The Wild White Girl—The Wagner of Storms—A Pagan Citadel—Pagan Democracy—Ye Old Britisher—A Battle in the Dark.
FIRST I must state that G—— was a casual member of the Charity Organization, an Englishman, and, from the general run of his conversation and manner, gave one the impression that he had seen better days. But there was nothing wonderful about that, for it is a fact that many of the apparent rogues of those days betrayed something of past polish, and possessed a personality infinitely more interesting than that of men who had never stepped over the border-line.
G—— was a big lump of a fellow, just over six feet in height, and had fine, expressive eyes full of humour and sometimes revealing a lingering sadness that made one’s heart go out to him. Personally, I liked him immensely. He could play the flute as well as he could tell a yarn, and that’s saying something!
But I would say, right here, that the story that he told me, and which I will tell here, is told not so much for the presumable interest that it might give as a mere yarn, as for my absolute confidence in the veracity of the man who told me it, his manner whilst telling it leaving such a possibility as doubt or exaggeration quite out of the question. Nor was there any justifiable reason why one should be sceptical, since G—— had lived, as I have said, in Fiji when cannibalism was in vogue, and white men arrived at the islands and did very much as they liked,—some resorting to savagery, some giving their hand in marriage to dusky queens, ascending thrones and holding full sway over swarthy populations of heathenland.
It was a glorious tropical eventide when G——, O’Hara, and I sat under the palms as the fireflies commenced to dance in the bamboos by the shore lagoons. G—— took his pipe from his lips, stroked his bearded chin in his characteristic way, and commenced:
“You must know, boys, that things were very different in these parts in the old semi-heathen times. I had arrived for the second time in Levuka then, had left a trading schooner, and was spending my time in looking round. I was a bit of a romantic loony in those days, and when my pal, Mick Deny, who had been shipmate with me for two years, heard that a Britisher, a fugitive from justice, was living like a wild man up in the Kai Tholos mountains with his daughter, we got interested, I can tell you. We got the whole facts of the case out of one of the Kai Tholos natives who had come into Levuka to get fish. Deny was a bit gone on girls, and when he heard that the Britisher had brought that young daughter of his out to these infernal regions and had brought her up as a heathen amongst those tribal natives, he was as eager as I to visit the stronghold in the mountains and see how matters stood. It appeared that this fugitive Britisher had assumed command over the tribe with whom he dwelt, styled himself as Roko (high chief), taken unto himself several native wives, and resorted to the unbridled lust and degradation of savagery.
“‘How old is the girl?’ queried Deny, as the native trader told us these facts.
“‘She nicer Marama, grow up beautifuls, nicer crown hair, nicer eyes, colour of moani ali (the ocean).’
“As that Fijian gabbled away, waxing enthusiastic over the beauty of the exiled white girl up there, imprisoned from the sight of her own race, Deny and I fairly gasped over the idea of it all. We got no sleep that night. The idea of that girl being cruelly treated by her criminal parent seemed to set our brains afire with romantic ideas. By the morning we had made our minds up, and had decided to make an expedition up into the Tholos mountains. The first thing to do was to get some goods, so I went down to the schooners that lay in the harbour, cadged some sugar, tea, tobacco plug, and those essentials which I guessed would meet our requirements. Deny’s eyes flashed with delight at the idea of it all. The risk of the job we were undertaking did not deter us, it only added spice to the business. And the natives, I can tell you, were not as chummy in those days as they are now. Old Thakombau had only just been converted to Christianity, had swallowed four casks of sacramental rum, and had shaken hands with all the missionaries. But he was a sly old fellow, and didn’t know anything about the tribal fights and the missing bodies of the dead after the Bokolai feast (cannibal feast). Oh no! Not he. He was quite converted! When we had packed up our few traps, not forgetting my flute, and were quite ready to start off, little Sanga, the native girl who did our cooking in the beach shanty (only one store in Levuka in these days), started crying,
“‘You no-e takeer little Sanga longer you?’