Some Experiences of a New Guinea Resident Magistrate

by C. A. W. Monckton

I was appointed to the district just while matters were at this stage. “What are we to do?” the priests asked me. “Our orders from home are to extend our work, but the Government will not let us.” “I am very sorry for you,” I told them, “but I cannot help you, unless you can persuade the London Mission to resign their right to some of the coast line.” “They won’t do that,” said the priests. “Then I am afraid I must pull your houses down, if you trespass on their country.” Those brave Frenchmen then set to work to bore a road right into the heart of New Guinea, amongst the wildest of the tribes, and seek converts there. When I left New Guinea, they had penetrated with their road, which was fit for horses, for over sixty miles into the interior, and had found in the mountains a large field for their labours. I have known many brave men in my time, but none more brave than those priests and their ascetic chief, the Archbishop of Navarre. The Archbishop, and the fathers that I knew, are now all dead; may their souls enjoy a peace and rest that their bodies never knew. “Let the Sacred Heart of Jesus be everywhere known,” was the motto of their order; rather should it have been, “Courage, mon ami, it is the will of the Good God,” the words for ever in their mouths in times of trouble and tribulation. I am not a Roman Catholic, but one of my most pleasant memories of the Mekeo district is of one occasion, when I had halted my men on a track, and the Archbishop and Father Bouellard passed by. “Stand to your arms!” I yelled at the men, as I saw the good old man coming. “Shoulder!” “Present arms!” As the rifles clashed up into the salute, the Archbishop stopped. Looking at us, he said, “My blessing will not hurt the Protestant soldiers.” So he blessed us and passed on.

While I was at Mekeo, Sir William MacGregor departed from New Guinea. The Government Secretary sent a notice to all officers within call, inviting them to come and bid him farewell. On account of some district trouble I was prevented from going, but fortunately had an opportunity of bidding him good-bye on board the Merrie England, which touched at Hall Sound on the way to Thursday Island. I was not sorry afterwards that I had missed the official ceremony at Port Moresby, as I heard that most of the men present had broken down lamentably, and wept as the vessel steamed away. Many an Administrator has since come and gone in New Guinea, but none have ever left such an awful void behind them as Sir William MacGregor’s departure created; and I doubt whether any other will ever do so again.

About my only relaxation from duty at Mekeo was an occasional afternoon’s shooting with the fathers; never shall I forget those shooting parties, or the way my sides ached from laughing, the first time I took part in one. Pigeons of all descriptions—from the enormous plumed Goura, down to a little dove—were very plentiful; and there was also a lake, a few miles from Mekeo Station, which simply swarmed with wild geese, duck, and all kinds of water-fowl. Game formed a pleasant change from the everlasting luke-warm tinned meat, of which my usual fare consisted. We assembled at one of the Mission Stations, when I naturally thought we should at once get to business; not so, however. First, we must drink success to the chase; then each good father possessed a dog of sorts, which he had taught to do all kinds of tricks, and which the proud owner of the mongrel then exhibited; after that, I had to inspect and admire each man’s gun. “My God!” I exclaimed softly to myself, as in turn I examined the rubbish in which the owners took such pride. The good fathers were all deadly poor; twenty pounds a year was all they had, with which to find everything—food, clothing, and all else; and their guns were the cheapest and vilest of Belgian make, things I expected to see burst every time they were fired. My gun, a plain old seven-guinea Bland’s keeper, which had seen many years of hard service, rose tremendously in my estimation, after looking at those Belgian affairs; for it, at all events, could be trusted not to blow my head off; its very plainness, however, did not appeal to my brother sportsmen, for though they politely praised it, I could see that the tassels and brass of their gimcracks were more to their liking.

At last, all preliminaries completed, we started, under the command of Father Bouellard; one good father merrily chanting a gay little French song in praise of La Chasse, and another one tootling on a round horn. One member of our party wore an enormous old-fashioned hunting knife, gaily caparisoned with cords and tassels, the sort of thing that might prove useful for cutting collops off a wild boar; we, however, were in search of feathered game. When we had left the village a few hundred yards behind us, Father Bouellard sternly ordered silence, and we all began to walk with the stealth of wild Indians; the fathers marched with unloaded guns, I was pleased to observe, as I frequently found myself looking down the muzzle of the gun of the man in front of me, or being poked in the ribs by that of the man behind. Suddenly Father Bouellard stopped and held up his hand; we all halted, and I peered to find out what he had discovered, but could see nothing except a little dove—hardly bigger than a tom-tit—sitting on a bough across the track. “A pigeon,” he whispered, in a voice of suppressed excitement. He pulled a cartridge from his bag, inserted it into his gun and, cocking the hammer, raised the gun to take aim; bang went the gun into the air and away flew the tiny dove. “My gun was too quick,” remarked Father Bouellard. “Well, I’m d—d!” I quietly exclaimed to myself, as the other sportsmen accepted the statement in perfect faith. At the sound of the shot, the assorted mongrels tore yapping into the scrub, while the horn tootled, and their masters shrieked shrilly for them to return. The excitement having subsided, we resumed our stealthy march.

Again our leader held up his hand, and loaded his gun; the squalling of a parrot pointing out the quarry this time. The father fired, the parrot fell squalling from the tree, the mongrels dashed at the bird, one of them securing it; the sportsmen hurled themselves upon the curs, each man grabbing his own: while the one with the bird fled into the bush, hotly pursued by its master and Father Bouellard. I could not help; I could only roll against the nearest tree and nearly suffocate with laughter. At last the dog with the bird was caught, the mangled remains of the parrot dragged from its mouth, and once more we resumed our march. Father Bouellard having blooded his gun, took his place in the rear, and another sportsman took the father’s place, I declining the honour. By the time we reached the lake, the fathers had collected a large assortment of birds; most of them either nearly blown to bits by being shot sitting at the closest possible range, or torn to pieces by the curs. There was not a game bird in the lot, for the mongrels and the horn saw to it that they were kept a good mile away.

Upon our arrival at the lake, while the Mission boys and my police prepared some canoes for us, Father Bouellard and another priest went off to stalk some wood-duck sitting in a tree. Presently there came a shot, followed instantly by the screams of an excited Frenchman; the men with me listened, and then exclaimed in horror, “He says the good father is shot!” We tore off to the spot, only to find Father Bouellard sitting on the ground, ruefully contemplating the tip of a blackened and bleeding finger; while his companion wept, screamed, and embraced the father alternately. I examined the finger, and found the damage was but slight. It seems that the two sportsmen had exchanged guns for a shot; sneaking under the wood-duck, his companion was taking aim, when Father Bouellard noticed some dirt on the muzzle of his cherished gun; he was in the act of brushing the dirt off with his fingers, just as that infamous piece chose to go off “too quick” again. Separating into canoes, we soon got a heavy bag of duck and pygmy geese, the latter quite the best game bird in New Guinea. The method of the fathers was simple in the extreme: they merely sneaked their canoes up to within thirty or forty yards of a flock of feeding duck, and blazed both barrels into the brown of them; after which they would put in an excited, gesticulating, and noisy half-hour, chasing and shooting the cripples. I concealed my canoe in a patch of reeds, and had lively sport with the birds which the fathers kept putting up and driving over my gun. Excited, tired, and laden with duck, we wended our homeward way; and once more songs in praise of La Chasse and the tootling of the horn enlivened our weary footsteps.

At the end of some four or five months, the Mekeo district was in a condition of satisfactory order; the roads were clean and in good repair, the sickness had apparently disappeared from among the villagers, the bodies of those that did die, or were killed by snakes or in other ways, were buried in the cemetery, and the sorcerers were hiding their diminished heads. Then I got enteric myself, and narrowly missed pegging out, after which I sent in my resignation. One bout of black-water, another of enteric, with a few odd doses of malaria thrown in, were bad enough; but when they were coupled with work amongst a tribe I disliked, I thought it was too much of a good thing altogether.

Leaving Mekeo in due course, I went again to the Eastern Division, where I recruited my health, cruising with Moreton in the Siai. Whilst I was thus occupying my time, Shanahan, one of Green’s successors in the Northern Division, died of combined malaria and dysentery. Already since Green’s death, Stuart-Russell, Chief Government Surveyor, and Butterworth, Commandant of Constabulary, had put in a term there and been invalided. During one of my periods of absence from Samarai with Moreton, Judge Winter came there looking for me to succeed Shanahan, the Judge being then Acting Administrator. Fortunately for me, I was away: therefore, as the position had to be filled at once, he appointed Armit; I very much doubt whether, had I been sent to the Mambare in my then state of health, I should have lasted six months.

Returning from the Mambare in the Merrie England, Judge Winter sent me off in her to relieve Campbell, R.M. and Warden for the South-Eastern Division, the easiest and healthiest division in the Possession. With the exception of the mining work at Woodlark Island, my duties consisted of sailing from one small island to another and hearing petty cases; there was not an island in the division that one could not walk across in a day, and, if one wished, the boat could be anchored every night.

A. M. Campbell, the man I relieved, possessed a perfect mania for office work, tidiness, and writing reports; if a constable cut his toe or a prisoner sneezed, Campbell could manage to make a two-page report of the incident. When the Merrie England reached Nivani, the Government Station for the Division, we found the patrol vessel, the Murua, had been wrecked. Campbell was no sailor, and his crew were fair-weather men; so accordingly, on a strong gale coming up, they had anchored in the harbour and made for the safe security of the shore. The Murua’s anchor chains were nasty galvanized things, which in her peaceful summer cruising had never met a strain; consequently, when she had to ride out a moderate gale, they snapped, and she—being without a crew—-was blown up on the nearest reef. A white prisoner at Nivani, named Clancy, upon the return of calm weather, had dived and tacked canvas over the vessel’s holes; then it was found that, by fitting her with some extra pumps, manned by relays of constabulary, she could be towed to Samarai by the Merrie England, where she could be repaired upon the slip.