As soon as the festival itself was finished, Giovanni and I stole outside the tambu-house and talked the matter over. In a very little time we had decided to secure Barbarossa’s person by force sooner than she should fall into Barab’s hands.
“Ah, comrado, he cursed una vipera!” said my Italian chum. Then he looked at me sadly and said: “Will you stick to me, and mine friend be?”
“I will!” I responded most emphatically. Giovanni was a big lump of a fellow and had courage written in the light of his magnificent eyes; also, the idea of rescuing Barbarossa from her peril suited my temperament exactly. We counted out the cash that Barab had given us directly the feast was over, then we looked significantly at each other, for he had paid us several marks more than were due to us. “He wants to get rid of us at once, no doubt of that,” was my reflection, as I looked at Giovanni’s handsome face and then on the moonlit solitude of the mountain slopes around dead Motavia’s old homestead. Then we walked back, treading very softly through the jungle as we approached the tambu shed. Already the small lamp-lights on the palms and within those wooden walls were burning low. We listened, and heard the low wail of some Malayan chanty; then the drunken song ceased.
“What’s that?” whispered Giovanni. The door had suddenly opened, and we saw two of the young bloods departing. Off they went, with three drunken native girls staggering between them. So brilliant was the light of the moon that we distinctly observed the girls’ faces as they tossed their legs and shook the brass arm-lets, and kissed the shoulders of the men who were leading them away. As soon as the men were out of sight we listened again. All was quiet; it was evident that most of the girls who remained within the tambu had fallen off into drunken slumber. Barbarossa had sung her swan-song (so thought Rajah Barab). We heard a click; the Rajah had closed the door and bolted it! That much we discovered as we crept around the walls of that den and endeavoured to see what was going on within.
“Wait a bit!” said Giovanni, as we suddenly heard someone commence to drone out a weird heathen melody. It was a girl’s voice. Then all was silent again. We both knew that Barab would soon be drunk and in a suitable condition for our immediate desires, and so we strolled up and down under the palms. Then we heard the O Le mao commence to sing somewhere up in the lime trees.
“It’s pretty silent now; that bird wouldn’t sing if there were any suspicious noises about,” said I.
“Yes, comrade, ’tis so,” whispered Giovanni, pushing his curls off his forehead and puffing his cigarette. I noticed that his lips were tightly set as he swung his huge, knotted stick to and fro and gave swift glances towards the dark-walled homestead before us. Then we slowly crept towards the den again. The brilliant moonlight lit up the thatched roof and sent a ghostly glimmering all along the front of the bamboo verandah. I was standing just over old chief Motavia’s grave; the moonbeams were softly falling through the branches of the orange tree and had spread a silver radiance on my feet, which stood close to the wooden cross that said: “Here lies the brave chief, O Le Sula Motavia.” I felt sad to think how soundly dead men slept. I knew how handy that chief would have been to us that night, how gladly he would have jumped from his slumber to help us to repel the base intruder from his old homestead.
“Come on!” I whispered to Giovanni, as we brushed the ferns aside and stole softly towards the single window of the den. In a moment we were both eagerly peering through the lattice-work of the wide, low window-hole. It was a true South Sea magic casement that opened on the feathery foam of palms, leafy tamanu, and masa’ oi trees which grew right up to the mountain slopes. There was something fairy-like but tragic in the silent moonlit scene outside that window. But the most wonderful sight to be seen through the casement was the scene before our eyes as we both stared between the twisted wicker-work and saw behind the shutter into the gloom of that room. There sat Rajah Barab, quite visible by the dim light of the hanging roof oil-lamp. He was so drunk that he could hardly stoop forward to pull off his sandals. Two of the young bloods still remained, but, to our relief, we noticed that they were prone, quite drunk. Pretty Barbarossa, Maroa, Niue, Singa Saloo, Fae moa Oi, and Winga, the native missionary’s daughter—and who was not a day older than fourteen years—lay on the mats in deep slumber. I know that my heart echoed the sigh that Giovanni gave, as, with eyes glued to the casement, we gazed in mute astonishment. There lay the victims of the Mohammedan’s gold, vers libres, and hyprocrisy. No sign of vice was expressed on the girls’ faces as they lay there, their bodies half-couched in the flood of moonlight that fell across the corner of the room. The sham jewellery that had evidently tempted them was distinctly visible—bangles on their legs, arm-lets on their arms. Two or three had silk handkerchiefs of brilliant colours about their throats, the ends tied bow-wise, native-fashion, in the folds of their much-disordered hair. The heat was terrific. A few fireflies had entered the room. We distinctly saw them gleam and flash as they danced like miniature starry constellations over the prone forms of the girls. In the helpless abandonment of their drink-enforced slumber, their limbs were thrown about in the various attitudes of restless sleep. Three of the girls lay with their arms half-entwined, as though in some swift realization and fright over their position they had clung to each other ere they fell and lost consciousness. “Cara, bellissima!” Giovanni breathed forth as he gazed on Barbarossa’s slumbering abandonment. Her pretty blue robe was disarranged, revealing the curves of one tiny ankle; her olive-hued heel was visible too, for the ribbon had become loose, the tiny sandal had fallen half off.
“Mia bella! mia bellissima!” whispered Giovanni, as he gazed in romantic rapture on her form. “Yes, she must be saved,” I said, as Giovanni murmured on in his musical, impassioned language, saying things that needed no translation for my sympathetic ears and eyes! No shame have I in writing down these things for the eyes of whoever may wish to read. I think, if anything, that my thoughts were less creditable than Giovanni’s. My Italian comrade was in love, but where was the excuse for my own impassioned glance? Why should the curves of an ankle haunt my dreams for days? But let it pass. There are many who may understand and forgive. A maiden’s ankle, a tress of hair, a side glance from lustrous eyes, a ribbon round a throat, have turned the good thoughts of many a man from the immediate matter in hand. Just beside the large calabash and overturned pickle barrel lay Barbarossa’s boon friend, Mademoiselle Singa Saloo; and the helpless abandonment of her sensuous beauty expressed a fascinating twinship with all that Barbarossa’s enforced recumbency revealed. It seemed that even the moon would abet the inquisitiveness of our curious eyes, for its light streamed through the chinks of the bolted door and so revealed the dusky beauty of the girls’ faces. The cool night winds swept down the mountain slopes, stirred the palms that silently threw their shadows over the wooden walls and along the floor where Barab’s huddled victims lay. Lying there, victims of Barab’s peculiar desires, they looked like big sleeping babies. One had her arm outstretched as though she knew the limpness of death, while the other hand pillowed her head. Only the faint flutter of her delicate blue throat-kerchief, following the regular intervals of her breathing, told that life existed.
Barab had risen to his feet. His eyes shone with some terrible light as he gazed on the helpless girls. “By the gods of Olympus!” blurted out Giovanni as a puff of wind blew his hat off. The Mohammedan had lifted a goblet of liquor to his lips. We saw him sway violently as he drank. “He’s half-seas-over!” was my joyful comment. He had drawn himself erect and had passed his hand across his brow as though he would muster up his drowsy senses. Suddenly one of the girls in the farther corner lifted her head and looked about her with vacant eyes. She lifted one hand and swayed it as though she were dreaming that she conducted some musical chant in her native village. She staggered to her feet. Giovanni and I watched, breathless, in our excitement and intense curiosity. What was she going to do? Had she in that moment realized the degradation of her position, and would she attempt to escape? Our very breath frightened us as it stirred the slender vine leaves that clustered there by our open mouths and eyes as we stared through the casement. The girl was staggering across the room, making for Barab. He stood erect, his turban askew, one swarthy hand holding his beard as if he had the impertinence to pose for the occasion. We saw the girl’s bare feet slip on the wooden floor as she lurched to his side and gave him a drunken leer! “Well now!” was our only comment, as she tossed her left leg till the brass bangles that encircled her limbs jingled!