A Yankee doctor in paradise

by S. M. Lambert

Macgregor, taking anthropological measurements, found them physically identical with the Rennellese—probably the relics of a pre-Polynesian race. I found that they needed a doctor for yaws, and not much more; otherwise they would be a thousand times better off if no white man’s foot ever again touched their coral-scragged beach. Isolation had made them happier than the Rennellese, I thought. Five ships had touched at Rennell Island in three years, and more were coming. Bellona had only seen two in that time, and those two had been given a cool reception. An object lesson in self-preservation.

It seemed strange that they had more iron tools per capita than the Rennellese, until I heard that Bellona was arrow-maker for Rennell, and demanded her pay in iron. The chiefs might have been sharp traders, but one of the Masters was pretty dull when he gave Crocker a royal treasure out of respect to his rank as “Captain.” The gift might take rank with Charlemagne’s scepter for its antiquarian value and its rare material. It was a king’s mace, a shaft of wood with a knob of stone on the end. To Rennell and Bellona real stone was worth its weight in diamonds, for there was absolutely none of it between the beetling coral cliffs. The piece that tipped this relic might have come from Tucopia in olden times, or from undreamed-of distances. It was the last king’s mace on either island, and there are only four in the world. The other three are in museums: at Brisbane, Cambridge University, and the British Museum.

Macgregor had tried sleeping in the tent on the beach, but had given it up for uncanny reasons. He had set up an army cot, got into it—and found that two local chiefs had decided to sleep on the coral floor right under him. In the middle of the night his cot began to shake, and he found the worried chiefs rousing him. “Master,” they said, “you must go at once. In our dreams God spoke in our heads asking, ‘Who is this that dares sleep above me?’” Macgregor didn’t argue the point, but went.

On Bellona there was one big native who seemed to double for Panio as local nuisance. He had bothered me a great deal when we were there on the France expedition. Now he was on and off the Zaca, strutting like a magpie and yelling his slogan in my ear: “Gimme, thank you! Gimme, thank you!” I called him Mr. Gimme and tried to laugh him off, which was pretty hard to do when I was giving injections on the beach with him clinging to my elbow. Our last afternoon at Bellona I told Maury Willowes how I should love to plant my foot on Mr. Gimme’s sciatic nerve, and Maury grinned, “Why don’t you?”

We were safely near sailing time when Mr. Gimme came at me again and had hardly opened his mouth for the familiar slogan when I put my walking stick against his mid-section and firmly poked him halfway down the accommodation ladder. He plunked into his canoe and his look was demoniacal as he yelled his farewell curse: “Gimme, thank you!”

There were no reprisals. Peaceably the three kings came aboard to shake hands all around and receive their final gift of hardware. They were very cordial, glad that we were going so soon. I admired their self-protective attitude, and hoped that they wouldn’t weaken, as Rennell was weakening. They were fine people, and I didn’t hold Mr. Gimme against them. There is at least one Panio in every neighborhood that I know of.

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Before the Zaca pulled away from the White Sands and headed toward Tulagi I had a farewell glimpse of a people who were turning too soon towards ideals which could never work anything but harm for them. Over on the beach Tahua was bossing a construction gang. They were putting up the frame of his house, a big house, a fine house, a house that would make Taupangi feel pretty small. Keeping up with the Joneses, and a lap ahead of them.... When Taupangi came aboard to rub noses and wish us all back soon, he reminded Gordon White that he had given him a present of fine mats—but he was keeping them for him up at the Lake, so that Gordon would be sure and return there with more medicine. Competition was making old Taupangi canny as a Scot. Many of the natives, who stayed with us until the ship’s propeller turned, came in fashionable lavalavas.

Buia remained aboard until we were rounding Unga Unga, then a canoe picked him up. Buia, I am afraid, was getting a touch of bighead. He was too intelligent to become another Panio, but his reputation as a cruise conductor had done him no good. Crocker had been annoyed with his way of walking in on every party and taking possession. I was more relenting, for I had a real affection for this heir to a Big Mastership, and knew that he might rule with wisdom, if only he were let alone to serve his native God. To him we were something to be admired and imitated, and he had sought to adjust himself as best he knew how. Hadn’t they all?

He paddled away in his canoe. The Zaca turned out to sea; Rennell Island became a faint blue shadow in the distance. I wondered what could be done about these unique people, infinitely valuable to scientific study. It was something like an emergency case; but in the wide Pacific you can’t send a fast ambulance to emergency cases. Relief comes slowly, biding its time for the Government to make up its mind, for competent medical men to take over the work, for boats to sail, for treasuries to cover the necessary expenses. Sometimes years pass between visit and visit—especially to a small world like Rennell Island, which needed protection far more than it needed medicine.