“You are not pooja. You are a trash man,” the man who hit him said.
Not understanding that he was just insulted and given a challenge that could cost him his life, McDuff said. “I have no quarrel with you. I am a man of peace.” He rubbed his head, examined his bloody fingers, and continued to sit there.
Without realizing it, he had acknowledged that he was a trash man by not fighting back. And, having such a lowly status, there was no valor for the warrior to treat him as an adversary. Instead, the man put his foot on the Witman’s back and said, “This is Yani’s trash man. We will take him to the beach and trade him for a coconut.”
The men in Aboo’s group laughed. One of them grabbed him roughly by the hair and another tied his hands together with a vine.
Chapter 38
A spear rattled along the deck. A second one hit the center of a cardboard carton squarely and penetrated an inch or two.
“Yani!” John yelled. “They’re attacking. Get up here and do something.”
Yani appeared in a wink and climbed the drop-door. He could see Aboo and his men standing on the beach. He was disconcerted to see his bis being led by a vine rope around his wrists. “Quick, John Frum. Look at beach. Aboo has Big Man Duff tied like pig.”
Bartlett grabbed his binoculars and brought the war party into view. McDuff had blood on his face, apparently from an injury to his forehead. “What do they want, Yani?”
Yani called to Aboo and told him to let Big Man Duff go.
He refused, and said he would trade him for John Frum and all the cargo Yani had promised. Yani refused, and said that John Frum had come to him — not Aboo.
Aboo was angry and the men headed to the site of the old village, dragging McDuff with them.
***
A little later, the drumming began. Apparently, the village’s slot drum, made from an immense hollow log, had been found. It was dragged down to the beach. At first, the pooja struck single notes. About every thirty seconds, a different warrior approached the log with an immense club and struck it as hard as he could.
“What does that mean?” John asked Yani.
“Poojas call spirits of ancestors to help them be pooja. Not fear any man if spirit with you when fight begin.”
“Do you think they’ll attack the boat?” John said.
“In morning. This night dance, sing, make great fire.”
While Yani was talking, John noticed that large numbers of gooney-birds began to circle above the beach. Some of them had a wingspan of ten feet. John looked up and said, “What brings the birds now?”
“Aboo bird-fella,” he said pointing to the kanakas on the beach, meaning that the albatross was their totem. They were chumming the water with scraps of dead fish they had found on the sand. The birds were normally drawn to the lagoon where schools of minnow-sized fish came close to the surface. Now, the large birds swooped down and made numerous forays to feed on the chum.
“Big bird name Ak-ak. Ancestor of Aboo. They come. Stay with Aboo for fight. Ak-ak taboo. Bird die — Aboo die.”
So, John thought, the Gooney Birds are called Ak-aks. The natives think they are their ancestors, and they want them around to protect them if a fight breaks out. What am I sayin if— the word is when. That’s not a fire drill those guys are putting on out there.
The frequency of the drumbeats had changed. Now each of the kanakas was striking the log twice. As the day wore on they progressed to the point where they each struck it five times. Their mathematical concept had reached its limit — five was the number of fingers on a hand.
When that phase came to an end, the beat became steady and frantic, the work of one dedicated man. This time it was clearly someone of skill. He also had some other drums besides the hollow log. As he beat out a variable rhythm John said, “Sounds like they brought in the union guys. Whoever is playing the drums is a professional.”
“Him called Koko. Him make drums for wedding, funeral, feast. Koko fall off sailboat long time past. Ooma give him food, Mary, house. Koko no have to fish ...no grow garden. Him no kanaka. Him taboo.
Koko make pooja strong — call ancestors.” Yani was truly agitated. He was impressed with the power this drummer had to make the warriors powerful.
Peering through the binoculars, John could see a huge man on the beach who easily weighed 300 pounds. From his features, he was clearly Hawaiian.
The large birds were becoming thick in the skies. John watched them and said, “They look like God-damn buzzards circling a wagon-train in the desert.”
“Buzids?” Yani asked. “Dezsit?”
“Sorry,” John answered. “It doesn’t translate. A desert is place with no water.”
“Big Man Duff say Hell have no water.”
“Well, if he’s right, by this time tomorrow we might know that for sure. I damn well better pull some kind of Houdini.”
Although Yani thought he understood a lot of English, but John Frum used words neither McDuff nor any of the Aussies ever did. But then, he was a special kind of man — Blackfella American from Boston Island. Part of his magic no doubt came from the secret words he knew.
***
John Bartlett was an educated man, in spite of the lowly circumstances from which he had recently emerged. At the Bartlett mansion, he had read books on his own that Frankie only read under pressure from the hired tutors. He was familiar with the historic and literary heroes who had been in similar predicaments — Robinson Crusoe, Swiss Family Robinson, Young Jim Hawkins in Treasure Island, and Fletcher Christian.
This whole damn island castaway business is taking on the aspect of living in a “B” movie, John thought.
Yani listened to the drumbeats. “Aboo not give up, John Frum. He drum poojas all night. Sun come, kanakas come. Maybe now time shoot Aboo with big rifle?”
“No. I don’t want to kill him or anybody. I want Aboo to be our friend. Not hurt Dr. McDuff. Let me think. I will find some way of saving him.”
Yeah, just like in the movies, he said to himself. Too bad I’m not Douglas Fairbanks. He’d go ashore wielding his trusty cutlass, felling savages left and right, freeing the missionary and carrying off the lovely native princess in his arms.
He continued thinking about the fantasy for a few more minutes, reminding himself that there were no lovely princesses to be rescued — but what about just plain lovely native girls? There must be a bunch of those around. He just hadn’t seen any yet.
John jumped to his feet, looked straight into Yani’s eyes, and said in a loud voice, “What the hell! Why not? If I don’t make my move now, I can just sit out here on this barge and wait to be murdered in my sleep.”
John went to the bridge again and flipped all the switches for the loudspeakers. The feedback squawked for a few seconds then he said what only one man on shore could understand. “Hang on McDuff, and damned be him who first cries ‘Hold, enough!’”
He climbed rapidly over the cartons until he came to a wooden box. He had opened it once before, and found that it contained an assortment of expensive toys that had belonged to the Admiral. Among them was a chrome-plated sporting piece, complete with a box of 12-gauge shotgun shells. Apparently he planned to shoot a little skeet. It must have been the most envied gun at the country club.
He stopped next to an ammo box opened by mistake. He picked up a hand grenade very gingerly. He had seen these in the movies too, but had never been to basic training, so it was his first. He was really quite scared of the damned thing. Overcoming his fears, he palmed it and climbed up to the edge of a gunnel.
Without knowing what he was going to do next, John pulled the pin out of the grenade. “Count to ten, they always said.” He counted up to five and said, “Screw this...” and hurled it like a football as far out into the lagoon as he could. His caution was rewarded when the grenade exploded on what would have been the count of eight just as it touched the lagoon’s surface.
The resulting noise and geyser of water got the attention of the peo
ple on the shore. Some dropped to the ground at the noise, having seen the Japanese soldiers using similar weapons. Shrapnel fell far short of the beach, but Yani and John heard some of it ping off the side of their boat.
Everyone was looking out toward the landing craft and wondering what was happening.
It was twilight, and the gooney-birds were settling down on the lagoon, not far from the landing craft. In Aboo’s eyes, his ancestors were surrounding his enemy. They were quietly bobbing along, dipping for fish swimming near the surface. John mounted the side railing of the boat and apologized to the seabirds. “I realize that this could get me thrown out of the Hyannis Gun Club, but then again, this ain’t Massachusetts.”
Aboo’s men could see John had something bright and shiny in his hand, but had no idea what. He raised the Admiral’s custom-made, repeating shotgun to his shoulder and pretended he was in a beachside shooting gallery. Two of the birds swimming next to each other were the first to disappear in a flurry of feathers and blood with one shot.
The other birds, startled by the noise, took off as a group. He fired into the midst of the slow, low flying birds and two more fell. He kept firing until he had used all the shells in the magazine. There were dead birds floating everywhere. He reloaded and peppered the dumb creatures who didn’t fly away because they had never been shot at before. At this range, John could not miss.
When the shotgun was empty, John waved at the men surrounding Aboo. The old man was too nearsighted to see anything in detail, but he knew that he had lost a large number of protective ancestors in the last few minutes. He was scared of this John Frum, after all.
Yani had perched himself at the highest point on the landing craft, where he could observe the goings-on through John’s binoculars. He reported that Big Man Duff was stretched between two palm trees from vines around his wrists. “Please, John Frum, you shoot Aboo.”
“I’m afraid that his people outnumber us, and they would just overrun the boat,” he argued.
“You do something, John Frum. Maybe Big Man Duff die waiting for you.”
“Good point,” he said while he made one more inventory of what alchemy was onboard his enchanted vessel that could be used to reverse the situation.
A frontal assault using the carbine to pick off natives on the beach would only result in their staying out of sight. “If I shoot Aboo, they’ll kill McDuff.”
Since his arrival, John had been taking items out of the stack of red-tag specials. The most unexpected item was Lieutenant Frankie’s portable wind-up phonograph and a small selection of Big Band swing records.
___
Yani watched John rapidly assemble the things he needed to create his Douglas Fairbanks drama. The most awesome artifact by far in Yani’s eyes was the ceremonial sword. He had never seen anything this beautiful. Its silver blade sparkled in the sun and its gold hilt bespoke wealth beyond reason. No doubt, up to this point it had been polished with a reverence due a sacred object. The only thing he could not understand was the absence of a cutting edge. Of course, it was never intended to be used in battle, so for safety’s sake Lieutenant Bartlett had never sharpened it. Besides, it would have scratched the chrome-plating. Now, John Frum put an edge on it with a grind-wheel he had found in a miniature machine shop next to the engine room. He regretted defacing it, but it would be useless in its pristine condition.
Yani watched in amazement. John said, “Yani, come with me.” They ran to the bridge and he pointed to the microphone. “This strong magic from U.S. Navy.”
John cranked up the emergency generator, and it caught on the second try. A green light lit on the control panel. He flipped on all the switches for the public address system and the drop-door.
“Who is your most powerful god on the island.”
“Kilibob ... but him leave island.”
“I think he’s about to come back.”
Yani wondered if John Frum knew something he was not telling him.
“How do you say ‘Kilibob angry’ in native words?” the American demanded.
Caught between fear and excitement, Yani squeaked out “Kilibob pagow!”
He picked up the microphone and brought it near the amplifier. The resulting screech of feedback was music to his ears. John spoke directly into the microphone in the deepest tones he could muster. The crackle and boom of the amplifiers reverberated in the natives’ ears. From the center of the lagoon, they heard “Kilibob pagow! Kilibob pagow! Kilibob pagow!”
There was a cry of terror from the men on the beach. This had to be the voice of Kilibob. Many ran frantically into the surrounding bush. John turned off the P.A. system and thought about his next move.
***
Aboo was rattled by the display, but he was not fooled. He remained in control of his senses, and through the binoculars, John could see him emerge from his observation post in the jungle.
I must show my people that I am not afraid of noise, Aboo thought to himself. If John Frum wants a war of noise, I will have my drummer make a magic drumming like he has never heard. That will instill bravery and strength in the men.
The old man went to the fat drummer and said, “John Frum makes a fool of you. He makes sound with White Man’s tricks. These sounds have no power. It is not drumming — it is only big noise. You make drumming greatest ever. You make drumming all night.”
The most loyal kanakas returned to the beach and began to dance as the sun sank below the horizon. The drummer dredged up some syncopated beats never before heard on Chase Island.
Chapter 39
John climbed down from the control bridge and crossed to the living area. With the frantic drumming going on as background music, he went over the plan three times with Yani until he was certain the Chase Islander knew what he was supposed to do when. He assembled the pieces in the order they were to be used.
He wound the spring in Lieutenant Bartlett’s portable victrola and placed the record on the turntable. “As soon I release the drop-doors, you start this playing.” He showed him how to place the needle in the record groove. The phonograph was positioned so its speaker was next to the open microphone. “Don’t move anything,” he warned. He rehearsed the magic words Yani would say, just before he started playing the record. Yani had mastered them after two tries, and John Frum began to get dressed.
When the sun had set completely, the drumming had settled down to a monotonous and oppressive beat. “Now is the time,” John told his assistant. “What this party needs is some fireworks.”
He pointed a flare pistol skyward, inclined it slightly toward the island, and fired. The projectile streaked upward and with a muffled bang the sky was filled with a red glow.
The drum stopped in mid-beat and faces tilted upward. He could almost hear the natives gasp in astonishment. No one had ever seen a red star fall from the Heavens before. Surely something terrifying was going to happen. Everyone was frozen in place, even Aboo. John fired a second red flare just as the first was about to sputter out. It was more fear-inspiring than the first.
John operated the manual release mechanism for the big door at the prow of the landing craft. He allowed it to drop with a loud splash that broke the stillness invoked by the red lights.
On signal, he heard Yani say into the microphone, “Kilibob pagow!” It was followed by the scraping and hissing of a needle finding the groove at the beginning of a record.
John fired his flare pistol into the air one more time, and there was a tracer-like streak over the heads of the people on the beach. But this time it ended in a loud "pop," followed by the brilliance of a phosphorous flare. To the utter astonishment of the assemblage, the bright light seemed to hover over the beach. They could not see the little parachute that slowed its descent, nor would it have made any difference if they did. They were only aware of the bright blue-white light that banished the night and left them looking wide-eyed at each other in disbelief.
Immediately, like a school of fish executing a turn in unison, they all
fell on their knees or bellies in the sand, cringing in dread. The flare would last just about five minutes, and John had another loaded flare pistol, which he stuck in the back of his belt.
While the loudspeakers blared Gene Krupa’s version of “Stompin’ at the Savoy” at full volume, Kilibob emerged from the darkness of the landing craft on to the ramp. He was fully illuminated by the scintillating glare of the U.S. Navy issue Roman candle.
He stood at attention dressed in Lieutenant Bartlett’s bright white Annapolis graduation uniform, with white hat, belt and gloves. His gold buttons sparkled. In front of him, he held the ceremonial sword by its handle, vertically with both hands. The bright, chrome-plated blade caught the light in such a way, that he seemed to be holding a beam of light in his hands. He looked neither to the left nor the right, but stared straight ahead at his sword and the beach in front of him.
The tide was all the way out, so there were only inches of water in this part of the lagoon, he walked as though he were the honor guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington. The flare floated on the evening breeze and he headed straight for McDuff tied between the bamboo poles. The missionary’s arms were now stretched out from his sides, held tautly by the vine ropes.
John quickened his steps as soon as he was on dry ground. No one moved a muscle. There was hardly a twitch on the beach. The phonograph record reached its end and there were the usual scratchy noises. No one noticed.
Everyone saw Kilibob stand before the helpless Big Man Duff. He raised the sword and with two strokes, he cut through the rope-vines effortlessly. The man fell to the ground just as the parachute on the phosphorous flare caught fire and it fell into the sea.
The missionary was conscious but weak. “Go to the boat, now!” John commanded. He helped him to his feet in the darkness. With both the drumming stopped and the flare gone, the kanakas began to recover their senses. There was a murmur of confusion and Aboo was giving orders. John was sure they were going to be pounced upon. He pushed McDuff in the direction of the boat and reached around to the back of his belt for the flare pistol.
When John Frum Came Page 31
