“SAY, Jack,” Bill Marley exclaimed, as he and Boatswain’s Mate Jack O’Neil, both sailormen from the U. S. S. “Sitka,” ambled slowly along the beach road of Ukula, “where are we going to get off in this row everybody seems to think is going to start when Judge Lindsay tells Kataafa to climb down from his tinsel throne and take to the tall timbers?”
Jack O’Neil posed before his shipmates as an oracle upon Kapuan affairs. He had survived the wreck of an American war-ship in the great hurricane nearly ten years before, and had lived in Ukula many months until relief ships could come from the United States.
“I don’t just know, Bill,” he replied thoughtfully. “These Herzovinians always did mix things up so that it was only a guess what was going to happen next. You see,” he added confidentially, “the Kapuan firm has annexed about all the land along the coast, and in the valleys of this and other islands, and owning all this land they don’t like to ‘kowtow’[22] to a brown king with a topknot of false hair on his cranium, and a grass mat slung careless like about his waist line. Kapua for the Herzovinians is what they want, and they’ve had that idea stuck in their heads for a good many years.”
“Well,” replied Marley, “what do we care? Haven’t we got enough land on our hands? Look at all the bad lands out west there in the states which we haven’t got no use for, and then all the land in the Philippines that our little brown brother is fighting us to keep for himself. Ain’t we got enough trouble without stirring it up way down here south of the equator?”
“What do you know about politics?” O’Neil exclaimed severely. “Come on into Mary Hamilton’s shack, and we’ll get her to ‘buscar’[23] some nice green cocoanuts, and I’ll tell you a little Kapuan history that’ll put you wise to this intricate situation. I can only tell you, Bill,” O’Neil added playfully, “but I can’t give you the brains to understand.”
Marley smiled good-naturedly. “I don’t know as you’re so all fired smart,” he replied. “When I’ve wasted as many years as you have, I suppose I’ll know almost as much as you do.” Marley was nearly ten years O’Neil’s junior.
“Go to it!” O’Neil exclaimed admiringly. “You ain’t entirely dead, are you? Don’t be a music box all your life, Bill, that’s my advice to you. Play yourself sometimes. There’s nothing like a little friendly argument to keep the brain well greased up. Now you know, or you ought to know at any rate, that a gun that ain’t worked every day will get all gummed up. That’s the way it is with our brains if they ain’t worked. I was afraid,” he ended, “your head had drawn a sweetbread instead of a brain.”
Mary Hamilton welcomed them to her home. Both sailormen apparently were old friends of this accomplished woman. In spite of her name she was not a “papalangi.” Old Captain Alexander Hamilton, whose record in the islands was good but not entirely spotless, had taken Mele to wife some fifteen years before, and not many years after this happy event, sailed his small trading schooner out of Ukula harbor never to return. Some had said that “Alex” was living happily in the Fiji, but Mele, or Mary, as most every one called her, believed that he and his vessel had met disaster in a big storm at sea. Mary had finally remarried, this time to a chief of her own race. Captain Hamilton had owned considerable property in Ukula, all of which had come to Mary; so despite being a widow, she had been sought by many powerful chiefs. Mary was a linguist. She spoke both English and Herzovinian fluently and was as popular with one faction as with the other.
“How’s it for a couple of cocoanuts?” O’Neil asked.
Mary nodded graciously and called loudly in Kapuan for the fruit.
Several girls came shyly forward and hospitably attended to the comforts of their guests. Mary sat on her mat facing the squatting sailors, and smilingly watched them quench their tropical thirst with the refreshing juice, drunk from the green cocoanut itself, out of a small hole cut dexterously in the soft shell by two strokes from a heavy knife used for the purpose.
“Mary and I can tell you lots of history of these islands that never has been written in books,” O’Neil said proudly after he had smacked his lips and thrown the empty cocoanut shell among others in the corner of the house. “Mary’s present husband was fighting once with Kataafa against the Herzovinians. How’s he going to fight this time?” O’Neil asked suddenly.
Mary put a shapely finger to her lips.
“I figure that he’s got to go against his old chief. Mary Hamilton’s husband never could fight against the Americans.” O’Neil’s voice was persuasively commanding.
Mary shook her head and patted her sailor friend affectionately on the shoulder.
“Fa’a Kapua,” she replied. “Husband maybe fight on one side, wife still stay friend with other side.”
“That’s the Kapuan custom all right,” O’Neil hastened to say, “but that ain’t the kind of friends we’re looking for. We want you and the old man too on our side; for, Mary, we’re going to be on the right side. We ain’t looking for land. We ain’t swiping native property and refusing to give it back. But hold on,” he added interrupting himself, “I promised to give Bill here a lesson in Kapuan history. You correct me, Mary,” he said, “if I wander from the truth. In spinning yarns these days if you just tell things that happened and don’t invent some, your audience’ll go to sleep before your eyes.
“The king that just passed over to the ‘happy fishing grounds,’” O’Neil began, “was a long time ago, when first made king, no friend of the Herzovinians, so they kidnapped him and sent him into exile. A native chief named Samasese was put in the ‘chair’ by our friends in the Kapuan firm, and this same chief Kataafa then declared war on Samasese. Kataafa licked the king’s army through the town from one end to the other. I saw the fight;—went along with ’em, and had to make a hundred yards in ten seconds flat, getting to cover when the Herzovinian war-ship opened fire on Kataafa’s warriors. If she hadn’t come to Samasese’s help, Kataafa would have run him clean over the point of Kulinuu into the sea.
“Those certainly were warm times. Eh, Mary?” O’Neil exclaimed enthusiastically. “We had a skipper named O’Malley in command of the old corvette ‘Wyoming.’ Stevenson, the great writer, was living then in that big bungalow you can see on the hill back of the town, and he got lots of good material for his books out of the way O’Malley handled the situation.
“O’Malley didn’t care who was king, only he didn’t cotton to the high-handed way the Herzovinians were running things and asking nobody’s consent,” the sailor continued, his Irish blue eyes sparkling with joy at the remembrance. “Samasese was ‘treed’ at Kulinuu and Kataafa with several thousand warriors was surrounding him. There was an American beachcomber named Blacklock who owned a house just outside of the Samasese lines. One night a party of natives from Kulinuu broke into his house to get some grub to eat. They scared Blacklock nearly into a fit. The same night he got on board the ‘Wyoming’ and told a horrible story of brutality to O’Malley. The American commander landed his sailors the next day and encamped at the outraged house. The ‘Wyoming’ anchored in a position to shell the Samasese forts at Kulinuu. O’Malley, then, all day long wagged his Irish tongue as if it was mounted on a swivel and run by a six cylinder gasoline motor. All Ukula said that at sunrise the next day, unless Samasese dug out of Kulinuu O’Malley sure was going to use the king’s camp for his annual target practice.
“The next morning there wasn’t anything alive at Kulinuu except dogs and pigs. Samasese skinned out during the night, and was landed by a Herzovinian war-ship’s boats down the coast there about six miles.”
O’Neil took a deep breath and brushed an insistent fly off his forehead. “Kataafa wasn’t a bit frightened at Herzovinia,” he continued admiringly; “he’s a great fighter, Bill, I can tell you, and if we get into a row with him there’s going to be something doing. Kataafa then got a good start and went up against Samasese good and hard. A sad thing for old ‘Kat.’ Some of his warriors tore down a couple of painted Herzovinian flags and used them for ‘lava-lavas.’ The outraged commodore swore vengeance and declared war on the spot. Kataafa had to run and get his men into a fort before the Herzovinian sailors attacked him. He was just about snugly fixed when a war-ship came trailing along close to the reef to bombard this fort and the native town all around it. Just behind this ship came O’Malley’s ship, the ‘Wyoming,’ and the game old Irishman was on the bridge. He wore riding leggins, a sign that he was going to surprise somebody, and an angelic smile was spread all over his face. When the Herzovinian ship stopped and began to lower her gun ports and run out her guns for business, we followed suit. I thought we’d be on the reef, sure. O’Malley ran the ‘Wyoming’ inside the other war-ship and hung there between her and Kataafa’s fort.
“The other ship made all kinds of foxy moves, but O’Malley covered the plate all the time.
“It was nearly sunset when we heard a voice pipe up from the other ship. Everybody knew it was the commodore who was talking.
“‘I’m going to open fire on my enemy in that town yonder in about five minutes. Kindly chase yourself.’” O’Neil glanced at Mary for a few seconds. “Those weren’t the exact words, maybe, but that was what was meant, anyway.
“Captain O’Malley’s smile got bigger. He took off his white helmet and waved it encouragingly.
“‘Go ahead,’ he returned. ‘I’m in the front row and have paid for my ticket. Money won’t be refunded at the box office this time.’”
“What happened?” Bill Marley exclaimed eagerly. “Did you have a scrap?”
“Did we have war with Herzovinia ten years ago?” O’Neil asked contemptuously. “No! of course we didn’t, or even you’d ’a’ heard of it.
“The other ship gave up the game at sunset and we followed her back to Ukula,” O’Neil continued after Marley’s interruption had been settled.
“A few days later the commodore tried a new stunt: to disarm the natives this time. The Herzovinians landed at night on the big plantation of Vaileli. The Kataafa warriors got news that they were coming from some women in Ukula. I’ll bet,” he said insinuatingly, “that Mary Hamilton can tell you who the women were.”
Mary smiled. “I was blamed,” she replied. “My second husband was with Kataafa and I arrived a few hours before the sailors landed.”
O’Neil nodded. “Yes,” he said, “and there was an American who also was accused by the other side of carrying the news. Anyway, the Kataafa warriors attacked the Herzovinian sailors. Surprised them, killed about twenty and wounded twice as many. It was an awful shock to us all, and showed us we had been playing too close to a playful volcano. Such a thing had never occurred before. We thought the natives would not dare to raise their hands against the whites.
“I was on board another ship then; the ‘Wyoming’ had gone home to be paid off,” O’Neil continued after an impressive silence. “The worst of it all was that the heads were cut off the poor sailors. It gave us all cold shivers. We had thought the Kapuans were just good-natured children, and we found them heartless, brutal savages.—Excuse me, Mary,” he apologized. “I’m not inventing now. That’s the plain truth. When your people get really excited you ain’t civilized. You’re a lot of Apache Indians on the war-path.
“I don’t know what would have happened if the hurricane hadn’t come at that time. We found ourselves all on the beach and our ships wrecks. Over a hundred or more sailors were drowned, and the natives, both Kataafa and Samasese, came and risked their lives many times to save us out there clinging to the wreckage. Mighty near every man saved owed his life to the natives. That sort of patched things up. We lived ashore for several months, and every one was as friendly as you please. You wouldn’t have known there ever had been a war.
“Lots of things, I reckon,” he added finally, “have happened since I have been away, but what makes me laugh is to see the Herzovinians falling all over themselves to make friends with this Kataafa, and we, who were his best friends then, falling all over ourselves to call him all the bad names we can think of.
“It all goes to prove, Bill, and you can take this from me without any sugar,” O’Neil exclaimed, “that friendships among natives are only good business deals. There ain’t no sentiment mixed up in it.
“What’s all that row about out there?” O’Neil suddenly exclaimed, rising and going in haste to look out. He saw several native policemen grasping firmly a thin white man who was protesting vigorously.
“That’s Missi Stump,” Mary Hamilton cried aghast. “What is Johnny Upolu arresting him for?”
“I’m going to find out,” O’Neil said determinedly. He did not like to see a white man in the clutch of the natives. To O’Neil’s mind it lowered all the whites in the eyes of the Kapuans to permit such a thing as this.
Before Johnny Upolu and his two assistants could recover from the onslaught, the big sailor, followed closely by one a little smaller but as impetuous, had attacked their captive, and the policemen were sitting in the sandy road.
Johnny scowled darkly. A crowd had gathered, and like all crowds the Kapuans at once sided against the officers of the law, and were making insulting remarks to the discomfited chief of police.
“What do you mean by arresting an innocent man?” O’Neil exclaimed when Johnny Upolu had risen to his feet. “What’s this island coming to, anyway? Now, you just beat it.”
Johnny coaxed a smile upon his face.
“Got a warrant,” he said, producing a large certificate and showing it to O’Neil and the crowd.
O’Neil glanced contemptuously at the official paper. He could not read a word, but he recognized the design of the seal.
“Take that out to Kataafa at Kulinuu,” O’Neil said. “That don’t go here. You’ve got to have either a lion or another breed of bird on your warrant to do business with us.”
O’Neil considered the matter settled. His arm linked under that of Stump, they reëntered the house. The chief of police did not follow. An American sailorman on liberty was, to his mind, a dangerous object to meddle with. It was a kind of explosive mixture which might go off upon contact.
O’Neil had never met Stump, but he sized him up as accurately as if he had been personally acquainted.
“You’re from the ‘Talofa,’” O’Neil said as Mary called for more cocoanuts and Stump composed his ruffled garments. “Why ain’t you in her now? She’s off on a pleasure cruise with a foreign nobleman.”
Stump wagged his head knowingly. “The ‘Talofa’ ain’t the breed to go on any pleasure cruise,” he answered. “‘Bully’ Scott’s got something on board that he didn’t just like to put ashore in Ukula. I’ve been hiding in the ‘bush.’ I saw her go, so I started to find our consul to get my rights.”
“Who’s been abusing you except Johnny Upolu?” O’Neil asked. “Your countenance does look as if it had met a hard round object. Who did it?”
“‘Bully’ Scott,” Stump replied bitterly. “But I’m quit of him now. He’ll never get me on his ship again if I can help it.”
“Stop swinging all over the compass,” O’Neil said rebukingly, “and steady down on some course. We want to hear what you got to say.”
Stump laughed a mirthless laugh. “That’s what I did,” he exclaimed. “I steered her into Ukula when old man Scott thought he was heading straight for Saluafata. Fixed the compass, you see. Oh, it’s a great trick.”
O’Neil began to understand. “So Scott didn’t intend coming in here last night?” he asked.
“Not he,” Stump declared joyfully. “He was loaded with ‘blacks’ and guns.”
“That’s where you’re dead wrong, then,” O’Neil explained, “for he has landed everything and a foreign count has hired the schooner.”
Stump gazed in wonder at the speaker.
“You don’t seem to know ‘Bully’ Scott,” he said. “Them guns are in the schooner and he’s going to land them to-night at Saluafata.”
“Come with me,” O’Neil commanded taking Stump by the arm. “You ought to know if any one does. What we’ve got to do is to put our captain wise at once. Is Scott an Englishman?” O’Neil asked.
“Not he!” Stump exclaimed. “He’s an American. Comes from ‘Frisco’; and the ‘Talofa’ was stolen at Hongkong from a Chinaman.”
As they passed Klinger’s store, Stump stopped to eye the boxes still piled on the porch of the store.
He shook his head as he continued behind the two men-of-war’s men. “Nope, them guns must be on the schooner,” he said to himself.
At the landing they met the two midshipmen, who had returned from their picnic and were waiting to return to the “Sitka.”
O’Neil explained the situation.
Johnny Upolu had followed his liberated captive at a safe distance, and now seeing the two officers, respectfully approached, holding out the warrant to Phil, and indicating Stump with his finger.
The lad examined it carefully.
“What has he done?” Phil inquired. “This warrant must be respected, anyway.” He turned to Stump. “I’ll see the captain at once, and you being an American, he will ask to have you released if you have committed no crime.”
Johnny Upolu put his hand on the prisoner’s shoulder and led him quietly toward the jail. A few yards had been traveled when Stump stopped and called.
“May I speak to you a moment, sir, in private?”
Phil joined him, and the policeman moved away a few feet.
“Keep these here things for me,” he said. “You can show ’em to your skipper.”
Phil received a package of soiled letters and put them into his pocket.
Upon arrival on board the midshipmen went at once to Commander Tazewell’s cabin. They found him deep in thought.
“I have just left the consul’s house,” the commander said after waving the lads to seats. “He tells me all the natives believe that the guns have been landed. The Herzovinian consul a few days ago said he would help to prevent a war, and to-day he writes to the American and English consul that he must reserve his decision until Judge Lindsay has given his judgment. Kataafa was summoned by Judge Lindsay to appear before him at one o’clock to-day and he deliberately waited two hours before he appeared, a Kapuan way of showing his independence. It all looks ominous,” he added ruefully.
Phil began at once to tell of the native council at Jumping Rock and the “tonga-fiti” decided for that night. He also called in O’Neil, who had been waiting outside the cabin, and that worthy told in picturesque language the story of Stump.
“Here are some letters this man Stump gave me, and said I could show them to you, sir,” Phil said after O’Neil had completed his narrative.
Commander Tazewell examined the much soiled and torn correspondence, while the lads and O’Neil waited in silent interest to learn of their purport.
“These corroborate the very thing I have been anxious to prove,” Commander Tazewell exclaimed joyfully. “Scott’s a full fledged American. He cleared from Suva in the Fiji under the American flag. There’s the paper,” handing to Phil an English colonial document. “What’s this?—a clipping from an English paper,” he added wonderingly. “Schooner ‘Ta-Li’ stolen by a Yankee pirate.”
“Stump said Captain Scott had stolen the ‘Talofa’ in Hongkong,” O’Neil said quietly.
Commander Tazewell glanced quickly over the remaining letters.
“Stump has brought us the evidence too late,” he said disappointedly, spreading out a letter on his desk. “The guns are paid for,” he read aloud. “Godfried and Company, our agents, will load them upon demand from you. Remember, you take them to Saluafata at night and send word to me on arrival.” Commander Tazewell stopped reading, and gazed off wistfully. “That was from Klinger to Scott. He’ll be unloading them to-night,” he added, “unless they are already in the Kapuan firm’s store. If I’d had these letters this morning, I’d have sunk the ‘Talofa’ before I would have permitted her to leave the harbor, foreign flag and all, until after I had given the vessel a thorough search.”