by Owen Stanley
Southall lost no time in finding the major, and a short time later they took off. Larsen swung the chopper low over the terrain, coming over the crests of the ridges at a hundred feet so that it could not be heard until it was directly overhead. As they flew up the gorge of the Limilimi, they came upon the Laripa warriors striding out for Ungabunga, all armed to the teeth. The Moroks stopped, startled by the helicopter that seemed to come from nowhere, but when Larsen banked in a tight turn for a second pass they loosed a ragged shower of arrows and one or two spears that fell hopelessly short. Larsen quickly gained some height and set a course to take them further up the valley. As he did so Southall shouted at him.
“It seems that Fletcher was right after all.” Larsen nodded, and with Southall’s permission radioed the station with the appalling news. Reception was poor in the gorges, however, so the transmission was brief. They flew on across the valley, and found another ferocious contingent pouring down the track from Niovoro, and at the sight of those furious faces, gibbering with rage, Larsen peeled away and swung the chopper back down towards Ungabunga.
The news of the advancing Moroks had spread quickly around the station, but while some felt the icy hand of terror, most of the Mission, secure in their record of selfless achievement for the good of the people and in their confidence in Dr. Prout, treated the news simply as an interesting subject of speculation. Nevertheless, as the whine and clatter of the returning Alouette echoed around the strip, a small crowd clustered around to hear what Lord Southall had to say. The great man was, in a strange way, rather enjoying the situation as a challenge to his powers, and, standing in the doorway of the helicopter, he made a short but forceful speech on the urgency of the situation. It was designed to stiffen sinews rather than to create panic and encouraged them to wait for further instructions. Here he seriously overestimated the proportion of sinew to jelly in the moral fibre of his audience, but unaware of this, he made his way with Larsen to Hut 27.
The meeting had heard the return of the helicopter, so they all looked up expectantly as Southall and Larsen came in.
“I imagine they will be here soon, as I told you,” said Prout, with a smile.
“They will,” replied Southall grimly, “but certainly not to join in the festivities of Independence Day. It appears that Fletcher was quite right and that they are coming in force to attack us.”
“Rubbish,” replied Prout, in tones of complete indifference. “I have never heard such nonsense. What can have put such an idea into your heads?”
“It was clear as daylight,” replied Southall. “They were large war-parties bristling with weapons, they fired arrows and threw spears at us, and were obviously hostile. Extremely hostile.” Larsen nooded in agreement.
“With all due respect,” said Prout, looking at them over his reading glasses, “I think my knowledge of Morok culture and traditions is rather greater than either of yours. When attending great festivities it is their custom to come heavily armed, and displays of aggression of the type that you witnessed are required by Morok etiquette from the guests towards their hosts. You have simply misinterpreted local culture in an alarmist fashion.”
“But if you would only come and look for yourself–” broke in Larsen:
“I have no intention of coming to look at anything,” replied Prout, now becoming distinctly irritated, “because there is no need to do so. We shall continue precisely as planned, and I am pleased to say that Noreen has agreed that the Tableau of the Overthrow of Colonialism shall be the first item on the programme, as soon as the people arrive.”
At this point, Southall gave up on Prout and went outside with Larsen.
“It’s obviously hopeless trying to argue with him. Surely the best thing is simply to evacuate the station?”
“No, sir. There must be several hundred people here, and with all the other aircraft away you only have the Alouette. So you see, evacuation is not possible. The natives will be here too soon.”
“Can’t we radio for transport aircraft to Rabaul or Nouméa?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but it is out of the question. There is simply not enough time.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“I think, sir, your only hope is to persuade Fletcher to use his police,” replied Larsen. “The man may be a brute, but at least he has a disciplined body of armed men under his command who are feared by the people.”
“Yes, you’re right, I’m afraid. I can’t think he’ll just stand by and allow them to wipe out his own kind. He’s not an old colonial officer for nothing. We had better go up and see him.
Chapter XVI
As soon as the news of the Morok advance had reached Ungabunga Fletcher had been woken by Moncreif with a jug of water in the face. His head reeling and his mouth tasting like the bottom of a baby’s pram, he was slowly adjusting himself to the realities of the morning.
“I gather your delightful savages have run amok, and are advancing at this very moment with fire and sword on Ungabunga for a jolly morning’s slaughter.”
Fletcher slowly revolved his bloodshot eyes towards Moncreif and pondered these developments. Finally, he smiled.
“Well, looks like the orlies are goin’ to get a bit more independence than Prout bargained on.” He fumbled by the bed, and put his hand on a bottle of rum. After a long swig, he said, more brightly. “This should be better’n land dispute day!”
“From what I’ve seen of your chums, I don’t think they’ll be coming in a sporting mood. Genghis Khan on a bad day seems rather more likely, unless you do something to stop them.”
“Stop them?” Fletcher suspended his contemplation of prolonged mayhem among his enemies with surprise and regret.
“You don’t think they’re going to care who’s in their way once they really get going, do you?”
“Yeah, I s’pose yer right. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to Angelina and Smithy. Yeah, yer right, dammit, I’ll ’ave to stop ’em. Pity. I was lookin’ forward to this.”
Moncreif flung him a clean shirt and breeches, and while Fletcher dressed he went on:
“You realise if you can stop them, then you dictate terms to the Mission? You’ll be master of the situation, the only force to protect them. And today the natives are supposed to ratify the new constitution.”
“So?”
“Well, I’m no expert on Morok psychology, but if you handle them right, why not Fletcher for first President of Elephant Island?”
Fletcher grinned.
“Yer on, mate.”
Shortly afterwards there was a loud banging on the front door. Larsen and Southall were rather surprised to find it opened promptly by an immaculate Fletcher.
“Yeah?” he greeted them coldly. “Bit early for a social call, in’t it?”
Southall addressed him first, trying to be calm.
“Mr Fletcher, we’ve come to tell you that Morok war parties are coming to attack Ungabunga, and we must have your support. A lot of innocent lives are going to be lost unless you can stop them.”
“Why don’t yer send Prout? Let ’im bore ’em to death with one o’ his lectures.”
“I’m afraid Dr. Prout isn’t quite himself this morning.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet! Sitting squirting in the dunny, most like.”
Southall flinched, and desperately continued with his plea. “Well, he simply can’t help us. We have absolutely no one to turn to but you. You can’t let all the women and children be wiped out!”
“From the looks of that mob it’d be doin’ ’em a favor—put ’em out of their misery.”
“So,” said Larsen, “Maybe you are perhaps afraid of the people?”
Fletcher looked at his hand, flexed his fingers, and pondered the attractions of a knuckle sandwich. Then he shrugged.
“Yeah, maybe I am, and maybe you’ve got tits. When I’ve had me breakfast, I’ll get up there and sort ’em out.” He shut the door in their faces.
Disconcerted by the coarseness of thei
r reception, but feeling somewhat relieved, they started back to the Mission. In five minutes, Fletcher was at the barracks, rousting out the police, who shortly afterwards thundered out of Ungabunga in two squads divided between Fletcher, who took the track to Laripa, and the sergeant-major, who led his men towards Niovoro and Lavalava.
Soon afterwards the meeting in Hut 27 finally ground to its end. Prout sent them all off to their appointed tasks and decided to take a well-earned breather down on the strip. On the way he fell in with Moncreif, who was looking for Lord Southall.
“Well, Dr. Prout, it seems the Mission may have cause to be grateful to the abominable Fletcher after all.”
“What can you mean?”
“Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“That Southall has asked him to take his police and persuade the Moroks to come to your party in a more amiable frame of mind.”
“Are you telling me that Fletcher and his thugs are actually going to use force against the people, and with Lord Southall’s approval?”
“Approval is putting it mildly, I’d say. Extreme keenness was my impression,” said Moncreif. He walked off, laughing.
Prout was momentarily stunned by this utter betrayal of everything he had been working for, but suddenly he noticed the Alouette which had just been refuelled by Lt. Andreotti, Larsen’s co-pilot. The lieutenant had seen the Special Commissioner at last night’s banquet, and as Prout strode up he saluted.
“I am the Special Commissioner. Is this ready to fly?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We have an emergency, a most serious crisis for the Mission. I need to be taken up the valley immediately. Can you do it?”
Young Andreotti was vastly flattered by this chance to be of service to the Special Commissioner himself, and readily offered to assist in any way he could. In a couple of minutes they were airborne, and before too long spotted Fletcher and his men approaching the great precipice of Oiburi-Naiburi. So, it was not too late. A little further on, the Morok war-party came into view, and Prout ordered Andreotti to set them down in a small clearing of level ground beside the track a hundred yards in front of the warriors. Despite his reverence for Prout, Andreotti was distinctly nervous.
“There’s really nothing to worry about,” said Prout. “I know the people, and they trust me. Put us down here.”
He stepped out of the helicopter with absolute assurance and walked briskly towards the warriors, hailing them in the few words of the language he had managed to pick up.
“Peace, peace, my piglets! I laugh to see you in your polluted finery!”
The Moroks were stunned, less by his absurd attempts at flattery than by his sudden appearance among them. Abuk and Deng, allies for the day, were all in favor of dismembering the Father of Nyikang, deceiver and betrayer of all their hopes, there and then. Marbek took the longer view that they should carry him to Ungabunga and eat him ceremonially there as the high point of their festivities, but Garang strongly disagreed, on the grounds that red men’s flesh was, from the religious point of view, an unknown quantity best left alone. He pointed out that the great precipice of Oiburi-Naiburi was just ahead, and suggested that throwing Prout over the edge would be highly acceptable to the spirit of the place, one Golumbuk, much feared as a mighty stirrer of landslides.
Convinced by Garang’s reasoning, they made a sudden rush on Prout, overwhelmed him, and in a trice had him tied up and lashed to a pole. Andreotti, too far away to be of help, took off, but in his near-panic he misjudged his distance from the trees. One of the rotor blades clipped a tall pandanus-palm; the chopper turned over and plunged over the edge of the track down into the forest, crashing through the trees until it burst into flames a couple of hundred feet below. The Moroks watched it burn, entranced by the smoke and the explosions of the fuel tanks, and only then gave their full attention to Prout.
While all these events were unfolding in the mountains, Moncreif had sought out Lord Southall for an urgent private meeting in the Presidential Palace. As they sat on two gilded chairs in the Audience Chamber, Moncreif came briskly and brutally to the point.
“I don’t suppose you can deny that Prout’s policies have been a shambles. The question is what can be salvaged.” Southall would have liked to object but could think of no cogent denial of the obvious, and so motioned for the lawyer to continue.
“Since the Mission is plainly incapable of continuing its administration here, our job is to find a way of extricating it and leaving at least a facade of political order behind. I have a proposal that should work.”
“Yes?”
“Elections were to be held to choose an Assembly, and a President, but for obvious reasons we need to find our President today. We should choose Fletcher.”
Southall was aghast.
“You can’t be serious! He’s a white man, quite apart from being a brute and an imperialist relic.”
“In the first place, you don’t have much choice since he’s the only man who can save you. But looking at the long term, what better way of demonstrating the political maturity of a newly independent people, and their amazing ability to rise above old animosities, to say nothing of their dedication to inter-racial harmony and multiculturalism, than for them to choose a white man as their first President?”
Southall reflected.
“And of course,” Moncreif continued, “you must take the credit for this remarkable triumph of political education, since it was your presence at a crucial time that proved decisive.”
“But isn’t there a Co-President to be elected in six months’ time?”
“We shouldn’t bother the people’s heads with that sort of technicality,” said Moncreif. “Since none of them can read, I rather doubt they’ll hold it against us.”
“Well, yes, I must agree that despite everything there’s a great deal of force in what you say. In many ways it’s a statesmanlike solution, but of course it all depends on whether Fletcher can stop them.”
“I don’t think we need worry too much on that score.”
“A quadruple brandy, if you please, Angelina,” said Oelrichs, in languid but penetrating tones. He was in the bar of the Cosmopolitan, as despite the panic in the Mission, he knew that Fletcher was quite capable of dealing with the Moroks and concluded that it was going to be a highly entertaining day. All the more reason, then, for enjoying his usual apéritif before luncheon.
“And perhaps you could let me have the menu?” Madame Negretti bustled over.
The Cosmopolitan was full of Mission personnel who had followed each other inside for company, rather in the spirit of sheep breaking into a field. The quadruple brandy had shocked them enough, and the spectacle of this repulsive sybarite actually reading a menu while a hideous death towered over them like a tidal wave was too much for Rebeccah Bloom.
“You’ll be on the menu yourself, ya fat swine,” she rasped, radiating malice.
“I think not, dear lady. The Moroks’ taste in that direction inclines more to females, ah, well-endowed young females, if I may be so bold, though I won’t distress you with the culinary details.” He smiled cruelly, and Rebeccah fell silent.
“Now Angelina, I do hope the escargots are a little firmer of flesh than they were last week. And do I spy kidneys?”
“But Mr Oelrichs,” quavered Daubeny, “you don’t really think they’ll eat us, do you?”
“Not immediately, I imagine. They usually like to indulge themselves in a spot of rape and torment their victims first. I’m afraid they haven’t mastered the finer points of butchery, so they don’t realise that for tenderness, the meat should be calm before it’s slaughtered.”
Miss Fratchett fixed a beady librarian’s eye on Daubeny.
“I thought you told us that cannibalism was a myth?”
“I was just relying on Dr Prout,” said the wretched boy. “Why isn’t he here when we need him?”
There were general murmurs of agreement round the room, but at that m
oment Madame Negretti brought Oelrichs his escargots. As he sucked them noisily from their shells, the atmosphere in the room intensified to a frenzy, and from one corner came the unmistakable sound of vomiting.
“Are you just goin’ to sit there stuffin’ yer face and wait to be killed?” shrieked Noreen Hiscock, losing control.
“Ah, that is a contingency too remote to contemplate, madam. You see, I rather have the advantage of you all there, since I am Oburabu, the sacred pig of the Moroks. Not terribly distinguished, but it should allow me to enjoy this afternoon’s events in relative peace and comfort.”
He paused to noisily devour the rest of the escargots. Wiping the butter from his chins, he continued.
“I was rather hoping for a chat with Dr. Prout myself before the end. So much to discuss, and so little time. Doesn’t anyone know where he is?”
“Why should you want to speak to him?” said a voice from the back of the room. It was Phyllis, grey and stricken, who had hunted everywhere for her husband and had finally come to the hotel in the faint hope that someone might have seen him. “What could you possibly have to say to him? You sacred pig, indeed!”
“It’s rather a matter of what he might have to say to us, isn’t it? After all, it’s quite an accomplishment—a whole United Nations Mission horribly exterminated in one afternoon. Even the great Southall has never managed that! Game, set, and match to your hubby, I should think.”
“And what have you ever done to improve the world, you disgusting slug?”
“Nothing whatever, I’m pleased to say. If we all minded our own business, the world would revolve a good deal more steadily on its axis, and all of us would sleep more soundly in our beds, including you. Of course,” he went on, “there is perhaps one way some of you might escape.”
“How? Tell us! What do we do?”
“Well you know, it’s native custom to appease a stronger force by offering them a few victims, and what they specially like is a few of the gentler sex—diverts their energies, don’t y’know. It’s up to you, of course, but if, say, Ms Bloom here, and your good self, Mrs. Prout, and perhaps Mrs. Hiscock were to display your ample charms before the advancing hordes it might at least slow them up. Allow them to slake their darker passions, you know.”