by Owen Stanley
“I see. But what’s all this got to do with land disputes?”
“Well, it’s the same principle, in’t it? What the hell can we do when a coupl’a chiefs come to us, and one of ’em says that some piece of land was inherited from his father’s mother’s brother’s wife, who used to live with his granny when her old man died, and the other chief says that she was never married in the first place, but just shacked up with him, and the land was never hers anyway, because she’d accepted two pigs when she was younger not to make a claim on it? So we do the simple thing and bring ’em all down here to fight it out, under police supervision, take their weapons off ’em and give ’em cudgels, and may the best side win. No one gets killed—usually, anyway; the women and kids get an outin’, and bring us down some spuds and veggies, Smithy gets some patients, and Erny sells some booze, if he hasn’t drunk it all himself, that is. And the kanakas are happy because they’ve let off some steam, and the side that loses can always have another bash at gettin’ the land back any time they like. This one today, Niovoro and Lavalava, that’s the second time in eighteen months, in’t it, Olly?”
“Yes, about that.”
“Anyhow, after the fight they all bugger off home, their nasty little minds schemin’ and plottin’ the return match, and what obscene names they can call the other blokes. So there’s no problem of law and order here.”
“I see. Perhaps not. But your whole attitude, all your policies, violate every article in the Declaration of Human Rights.”
“If yer could convince me the Moroks were human, yer might ’ave a point. Ha! Ha! Ha!”
“Good God! I didn’t come here to listen to this racist filth. All I’ve heard from you this afternoon is the most disgusting, reactionary, and uninformed nonsense. Their minds work differently from ours, indeed! It’s long been established science that there are no differences between races in people’s minds; the only variations are due to environmental factors and they are as slight as they are superficial. My mission here is to change that environment, by raising their standard of living, and giving them democratic institutions and social justice, and independence from colonial rule. The disgusting brawling which you encourage is merely a symptom of environmental stress and frustration at their lack of opportunity to realise those capacities which they share with the whole of humanity. You have encouraged every man to raise his hand against his neighbour, actually to glory in it, for God’s sake, instead of encouraging mutual trust and community harmony. Because they are culturally disadvantaged, due to circumstances beyond their control, you sneer at them—why, you probably kick them!”
“Hell, no. That’s what I keep the police for–”
“My God!”
“Well, I tell a lie. I do kick me wives, sometimes, to keep ’em happy.”
“Your wives?”
“Yeah, sort of. Not legal or anythin’, but the orlies think I’m one of their old gods come back to earth, so they don’t press the finer points of law. When I’m on patrol and I find a decent looking mary, with a chief for her father, I give ’im a few quid and bring ’er down ’ere for a while. If she gets up the duff she shoots through to her old man again. She does well out of it while she’s here, the chiefs want to keep in with me, I can twist the chiefs’ arms, and that way we keep in touch with what’s goin’ on–”
This catalogue of exploitation was too much for Prout. His chair upset with a crash, as he leapt up and strode out through the open door of the verandah, where he paced up and down in silence for some time.
“Poor Prout. You’re being a little bit too brutal. We’ll have him doing something silly in a minute, like saying he’s going to do without us, come what may.”
“Yeah, it may come to that, but he’s got to find out sometime, so may be it’s better to give it ’im in one good dose at the beginnin’, give ’im time to digest it.”
“I hope you’re right.”
After a while Prout returned, his face composed, and, picking up his chair, he resumed his seat and took a deep breath before addressing the RM again.
“The pilot told me you were a practical man, Mr Fletcher. I begin to see what he meant. But don’t you think it rather demeans your rank by turning your residence into a brothel?”
“It’s a funny kind of a brothel, with only one customer and all free. If yer really want to see a whorehouse there’s one on the station for the police, just behind Erny’s store.”
“Really. Most interesting. Tell me about it.”
“I’ll take yer down and introduce yer, if yer like. As yer may have guessed, the police are not what yer would call “intellectually inclined,” so they get bored when they’ve been back on the station for a few days. Before we set up the puss-puss shop, they’d slope off and start rogerin’ the local maries, ’ave a few punch-ups with the menfolk who found them on the job, and come back with gallopin’ knob-rot inter the bargain—clap’s endemic round here. So we roped in a few maries, fixed a standard tariff—not many items, very unimaginative lot—and have Smithy inspect ’em regular. So everyone’s happy. Luckily we’ve had no bloody missionaries to kick up a fuss for years.”
“Were there any? I’ve never heard of a South Sea island without missionaries of some sort.”
“Oh yeah. Some stupid flamin’ Yanks. What the hell were they called, Olly?”
“The Cast Your Bread Upon the Waters Mission, if I remember rightly.”
“That’s it. Bloody loonies, the lot of ’em. Led by a bloke called Frankfurter. Vegetarians. Tried to get the people to kill all their pigs as unclean and live on coconut juice.”
“Yes,” said Oelrichs, “They had a theory that meat inflamed the passions, and that solid food of any kind caused an awareness of bodily functions that was eminently displeasing to God. Since coconuts don’t grow up here they had rather a thin time of it, I recall.”
“Did they all starve to death?” asked Prout.
“Probably would’ve done, except I got ’em first. Best charge I ever laid. Always remember it. ‘That you, Herbert Martin Frankfurter, of Ungabunga, did with force of arms most grievously disturb the Peace of our Sovereign Lady the Queen, her Crown and Dignity, in that you, the said Herbert Martin Frankfurter, did feloniously seize five pork chops, a steak and kidney pie, and a German sausage, the property of Ernest English, of Ungabunga.’ They’d all been living on tinned carrot juice for three months, so no wonder they were flamin’ troppo. Fit to be tied, the lot of ’em. Came down from the mission, bright yeller and rollin’ their eyes, lookin’ like three mad Chinamen—Vitamin B poisoning, Smithy said. Erny’d just got his freezer goods from Rabaul, and they went for ’im like mad dogs. Poor bastard got out the back door with his shirt half off his back. Well, anyhow, the sergeant-major and I quieted ’em down, and shipped ’em out. Been peaceful ever since.”
“Yes, well, I’m quite relieved. There’s enough superstition in the world without missionaries adding to it. What we need here are facts and clear thinking, and the United Nations is here to provide them. It’s obvious that as regards policy, there is no communication at all between us. But I’ve decided that while I totally disapprove of your methods and attitudes, as a practical necessity I shall have to ask if you are prepared to remain on a temporary basis for the time being—under my immediate supervision, of course. I’m not so naive as to imagine that I can do my job, even with my staff, if I have no one who knows the people and can liase with them. Are you both prepared to stay under those conditions?”
“We imagined you would be bringing your own experts, Dr. Prout, and would have no need of us, so we hadn’t expected to stay on,” Oelrichs said.
“Oh, of course, I’ll be bringing a large staff of experts, but local knowledge is indispensable in a case like this. I think we all understand one another. I’m very disturbed by what I’ve found here, obviously, and I’ll probably be still more disturbed as I learn more, but much of the blame lies with Canberra for their laxity. As I say, you are both free to stay on, at
your present salaries, under my orders, for the next year. By that time, if all goes well, independence will be approaching, and we should be able to go our separate ways.”
“I think Mr. Oelrichs and I had better have a word in private, before we give you a decision.”
“That’s quite all right. I’ll step outside for a few minutes.” He nodded, and returned to the verandah.
“Well, dear boy, that all went very nicely,” said Oelrichs, “We’d better give him a few minutes outside, to make him think we’re having trouble making up our minds, though.”
“Yeah, we’ll call him back when I’ve rolled me cigarette and give him the good news. You didn’t say much. What do y’make of ’im, being a fellow Pom and all that?”
“Well, certainly a fine specimen of the high-minded interferer. But not a man to be under-rated—no fool within his limits, and he knows it. So I think we should play on his vanity, let him think we accept he’s won, that the old order has gone for good, and that we only want to spend the rest of our time here in peace and quiet, clinging to our rapidly vanishing privileges.”
“Yeah, he should swaller that okay. Righto. I’ll call him back. Dr. Prout!”
After a few moments Prout entered and resumed his seat.
“Well, Mr. Oelrichs and I’ve agreed that times’ve changed, and there’s no point in whingein’ about it. So it’d suit us to stay on and work for you for a bit.”
“Good. Very sensible. I thought you’d see it like that when you’d thought it over. I’ll leave you in charge of routine administration, though of course all judicial matters will have to be discharged under my supervision. There is one other thing. I’ll being returning to Rabaul in a few days to organize my staff, but while I’m here I should like to have a closer look at the people. Try to get an idea of their problems. So I should like to go on a brief tour of inspection with you, if that could be arranged?”
“Oh yeah. No trouble. When do yer want ter leave?”
“Would tomorrow be all right?”
“Yep. Three days’ patrol suit yer?”
“I think so.”
“Can yer ride a horse?”
“No, I can’t. I’m afraid I never had the chance to learn horseback riding.”
“What about a motorbike?”
“A motorbike? I really don’t approve of that. You see, mechanical devices create more barriers between us and the indigenous people than anything else. In fact, only last year, I published a paper on the racist implications of air-conditioning in the tropics.”
“Most interesting, Dr. Prout,” said Oelrichs. “Perhaps you are also familiar with a most stimulating paper, by Wilbur Smallpiece, if I remember rightly, on the fascist connotations of table linen in developing countries?”
“No, I’m afraid not, but it sounds very perceptive. Could you let me have the reference?”
“By all means. I’ll look it out, although I’m fairly sure that it was in the American Anthropologist.
“Well, Dr. Prout,” said Fletcher, with some impatience, “it looks as if you’ll have to walk it, so you won’t see much of the country in three days.”
“I realise that. But the more intense quality of the relationship that I shall attain with the people by walking will be ample compensation.”
“Oh yeah? Well, you should know. I’ll get it laid on for yer.”
“Excellent. I won’t detain you any more. But I should like to have a look at a few basic records—census data, court records, and so on.”
“Certainly,” said Oelrichs. “If you’d like to come through to the other office I’ll get them out for you.”
Prout finally left with a number of volumes and spent the rest of the afternoon in his hotel room studying them carefully. At last, his investigation complete, he lit another cigarette.
“Very curious,” he thought. Fletcher’s regime had clearly driven the Moroks to violence—indecent assault, riotous behaviour, arson, rape, and malicious wounding figured prominently in the court records. But there was not a single case of wilful murder, or even manslaughter, in the whole ten years covered by the volumes he had just examined. So how could the people have been so successfully restrained from homicide when every other form of violence was so common? It didn’t make sense. Unless… was it possible that the records had been deliberately falsified? But why? After some time a revolting possibility occurred that made him begin to see Fletcher in a very different and truly criminal light. And if he were right, he would not rest until he had brought the man to justice.
Chapter IV
Dinner that evening at the Cosmopolitan was not a success, in spite of the excellent curry. Madame Negretti was not her usual ebullient self, being grieved and anxious over the disappearance of Malvolio.
“Bush-kanakas them bad buggers past all, Missus,” Moia had said, in his most unctuous tones. “Them kaikai pusscat, sure thing.”
Prout did his best to entertain the company with reminiscences of his university life at Manchester, but those recollections of wit and brilliancy for which Manchester is celebrated were tinged with melancholy in the very act of being retrieved from memory, those days once so tangible, and yet now so far beyond recall. Fletcher and Smith exchanged notes on infestations of body lice with professional relish, and Erny fell down the stairs. But in spite of these diversions, it was with some relief that the party dispersed to bed soon after ten o’clock.
The next morning was brilliant and clear, and Prout stepped out of the hotel door after breakfast with a look of eager anticipation, shouldering his rucksack for the walk up to the fort. Fletcher and Sgt Oala were outside the fort gate making a final check of the patrol boxes, directing the six policemen who stood close by, some leaning on their .303s. After Prout and Fletcher had exchanged greetings, Prout said:
“Well, it’s after eight, shouldn’t we be moving?”
“No carriers yet. I’ve sent the corporal to raus ’em.”
“Carriers? But surely the police will carry anything that is necessary?”
Fletcher was in an unusually ill humour, since he had slept badly and last night’s curry had brought on a nasty attack of his piles.
“The police! For Christ’s sake, they’re fighting men, not coolies! How d’ya expect ’em to keep order and be respected if they’re lumbered with cooking pots and bloody bedding?”
Prout was taken aback.
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that. But I can’t tolerate this kind of exploitation. What my wife would say if she saw me lording it over a gang of native porters I shudder to think!”
Fletcher exploded.
“I couldn’t give a bugger what she’d say. If yer won’t go by horse, and yer won’t go by bike, ye’ve gotta have carriers. If yer won’t have carriers, yer can bloody well stay at ’ome, so make yer mind up, will yer?”
“I have already explained my wishes. Will you please tell the police to carry the boxes, and forget this nonsense about carriers?”
“If yer wanta insult my police, yer tell ’em yerself.”
Flushed with rage, Prout turned to the police, who had been watching the growing anger between the two white men with perplexity and embarrassment.
“You men, there will be no carriers today or at any other time. You will carry the boxes yourselves. Hurry up now, we must get moving.” He gesticulated, and spoke rapidly in a higher pitch than usual. The police shifted uneasily, and looked at each other and then to Fletcher for guidance. He winked, and grinned at them.
“Yer might as well save yer breath. They don’t understand a ruddy word yer sayin’. Do yer want to go on this patrol or don’t yer?”
Seeing the blank incomprehension in the eyes of the police, and catching the grin with which Fletcher had reassured them, Prout hesitated, and bit back the flood of humiliated rage that was about to spew over them all. He was beaten, but still had enough self-control not to make a complete fool of himself.
“Very well. I obviously have no choice. But at least I shall car
ry my own rucksack.” He turned away, and looked fixedly across the valley. Fletcher said to the police:
“Master he no savvy talk belong you-me. Him he say you fellow police lose him carrier, so walkabout belong master all buggerup.”
The police laughed. Just as Fletcher was about to bellow down to the jail, Cpl Barigi and the eight convicts who were to carry for the patrol could be seen coming at the double. In less than a minute they had caught up to the patrol, and began shouldering the poles which had been passed through the handles of the three big, galvanized, patrol boxes, two men to a pole, while the last two carriers gathered up an assortment of odds and ends—a couple of folding canvas chairs, hurricane lamps, bowls and buckets—and without more ado the police set off up the left-hand track behind the fort with Sgt Oala leading. After wandering for many miles through the mountains, the track returned by a different route to the station, where it completed the circle. As Prout turned to look at the policemen they grinned at him cheerfully, and settled their rifles for the long climb, holding them by their muzzles over their shoulders.
“We go in the middle,” said Fletcher. Prout hoisted his rucksack onto his back, and the carriers, with Cpl Barigi and another constable bringing up the rear, followed them out of the station. The patrol wound its way up the track at a brisk pace; Fletcher maintained silence out of anger and contempt for Prout, and Prout, under the growing weight of his rucksack, found that he had little breath left for talk. Every now and then, his boots slipped off water-polished boulders as they crossed a stream-bed, making him stumble, or turned over as he placed a foot on some uneven ground, causing him to stagger sideways with the pain in the callouses of his feet. Specks of diamond-hard grit were thrown up by his boots and lodged in the tops, quickly working their way down to the soles of his feet, which soon felt red-hot with the unaccustomed irritation.
The track at this stage traversed an almost waterless part of Mount Browning, and as the streams ran only in a brief spate after rainstorms, the beds were now bone-dry. The spur faced east, and by ten o’clock the sun was beating hotly down upon the mountainside. Only coarse grass grew here, since all the trees had long since been burnt off by the natives, to make gardens, which had themselves been abandoned many years before.