came through the night in Bruce’s bull voice. Then, as the noise got nearer, there came crashing sounds of heavy bodies falling into banana trees and sugar-cane, mingled with exhortations from the police and European curses. “Shove, corporal, shove!” came the voice of Sergeant Antony. “I am shoving, shoving strongly, but I can’t shove a whole bullock alone,” snarled the corporal. Then came further crashes, and the sound of panting, labouring men. “Better carry him,” a suggestion by a private. “Wontsh be carried. Wontsh go home till morning.” Bruce was getting musical again. His Excellency was awakened by the riot, and came out to me. “What is all this, Monckton?” he asked severely. “I imagine, sir, it is the return of the tea party. I think you had better not hear or see anything,” I replied. “Disgraceful!” said Robinson, as he snorted and went back to bed.
Then Manning appeared, supported by two police, his arms round their necks and theirs round his waist; while a third pushed behind. “This is a damned nice drunken state to return in, with the Governor present,” I said, as the police held him up as an exhibit to me. “Not drunksh, ill, verysh ill,” he squeaked feebly. “Thinksh got measles.” “Undress him, and shove him into bed,” I told the police. Then a heaving, struggling, revolving mass of about six police appeared, dragging and shoving the unwieldy bulk of Bruce. “Don’t make such an infernal noise, Bruce,” I said; “if you rouse out the Governor you will get hell, and you are disturbing my sick. I am surprised at you; I thought you had a head.” Bruce pulled himself together in some marvellous manner known only to himself, and I managed with the help of the police to get him quietly into a hammock. “Where is Walsh?” I demanded. Bruce smiled fatuously and snored. “Mr. Walsh, the two store-keepers, and the engineer of the Bulldog launch, are all under the table; Mr. Bruce told us to lay them there like sardines,” said Sergeant Antony. “All right,” I answered, “tell the sentry to call me at the first peep of dawn,” and then turned in.
At daylight I routed out the erring ones, gave them a strong dose of bromide and calomel (they did not know about the calomel), and sent them off to swim in the river, then to go on to the store where they could get shaved, and where I promised to send them clean shirts and things. “You, Bruce, are inspecting the pay sheets and returns of the Bogi detachment. You, Manning, are making arrangements for me for the burial of my dead man. Don’t come back until after breakfast, and remember your lies; also try to look as sober as you can. Walsh can stop away until the evening.”
“Where are Bruce and Manning?” asked his Excellency, as we met at breakfast. “I must take action of some sort over their disgraceful conduct of last night.” “Don’t know anything about it officially, sir,” I said, “they will appear in a presentable state in about an hour, with plausible lies to account for their absence. As a matter of fact, I sent them in the cold, damp dawn to dree their weird in the river. They have been through a devil of a time lately, and old Clunas would make an Archbishop drunk; they will be sorry enough for themselves when the bolus I have given them gets in its work.” Some time later the culprits appeared, looking wonderfully fresh, considering everything. “Where have you been so early, Commandant?” asked Robinson. “Auditing the pay sheets of the local detachment, sir,” promptly answered the unrepentant prodigal unwinkingly. “And you, Manning?” “The R.M. was rather tired this morning, sir, and I went to make some arrangements for him about the burial of the dead man,” lied Manning. Robinson stared at the pair of them for a few seconds, then, taking his stick, went off for a walk in the gardens.
“Did he believe us?” asked Bruce. “Of course not, you asses!” I said, “he both saw and heard you last night; besides, I told him all this morning. But he is pretending to believe you in order to avoid having to take official notice. Why didn’t you two fools stick to lager?” “Clunas had such a feed for us, turkey, goose, ham, bottled asparagus, and real potatoes,” said Bruce. “All right,” I interrupted, “I know what Clunas’ feeds are like; get to the drinks.” “You need not be so blank pious,” growled Bruce; “if you had been there you would not have come home at all, you would have stopped under the table with Walsh!” “You are a slanderous and ungrateful brute, Bruce!” I replied. “What did you drink?” “Clunas had some bottled cocktails, and insisted upon our having one each as an aperitif; then he made us have another to prevent the first feeling lonely; then at the feed we asked for lager beer. ‘Lager be damned!’ said Clunas, ‘this is no Methodist Sunday School!’ and shoved a pint bottle of still Burgundy in front of us. When we got to coffee he gave us a fine old liqueur brandy, and then he insisted upon showing us how his father brewed punch. By God! Clunas’ father must have been a strong man! That punch would make an elephant drunk! I don’t know how many glasses we had, but Manning went and lay outside and was sick, and I stuck to my guns until I had them all under the table, and then I came away.” For a few days after this there was a distinct chill in his Excellency’s manner towards the erring ones!
From Bogi we went down the Kumusi River in whaleboats and canoes, meeting on our way one Ambushi, the chief of a Kumusi tribe and a village constable, whom I at once arrested. “I have a little list of nine recent murders by that man,” I told the Governor; “he is one of the most dangerous thugs in New Guinea, and always manages to bamboozle that weak ass Hislop. I have sent this man message after message, that unless he mended his ways I should hang him on his own cocoanut tree, and the only notice he has taken is to add yet another crime to his list. One of his most recent performances was the deliberate and cold-blooded murder of a child of ten years old, who was staying with its mother in his village. The old blackguard had some guests at a feast; he had plenty of pig, dog, and fish, but that wasn’t good enough; so he called to the unsuspecting woman to bring her boy up to him, and when she obeyed he dashed out the child’s brains before the mother, and added them to the menu. The woman knew it was useless going to Hislop, so she sent to me through Sergeant Barigi. I don’t believe the old reprobate is ever without human meat.”
“Ah! Mr. Ambushi!” I remarked to that worthy, “I have been long in coming, but I have come now, and a strong rope, a long drop, and your own cocoanut tree is your fate! And I have a little list of some of your friends who are due for seven years’ hard labour.” “Only I can hang, Monckton,” said the Governor. “Yes, sir,” I said, “and when you have heard the evidence that I shall produce, you will be only too anxious to exercise that right.” We reached the beach, and I sent for the witnesses; when they heard that Ambushi was safely in custody, they were only too anxious to come. I sent Ambushi before the Judge on three separate and distinct charges of murder fully proved; I also sent a list of other murders I was bringing against him, without counting such minor crimes as robbery with violence, abduction, rape, and assault! The Judge heard the cases, then he told me to stop. “I can hang the man three times over already,” he said, “and he has richly deserved it in each case.” Ambushi was then sentenced to death. “I want to make certain, sir, that he does hang instead of having his sentence commuted by Executive Council at the last minute, so I shall keep my list, and have another go at him if he escapes the death penalty.” “The last decision as to the Royal clemency lies with me as administrator,” replied his Excellency. “Ambushi shall be hanged; and furthermore he shall be hanged, as you promised, on his own cocoanut tree in his own village.”
The final scene took place in Ambushi’s village some weeks later. A wet, dull morning, the Kumusi rolling by in heavy yellow flood, a launch containing a white-faced ship’s officer, engineer, and seamen, hanging on to the bank, a crowd of sullen natives, silent and watchful, and myself shivering with fever, holding a warrant in my hand, whilst a ring of the North-Eastern constabulary, with bayonets fixed, stood round a cocoanut tree, to which was attached an ominous-looking cross-piece with two dangling ropes; a sergeant, with a sharpened tomahawk, sat on the cross-piece. One noose was adjusted round Ambushi’s waist, a file of constabulary seized the other end, and Ambushi swung up until his shoulders touched the cross-beams, where the sergeant fitted the second noose round his neck. “All clear, sir!” called the sergeant, raising his tomahawk. “Cut, sergeant!” Down fell the tomahawk on the rope round his waist and exit Ambushi. “Oh, people of the Kumusi, take warning by the fate of Ambushi and do no murder!” called Barigi, as the launch swung into the swollen river, and we hastened away from the spot.