by Louis Becke
ADDIE RANSOM: A MEMORY OF THE TOKELAUS
A hot, steamy mist rose from the gleaming, oily sea, and the littleisland lay sweltering and gasping under a sky of brass and a savagelyblazing sun. Along the edges of the curving lines of yellow beachthe drought-smitten plumes of the fast-withering coco-palms droopedstraight, brown and motionless; and Wallis, the trader at Avamuavillage, as he paced to and fro upon the heated boards of his verandah,cursed the island and the people, and the deadly calm, and the brassysky, and the firm of Tom de Wolf & Sons (whom he blamed for theweather), and the drought, and the sickness, and the overdue ship, andhimself, and everything else; and he wished that Lita would go away fora month--her patience and calmness worried and irritated him. Thenhe might perhaps try getting drunk on Sundays like Ransom; to-day wasSunday, and another Sunday meant another hell of twelve hours' heat, andmisery, and hope deferred.
'Curse that damned bell! There it goes again, though half of the peopleare dead, and the other half are dying like rotten sheep! Oh, for aship, or rain, or a howling gale--anything but this!'
He dashed his pipe furiously upon the verandah, and then flung himselfinto a cane lounge, pressed his hands to his ears, and swore silently atthe jarring clamour of the hated church bell.
Lita's brown hand touched him on the shoulder.
'Wassa th' matter, Tom, wis you?'
'Oh, go away, for God's sake, Lita, there's a good girl. Leave me alone.Go to church, and tell Ioane I'll give him a couple of dollars not toring that damned, infernal bell again to-day. I'm going mad! I'll getdrunk, I think, like Ransom. My God! just think of it, girl! Twelvemonths without a ship, and this hateful, God-forsaken island turninginto a pest-house.'
'Wasa is pesta-house, Tom?'
'Place where they put people in to die--lazzaretto, charnel-house,morgue, living grave! Oh, go away, girl, go to the blarsted church ifyou want to, and leave me alone.'
Her slender fingers touched his hand timidly.
'I don' wan' go to church, Tom. I don' wan' leave you here to get madan' lon'ly by yourse'f.'
'Very well, old woman, stay here with me. Perhaps a breeze may comeby-and-by and then we can breathe. How many people died yesterday,Lita?'
''Bout nine, Tom--four men, tree woman, an' some child.'
'Poor devils! I wish I had some medicine for them. But I'm hanged ifI know what it is--some sort of cholera brought here by that infernalAmerican missionary brig, I believe. Hallo! there's Ioane beginning.'
* * * * *
The white-walled native church was not a stone's throw away, and throughthe wide, paneless windows and open doors the deep voice of Ioane, theSamoan native teacher, sounded clearly and solemnly in the still, heatedmorn. Wallis, with his wide straw hat covering his bronzed face, layback in the lounge, and, at first, took no heed. Lita, sitting at hisfeet, rested her chin on one hand and listened intently.
'Turn ye all, men and women of this afflicted land of Nukutavau, to theWord of God, which is written in the Book of Isaiah, in the fortiethchapter and the sixth verse. It was to my mind that we should firstsing to the praise of Jehovah; but, alas! we cannot sing to-day; for mycheeks are wetted with many tears, and my belly is bursting with sorrowwhen I see how few there are of us who are left. But yet can we praytogether; and the whisper of affliction shall as surely reach the ear ofGod as the loud, glad song of praise. But first hear ye these words:--
'"The Voice said, Cry. And he said, What shall I cry? And the Voiceanswered. All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as theflower of the field: the grass withereth, the flower fadeth; because thespirit of the Lord bloweth upon it: Surely the people is grass."'
Wallis sat up and listened; for as the preacher ceased he heard thesound of many sobs; and presently a woman, old, gaunt and feeble,staggered out from the church and flung herself face downwards upon theburning sand.
'_A mate, a mate tatou_,' she moaned, 'e agi mai le manava Ieova.' ('Weperish, we perish with the breath of Jehovah.')
She lay there unheeded; for now the preacher, with broken voice, waspassionately imploring his congregation to cast themselves upon themercy of God, and beseech Him to stay the deadly pestilence which had sosorely smitten the land.
'And spare Thou, O God Most High, Most Merciful, and Most Just, thesemany little children who yet live, for they are but very small, and havenot yet sinned before Thee. Three of mine own hast thou touched withThy hand, and taken to Thee, and my belly and the belly of my wife areempty, and yearn in the night for the voices we shall hear no more. Andfor those three whom Thou hast taken, spare Thou three of those who yetlive. And shield, O God, with Thy care, the _papalagi_{*} Ranisome andhis child, the girl Ati' (Addie), 'for she loveth Thy word; and turnThou the heart of her father from the drinking of grog, so that heshall be no more as a hog that is _loia_.'{**} 'And shield, too,the _papalagi_ Walesi and the woman Lita--she who liveth with him insin--for their hearts are ever good and their hands ever open to us ofNukutavau; and send, O most merciful and compassionate One, a ship, sothat the two white men and the woman Lita, and the girl Ati, and we,Thy people, may not die of hunger and thirst and sickness, but live topraise Thy holy name.'
* Foreigner.
** A man or an animal is _loia_ when he or it has eaten or drunk to such repletion as to lie down and be overrun with ants--an expressive Samoan synonym for excess.
A burst of weeping, and _Amene! Amene!_ came from his hearers, thensilence; and Wallis, taking his hat from his face, bent his head.
Presently the scanty congregation came slowly forth. Some, as theypassed the white man and Lita, tried to smile a greeting to them, thoughevery brown face was wet with tears. Last of all came Ioane, the Samoanteacher, short, square-built, with deep sunken earnest eyes bent tothe ground, his right arm supporting his wife, whose slender frame wasshaken with the violence of her grief for those three of her heartwhom 'He had taken.' Wallis, followed by Lita, stepped down from hisverandah, and held out his hand. The teacher pressed it in silence, and,unable now to speak, walked slowly on. Lita, her dark, oval face stillhot with anger, drew back and made no sign, though Eline, the teacher'swife, murmured as she passed,--'Nay, be not angry, Lita; for death isnear to us all.'
* * * * *
As they returned to the house, Ransom, the old trader from Avatulalo,the next village to that in which Wallis lived, met them at the gate.He was a man of sixty or thereabout--grey, dirty, dishevelled and halfdrunk.
'I want you and Lita to come back with me,' he said slowly, holding tothe palings of the fence, and moving his head from side to side; 'youmust come... 'you must come, or'--with sudden frenzy--'by God, I'll puta firestick into your house; I will, by blazes, I will! Curse you, TomWallis, and your damned, Sydney-white-duck-suit-respectability, and yourdamned proud quarter-caste Portugee woman, who you ain't married to, asI was to mine--bad as she was. Put up your hands you--'
Wallis gripped him firmly but kindly by the wrists, and forced him intoa seat.
'What's the matter with you, Ransom? Only drunk and fightable as usual?or are you being chased by pink snakes with tiger's heads again, eh?There, sit quiet, old man. Where is Addie?'
For a few moments the old man made no answer; then he rose, and placinghis trembling hands on Wallis's chest said brokenly,--
'God help me, Tom! She's a-dyin'... an' I'm near drunk. She was took badthis mornin', an' has been callin' for the teacher an' Lita-- an' I'das lief go to hell as to ask a damned Kanaka mission'ry to come an' talkGospel an' Heaven to a child o' mine--not in my own house, anyway. Itain't right or proper. But she kep' on a-pesterin' me, an' at last Isaid I would come an' arst him... an' while I was waitin' outside thechurch I hears the damned feller a-prayin' and sayin' "_All fleshis grass, and the grass withereth_"'--his voice quivered and brokeagain--'an' onct I heard my old mother say them very words when she wasa-dyin', more'n forty year ago, in the old country. An' Addie's dyin'fast, Tom; dyin', an' I
can't say a prayer with her; I don't know none.I'm only a drunken old shellback, an' I ought to be struck dead for mybloody sins. She's all I has in the world to love; an' now, an' now--'He turned away and, covering his face with his coarse, sunburnt hands,sobbed like a child.
* * * * *
Half an hour later Wallis and Lita were in the room with the dying girl.Ransom, shambling behind them, crept in and knelt at the foot of thebed. Two native women, who were squatted on the matted floor wentout softly, and Wallis bent over the girl and looked into her pallid,twitching face, over which the dread grey shadow was creeping fast. Sheput out her hand to the trader and Lita, and a faint smile moved herlips.
'You is good to come, Tom Wallis,' she said, in her childish voice, 'an'so is you, Lita. Wher' is my fath'? I don' see him. I was ask him tobring Ioane here to pray fo' me. I _can't_ pray myself.... I _have_ beentry.... Wher' is you, fath'?'
Ransom crept round to her side, and laid his face upon her open hand.
'Ah, fath', you is come... poor fath'. I say, fath', _don_ you drink nomore. You been promise me that, fath', so many time. _Don'_ you breakyo' promise now, will you?'
The grizzled old sinner put his trembling lips to hers. 'Never no more,Addie--may God strike me dead if I lie!'
'Come away, old man,' said Wallis, softly, 'let Lita be with her.Neither you nor I should disturb her just now. See, she wants Lita. Buther time is near, and you must keep close to her.'
They drew apart, and Lita knelt beside the bed.
* * * * *
'An' did he pray for fath', an' me, an' you, an' Tom, an' my mother whorunned away? Tell me all 'bout it, Lita. I _did_ wan' him to come andtell me some things I wan' to know before I is dead. Tell me what hesay.'
'He say dat vers', "De grass with', de flow' fade, but de word of deLor' God endure fo' ev.'"'
'Was do it mean, Lita, dear?'
'I don' 'xactly know, Ati, dear. But Tom say he mean dat by-an'-by, ifwe is good an' don' lie an' steal, an' don' kill nobody, dat we all goto heav' when we is die.'
'Lita, dear, Ioane say one day dat de Bible say my fath' go to hellbecause he get drunk all de time.'
'Don' you b'lieve him, Ati; Ioane is only dam Kanaka mission'ry. Wassathe hell do _he_ know 'bout such thing? _You_ go to heav' sure 'nuff,and you' fath' come to you there by-an'-by. He never been steal or lie;he on'y get drunk. Don' you be 'fraid 'bout dat, Ati, dear. An' you willsee yo' mother, too. Oh, yes, yo' will see yo' mother; an' yo' fath' willcome there too, all nice, an' clean, an' sober, in new pyjamas all shinin'white; an' he will kiss yo' mother on her mouf, an' say, "I forgive you,Nellie Ransom, jes' as Jesu Christ has forgive me."'
The girl sighed heavily, and then lay with closed eyes, breathingsoftly. Suddenly she turned quickly on her side, and extended her arms,and her voice sounded strangely clear and distinct.
'Where is you, fath'? Quick, quick, come an' hol' me. It is dark....Hol' me tight... clos' up, clos' up, fath', my fath'... it is sodark--so dark.'
* * * * *
The natives told Wallis next morning that 'Ranisome' had gone quite mad.
'How know ye he is mad?'
'_Tah!_ He hath taken every bottle of grog from two boxes and smashedthem on the ground. And then we saw him kneel upon the sand, raise hishands, and weep. He is mad.'