Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (447 page)

The only soul that came about them after this desertion was Master Case.  Even he was chary of showing himself, and turned up mostly by night; and pretty soon he began to table his cards and make up to Uma.  I was still sore about Ioane, and when Case turned up in the same line of business I cut up downright rough.

“Well,” I said, sneering, “and I suppose you thought Case ‘very pretty’ and ‘liked too much’?”

“Now you talk silly,” said she.  “White man, he come here, I marry him all-e-same Kanaka; very well then, he marry me all-e-same white woman.  Suppose he no marry, he go ‘way, woman he stop.  All-e-same thief, empty hand, Tonga-heart — no can love!  Now you come marry me.  You big heart — you no ‘shamed island-girl.  That thing I love you for too much.  I proud.”

I don’t know that ever I felt sicker all the days of my life.  I laid down my fork, and I put away “the island-girl”; I didn’t seem somehow to have any use for either, and I went and walked up and down in the house, and Uma followed me with her eyes, for she was troubled, and small wonder!  But troubled was no word for it with me.  I so wanted, and so feared, to make a clean breast of the sweep that I had been.

And just then there came a sound of singing out of the sea; it sprang up suddenly clear and near, as the boat turned the headland, and Uma, running to the window, cried out it was “Misi” come upon his rounds.

I thought it was a strange thing I should be glad to have a missionary; but, if it was strange, it was still true.

“Uma,” said I, “you stop here in this room, and don’t budge a foot out of it till I come back.”

CHAPTER III.  THE MISSIONARY.

As I came out on the verandah, the mission-boat was shooting for the mouth of the river.  She was a long whale-boat painted white; a bit of an awning astern; a native pastor crouched on the wedge of the poop, steering; some four-and-twenty paddles flashing and dipping, true to the boat-song; and the missionary under the awning, in his white clothes, reading in a book, and set him up!  It was pretty to see and hear; there’s no smarter sight in the islands than a missionary boat with a good crew and a good pipe to them; and I considered it for half a minute, with a bit of envy perhaps, and then strolled down towards the river.

From the opposite side there was another man aiming for the same place, but he ran and got there first.  It was Case; doubtless his idea was to keep me apart from the missionary, who might serve me as interpreter; but my mind was upon other things.  I was thinking how he had jockeyed us about the marriage, and tried his hand on Uma before; and at the sight of him rage flew into my nostrils.

“Get out of that, you low, swindling thief!”  I cried.

“What’s that you say?” says he.

I gave him the word again, and rammed it down with a good oath.  “And if ever I catch you within six fathoms of my house,” I cried, “I’ll clap a bullet in your measly carcase.”

“You must do as you like about your house,” said he, “where I told you I have no thought of going; but this is a public place.”

“It’s a place where I have private business,” said I.  “I have no idea of a hound like you eavesdropping, and I give you notice to clear out.”

“I don’t take it, though,” says Case.

“I’ll show you, then,” said I.

“We’ll have to see about that,” said he.

He was quick with his hands, but he had neither the height nor the weight, being a flimsy creature alongside a man like me, and, besides, I was blazing to that height of wrath that I could have bit into a chisel.  I gave him first the one and then the other, so that I could hear his head rattle and crack, and he went down straight.

“Have you had enough?” cried I.  But he only looked up white and blank, and the blood spread upon his face like wine upon a napkin.  “Have you had enough?” I cried again.  “Speak up, and don’t lie malingering there, or I’ll take my feet to you.”

He sat up at that, and held his head — by the look of him you could see it was spinning — and the blood poured on his pyjamas.

“I’ve had enough for this time,” says he, and he got up staggering, and went off by the way that he had come.

The boat was close in; I saw the missionary had laid his book to one side, and I smiled to myself.  “He’ll know I’m a man, anyway,” thinks I.

This was the first time, in all my years in the Pacific, I had ever exchanged two words with any missionary, let alone asked one for a favour.  I didn’t like the lot, no trader does; they look down upon us, and make no concealment; and, besides, they’re partly Kanakaised, and suck up with natives instead of with other white men like themselves.  I had on a rig of clean striped pyjamas — for, of course, I had dressed decent to go before the chiefs; but when I saw the missionary step out of this boat in the regular uniform, white duck clothes, pith helmet, white shirt and tie, and yellow boots to his feet, I could have bunged stones at him.  As he came nearer, queering me pretty curious (because of the fight, I suppose), I saw he looked mortal sick, for the truth was he had a fever on, and had just had a chill in the boat.

“Mr. Tarleton, I believe?” says I, for I had got his name.

“And you, I suppose, are the new trader?” says he.

“I want to tell you first that I don’t hold with missions,” I went on, “and that I think you and the likes of you do a sight of harm, filling up the natives with old wives’ tales and bumptiousness.”

“You are perfectly entitled to your opinions,” says he, looking a bit ugly, “but I have no call to hear them.”

“It so happens that you’ve got to hear them,” I said.  “I’m no missionary, nor missionary lover; I’m no Kanaka, nor favourer of Kanakas — I’m just a trader; I’m just a common, low-down, God-damned white man and British subject, the sort you would like to wipe your boots on.  I hope that’s plain!”

“Yes, my man,” said he.  “It’s more plain than creditable.  When you are sober, you’ll be sorry for this.”

He tried to pass on, but I stopped him with my hand.  The Kanakas were beginning to growl.  Guess they didn’t like my tone, for I spoke to that man as free as I would to you.

“Now, you can’t say I’ve deceived you,” said I, “and I can go on.  I want a service — I want two services, in fact; and, if you care to give me them, I’ll perhaps take more stock in what you call your Christianity.”

He was silent for a moment.  Then he smiled.  “You are rather a strange sort of man,” says he.

“I’m the sort of man God made me,” says I.  “I don’t set up to be a gentleman,” I said.

“I am not quite so sure,” said he.  “And what can I do for you, Mr. — ?”

“Wiltshire,” I says, “though I’m mostly called Welsher; but Wiltshire is the way it’s spelt, if the people on the beach could only get their tongues about it.  And what do I want?  Well, I’ll tell you the first thing.  I’m what you call a sinner — what I call a sweep — and I want you to help me make it up to a person I’ve deceived.”

He turned and spoke to his crew in the native.  “And now I am at your service,” said he, “but only for the time my crew are dining.  I must be much farther down the coast before night.  I was delayed at Papa-Malulu till this morning, and I have an engagement in Fale-alii to-morrow night.”

I led the way to my house in silence, and rather pleased with myself for the way I had managed the talk, for I like a man to keep his self-respect.

“I was sorry to see you fighting,” says he.

“O, that’s part of the yarn I want to tell you,” I said.  “That’s service number two.  After you’ve heard it you’ll let me know whether you’re sorry or not.”

We walked right in through the store, and I was surprised to find Uma had cleared away the dinner things.  This was so unlike her ways that I saw she had done it out of gratitude, and liked her the better.  She and Mr. Tarleton called each other by name, and he was very civil to her seemingly.  But I thought little of that; they can always find civility for a Kanaka, it’s us white men they lord it over.  Besides, I didn’t want much Tarleton just them.  I was going to do my pitch.

“Uma,” said I, “give us your marriage certificate.”  She looked put out.  “Come,” said I, “you can trust me.  Hand it up.”

She had it about her person, as usual; I believe she thought it was a pass to heaven, and if she died without having it handy she would go to hell.  I couldn’t see where she put it the first time, I couldn’t see now where she took it from; it seemed to jump into her hand like that Blavatsky business in the papers.  But it’s the same way with all island women, and I guess they’re taught it when young.

“Now,” said I, with the certificate in my hand, “I was married to this girl by Black Jack the negro.  The certificate was wrote by Case, and it’s a dandy piece of literature, I promise you.  Since then I’ve found that there’s a kind of cry in the place against this wife of mine, and so long as I keep her I cannot trade.  Now, what would any man do in my place, if he was a man?” I said.  “The first thing he would do is this, I guess.”  And I took and tore up the certificate and bunged the pieces on the floor.

“
Aué
!”  cried Uma, and began to clap her hands; but I caught one of them in mine.

“And the second thing that he would do,” said I, “if he was what I would call a man and you would call a man, Mr. Tarleton, is to bring the girl right before you or any other missionary, and to up and say: ‘I was wrong married to this wife of mine, but I think a heap of her, and now I want to be married to her right.’  Fire away, Mr. Tarleton.  And I guess you’d better do it in native; it’ll please the old lady,” I said, giving her the proper name of a man’s wife upon the spot.

So we had in two of the crew for to witness, and were spliced in our own house; and the parson prayed a good bit, I must say — but not so long as some — and shook hands with the pair of us.

“Mr. Wiltshire,” he says, when he had made out the lines and packed off the witnesses, “I have to thank you for a very lively pleasure.  I have rarely performed the marriage ceremony with more grateful emotions.”

That was what you would call talking.  He was going on, besides, with more of it, and I was ready for as much taffy as he had in stock, for I felt good.  But Uma had been taken up with something half through the marriage, and cut straight in.

“How your hand he get hurt?” she asked.

“You ask Case’s head, old lady,” says I.

She jumped with joy, and sang out.

“You haven’t made much of a Christian of this one,” says I to Mr. Tarleton.

“We didn’t think her one of our worst,” says he, “when she was at Fale-alii; and if Uma bears malice I shall be tempted to fancy she has good cause.”

“Well, there we are at service number two,” said I.  “I want to tell you our yarn, and see if you can let a little daylight in.”

“Is it long?” he asked.

“Yes,” I cried; “it’s a goodish bit of a yarn!”

“Well, I’ll give you all the time I can spare,” says he, looking at his watch.  “But I must tell you fairly, I haven’t eaten since five this morning, and, unless you can let me have something I am not likely to eat again before seven or eight to-night.”

“By God, we’ll give you dinner!” I cried.

I was a little caught up at my swearing, just when all was going straight; and so was the missionary, I suppose, but he made believe to look out of the window, and thanked us.

So we ran him up a bit of a meal.  I was bound to let the old lady have a hand in it, to show off, so I deputised her to brew the tea.  I don’t think I ever met such tea as she turned out.  But that was not the worst, for she got round with the salt-box, which she considered an extra European touch, and turned my stew into sea-water.  Altogether, Mr. Tarleton had a devil of a dinner of it; but he had plenty entertainment by the way, for all the while that we were cooking, and afterwards, when he was making believe to eat, I kept posting him up on Master Case and the beach of Falesá, and he putting questions that showed he was following close.

“Well,” said he at last, “I am afraid you have a dangerous enemy.  This man Case is very clever and seems really wicked.  I must tell you I have had my eye on him for nearly a year, and have rather had the worst of our encounters.  About the time when the last representative of your firm ran so suddenly away, I had a letter from Namu, the native pastor, begging me to come to Falesá at my earliest convenience, as his flock were all ‘adopting Catholic practices.’  I had great confidence in Namu; I fear it only shows how easily we are deceived.  No one could hear him preach and not be persuaded he was a man of extraordinary parts.  All our islanders easily acquire a kind of eloquence, and can roll out and illustrate, with a great deal of vigour and fancy, second-hand sermons; but Namu’s sermons are his own, and I cannot deny that I have found them means of grace.  Moreover, he has a keen curiosity in secular things, does not fear work, is clever at carpentering, and has made himself so much respected among the neighbouring pastors that we call him, in a jest which is half serious, the Bishop of the East.  In short, I was proud of the man; all the more puzzled by his letter, and took an occasion to come this way.  The morning before my arrival, Vigours had been sent on board the
Lion
, and Namu was perfectly at his ease, apparently ashamed of his letter, and quite unwilling to explain it.  This, of course, I could not allow, and he ended by confessing that he had been much concerned to find his people using the sign of the cross, but since he had learned the explanation his mind was satisfied.  For Vigours had the Evil Eye, a common thing in a country of Europe called Italy, where men were often struck dead by that kind of devil, and it appeared the sign of the cross was a charm against its power.

“‘And I explain it, Misi,’ said Namu, ‘in this way: The country in Europe is a Popey country, and the devil of the Evil Eye may be a Catholic devil, or, at least, used to Catholic ways.  So then I reasoned thus: if this sign of the cross were used in a Popey manner it would be sinful, but when it is used only to protect men from a devil, which is a thing harmless in itself, the sign too must be, as a bottle is neither good nor bad, harmless.  For the sign is neither good nor bad.  But if the bottle be full of gin, the gin is bad; and if the sign be made in idolatry bad, so is the idolatry.’  And, very like a native pastor, he had a text apposite about the casting out of devils.