The Call Of The South by George Lewis Becke (i read book .TXT) 📕

party would be made up of the two half-caste sons of the American Consul, two or three Samoans and myself.

Towards the end of November there arrived from Auckland (N.Z.) the trading schooner _Dauntless_. She brought one passenger whose acquaintance I soon made, and whom I will call Marchmont. He was a fine, well-set-up young fellow of about five and twenty years of age, and I was delighted to find that he was a good all-round sportsman--I could never induce any of the white traders or merchants of Apia to join me in any of my many delightful trips. Marchmont was making a tour through the Pacific Islands, partly on business, and partly on pleasure. He was visiting the various groups on behalf of a Liverpool firm, who were buying up land suitable for cotton-growing, and was to spend two months in Samoa.

He and I soon made arrangements for a series of fishing and shooting trips along the south coast of Upolu, where the country was quiet, and as yet undisturbed by the war. But, although Marchmont was a most estimable and companionable man in many respects, he had some serious defects in his character, which, from a sportsman's point of view, were most objectionable, and were soon to bring him into trouble. One was that he was most intensely self-opinionated, and angrily resented being contradicted--even when he knew he was in the wrong; another was his bad temper--whenever he did anything particularly foolish he would not stand a little good-natured "chaff"--he either flew into a violent rage and "said things" or sulked like a boy of ten years of age. Then, too, another regrettable feature about him was the fact that he, being a young man of wealth, had the idea that he should always be deferred to, never argued with upon any subject, and his advice sought upon everything pertaining to sport. These unpromising traits in his character soon got him into hot water, and before he had been a week in Samoa he was nicknamed by both whites and natives "Misi Ulu Poto--masani mea uma,"--"Mr. Wise Head--the Man Who Knows Everything". The term stuck--and Marchmont took it quite seriously, as a well-deserved compliment to his abilities.

My new acquaintance, I must mention, had a most extensive and costly sporting outfit--all of it was certainly good, but much of it quite useless for such places as Samoa and other Polynesian Islands. Of rifles and guns he had about a dozen, with an enormous quantity of ammunition and fittings, bags, water-proofing, tents, fishing-boots, spirit stoves, hatchets in leather covers, hunting knives, etc., etc.; and his fishing gear alone must have run into a tidy sum of money. This latter especially interested me, but there was nothing in it that I would have exchanged for any of my own--that is, few-deep-sea fishing, a sport in which I was always very keen during a past residence of fifteen years in the South Seas. When I showed my gear to Marchmont he criticised it with great cheerfulness and freedom, and somewhat irritated me by frequently ejaculating "Bosh!" when I explained why in fishing at a depth of 100 to 150 fathoms for a certain species of _Ruvettus_ (a nocturnal-feeding fish that attains a weight of over 100 lb.) a heavy wooden hook was always used by the natives in preference to a steel hook of European manufacture. I saw that it was impossible to convince him, so dropped the subject; and showed him other gear of mine--flying-fish tackle, barb-less pearl-shell hooks for bonito, etc., etc He "bosh-ed" nearly everything, and wound up by saying that he wondered why people of sense accepted the dicta of natives in sporting matters generally.

"But I imagine that they do know a little about such things," I observed.

"Bosh!--they pretend to, that's all. Now, I've never yet met a Kanaka who could show me anything, and I've been to Tonga, Fiji and Tahiti."

Early one morning, I sent off my whaleboat with Marama in charge to proceed round the south end of Upolu, and meet Marchmont and me at a village on the lee side of the island named Siumu, which is about eighteen miles distant from, and almost opposite to Apia, across the range that traverses the island. An hour or so later Marchmont and I set out, accompanied by two boys to carry our game bags, provisions, etc. Each of them wore suspended from his neck a large white cowrie shell--the Samoan badge of neutrality--for we had to pass first through King Malietoa's lines, and then through those of the besieging rebel forces.

It was a lovely day, and in half an hour we were in the delightful gloom of the sweet-smelling mountain forest. In passing through King Malietoa's trenches, the local chief of Apia, Se'u Manu, who was in command, requested me to stay and drink kava with him. Politeness required consent, and we were delayed an hour; this made the Man Who Knew Everything very cross and rather rude, and the stalwart chief (afterwards to become famous for his magnanimous conduct to his German foes, when their squadron was destroyed in the great _Calliope_ gale of March, 1889) looked at him with mild surprise, wondering at his discourtesy. However, his temper balanced itself a little while after leaving the lines, when he brought down a brace of fine pigeons with a right and left shot, and a few minutes later knocked over a mountain cock with my Winchester. It was a very clever shot--for the wild cock of Samoa, the descendant of the domestic rooster, is a hard bird to shoot even with a shot gun--and my friend was much elated. He really was a first-class shot with either gun or rifle, though he had had but little experience with the latter.

A few miles farther brought us to the little mountain village of Tagiamamanono. It was occupied by the rebel troops from the Island of Savai'i. Their chiefs were very courteous, and, of course, we were asked to "stay and rest and drink kava". To refuse would have been looked upon as boorish and insulting, so I cheerfully acquiesced, and Marchmont and I were escorted to a large house, where I formally presented him to our hosts as a traveller from "Peretania," whom I was "showing around Samoa". Any man of fine physique attracts the Samoans, and a number of pretty girls who were preparing the kava cast many admiring glances at my friend, and commented audibly on his good looks.

Presently, as we were all smoking and exchanging compliments in the high-flown, stilted Samoan style, there entered the house a strapping young warrior, carrying a wickerwork cage, in which were two of the rare and famous _Manu Mea_ (red-bird) of Samoa--the _Didunculus_ or tooth-billed pigeon. These were the property of the young chief commanding the rebel troops, and had simply been brought into the house as a mark of respect and attention to Marchmont and me. Money cannot always buy these birds, and the rebel chief looked upon them as mascottes. No one but himself, or the young man who was their custodian, dared touch them, for a Samoan chief's property--like his person--is sacred and inviolate from touch except by persons of higher rank than himself. I hurriedly and quietly explained this to Marchmont.

"Bosh! Look here! You tell him that I want to buy those birds, and will give him a sovereign each for them."

"I shall do no such thing. I know what I am talking about, and you don't. Fifty sovereigns would not buy those birds--so don't say anything more on the subject. If you do, you will give offence--and these Samoans are very touchy."

"Bah--that's all bosh, my dear fellow. Any way, I'll give five pounds for the pair," and to my horror, and before I could stay him, he took out five sovereigns, and "skidded" them along the matted floor towards the chief, a particularly irascible young man named Asi (Sandalwood).

"There, my friend, are five good English sovereigns for your birds. I suppose I can trust you to send them to the English Consul at Apia for me. Eh?"

There was a dead silence. Asi spoke English perfectly, but hitherto, out of politeness, had only addressed me in Samoan. His eyes flashed with quick anger at Marchmont, then he looked at me reproachfully, made a sign to the custodian of the birds, and rising proudly to his feet, said to me in Samoan:--

"I will drink kava with you alone, friend. Will you come to my own house," and he motioned me to precede him. Never before had I seen a naturally passionate man exhibit such a sense of dignity and self-restraint under what was, to him, a stupid insult.

I turned to Marchmont: "Look what you have done, confound you for an ass! If you are beginning this way in Samoa you will get yourself into no end of trouble. Have you no sense?"

"I have sense enough to see that you are making a lot of fuss over nothing. Tell the beastly savage that he can keep his wretched birds. I would only have wrung their necks and had them cooked."

The young warrior who held the cage, set it down, and striding up beside the Man Who Knew Everything dealt him an open-handed back-hand blow on the side of the head--a favourite trick of Samoan wrestlers and fighters--and Marchmont went down upon the matted floor with a smash. I thought he was killed--he lay so motionless--and in an instant there flashed across my memory a story told to me by a medical missionary in Samoa, of how one of these terrific back-handed "smacks" dealt by a native had broken a man's neck.

However, in a few minutes, Marchmont recovered, and rose to his feet, spoiling for a fight The natives regarded him with a sullen but assumed indifference, and drew back, looking at me inquiringly. The matter might have ended seriously, but for two things--Marchmont was at heart a gentleman, and in response to my urgent request to him to apologise for the gross affront he had put upon our host--did so frankly by first extending his hand to the man who had knocked him down. And then, as he never did things by halves, he came with me to Asi and said, as he shook hands with him:--

"By Jove, Mr. Asi, that man of yours could knock down a bullock. I never had such a thundering smack in my life."

The chief smiled, then said gravely, in English, that he was sorry that such an unpleasant incident had occurred. Then, after--with its many attendant ceremonies--we had drunk our bowls of kava, and were smoking and chatting, Asi asked Marchmont to let him examine his gun and rifle (Marchmont had a Soper rifle and one of Manton's best make of guns; I had my Winchester and a fairly good gun). The moment Asi saw the Soper rifle his eyes lit up, and he produced another from one of the house beams overhead, and said regretfully that he had no cartridges left, and was using a Snider instead. Marchmont promptly offered to give him fifty.

"You must not do that," I said, "it will get us into serious trouble. Asi"--and I turned to the chief--"will understand why we must not give him cartridges to be used for warfare. It would be a great breach of faith for us to do so--would it not?"

Keenly anxious as he was to obtain possession of the ammunition, the chief, with a sigh of regret, acquiesced, but Marchmont sulked, and for quite two hours after we had left the rebel village did not exchange a word with me.

After getting over the range, and whilst we were descending the slope