The natives of Home Island, so far as we could tell from a superficial visit, were happy, healthy, and content, although they are entirely dependent upon the Clunies-Ross family for employment and subsistence. All necessities are provided, so that their nominal wages for working in the coconut plantations are needed only for such individual luxuries as may be desired from the local store. The predominant religion is Muslim and no attempt has been made to convert them. On the contrary, they took great pride in showing us a newly completed mosque, simple but attractive, which had been built to supplement an earlier one. All of the houses were well built and in good repair, but the older buildings are gradually being replaced with modern units with concrete floors and fluorescent lighting.
Little “Princess” Linda accompanied us on our tour in her royal carriage (pram, that is), standing up and waving in semi-regal fashion to her subjects. Crowds followed us wherever we went, whether out of devotion to their blonde, blue-eyed princess or out of curiosity over the presence of a strange family, it was hard to say. Certainly, they seemed genuinely happy and if, as we were told, they are being “ruthlessly exploited,” they don’t seem to be aware of it.
Before our departure from Direction Island, and in honor of the American and Japanese visitors, an event was scheduled which will forever stand out in my memory: a baseball game, pitting the Exiles of C. & W. against the Outcasts of Qantas. Naturally, it took place on the cricket field and, as a special honor and because none of our hosts knew the rules, I was appointed umpire.
The players, once the game had been explained to them (“Rather like rounders, wouldn’t you say?”), took it very seriously indeed, but added a certain exotic element that I never could have imagined. Pitchers were changed every inning and, under the influence of cricket, threw overhand with a stiff arm. Runners slid into every base, regardless. And not a single decision of the umpire was questioned—although many of them, under the circumstances, were questionable.
Between the sixth and seventh innings a break was called and players and spectators knocked off for a cup of tea. I happened to make a comment about the polite restraint of the gallery, comparing it to the more typical behavior of a baseball crowd at Yankee Stadium. In the midst of the next inning there floated out over the field in the sweet voice of Mrs. Bartlett, one single, gentle recommendation: “Please kill the umpire!”
The game lasted the full nine innings and the score, for the record, was: Exiles, 22—Outcasts, 14.
We sailed on September 9, with regrets as always, but this time with the guarantee of further friendships to come, for we had entered into the magic network of the far-flung Cable and Wireless system. Henceforth, we would be passed along from one island outpost to another, introduced in advance by the cable grapevine.
As if to make up for our unseasonable cyclone, the elements combined, on the passage to Rodrigues, to give us some of the finest sailing we have ever had. With a following wind and under full lowers, the Phoenix racked up the best record of her trip to date—2,023 miles in 13½ days, or better than 6 knots all the way.
There was little to record in the log other than good weather, good progress, and good times. From my bunk, where I had leisure to spend many lazy hours, I could catch scraps of Ted’s stories drifting down through the afterhatch, as he kept himself entertained on watch by amusing Jessica.
“Once there was a small kingdom—” such a story would frequently begin.