“Oh, handsome Mohamy clergyman!” she babbled.
“Phew!” was our simultaneous ejaculation, when she lifted her face and kissed Barab’s shoulder! Such a look in a man’s eyes I had never seen before. The girl had embraced him, her head was nursed in the folds of his beard. She had commenced to sing some weird heathen melody or chant, the chorus of the strain she had doubtless been singing ere she lost consciousness. There was something indescribably weird in the sounds of her muffled voice as she still sang on, her mouth buried deep in the bushy growth of that Islamic beard! Barab seized her and was about to lead her from the room into the inner chamber wherein Giovanni and I had not been invited to enter.
“Now’s the time! Come on!” said I, as Giovanni nudged me in the ribs to intimate that he had successfully placed his arm through the window-hole and pulled the door-bolt back! Crash! The door opened and swung violently to and fro, so fierce had been my thrust as I threw my whole weight against it. In a moment Barab let the girl drop to the ground and turned towards us. The muscles stood out on his swelling throat like whipcord. He had whipped his kris from beneath his jerkin. “Iîu tidak baik Tûan!” (this is not friendly of you), he roared, as we stood before him. Then he noticed the look in our eyes, and yelled “Tôtong!” (help) at the top of his voice. Fast asleep in the corner of the room lay two young bloods, Malays. In a moment they had leapt to their feet. The immediate outlook was pretty dark for Giovanni and me. We possessed no firearms at all. In a moment I placed my rose-coloured spectacles on, so to speak, then, bang! it went. And the reader can rest assured that that Islamic cranium received such a thump that its scheming interior was out of action for some time. My violin case was broken, cracked down the whole length. I cared not. I carefully laid it down by the door in readiness for my coming hasty exit. Giovanni, who was taking no risks, lifted the wooden table and let it drop most artistically on to Barab’s prostrate form. “Allow me!” said I, then I lifted the large calabash of pickle oil and dashed the whole thing in the face of the young blood who had come to tackle me. Then the left cheek of the other one received an Olympic punch from Giovanni. And then, as carefully as possible, I, according to the Scriptures, smote him on the right cheek as he turned towards me. By this time the native girls had staggered to their feet and were staring about them, rubbing their eyes as though they had risen in astonishment to the trump of the resurrection.
“Quick! out with her!” I said.
In a moment Giovanni and I had grabbed Barbarossa by the arm.
“Aue! Aue! seo, levu!” she wailed, as she looked around her in wonder.
But still we dragged her on by the arms. As I rushed back into the den to seize my violin, the large table was already being lifted towards the roof as the stricken Barab heaved his back up! He was roaring forth terrible oaths in Malayan lingo as I once more made a hurried exit. Barbarossa’s dishevelled tresses were streaming to the caress of the night wind when I got outside. In a moment I had once more gripped her arm. Arriving at the top of the slope Giovanni shook her rather roughly.
“Barbarossa, remember!” he whispered.
For a moment she stared vacantly at us, and then cried, “Aue! Aue!” and to my intense relief voluntarily gripped our arms as we ran down the slopes. Barbarossa became our eager guide after that. And though it is years ago now, I can still hear the sounds of her feet pattering like falling rain over the dead leaves of the forest ferns as we follow her across the wild country to Mootuoa. Again Giovanni and I lift the coco-nut-shell goblets and drink a toast with the big tattooed chief who is Barbarossa’s father. For Barbarossa took us safely into her village that night. And when the old chiefs and their womenkind heard about Barab’s sinful ways and of our blessed missionary work, they swore to club Barab, and cheered us exceedingly. But alas! I lost my dear chum Giovanni. For I composed and performed a special betrothal chant, playing it at the festival that made Giovanni Barbarossa’s legitimate tribal fiancé. And was he faithful to the Samoan maid? I know not. But, still, I do know that Giovanni was young and romantic. And I would not be surprised if, as the years rolled by Barbarossa was happy, and little children who could speak both Italian and Samoan romped about her knees. Fine children too, I should think, from such a splendid combination from the two romantic lands of the Sunny South.
Such was my personal experience of the Samoan Brown-Slave Traffic. And I might say, it is an experience that I have considerably toned down in the aforesaid narrative. As I have already intimated, I have included this experience here only that my readers may have a view of both sides of native life, and realize that native girls and women are subject to the temptations of sensualists much the same as their sisters in the large cities of the civilized world. And I would say that it is a pleasure for me to be able to record here that Barab’s dwelling was razed to the ground by the wrathful chiefs of Barbarossa’s village. True enough, it was really the last homestead of that brave old chief O Le Matavia; but he was a good and holy heathen. And so one might well imagine that the flames of his corrupted ancestral halls gave cheerful warmth to his ghost and cold bones as he slept on under the orange-tree, just outside.