The Exiles of Faloo

by Barry Pain

And then gradually were interwoven the cords which bound him to Faloo for ever. Two men, who had been personal friends of Sir John’s and associated with him in business, skipped their bail and joined him at Faloo. It was natural and convenient that the three men should live together, and their house was the nucleus of the building which afterwards became the Exiles’ Club. Through them came a further widening of the circle. The secret was kept for the discreet, and among them was a city solicitor. He knew when to talk about it. He had among his clients families of the highest respectability, and all such families have their black sheep. The Colonies might prove inhospitable and America too inquisitive, but there was always Faloo—for people who could afford to get there and to live there. To Sir John belonged the prestige of the explorer and pioneer; it was to him that the new-comer came for advice, and occasionally for investment. Sir John sold part of his interest in the island trade to a syndicate, and part of his land to the white community, taking in each case such profit as his conscience allowed. His abilities, too, were admitted. He was a born organiser. It pleased and amused him to undertake the work of providing European luxuries in an almost unknown island hundreds of miles from anywhere. His judgment was unerring in welcoming any desirable addition to the fraternity and in arranging for the speedy deportation of the undesirable. Men with no money or education were as a rule excluded. “We want gentlemen here,” said Sir John, and struck the right note at once. But he saw the usefulness of that ex-waiter from the Cabinet Club, and Thomas had no trouble in making good his position on the island.

The position of director and adviser rather pleased Sir John; the position of President of the Exiles’ Club pleased him far more and sealed him to Faloo. It was a chance suggestion which led to the formation of the club. Six men sat over their Sauterne and oysters one evening and listened to the music of the surf. Presently one of them (nobody afterwards remembered which one) said, “Sort of little club of exiles, ain’t we?”

There was a moment’s pause, and then Sir John, already with a foretaste of the presidential manner, said, “Well, gentlemen, it rests with you. I’m ready to put my money down if you others are. The thing can be done, and done well. Club-house and grounds, decent service, everything comfortable and in order. Why not?”

They discussed it during the greater part of that night, and they all worked very hard at it during the month that followed, planning and superintending the construction of the only two-storied building on the island. Sir John had always been a great gardener, and Blake, one of the earliest arrivals, had made a hobby of his workshop. The special knowledge proved very useful. Sir John was told that English turf was impossible. “We shall have our lawn just the same,” said Sir John. And ultimately, at great trouble and expense, they did have it.

The club never had any other President than Sir John. If Smith, as the white men called him, was the hereditary king of the natives, Sir John was by common consent the symbol of authority for the white men. Lord Charles Baringstoke had not a respectful manner, and frequently alluded to Sir John Sweetling as Jonathan Gasbags, but he would never have dreamed of opposing his annual re-election to the presidency.

Customs grew as convenience demanded, and rules were made as they were wanted. The rules were kept almost invariably by every member of the club; a reprimand from Sir John was sufficient to prevent the repetition of any lapse, and the feeling of the majority of members was always against the transgressor. At first sight this may seem extraordinary. There was but one man in the club who was not wanted by the police. It included men like Lord Charles Baringstoke, who did not possess, and never had possessed, any moral sense. There were others, like Cyril Mast, who had killed what was good in them and become slaves to the most ignoble indulgences. There were members who seemed for ever on the verge of an outbreak of maniacal violence, and there were some who were at times sunk in a suicidal melancholy. It might have been foretold that such a club would be doomed to destruction by the riot and rebellion of its own members. But that forecast would have proved incorrect.

It is, after all, a commonplace that when anarchy has removed all existing laws and government, the construction of a fresh government and new laws will next have to occupy its attention. Those who had rebelled against an elaborate legal system, bore with patience the easier yoke which was devised for their own special needs, and often at their own suggestion and instigation, in the island of Faloo. Too high an ideal was not set for them. Every form of gambling was permitted, except gambling on credit. Among the exiles there was neither bet nor business unless the money was in sight. Intoxication was frequent with some of the members, and was not condemned, but it was recognised that its propriety was a matter of time and place. As ritual survives religion, etiquette survives morality, and no member of the Exiles’ Club would have committed the offence of tipping a club servant; nor would he have stormed at a waiter however bad the service might have been, but would simply have backed his bill. There was no definite rule against profanity, and its use was common enough, but there were two or three men in the club—one of them murdered his own mother—in whose presence the rest kept a certain check on their tongues. The principle was generally accepted that the life of a member, so far as it concerned other members, began with his arrival at Faloo. Confidences were not sought; if, as rarely happened, they were volunteered they were not welcomed, lest they should demand confidences in return. Briefly, the men, troubled no longer with a complex civilisation, had made for themselves their simple conditions of life, and such law as was involved by those conditions they respected.

Two other considerations made for the permanence and well-being of the club. Few of its members were habitual criminals; they were mostly men who had ruined their lives with one thing, and in other matters had been normally respectable, and even over the worst men in the club the climate seemed to exercise a curiously quieting and mollifying influence. Secondly, it was very generally realised that Faloo was the last station, the jumping-off place. There was nothing beyond it, and there was no other chance.

Sir John had already stated at the election meeting some of the reasons which bound him to Faloo. It may be added that he thoroughly enjoyed his position. The society in which he lived was small, but it held itself to be the superior society of the island, and it bestowed on him the first place. He had been the great man of his suburb, and he found it to be almost equally satisfactory to be the great man of Faloo. The exploitation of a native king was work which was quite to his taste, and at the same time it was easy work. Shrewd and educated though the King was, he showed himself quite native, and pathetically ignorant at first in matters of business. Sir John had but to say that this or that was common form, or the usual European practice, and the King accepted it at once. But the King learned quickly, and at a later period he had about taken Sir John’s measure, as Sir John himself was aware.