Late in the afternoon, they spotted a fairly large island on the horizon, and the crew members cheered. One that size had to have people on it — hopefully white people.
Chapter 4
At the same time the Salvation sighted the island, another boat was approaching the island’s small harbor from the opposite direction. It was a medium-sized Australian Government steam cruiser, which had once been a rich man’s yacht. It had become the property of the Administration after the stock market crash in 1929, and it’s original name, The Wombat, was still painted on the bow and stern, just above the boat’s official identification letters.
The two colonial patrol officers for the region, Robert Wembly and Leslie Gale, stood at the rail watching the outriggers paddling out to meet them.
“Well, there it is — Christ’s Despair. No matter how often we come here, I can’t get over the name,” Gale said. “I hope our American missionary has more patience than Jesus. I give him three months. They don’t generally last longer than that on most islands. What’s an American doing in this part of nowhere anyway? He’s kept pretty much to himself since we left Port Moresby, but what I have gotten out of him hasn’t been too informative.”
“Yes, I know,” Wembly agreed. “One of two things — either he is so inept he had to take whatever post his church assigned him to, or he’s so devoted to his faith that he welcomes adversity.”
“He’ll get it here.” Gale changed the subject and said, “I wonder if Jeremy has had any luck in finding any more workers for his plantation. There’s another one for you ... how much must they be paying him to stay here? Copra is valuable, granted, but selling your body and soul to the Company has to be akin to joining the French Foreign Legion.”
Since the Germans had cleared much of the island 20 years before and planted coconut palms, nothing much had been added. Jeremy Thompson’s job was to keep the trees from being choked out by the jungle. One of the most common problems in the South Pacific was: “How do you get the natives to work? There does not seem to be anything they want. How do you pay them?”
The Patrol officers knew the problem well. Wembly made a speculation, “I guess he thinks all those boxes on the aft deck are supposed to solve his problems. Knives, axes, and machetes. He plans to use them as payment for physical labor.”
“I’ll be dipped in shit if I’d want to arm the natives ... that’s what he’s doing, you know. I’d be afraid they’d use them on something other than underbrush — like my neck, for instance.”
With that, the Reverend Doctor Moses McDuff, opened the door from the inner cabin, and joined them on deck. He was a clean-shaven man with light brown hair and bright green eyes. Rather than chubby, he might be described as well-fed. There was the beginning of a sag above his web belt. He looked to be in his mid to late 20s. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Mr. Wembly ... Mr. Gale.”
The junior officer later described him as “looking as though he were part of the Stanley and Livingston search party, and the safari had left without him.” Beneath his neatly pressed khaki shirt, he wore a clean white clerical collar and a black bib. A large, carved mahogany cross-hung on his shirtfront. To complement his creased shorts, he wore knee-high, tan stockings. Unlike the sweat-stained headgear of the Patrol officers, his Abercrombie and Fitch regulation pith helmet was spotless, apparently just out of its New York box.
In the crook of his arm, he held a Bible. “I’m ready to meet my congregation,” he said with bubbling optimism.
“Have you ever been to one of these islands before, Dr. McDuff?” Gale asked cautiously.
“Quite frankly, no,” he answered. “But I have virtually committed to memory the text of “A Missionary in the New Hebrides” by The Reverend John G. Paton. I have read every relevant word about New Guinea in the Encyclopedia Britannica. Furthermore, I researched all the National Geographic articles on the subject for the last 30 years. I feel quite well prepared.”
Wembly bit his tongue and Gale had to turn toward the harbor to hide his grin. Reverend McDuff seemed not to notice, and moved closer to the railing to observe the approaching canoes. “I assume that’s the welcoming committee,” he said. “I see a white man in one of them.”
“That would be Mr. Thompson, the copra plantation manager. His will be the only white face you’ll see here for a couple months, Dr. McDuff. That’s when the next supply ship will be here with whatever you ordered.”
“Supply ship? I was given to believe there were trading posts on the islands where one could buy what he needed,” McDuff said.
“Tell me you’re joking, Dr. McDuff,” Wembly said glumly. “You mean to say you haven’t made arrangements with the Port Moresby Trading Company to deliver your needs on a regular schedule.”
“Why, no,” the minister said. “Is it too late? Can I give you a letter to take back to Port Moresby with you to make the proper arrangements?” He looked worried.
“They’re not big on credit sales. You have to pay for everything in advance,” Wembly explained.
The American looked bewildered. He truly had no idea how serious his situation was.
“Normally, I wouldn’t do this, but you are a veritable ‘babe in the woods.’ I suggest you make a list of what you will need for a three-month period. Give me the cash to cover it and I’ll drop it by their office when we get back into port.”
“I hope you brought enough stuff with you to last you a couple months to start with,” Gale said. “Like we told you, there aren’t any stores on the island.”
“The Home Church has provided me with a large amount of food and tools. The idea was that I should begin construction of a church as soon as possible. The parishioners generally will be expected to provide the pastor with food in return for his services,” McDuff explained.
“I hope you like raw fish, Capricorn beetle grubs, and sago palm, Doctor,” Gale said, teasing the clergyman. “That’s what makes up the diet of most of these people on a daily basis.”
He had McDuff worried. “I really had better get down to my cabin and make a list for you. This is very upsetting.”
He made a hasty return through the doorway, and hurried down the companionway. The Australians looked at each other. Gale said, “Did I say three months? Make it three weeks!”
___
Jeremy Thompson climbed up the rope ladder from the outrigger, and hopped over the rail onto the Wombat’s deck. With his right hand extended he said, “Hey, mates! Am I glad to see you. Where’s the Scotch?”
They shook hands and went into the main cabin. Fully anticipating Thompson’s needs, they had the glasses and whiskey waiting on a table. The plantation manager downed a four-ounce shot and allowed himself to sag into an upholstered chair. “Ah, civilization!” he sighed. “I hope there is a surplus of this nectar on board.”
“Two cases, Jeremy. Just as we promised.”
While the helmsman brought the boat into the primitive pier, the three men talked about Australia, Port Moresby, and the world in general for an hour. At length, Thompson said, “I thought I saw another white man on board with you while I was coming out. Who was that and where is he?”
“An American missionary name of McDuff. He’s down in his cabin making a list of what he wants the supply ship to bring him. I think he’s both in trouble and is going to cause you some,” Gale said.
“He’s totally unprepared for what’s out there,” said Wembly. “He’d have trouble adjusting to Brisbane. I’m afraid you might have to keep an eye on him.”
“If he’s a minister, maybe he’ll understand me when I say, ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ I’ve got enough bleedin’ problems without having to baby-sit a fuckin’ missionary,” Thompson protested.
“Think of him as somebody to talk to in between our visits,” Gale joked.
“And he’s a Yank to boot? What can I talk to him about?”
Wembly was the senior of the two, so he undertook to explain what was planned. “The Commissioner thinks that one of the
reasons the plantation owners have had so much trouble getting natives to work is that they don’t see things the way we do!”
Thompson grimaced and downed another four ounces of Scotch. “Well, the Commissioner should get an award for brilliance. These bleedin’ kanakas couldn’t see things any more different if they came from the Moon. They live in a different world.” His tone reflected his anger and his frustration. “What does his lordship propose to do about it?”
“Well, he believes that if they can be converted to Christianity, they can be made to see the reason for work. As long as they worship their pagan gods, and don’t have a sense of right and wrong, they’ll never see the value of work.
“However, none of our local people were willing to come here to Christ’s Despair to set up a church, so they accepted this American ... this McDuff fellow, for lack of anyone else. I have my doubts as to how long he’ll last.”
“Wonderful,” Thompson said. “And am I to be on hand to pick up the pieces? Why don’t one of you fellows stay with him for a couple months?”
“Sorry, our territory is too big already. Too many places to cover. We weren’t even due here for another three weeks, except that we were told to deliver Dr. McDuff to the island.”
Gale added, “The Crown expects its administrators to civilize the natives throughout the Empire. We’ve done it before. Look at India, Ceylon. I understand they have done very well with the natives on the islands in the Caribbean.”
“The Caribbean!” Thompson exploded. “You think there is any comparison between this and Barbados? If you will remember your history, Les, the original natives have been replaced with Africans who came as slaves. They’re so domesticated now that those fuckers hound you to try to sell you souvenirs — These bastards want to kill you, roast you for dinner, and put your head on a pole in the middle of their town square.”
As Thompson was finishing his description, Dr. McDuff entered the cabin, and the patrol officers stood up. Thompson remained slumped in his soft chair. “Dr. McDuff, I’d like to introduce Mr. Jeremy Thompson. He’s the plantation manager on the island for Pacific Copra, Limited. You are going to see a lot of each other in the next few months.”
Dr. McDuff reached out to shake hands with him, but Thompson did not get up or return the gesture. His civility surfaced somewhat, but his manner was cool. He gave McDuff an offhand salute, by touching his brow and saying, “Howdy, mate.”
“Well it looks like you’re going to have some competition for the title of Big Man on the island, Jeremy,” Gale said.
“I’d say there was no contest,” Thompson answered.
“You have nothing to fear from me, Mr. Thompson,” Dr. McDuff put in hurriedly. “I have no intention of usurping any of your prerogatives. A servant of the Lord should have no aspirations for secular power ... certainly not to be a Big Man. That has a certain political ring to it.”
The Australians all laughed. “You misunderstand the term, Doctor,” Gale said. “That’s what the natives call important people in their community. Rather than chiefs, they call the leader of their tribe a Big Man — at least that’s the closest translation we can offer. In the case of white men, anyone who has any form of material wealth that they can share is also a Big Man.”
“Well, I don’t qualify on that score either,” the missionary protested. “I don’t have any wealth to share with them. I am here to save their souls, not to make them rich.”
“If you don’t have any beads and trinkets for them, Dr. McDuff, how the hell to you expect to get their attention?” Thompson said. “They couldn’t care less about what we do if we don’t come bearing gifts. And believe me, there’s damn little they really want that we have. They don’t understand what money is.”
“Jeremy’s mad because he hasn’t found out what to pay them with. They don’t want to work on his plantation. Working for somebody else just doesn’t fit into their world. Self-sufficiency is the order of the day.”
When no one else had anything to add, Wembly broke the awkward silence. “That raises a question, Doctor, have you prepared the list for the supply boat?” he said.
The missionary reached into his shirt pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper and a sheaf of Australian banknotes. “Yes, I think this should be what we will need. I expect to receive a bank draft from the Home Church in a month or two, and then we will order some more.”
Wembly could not control the involuntary shake of his head. “Dr. McDuff, I still don’t think you understand. Whatever mail you receive will be on the same boat. I think we will need to discuss this once more in the morning before we depart. You may want to return with us.”
“Most assuredly not,” McDuff said. “I am here to preach God’s word. I will not worry about worldly, financial matters. I think my guiding star Reverend Paton summed it up in his book. If you will allow me, I will quote:
“‘I continually heard the wail of the perishing Heathen in the South seas; and I saw that few were caring for them. I saw them perishing for lack of the true God and his Son Jesus. But Jesus called. We set off for Tanna, an island of cannibals, where we feared we would all of us be cooked and eaten. We were but two devoted men set apart to preach the Gospel to those dark and bloody naked Savages. My salary was 120 Pounds per annum.’”
In a stage whisper Thompson said to Gale, “Please, Leslie, please ... tell me you’re not gonna leave him here with me.”
***
Captain West was delighted to see The Wombat tied up at the dock, but did not recognize it as a government boat. Speaking to Bano, he said, “Chances are they’ll have liquor aboard — and good stuff at that.”
He guided the Salvation along side, and called out. “Ahoy, aboard the Wombat! Ahoy, aboard the Wombat!”
One of the seamen looked over the side at the yawl. “What can we do for you, mate?” he asked. Informality was the watchword in the islands.
“Captain J.R.West requests permission to come aboard.”
“I’ll ask the senior officer.”
The seaman knocked on the door of the cabin where the Patrol Officers and their guests were talking. Gale went to the door and opened it. “A sailboat’s tied up alongside, sir. A Captain J.R.West requests permission to come aboard.”
“Of course. Tell him to come aboard, and join the conversation,” Gale said. He closed the door and said, “Looks like the word is out that we’re having a party. The captain of a sailboat is about to join us.”
A few minutes later, West entered the room, unshaven, and his ragged clothes smelling heavily from perspiration. He became immediately aware of the scrutiny of the others. “If you will excuse my appearance, gentlemen, I’ve just come from a month of being trapped on an island with a tribe of bloody savages. We barely escaped with our lives.” Looking at the bottle of Scotch, he said, “Do you think you could spare a man a drink?”
Wembly hurriedly poured him a glass, which he drank down like rainwater.
“How did you get away?” Gale asked.
“We snuck back on our boat one night about a week ago, and we’ve been sailing westward ever since. I can’t tell you how glad I was to see a white man’s boat in the harbor.” He then realized that his hosts were wearing Patrol Officers’ uniforms.
“What’s your name, Captain?” Wembly asked.
“J.R. West and my boat is the Salvation. Can I have another drink, please? It’s been a long time.” This time, without waiting to be served, he picked up the bottle and poured himself a full glass. The other men in the cabin were introduced in turn.
Dr. McDuff, who did not approve of drinking at any time, resisted his inner urge to give a lecture on the subject and addressed himself to West. “I’d be very interested to know what your life among the aborigines was like. I am here to convert the heathen to the understanding of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I am anxious to know what I can about them.”
West saw Thompson roll his eyes, and assessed the situation pretty accurately. “Well, you can start
on Chase Island where I was held captive by a tribe of head-hunters. It’s called Chase Island by the white men, but the natives call it something else you wouldn’t want to try to pronounce?”
To the amusement of everyone else, McDuff asked,” Did any of them speak English?”
“English? Of course not ... They spoke Booga-booga like they do on all the other islands around here.”
McDuff asked Thompson, “Does anyone speak English on this island?”
“Yeah,” said Thompson, “...me!”
“How did you communicate with them, Captain West? Is this Booga-booga the language the Britannica refers to as Bughutu, or Bugotu? Do you speak their language?”
“Hell, no,” West said. “At first we couldn’t understand a bloomin’ thing. As it turned out they had a smart kid who learned Pidgin from us, and in no time, he became our translator. In fact, he stowed away on my boat since he was afraid they would kill him for being too friendly with us.”
“How did you wind up there to start with?” Thompson asked.
“We got caught in a storm, and lost a couple hands. We ran out of water, and we all passed out. The next thing I remember is waking up in the middle of the worst typhoon I’ve ever seen. When we got our senses about us, there were only four of us left out of eight. I think they ate the others before we woke up.”
“How come they didn’t eat you?” Gale asked, thinking to himself that he was probably too unappetizing for any self-respecting cannibal to touch.
“I think they were saving us for a special feast. They caught one of the crew during the escape and killed him, but we managed to get away.”
West did not notice, but while he was spinning his yarn for the attentive audience, Wembly left the cabin and went to the operations bridge. He read over some wireless messages that had been received nearly a month ago, and returned to the group.
When John Frum Came Page 4