
“Why don’t you stay here and talk with Mr. Gale, Doctor. I propose we all have lunch on board the Wombat at mid-day. You may have noticed our increased armaments,” he said, pointing to the anti-aircraft guns. “I will explain the wartime changes that are about to descend upon us.”
***
Knowing what things white men missed most in the islands, Mr. Gale poured Dr. McDuff a tall glass of ice water. Had he been a drinker, he would have added a tumbler of Scotch. “We carry enough fresh water on the Wombat for you to take a shower, if you wish, Doctor.”
“You can’t imagine what that would mean to me, Mr. Gale,” he said. “The endless stickiness that comes from bathing in the ocean is getting to be a bit much. Sometimes I just go out and stand in the rain.”
“Believe me, I know,” Gale said. “I was a cadet for six months on an island much like Christ’s Despair. This one is just a little worse than the rest.”
“I never did find out how it got it’s name,” McDuff said. “I wanted to ask Thompson, but our conversations have always been antagonistic. Do you know?”
“Some of it. It’s not pretty. I’m not sure you want to know,” he said in a way that made it all the more tantalizing.
“How am I to deal with the problems if I don’t know what they are?” he argued.
Gale hesitated, thinking it over, then said. “The Germans brought the first missionaries here in 1900, when they got into the copra business. They were Lutherans. They did things in a big way. They didn’t just send one man, like Thompson. They sent whole families to the islands. The managers brought their families. The German officials brought their families. So, naturally, the missionaries brought their families.”
“That sounds like a strong basic policy for colonization,” McDuff said. “How were they received by the natives?”
“Well, considering how they took over the island, they weren’t very welcome.”
“Why was that? What did they do?”
“They armed about 75 natives — mercenaries — from one of the other islands who were their traditional enemies. They gave them rifles, and paid them with liquor and tobacco and sent them in to shoot everyone they could — with special instructions to kill everyone under ten years of age. They just wanted adult males to work on the copra plantations.”
“I can’t believe that!” McDuff said. “No one could be so heartless.”
“I think it’s a piece of verifiable history, Doctor. It didn’t make the Krauts too popular with the natives. You can be sure of that. They burned off much of the vegetation, so they could plant their coconut palms. They didn’t grow here naturally. Practically all the trees you see now are left from the first plantation. I don’t think Thompson has planted a single tree since he took over a few years ago.”
“He told me that, but I didn’t believe him,” McDuff admitted grudgingly. ”Don’t the indigenous people own the land?”
“Yes, but it is standard practice to own the individual coconut trees, rather than the gro
und they grow on. It’s possible to own a plot of land, but not have the rights to any fruit from the trees.
“Well anyway, burning the jungle left the people in a famine situation. They were starving. The island split up into groups, and they reverted to cannibalism. They were attacking each other’s villages and cooking the victims. It was only a matter of time before they decided to add white meat to their diet.
“They say that in one week, at the height of the frenzy, every German man, woman and child was slaughtered and eaten.”
Dr. McDuff made a face. “I have read about that sort of thing in a book I have, but I still find it difficult to accept it as really happening.”
Gale was beginning to enjoy watching the look of horror and disbelief on the missionary’s face, and decided to administer the coup de grace. “Have you noticed that there aren’t any kids among the villagers between the ages of five and ten?”
“Now that you mention it, I think you are right,” he said. “Plague? Measles? What did them in?”
“Supposedly about ten years ago, they suddenly developed a taste for ‘baby-meat’ according to one of your predecessors. That’s why there’s such a gap in the ages of the kids. Mothers began to eat their own newborn children, sharing them with their sisters...”
“Stop it!” McDuff yelled. “I don’t want to hear any more. This is revolting. I can’t believe it ... I don’t want to believe it!”
“I warned you,” Gale said. “I’m sorry if I have upset you. That’s why no one would take a missionary post on the island for the past five years, until you came along. There’s a rumor that the last one killed himself at the hospital.”
The Boston-bred minister was sweating profusely. He looked like he was going to be ill. “I’d like to take you up on that shower now, if you don’t mind Mr. Gale,” he said.
***
The four men sat around a dinner table in the main cabin, while a Papuan cook and mess steward served them a baked fish dinner that might be found in a better Sydney restaurant. Dr. McDuff had recovered from his encounter with the truth about the island, and was reveling in the civilized atmosphere of the meal. If he overdid anything, it was the ice water.
When John Frum Came Page 12
