“Oui! Aloah Majesty Imperialess,” I responded, as I made an effort and bowed the knee to her. I had visited Queen Vaekehu, who still reigned supreme in her old age down on the lower slopes by Calaboose Hill, and so I knew how to gain the appreciation of those heathen ex-Queens. Vaekehu was a masterpiece in the tattoo line, but I can assure you that ex-Queen Loi Vakamoa, for the sheer hieroglyphic-tattooed beauty that adorned her limbs and shoulders, could stand unrivalled throughout the North and South Pacific.
After addressing me, she left her squatting-mat just by her gin barrel, and majestically mounted what I imagine was her throne (a lot of old sea-chests and gin-cases covered with tappa-cloth). I did my level best to make myself pleasant, played the violin, drank some bitter stuff, and took a keen interest in all she said. Sitting up there on her old box throne, her profile reminded me of those old-fashioned engravings of Queen Elizabeth of England. The sensual curves, once so pronounced, had shrunk with her lips; but the beak-like nose—tattooed with tiny semi-circles from the bridge down to the cheeks—gave her a somewhat melancholy aspect. The only perceptible determinedness of the face was the sharp outline of the nose, which somehow suggested that its owner would meet the accumulating calamities of age with commendable aggressiveness. Yet her demeanour was affable in the extreme. Never before had I beheld a face that so sadly expressed the aftermath of all that had been and at the same time told of a bitter forlornness through senescence of frame and mind. The devious shruggings of her shoulders, the pathetic semi-amorous glances, and the many hints that she gave whilst striving to convince me of her once mighty Queenship and physical beauty, were positively painful to my mind. After giving me a goblet of whisky and lime-juice, which I must admit was refreshing, we seemed to become more confidential with each other. She took Palao by the arm and got him to tell her where he had met me, and much that I, of course, could not make out. By many direct hints she let me know that she had enjoyed a vast plurality of husbands.
“I been wifer to many kinks!” she said.
Most of what she said was translated to me by Palao as I politely sipped the peculiar beverage that she herself handed me. I hardly knew which way to glance as she gabbled on and Palao translated and I listened. Suddenly she acquainted me with the fact that she had been wedded more than twice to white men of distinction! She saw the look of surprise on my face. Perhaps she thought I doubted her, for she lifted the lid of a small sandal-wood box and brought forth a yellowish, very faded sheet of foolscap paper.
“Savvy, Papalagi?” she almost whimpered, as I read on. (And her eyes were shining with pride all the while.)
And so I perused the following marriage lines:
“This dokerment is to certify that Old Man Martin Smith of Woolloomooloo, New Sarth Wales, has from the dated day of this dokerment, 14th Feb. 1861, become the lawful husband of Queen Loi Vakamoa of this yere Isles and several more isles to the sarthwards. The foresaid Queen agrees to hand over all her monies and prufits she gits from her copra plantations and howsomeever monies she gits hold on whilst the aforesaid John Martin Smith remains King. And it is agreed that John Smith can have a safe passage in the old ship’s boat, free from any cursed interference by the late dethroned King Kai Le Tua Vakamoa and his b— heathen chiefs at any such time as he wants to quit this yere Isles and his dominions and go back to his lawful Missus, Maltida Sarah Martin Smith of Kansas City, Merica.
“Signed by Queen
————————— (Signature).
“Old Man Martin Smith, Bridegroom and King.