by Lance Morcan
“All set?” the captain asked.
“We are indeed, captain,” Drake Senior said.
“Very good, the longboat is waiting.” McTavish led them to the rope ladder and motioned to two sailors to assist the Drakes.
As the pair began climbing down into the longboat, Susannah was annoyed to see Nathan waiting in the craft. She’d hoped she wouldn’t have to be around him much longer for the temptation was becoming too great. In no time, the missionaries found themselves safely seated opposite the American.
Susannah looked disapprovingly at the musket resting next to Nathan. When she noticed the pistol tucked into his belt, she felt she had to say something. “Are those really necessary, Mr. Johnson?” she asked, staring pointedly at the weapons.
“I’d say so, ma’am, considering we are so far from civilization,” Nathan replied.
Voices from above distracted them. They looked up to see McTavish, Foley, and Lightning Rod staring down at them from the schooner’s rail.
McTavish called down to the Drakes, saying, “I wish you both luck at the mission.”
“Thank you, captain,” Drake Senior responded.
McTavish looked at Nathan. “We sail at first light tomorrow, Mr. Johnson. You have until then to finish your business.”
“That will be plenty of time,” Nathan assured him.
Lightning Rod waved at the American. “Goodbye, Nathan. Have a nice life!”
“It’s not goodbye, Rod. I’ll be returning to the ship tonight.”
“Goodbye, Miss Drake,” Lightning Rod called to Susannah. “Watch out for them savages.”
Foley clipped Lightning Rod over the ear as if to knock some sense into him. The simpleton burst into tears. Immediately regretting his actions, Foley ruffled his crewmate’s unruly hair. Placated, Lightning Rod stopped blubbering and beamed a huge smile. He and Foley then waved cheerfully to Susannah and the others below.
The oarsmen pushed off and began rowing toward shore. As they rowed, Nathan found himself staring at Susannah yet again. She avoided his eyes, preferring to study the shore.
Drake Senior was more displeased than ever at the interest Nathan was taking in his daughter. Determined to take every opportunity to make it clear he disapproved of Nathan and his kind, he said, “You know, I think the Fijians have more to fear from we Europeans than we do from them.”
Sensing he was about to receive another lecture, Nathan cautiously asked, “Oh, why is that, Reverend?”
“As has happened everywhere else Britain and America have ventured, we seem intent on plundering the indigenous natives’ bounty and dispossessing them of their valuable resources.” Nathan had heard this view point many times before. He was about to respond when Drake Senior continued, “First there was James Cook and the other explorers who took the Fijians’ hospitality and accepted the sexual favors of the women, in return for what?” The missionary answered his own question. “For syphilis and other deadly diseases.”
“I’m sure Mr. Johnson has heard this before, Father,” Susannah interrupted.
Ignoring his daughter, Drake Senior said, “Then came the whalers and sealers, plundering the ocean of its animal life and depriving the Fijians of a valuable food source. And then came the traders who felled the mighty forests of sandalwood that once covered these islands.” Drake Senior eyed Nathan accusingly. “And now come men like you, intent on trading muskets to these people. And for what? Sea slugs!”
The missionary was getting himself worked up. He was only too aware that the impact of Europeans on Fiji had been enormous: the white invaders had imposed and were continuing to impose their greed, depravities, and diseases on indigenous Fijians. He asked, “What price a human life, Mr. Johnson?”
“From what I know of these people, Reverend Drake, we Europeans are their best chance of survival, or of becoming civilized at least,” Nathan countered. “They were intent on wiping each other out. Cannibalism was, or still is, rife, so maybe the white man has something to offer them.”
Drake Senior was about to respond when Susannah placed her hand on his arm. She shook her head, indicating he should remain silent. To Nathan’s relief, Drake Senior took his daughter’s advice.
As the longboat neared shore, the passengers turned their attention to the mission station. Its tiny chapel and adjoining European style dwelling were now clearly visible.
Determined not to part from the Drakes on bad terms, Nathan looked at Drake Senior and asked, “What success do you think you will have converting these people, Reverend?”
“My understanding is the natives here are hungry for the Word of God,” Drake Senior pontificated.
Susannah added, “Our task has been made easier by the Smiths. They set the mission post up a few years ago.”
“Are they still here?” Nathan asked.
“No. The Smiths returned to England last month.”
Nathan looked concerned. “So you’ll be here alone?”
Drake Senior smiled patiently. “Well, not quite alone,” he said, placing an arm around Susannah. “We have each other . . . and we have God.”
A dubious Nathan looked away. As the longboat nosed up into the shallows, he jumped out and turned to assist Susannah from the craft. She refused his offer, preferring to wait for one of the oarsmen to assist her. Becoming used to her rebuffs, Nathan busied himself helping to unload the Drakes’ possessions.
A score or more friendly villagers descended on the Drakes and greeted them respectfully. It was clear they were expecting the couple.
Smiling children ran up to inspect the new arrivals, their gleeful laughter echoing around the bay. The children took a shine to Nathan and vied for his attention. Susannah pretended not to notice.
Several young Qopa men collected the Drakes’ possessions and began carrying them up to the nearby station. Susannah followed them. To Nathan’s disappointment, she didn’t look back.
Drake Senior debated whether to farewell the young American. Finally, he extended his hand. “Good luck, Mr. Johnson. May the good Lord be with you.”
The two shook hands. “I wish you and your daughter well, sir,” Nathan said sincerely.
Something in Nathan’s voice told the missionary he actually meant what he said. Drake Senior nodded to Nathan, flashed a grimace that almost resembled a smile, then followed Susannah up the beach.
Nathan retrieved his carry-bag and musket from the longboat, slung them over his shoulders, and began striding toward the Qopa village. The children followed close on his heels, shouting and vying for the tall American’s attention. Behind them, Nathan didn’t see Susannah quickly glance back in his direction.
#
Nearing the village, Nathan observed palisades of bamboo poles lined up in strategically placed rows. He could see they would allow defenders to retreat to the next row of palisades should the preceding row be overrun in battle. They presented a formidable barrier to any would-be enemy. It was obvious to Nathan that these people were well organized.
A deep ditch in front of the outer palisades presented another obstacle for invaders to overcome. Long planks, tied together to resemble a walkway, spanned the ditch, affording easy access for the villagers and visitors. Nathan was in no doubt the planks would be removed if the village was under attack.
Still with his escort of children, he walked unchallenged across the ditch and into the village via an opening between the palisades. Here, more children rushed forward to greet him, and the adults stopped what they were doing to look at him. This told him that white visitors were still something of a novelty in these parts.
Nearby, a master carver was busy instructing his young charges in the age-old art of carving. Under his guidance, kauri posts were being transformed into works of art as the apprentices labored away with hammer and chisel. Much of their work would adorn the exteriors of the villagers’ homes—often as decorative archways over the front entrances to their bures, or huts. Many of the bures were so adorned.
Nathan
noted the carvings had a Polynesian influence. He identified similarities between these carvings and those he’d seen in Samoa and elsewhere in the Pacific during his voyage out from San Francisco. The young man knew the carvings told a story, or had some special significance, but looking at them he couldn’t even begin to guess what that could be.
The village accommodated dozens of bures of various sizes. They surrounded a large meeting house, which was the focal point of the village and which featured the largest and most spectacular carvings of all. Many of the carvings were inlaid with shell and bone.
It was from the meeting house that Joeli, the ratu’s strapping son, and Waisale, his handsome young friend with the distinctive birthmark on his forehead, suddenly emerged. Waisale had just returned from the highlands of the interior after yet another unsuccessful search for his beloved Sina, the maiden abducted by the Outcast. Their proud bearing alluded to their royal bloodlines, but it was their hairdos that really set them apart from other warriors. Joeli’s massive hairstyle, now dyed orange, was even wider and higher than it was three months earlier, while Waisale’s zany, geometric hairstyle was uniquely colored what could only be described as shocking pink.
Waisale jealously guarded the secret ingredients that made up this color for it was widely believed he was the only Fijian in the entire archipelago with pink hair. The young warrior had promised he’d divulge the ingredients as soon as he found Sina. This ensured he at least had the support of every vain man in the village.
Joeli and Waisale saw Nathan and headed straight for him. The American noted the huge club Joeli carried. He noted, too, the human teeth inlaid around its head. The teeth numbered thirteen now, indicating Joeli had killed another man in the past few months.
Nathan couldn’t take his eyes off the incredible hairstyles worn by the two otherwise macho-looking warriors. It took all his control not to burst out laughing. He knew that would be construed as an insult and was afraid he’d end up in a cooking pot.
Joeli stopped a foot from Nathan and, in Fijian, said, “White-Face is not welcome here.” Nathan looked blank. Joeli switched to pigeon English. “What White-Face want?”
Nathan disliked dealing with native peoples at the best of times, more so in circumstances like these when they insisted on flexing their muscles on their home turf. Having to go through all their longwinded rituals in order to trade, like some pathetic rite of passage, was akin to pulling teeth for the American. He’d found from experience the only way he could endure it was to keep his mind focused on his ultimate goal. He constantly reminded himself of the profits he would make if the trade was successful. Nathan unslung his musket and held it toward Joeli. “I have come to trade muskets.”
Joeli took the weapon from him and studied it. A movement behind him announced the arrival of Joeli’s elderly father, Iremaia, who was the Qopas’ ratu, or chief. Iremaia was resplendent in a ceremonial tapa cloak and turban. He was a man of great mana, or spiritual strength. As was the custom, villagers in his path prostrated themselves before him to demonstrate their total subservience to their ruler.
At the sight of the musket, the ratu hurried to his son’s side and took the weapon from him. Looking from the musket to Nathan, Iremaia fired questions at Joeli in his native tongue. Joeli answered his father respectfully. As father and son talked, Nathan’s eyes were drawn to a striking whale bone pendant hanging around the ratu’s neck.
Joeli turned back to Nathan.“This is Iremaia, great ratu over all of Momi Bay.”
Nathan extended his hand to Iremaia. “Nathan Johnson, from America.”
Iremaia ignored Nathan’s outstretched hand and addressed him in halting English. “Na-than John-son?” The young American nodded. The old ratu continued, “You have musket to trade?”
“Yes. One hundred muskets.”
On hearing this, Iremaia’s eyes lit up. Returning his attention to the musket in his hands, he cradled it lovingly for a few seconds longer before handing it back to Nathan.
Nathan shook his head. “That is my gift to you.” He’d learned firsthand that natives of all lands loved receiving gifts—especially gifts that appeared to come with no strings attached. Of course, there were strings attached: Nathan was looking to use the Qopa, just as he used everyone who came within his orbit.
Iremaia’s wrinkled face creased into a smile. He clasped the musket to his chest as a mother would a child. His unsmiling son looked on, unimpressed. Waisale appeared more receptive and studied the musket with interest.
The men would have been perturbed to know that, at that very moment, on a scrub-covered hill overlooking Momi Bay, the Outcast, Rambuka, was watching them. Half a dozen fellow outcasts lay on either side of him. Wearing grass skirts, their only concession to modern ways was that they all carried muskets. Bones and sticks inserted through apertures in their noses and ears added to their savage appearance, as did the tattoos that covered their faces as well as their bodies.
Unlike the Qopa, they shunned outrageous hairstyles, preferring to wear their hair short or shaggy. Behind them, fifty more musket-bearing warriors lay in wait. They’d been there since first light. Like Rambuka, their attention was focused on the four men below who were still deep in conversation.
7
Rambuka stretched his long, muscular frame in the grass as he positioned himself for a better view. His fierce, battle-scarred, tattooed face was a picture of concentration and his coal-black eyes burned with hate as he studied Iremaia and the ratu’s son, Joeli, in the village below.
He had scores to settle with those two.
The Outcast turned his attention to Nathan. He wondered if the white man was related to the beautiful white woman he’d seen arriving at the mission station a short time earlier.
Watching Nathan conversing with Iremaia and Joeli, Rambuka wished he knew what they were talking about. The Outcast guessed the conversation involved trade, and he speculated whether the white man had more muskets like the one he’d just handed to the old ratu.
Rambuka switched his attention from the men to an enclosed storage structure perched atop four tall poles near the village meeting house. He looked longingly at the structure for he knew what it contained. The warriors on either side of him were looking at it, too. Like him, they lusted after its contents. After all, that was what had brought them to Momi Bay. Each took note of the two huge warriors currently guarding the structure.
For Rambuka, this village held many memories for him. After all, it was once his home; Iremaia was his father and Joeli his half-brother. Rambuka had lived at Momi Bay until he’d been cast out of the Qopa mataqali, or clan, and forced to make his own way in the world.
Memories of his past life flashed before his eyes. He took himself back five years to when he was a fully fledged member of the mataqali.
Until Joeli was born, Rambuka had been first in line to become ratu. Unfortunately for him, his mother was not of royal bloodlines. As soon as Joeli had entered the world, everything changed. As the son of Akanisi, Iremaia’s senior wife, Joeli was destined to inherit his father’s title and ever since Joeli arrived on the scene, Rambuka had been planning his demise. He got his chance on a hunting trip when he’d speared Joeli and left him for dead. Unfortunately for him, Joeli had survived and returned to the village.
The village council had ordained that death was too good for Rambuka. Its members branded him an outcast and placed a tabu, or curse, on him. This meant that bad luck would befall anyone who offered him shelter or extended the hand of friendship to him. As a final insult, a bitter Rambuka was confined to a life of slavery.
As the seasons went by, he’d grown ever more bitter. His hatred for Iremaia and Joeli, and indeed for all the Qopa, grew by the day. He dreamed of wreaking vengeance on them. When an opportunity to escape presented itself, he took it along with a handful of fellow slaves. So began Rambuka’s campaign of terror against his old village and against other villages up and down the coast.
Despite his failings as
a human being, Rambuka had always been a charismatic character. His numbers had grown as more disenchanted warriors joined him. Widely known as the outcasts, they wreaked havoc throughout much of Viti Levu. Their influence increased as they acquired muskets. Rambuka’s followers were also made up of a few non-Fijians, including Tongans and Samoans, who had ended up in Fiji either as a result of inter-island warfare or the healthy slave trade that existed between the islands.
Rambuka’s favorite past-time was abducting attractive maidens. As well as keeping him and his men amused, there was a more sinister reason behind this: to impregnate the women and so increase the outcasts’ numbers in order to eventually create a new tribe. It was rumored Rambuka kept the women as sex slaves at his inland hideouts.
Women up and down the coast lived in fear of the dreaded Rambuka and his fellow outcasts. Hunting parties had tried in vain to find the outcasts’ hideouts, but the cunning Rambuka had a number of encampments at his disposal and frequently relocated his followers from one to the other. Fear of reprisals ensured that tribes in the vicinity did not reveal the whereabouts of these encampments.
Forcing himself to focus on the present, Rambuka eyed the musket Iremaia was holding. Muskets were the big advantage the outcasts had over the Qopa. He didn’t want to lose that advantage. Rambuka knew he needed to act quickly.
Down in the village, unaware he was being observed, Iremaia questioned Nathan. “What you want trade for muskets?”
“Sea slugs.”
“Sea . . . slug?”
Nathan displayed the sea slug sample he carried with him. Joeli snatched it from him and studied it for a second then looked at his father. “Ah, trepang.”
Iremaia studied Nathan intently for several long moments then announced, “We trade.”
Nathan flashed a broad grin. While he was genuinely pleased trading was to commence, his grin hid the frustration he always felt when dealing with native peoples. He knew they wanted his muskets and would trade just about anything to get their hands on them. Why they insisted on this masquerade of pretending they didn’t care whether they acquired muskets or not, he never could work out. In this respect, he decided, all natives were the same whether they were Native American, Zulu, Maori, Aboriginal, or Fijian. The irony was, he could see through their apparent disinterest so easily it was laughable.
