Long Way Place (Cannibal Country Trilogy, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  Ned reached his quarters, put the horse up in its stable, called the groom-boy to tend to the animal, stood watching while he rubbed the horse down and then watered it and provided it with a feed. He did not know the man well enough to trust him yet, so felt it necessary to stand over him at intervals. He delicately eased the sweaty riding-breeches away from his crotch, reflecting that a boat would make sense, if he could lay his hands on one. He would see what the mission station at Vunapope had to offer – they were richly endowed with worldly goods, running their own plantations and sawmill to provide a local income as well.

  The mission possessed a petrol launch which it used along the coast, inside the reefs where possible, perfectly adequate to make the run into Rabaul or across to the islands in the channel between New Britain and New Ireland. It was crewed by the mixed-race, low paid staff of the mission, most of them called lay-brothers and treated like slaves, the offspring of Queen Emma’s followers and their Tolai wives or mistresses – the previous administration having recognised neither status. Ned had tracked down the eldest of the family Schultz, a clan in its own right, and senior workman at Vunapope, and had announced his need for sea transport and his intention to expropriate the launch for the duration. Negotiations from his position of strength led to an agreement that the launch would be made available to him, fully crewed, whenever he required it, but that he would give as much notice as possible to the mission before the event.

  The following day the father in charge of the mission appeared at Ned’s office, begging the favour of an interview ‘to further establish their good relations’.

  Ned was instantly on guard – in his experience missionaries were more inclined to grant audience than come begging to be heard. This man was humiliating himself – in his own eyes – and would need be treated with even more than ordinary care.

  “Father Joe! A pleasure to meet you, sir! Please come in, sit down. Tea?”

  Experience of missionary influence was universal throughout the Islands – they were an unmitigated menace, a destructive force who ruined every attempt to bring the benefits of Western civilisation to the local people. Prior to missionaries there was never any need for a police force; within five years of their presence rape, theft, casual violence and alcoholism were a commonplace as they destroyed the whole existing basis of tribal society and law and offered only the cheap pap of salvation – massively rejected already in the West. It was normally possible to keep them out for a few years with the threat of cannibalism – digested missionary being unpopular; when that failed it was necessary to limit their evil, normally by keeping them busy in a small compass. The technique was to offer an exaggerated respect for their uniforms and pander to their egos by offering them reverence, hanging on their lips, treasuring their every word, giving them the sense of importance and self-worth that had been denied them at home. It helped also to offer them the alcohol they seemed so desperately to need – especially with the Catholics, tea was a poor substitute. It was necessary also to turn a blind eye to their sexual peccadilloes – their penchant for the very small was somewhat disgusting, but they had too much political power in London and Washington for anything to be done.

  Ned apologised for the offer of tea.

  “Early days, Father, the military genius when it comes to supplies – they remembered the tea but forgot the whisky.”

  Father Joe intimated that tea would suffice, would make an interesting change to his diet, then sat silent, trying to assemble small talk suitable to the occasion. It was difficult, he found, to chat to a foreign invader; not being, of course, a sensitive character, it did not occur to him to compare his position with that of the local Tolais who often sat silent in front of him.

  “Vunapope owns a number of plantations, I am told, Father Joe.”

  “Yes, three…” A problem – how should he address the invader? Should he use the English rank, or his name, or call him sir? When the English had lost the war and the Gazelle Peninsula had returned to its rightful government he must not be accused of collaboration, yet for the mission’s sake he must cooperate, must not let valuable assets be lost or staff be deported. It was a challenge, a new game – one he would enjoy playing.

  “I fear our plantations must count as enemy property, Chief Inspector.”

  “The Church is never the King’s enemy, sir.” Ned knew the answer to that one.

  “Then they will not be taken away from us?”

  “Certainly not, sir, not while they are run efficiently. As long as they produce copra for export they will stay in your hands. There may be new taxes, of course, but that is not in my control, as you will understand.”

  Father Joe did; he also understood that the matter of confiscation was in Ned’s control, as intended.

  Another dilemma – copra was a source of glycerine, a base for explosives and many valuable chemicals – exporting copra was a major aid to the enemy’s war effort, but was also the single greatest income to the mission and Berlin could hardly be relied upon for funds for the while.

  “Would it be possible, perhaps, to sell our copra to America, or other neutral countries?”

  “No.”

  “We must consider our position carefully, Chief Inspector. I am sure you would not wish us to compromise our honour.”

  “Not at all, sir, but the plantations must remain in production, if not in your hands, then under the management of others. I am sure that the Australian government would not wish to persecute the Church, sir, but there are other missionaries ‘ere who could step in.”

  Ned had no specific authority to make this threat but was reasonably sure he could carry it out. A report that the Germans were untrustworthy, likely to commit sabotage, coupled with the suggestion that it might be unwise to give the appearance of stealing from the Church and the colonel would fall over himself to give the plantations over to another, reliable, group of missionaries. The fact that the only others were the London Missionary Society, over on the North Coast of the Gazelle, a group of very Low Scots, could be glossed over in the official reports. In any case, Catholics were always suspect in the eyes of British officialdom – their loyalties were too complex, they seemed always likely to place Rome before the king – it wasn’t so many centuries since the Pope had declared it lawful to murder a Protestant Queen, and one should never forget the Jacobites, could never ignore the Irish.

  Father Joe, aware of most of Ned’s calculations, surrendered, resentfully – this particular battle lost, the war hardly started. Mother Church was always in peril when a heretic government held power, as was now the case, and the souls of his converts must be more important than loyalty to a Kaiser who had failed to protect him and them. The plantations would yield their copra and the sawmill would continue in full production and the coastal boats would continue to run; there would be no disruption.

  Talk moved on and Ned gave guarantees blithely – the outstations and aid-posts would be maintained and protected, the sisters and nuns would be kept safe, peace would be secured. Father Joe agreed to help by identifying reliable men from the old police who could be re-employed in the new; it was in his interest, too.

  “What of the Kohler place, Chief Inspector?”

  “Is there a problem? I should know that name, shouldn’t I?”

  “The father was killed in the defence of Bitapaka – he was a reserve officer there.”

  “Ah! That one!”

  “Just so, Chief Inspector. His wife died three years ago and he was not a well-liked man. The way he met his end has not encouraged the other plantation owners to rally round.”

  “Hardly surprising – his behaviour was disgraceful.”

  “His child is attempting to keep things going. Jutta, about sixteen.”

  “I’ll go out and see what’s happening there, some time in the next few days. Utah, did you say? Funny name, sounds American.”

  The priest could not imagine why it should sound anything other than a perfectly ordinary German name, but
forbore to comment on the ill-mannered, insular ignorance of the remark. In any case, Kohler had been an extreme sectarian heretic and he was little interested in the problems he had left behind him, he had enough to do with his own flock.

  Three days passed while Ned collected together, interviewed and swore-in his nucleus of former policemen. With some trepidation he rearmed them with rifles – the same Mausers they had carried previously – and set them to patrol the town of Herbertshohe – a single street – and the immediate area, so that the law could be seen still to exist. He gave them strict orders that they were to shoot only in self-defence, when their own lives were endangered, and forbade them to beat evil-doers or inflict fines upon malefactors – there was to be no summary justice. He sent them out in groups of three, to watch each other. Cash incomes were almost non-existent except in government service or as plantation labourers, so his policemen were a highly-privileged elite, could be expected to do all they could to keep their jobs; equally, a few might retain a loyalty to their previous masters and more might be thinking of regaining their independence. Placing rifles in their hands was unavoidable, but it was not without risks; the only solution was to do it, and then announce his trust in them.

  He enquired amongst them, asked who had been non-commissioned officers, discovered that there had been no such thing. All promoted positions had been held by Germans; a few of the longer-serving constables had been given a little authority, that was all. Ned announced the existence of corporals and sergeants, with stripes and a higher rate of pay; a little thought and he created lance-corporals as well, unpaid but singled out for promotion as the vacancies arose. The men responded with an immediate swagger, marching proudly in their uniform of navy-blue lap-lap and blouse, stripes boldly displayed.

  Stripes had only ever been worn by white-skins before – the new masters had, unwittingly, announced that they were very different to the old – they had offered an indication that the Tolai could achieve equality with them. Ned having imbibed, if not fully understood, Murray’s ideas, had no difficulties with this – as far as he was concerned, he belonged to the new country he lived in, it did not belong to him.

  To show his trust in his new policemen he told his sergeants that he was riding inland for the day, they should run the business of the new station while he was out, and he set out on the track towards Toma, out past Parkinson’s big station to Vunatobung, where Kohler had planted at a distance from all of the others in the area.

  A notice board put him onto the wagon road into Vunatobung, a quarter of a mile along a low ridge beside a stream, dry at this season. The grass under the trees was uncut and there were fallen nuts lying uncollected – the place was poorly run at the moment.

  The plantation yard was set out in the normal way on a flat space where the ridge widened as it ran up towards the foothills of the Baining Mountains, some twenty miles south-west. The house was not large – a bungalow on stilts, white-timbered, corrugated-iron roofed, surrounded by a ten feet deep, kunai-thatched veranda where most of the living actually took place.

  The yard was full of people, whole families sat together, chewing betel-nut, chattering, obviously not intending to do any work. Women were preparing a mumu pit, an earth oven where food was baked in hot stones; it was holiday on the plantation. Evidently young Kohler was not proving to be an effective master.

  Ned hitched his reins to a veranda post, noted the elaborately casual lack of interest, the yawns of the men. He would change that! He shouted at the house.

  “Kohler!”

  Silence.

  “KOH-LER!”

  There was movement inside, the twin barrels of a shotgun peeped through the wooden louvers of the door.

  “Ja?”

  It was a woman’s voice, young.

  Ned presumed that sex made no difference to a priest, was not worth talking about; from all he had heard, that was unlikely. Still, it was a girl, about sixteen, Father Joe had said.

  “Do you speak English?”

  “A little, not much, mein Herr. Mr Parkinson taught me, but not a lot.”

  “Oh shit!”

  Quick thought – she lived on a plantation, some of their labourers came from the mainland, more of them than Tolais, local land being much richer so that economic pressure was less on the Tolai. She must speak Pidgin, there was no other common language in the Islands.

  She was fluent, more so than he, though with a different accent and slight variations in grammar and vocabulary.

  Her story was simple.

  The labourers had told her of the invasion and then of her father’s death – she seemed little moved by it – and had carried on about their normal business. After a few days, when no visitors had come and it seemed that they might be on their own, they met and decided that they were free again and had announced to her that the land was theirs and they proposed to use it as they wished. She was told she could go or stay – they had no quarrel with her, and if she wanted to remain, that was all right with them, one of the young men, she could choose for herself, would take her on as a second woman. They had been very peaceable, had offered her no violence, made no implied threats, had not attempted to break into the house or steal anything. Just in case they changed their policy she had barricaded herself in and waited with the shotgun for five days now.

  “I shall speak to them, explain the facts to them. I will need you with me to identify their leaders – I want the bastard who made the suggestion about a man, especially!”

  Ned was revolted, disgusted, determined to nip this sort of thing in the bud – it was not going to be even thought of in his area – suggestions to white women, indeed!

  Jutta came out, shotgun business-like in the crook of her arm, showed herself to be of medium height, a fraction shorter than Ned, with long honey-blonde hair in traditional plaits, a sturdy figure swelling her cotton dress and a most attractive, rounded face, blue-eyed, strong, determined. Ned loosened his revolver, found he was puffing out his chest and standing tall, signalled her to walk in front of him, was instantly fascinated by the stir of her buttocks as she strode out.

  “Down boy!”

  He explained as she turned that he was just muttering, a mere nothing, asked her to call the labourers together, to show that she was boss, not him – he was there as a policeman to assist her. He would take over when she had brought them together.

  Twenty minutes sufficed to explain the new regime to the people, to tell them who and what he was and just what his uniform implied. The Germans were gone and they owed allegiance to Master King Georgy now, not to Master Kaiser, and there was a new police force, but the law was the same, and so was the lock-up and the rope. Jutta pointed out the three men who had spoken to her and Ned formally arrested them and put them in cuffs. German policing had been rigorous, concerned to keep the peace by whatever methods seemed convenient, totally uninterested in the Rule of Law, Judges’ Rules and presumptions of innocence, and not even the most hot-headed of the young men gave any thought to a rescue – they had all seen burned villages and merciless floggings and multiple hangings as a response to the least defiance.

  As Ned led his prisoners away the labourers moved silently to work, dispirited, disappointed, cowed, but still, inwardly, looking to the day that would come, the longway day, when they would be free again, when they would be the masters.

  Ned promised Jutta that he would be back frequently, every two or three days, if he could, then left, his three prisoners trotting in front of him, womenfolk weeping and wailing behind, convinced they would see their men next when they were ordered to collect their bodies from the gallows.

  Two hours later he deposited them, exhausted, in the cells, sent in a gallon can of water, three packets of Navy Biscuit and a tin of fish each, and left them to wait, composing themselves for death. The next morning he sat as magistrate, in front of an audience rounded up from the town, and established the new justice. He amazed the onlookers by listening to the defendants’ stories,
asking questions and establishing an agreed set of facts and matching them to the law to see what, if any, crimes had been committed.

  Two of the defendants he found to be innocent – they might, he said, have been silly and a bit careless of their manners, but they had not broken the law. The third had certainly made sexual suggestions to a white woman, and was found guilty of being very wicked indeed, was sentenced to four years of imprisonment in the big government calaboose and had it explained to him in detail just how lucky he was to have kept his life. Quite why it was so vital that black men were kept out of white beds, Ned did not know, particularly when it was clear to him that the opposite did not apply, but he did not for a moment question the precept – it was shocking, and that was all that was to be said. He enquired of his policemen whether there was a jail, was reassured on the matter and deputed a sergeant to take three men as an escort and march the prisoner there. The two innocent men he formally released, to their surprise – they were waiting for the sting in the tail, could not imagine that he had meant what he had said - and then gave them a tin of bully apiece and sent them off on the long uphill walk, one that they were very thankful to be able to make.

  Ten weeks passed and the seasons changed, the Dry ended and the Doldrums crept in, windless days in which the heat built anvil-head clouds higher and higher till they broke in electrical storms of a ferocity never glimpsed in temperate countries. The pattern repeated each day for a month, an hour of intense electrical activity at about four in the afternoon, followed by a cooled evening, interrupted occasionally when the four o’clock storm failed and the pressure continued to build until just before seven – never earlier than a quarter-to, not later than five-to – when the sky would be shattered by two hours of violence. The sun set at about six o’clock every day, being just four degrees south of the equator, and the night sky would be bright enough to read by for minutes on end under repeated lightning strikes from multiple cells, the noise of thunder unbroken. Ned had never known such storms or heard such a noise; he was not frightened by thunder, normally, but this was elemental outrage beyond human reason or comprehension. The old adage about lightning never striking twice was shown to be arrant nonsense when you saw lightning strike a dozen times in succession on the same hill or tree or house, or when he sat in his own bungalow and felt it hit twice, the fly-wire glowing incandescent for part of a second, then saw each of his neighbours struck in the same minute. A quick check for fire and a slow pull at the gin bottle and then to bed was the only sensible reaction to such extravaganzas, to sleep in the sound of the waterfall of rain battering on the iron roof and drowning the sound of thunder a mile distant.