His story had a ghostly finish. When I reached my office in Suva I found a letter from him, dated a few weeks back, thanking me for the record. It had given the children so much fun.
******
I was forced to conclude that white colonists of the Gilbert group needed a doctor more than the natives did. Monotony of life there must eventually depress the health of every European. The food was a trial to the civilized stomach; nothing but coconuts, fish and that stringy, tasteless root, the babai; and for variety whatever tinned goods the trader happened to have. If the Devil gave me a bad choice, I should rather live on the Ellices than the Gilberts—and rather on Rotumah than on the Ellices. Those are the three spots on the Pacific that I’m least fond of.
CHAPTER III
A LITTLE KINGDOM AND A GREAT QUEEN
The Chief Medical Officer of the Tongan Islands was away on leave. Dr. Minty, his competent assistant and the only other medical officer on Tongatabu, called me in to assist in an emergency operation on Her Majesty, Salote Tubou, monarch of the last surviving native kingdom on the South Pacific. This was at Nukualofa, the capital.
Dr. Minty had no anesthetist, and asked me to help him out; it was a job I didn’t relish, for the responsibility would be pretty heavy, and surgical operations in the hot tropics are always something of a gamble. The Queen lay on a bed in one of the royal chambers. Her beautiful eyes turned toward me, her friendly lips said that she was glad that I had come. Her consort, Prince Tungi, bent his huge Tongan frame over her, consoling her and buoying her courage. It was my first personal medical service to reigning royalty, an adventure among giants, for the Queen of Tonga was two-and-a-half inches over six feet and weighed over 300 pounds. She came of a family of giants; her father had been even larger, and her great-grandfather George Tubou the First had been over six feet five inches and built in proportion. She wasn’t fat, either. The breadth of her shoulders showed tremendous physical strength. She was a woman of heroic size, a proper mother of Polynesian kings.
Everything was ready. I said, “Your Majesty, breathe regularly, and deeply. If you find the anesthetic is coming too fast, raise your hand and I’ll give you a breath of air; but not too often.” I started the stuff going and she raised her hand. I gave her air and started again. Again she raised her hand and kept on raising it until I said as deferentially as I could, “Remember, Your Majesty, there is no royal way of taking an anesthetic.” After that she was still as a mouse, an ideal patient. Her marvelous chest expansion, breathing in the vapor, was like the opening and shutting of a great accordion; her chest seemed to lift a foot.
Getting her in her bed was no job for a weakling. Prince Tungi was for carrying her in his arms; he was quite capable of it, but I wanted to keep an eye on her breathing and said, “Don’t be a hog, Tungi, move down and give me a share.” My arms hardly reached under her shoulders and I was relieved when the move was completed safely. She was one of the handsomest, biggest women I have ever seen.
Minty’s rapid, efficient job should have been nobody’s business; but an operation on royalty is always of great national moment, and the kingdom was agog. Especially in the European section; for Tonga was prosperous enough to employ a great many foreigners to fill government posts. Next morning Bob Denny, the picturesque Scottish postmaster, gave me the first inquisition. “Doctor, didn’t the Queen have an operation? What was it for?” I said, “I only gave her the anesthetic.” He couldn’t understand my obtuseness and shouted, “BUT WHAT WAS THE MATTER WITH HER?” I said, “That’s the Queen’s and Dr. Minty’s business.” I knew that if he asked Minty he would be rounded up with a short turn.