CHAPTER XIV
COUNT ROSEN TAKES CHARGE
THE signal victory won by Kataafa and his warriors and the acknowledgment from the Powers increased many-fold his trust in the two papalangi, who had so ably advised him and supplied the necessary weapons for success. As the old chief surveyed the work of destruction, however, his heart sank within him. The fear of the war-ships and their thunderbolts, and a vivid recollection of the last war against the papalangi spurred him to consult that man of few words, Count Rosen, whom Klinger had said was vested with high powers from that great nation beyond the seas, more powerful than both England and America.
The English and Americans, he knew, would soon be crying aloud for retribution. Their property had been destroyed by his warriors. The life of the chief justice, an American, had even been endangered, and his valuable house unlawfully burned. To Kataafa, the papalangi were terrible people. Those in Kapua he did not fear; he had seen that they could be killed and beheaded as easily as men of his own race; but the intangible nations that protected them, sending war-ships “bursting through the clouds,” as the Kapuans express the slow approach of a ship coming up over the sea horizon—of these Kataafa stood in mortal fear.
As the blood lust subsided among his warriors, already gossip bared its disquieting head. Some said many war-ships of England and America would come and destroy, as if by a volcano, their beautiful islands.
Kataafa with his trusted chiefs marched solemnly to the Herzovinian consulate at Matafeli. Count Rosen had taken up his abode in the consulate. He received the chiefs in silence, and sent word at once for Klinger to appear to act as interpreter. The count had that morning been appointed by the rebel king his prime minister, and the three consuls had acknowledged, in grudging terms, the “de facto” government, as they pointedly expressed it.
Klinger did not appear and finally the native messenger returned with the information that Missi Klinger was very sick. The count excused himself to the chiefs, telling them to wait, and hurried away to see what was the matter. There on a low couch in the store office he found the manager, but just regaining consciousness. A white doctor was attending him, examining his entire body carefully for serious injuries. The story of the encounter with the Americans was told most graphically to the count by a number of native eye-witnesses, and each described the strength of the “young David” as greater than that of “Sampson” himself. The Kapuans are well up on the Bible and glory in airing their knowledge.
Klinger, when he came to himself, made a great effort to rise, thinking his antagonist was still before him, but the doctor’s strong hands, applying wet bandages to a very ugly contusion over his temple, upon which he had struck in his fall, held him quiet. The count had taken a seat at his side. He wore a displeased frown as he listened to the babble about him.
“Clear them out, please,” he exclaimed irritably. The women were sent away, all but Klinger’s wife, Fanua, who waited patiently to be told what to do.
Klinger at length sat up and gazed about him. He raised a hand to his aching head and felt the great bulk of wet dressing plastered by the doctor over his cut. Then he read the displeasure evident in the count’s face.
“They did me,” he exclaimed. “One of them hit me with a black-jack.”
“You’ve made yourself the laughing stock of the town,” the count declared angrily. “I’ve heard the story. It was simply science against unwieldy beef.”
“I’ll show the young aristocrat,” the manager began to bluster, but the count cut him short impatiently.
“You’ll just drop this thing where it is,” he commanded authoritatively. “It was a childish piece of folly to put up that cartoon, and the youngster has my admiration. You should thank your stars you haven’t a broken neck instead of only a small cut in your hard head. He used jujitsu on you.”
Such words did not sound sweet to Klinger’s ears. He was unaccustomed to being taken to task thus wise, and the sullen expression on his face showed plainly his displeasure.
“Get yourself in shape,” the count added, his voice less severe in tone. “Kataafa and his chiefs have come to the consulate, and I won’t trust any of these professional native interpreters.”
Klinger rose slowly to obey the summons. The count waited impatiently on the porch of the store. He was not slow in seeing that the encounter had hurt their cause. Anything that can be held up to ridicule by so much is seriously injured. For policy’s sake he would have liked to severely punish this young, athletic American. To do so would help the prestige of the new government in the natives’ eyes, but he feared that such high-handed measures might injure the cause for which he was working by opposition from the Powers.
When the count and Klinger reached the consulate the rebel chiefs laid before them the plan which they had been discussing among themselves. On request of the count, Kataafa so far transgressed the ancient Kapuan custom as to talk without the delay of speaking through the “talking man,” while Klinger readily translated his well chosen and eloquent words.
He desired the count to be at the head of the government as governor. To take the place of chief justice of Kapua—to hoist the Herzovinian flag by the side of the Kapuan flag and by so doing receive the support of their war-ship. Further, he had written a “cry”[32] which he desired be sent to the king of the count’s country, asking annexation. He said the Kapuans were but children, and Kapua was but a bone between three hungry dogs. He feared the coming of more war-ships, and would willingly leave everything in the count’s wise hands.
Count Rosen was deeply thoughtful. The wanton pillage of the Kataafa warriors and their barbarous killing and beheading of the native supporters of the chief justice’s choice for king had greatly shocked him. He had failed to appreciate the natural cruelty of even the gentlest savages when their primitive passion for bloodshed is aroused. Now to accept this petition and hoist the flag could not be considered. If there had been no bloodshed, then his countrymen at home might have upheld him if he hoisted the flag and even formally annexed the islands. But he could offer as his excuse in accepting the office of governor the desire to bring about peace and allow the commerce of the islands to continue unchecked and in accordance with civilized law. But first he must feel his ground slowly. The other two Powers looked on with jealous eyes.
“I cannot be chief justice,” he said after a long pause, “until Judge Lindsay has resigned that office. Send and ask him to continue in that position, and if he refuses, Kataafa has the right to appoint another.”
A letter was quickly written and dispatched. Within a half hour a verbal answer was returned to the effect that Judge Lindsay did not recognize any king of Kapua save Panu, and that he, Lindsay, was yet the chief justice.
The count smiled sardonically.
“I shall accept the position of governor and perform also the duties of chief justice,” he said, “under the de facto government, but annexation we shall discuss later. First we must begin to repair all damage done, especially to the foreigners.”
Kataafa and his chiefs withdrew. They smiled triumphantly. They believed all trouble had been lifted from their shoulders. This man, the count, had relieved them of all disagreeable consequences of their acts of violence. The men-of-war were undoubtedly afraid of him. So argued the chiefs of the rebel leader. Upon the announcement that the count was to be the adviser of Kataafa, the papalangi had carried their sailors back to their ships. Now, since the count was equal to the king or governor, maybe the war-ships would sail away “under the sea” and not return. The other war-ships that people said were coming would be afraid to let loose their thunder when they learned that this count and representative of a powerful papalangi king was at the head of the new government. With these quieting thoughts the stately chiefs filed out of the consulate and turned toward the king’s residence at Kulinuu.
Count Rosen was not afraid of the consequences of his act. He gloried in the thought that his country was nearer a settlement of the Kapuan difficulty than she had ever been. Yet there were points in the proceedings which gave him considerable concern. The principal one was his knowledge that the American commander had discovered the source of the Kataafa guns and doubtless also suspected that the rebellion of the old warrior had been planned in order to create just the situation by which the Americans and English now found themselves confronted. If he only dared raise his country’s standard over the islands! The count reasoned that Kapua would be taken by the country whom the natives chose to govern them. Now he had the opportunity of showing them what good government really meant, and if he could succeed in winning the native confidence, his country would be the choice of the people. In the last war the natives, when maltreated and coerced by the Kapuan firm and the Herzovinian war-ships, appealed to England for annexation. England would have liked to grant the request, but her rival’s friendship at that time was needed more than were the Kapuan Islands; so no notice was paid by the British Cabinet to the pitiful cry from the far-away South Sea monarchy.
“Klinger,” the count said seriously, “you must take charge of the native laborers. Repair all damage possible to foreign property and guarantee to all just compensation. I shall grant full amnesty to all the supporters of Panu-Mafili. Be careful,” he added severely. “Don’t antagonize the foreigners. Don’t grab too much, or we may lose all.”
Within a week Ukula and the surrounding country was as peaceful as before the death of the old king Laupepe. New houses were going up on every hand, a sure sign of future peace in Kapua. By order of the count, who had taken charge of the government of the islands in fact as well as in fancy, guns could not be carried by the natives. The natives were encouraged to indulge in their Siva-Siva dances, at which the count made it his business to be present.
The English and American consuls maintained a haughty reserve when they transacted business with the governor, as the natives called the count, but a semi-friendly relation was soon established between him and the naval officers.
The count provided himself a new house, built within a month, on the bungalow style, but of native workmanship, and invited all to a dance given in celebration of the opening.
The lawn in front of the house was on this occasion reserved for the Siva-Siva dancers.
The count received his guests in the lanai. The stately figure of Kataafa stood by his side and all visitors shook hands with him most cheerfully as they entered to greet the host.
Phil and Sydney accompanied Commander Tazewell. Alice and her sister came also, but Mr. Lee sent his regrets on account of indisposition. The mail had not arrived from home, and both the British consul and Mr. Lee considered it wiser in their official positions to refrain from an act which might savor of a recognition of the justice of the government. Judge Lindsay returned his invitation unopened.
The house was decorated profusely with bright bush flowers, and their perfume mingling with the odor of cocoanut oil with which all Kapuans plentifully adorn their skins, gave the occasion a distinction which remained long in Phil’s memory.
Herzovinian and Kapuan flags entwined were everywhere in evidence.
Everybody of any consequence, whatever their nationality, was there and the count moved at ease among them. He was, however, particularly attentive to the American commander.
The best Siva-Siva dancers had been collected, and as the house was entirely too small for the European dances, the guests were soon gathered on the lawn, where many chairs and benches had been placed. Two great bonfires had been built to furnish light in order to see the graceful movements of the dancers.
The count had escorted Commander Tazewell to the lawn. Phil and his friends fell in behind and found themselves in the front row where an excellent view was to be had when the dancers appeared.
“Those old women are the orchestra,” Alice told them, pointing to a dozen or more figures huddled up on mats beyond the illumination of the bonfires.
Even as she spoke the count had raised his hand as a signal to begin.
Immediately the dim figures began to beat time with sticks upon their mats; while from the darkness a volume of savage melody burst forth. Then came slowly forward from the shadow into the illumination a score of men in single file, their arms on each other’s shoulders. To Phil it resembled the prison-gang step, but every move of their half-naked bodies was graceful. The light reflected from their shiny skins gave a startling effect. On each head was a green wreath. Gummed to cheeks, ears and nose were hanging pendants of the leaves of the crimson hibiscus flower. About their necks were worn circles of boar tusks mixed with scarlet peppers and bright berries.
They entered, first slowly, singing a low and slow measure which increased as their movements quickened, until with a final rush they threw themselves into a squatting position on the ground facing the numerous audience.
Great was the applause when an equal number of women suddenly made their appearance from the opposite direction. Phil watched them fascinated. On they came with pride and consciousness of exalted position and importance. They were redolent and glistening with perfumed oil. Garlands of bright leaves and vivid flowers, wonderfully made, crowned their flowing locks. Like the men, necklaces from their beloved bush adorned their graceful necks. About their slender waists and hanging to the knee were fabulously valuable soft mats, their only garments. Garlands of green leaves encircled their knees and ankles. All this Phil knew vaguely before. His eager eyes clung to the leading dancer’s face and did not leave it to define the marvelous costumes of those following. The girl was Avao, and leading the Siva-Siva given by Count Rosen and Kataafa. So surprised was he that he turned suddenly toward Alice, a question bursting on his lips.
“Wait,” she breathed.
Avao, the Tapau of Ukula, daughter of Tuamana, the irreconcilable loyalist, was dancing before his enemies, while he was still a self-imposed exile on board the American war-ship. What did it mean? Could it be that even Tuamana had been won by this remarkable foreign nobleman?
At length the dancers were in place, in two rows, the women in front, and all seated cross-legged. The Tapau with her marvelous head-dress of human hair and mother of pearl, glistening in the firelight, sat smiling proudly in the middle of her troupe. The orchestra, now reinforced by many good voices, was keeping time. The dancers were motionless as if struck from gleaming marble and then Avao raised her arms, flinging them out with graceful ease, and as if the twoscore men and women had been molded into a single figure, every arm was flung out in perfect unison with their girlish leader. It was a drill of the most difficult kind, requiring years of daily practice. No single person seemed to lag or get out of time, while all the while a weird chant rose and fell and finally as the movements, at first slow and deliberate, took on a galloping pace, the high treble of the women and the harsh bass of the men mounted to a pitch of delirious and savage ecstasy and then suddenly stopped. A thunder of applause greeted the marvelous performance. Phil for the first time withdrew his eyes from the savage beauty of the scene and saw that hundreds of sailors of all three nations had been admitted to the show. He recognized the uniform of the American sailors and smiled with pleasure at their warm reception to the efforts of Avao, to whom was due the credit for the perfect dancing of the youth and maids of Ukula.
Figure after figure was performed. The enthusiasm of the natives rose higher as the evening wore on.
Suddenly the band began to play the Kapuan national air, and all rose to their feet. After it had finished all eyes were again turned to the dancers.
Slowly, gracefully they swayed their supple bodies and arms. The orchestra was silent except for the staccato time made by the sticks striking the dry mats. The dancing and singing seemed to be done subconsciously. No effort seemed to be used, yet all followed in movement, in tune and in word, the leading Tapau, each performer linking his own consciousness with the mind of the maiden as if swayed by her will. What she did and said was done and said without appreciable interval by each of the dancers. Such was the marvelous degree of the training.
“This is the last,” Phil heard the count say. “It is a song in honor of the king.”
Alice heard and smiled. Phil saw her lips tremble and her color pale in the firelight.
“Panu-Mafili o le Tupu-e-Kapua—ah!”
A solemn hush came over the assemblage. The song gained volume, faster and faster. Then a roar shook the air and the great concourse of native spectators had risen to their feet.
The performers appeared not to appreciate the meaning of the crowd. Phil had risen suddenly from his chair—ready, but for what he did not know. The song had conveyed nothing to his mind. He had not understood the words, so swiftly were they sung. A glance at the count told that he, too, was in the dark. Phil was conscious of Alice’s trembling hand on his arm and heard her whisper, “They are praising Panu-Mafili as king instead of Kataafa. Avao is getting her revenge for being asked to lead. You know a Tapau cannot refuse to dance if asked by a chief.”
With a final graceful sway the dancers jumped to their feet, their hands held aloft in sign of finality. The audience had now completely drowned the voices of the singers. Phil saw several chiefs rush toward the dancers. The crowd was in an uproar. The dancers gave way before the threat of those who had advanced, menacing them with bodily injury. Avao stood almost alone, a smile of defiance upon her handsome face.
“Is she in danger?” Phil asked excitedly of Alice at his side. “Would they dare injure her?” Before Alice could answer Phil perceived the distorted countenance of Klinger. He had risen from his seat at some distance from the count. Phil saw him talking and gesticulating with a group of natives, pushing them forward, as if directing them to commit some act which they were reluctant to do.
Avao, with unconcern in her face, appeared not to hear the torrent of abuse heaped upon her from all sides. Several women darted toward her and endeavored to tear her costume to pieces. She evaded these angry rushes, but Phil saw that the temper of the crowd would not be appeased until revenge upon this daring girl had been taken.
“Look,” Alice cried out joyfully; “the sailors are coming to her rescue.” Phil saw a mass of white suddenly encircle the cringing dancers and then face outward toward the crowd. He recognized O’Neil as their leader, and wondered what would happen next.
Klinger was talking excitedly to the count. The latter had ceased to smile. A dark frown was in his face. Then Phil noticed him raise his hand to quell the disturbance. A loud voice of a chief at his side warned all to silence. Slowly the babel died away.