A CHRISTMAS EVE IN THE FAR SOUTH SEAS
Donald MacBride and myself were the only Britishers living on one of theNorth Pacific island lagoons when Christmas of 1880 drew near, and wedetermined to celebrate it in a manner that would fill our German andAmerican trading rivals throughout the group with envy. MacBride wasa bony, red-headed Scotchman, with a large heart and a small, jealous,half-caste wife. The latter acquisition ruled him with a rod of iron,much to his financial and moral benefit, but nevertheless agreed withme that we--Donald, she and myself--ought to show the Americans and the'Dutchmen' how an English Christmas should be celebrated. But as Serawas a half-caste native of the Pelews, and had never been to a civilisedcountry, she also concurred with me that Donald and myself should runthe show, which, although I was not a married man, was to take place inmy house on account of the greater space available. Donald, she said,wanted to have a 'hakkise'; so we bought a nanny-goat from LudwigWolfen, the German trader at Molok, and one evening--the 23rd ofDecember--I helped Sera to drive and drag the unsuspecting creature hometo her husband's place to the slaughter. (I may as well say at once thatMacBride's nanny-goat haggis was a hideous failure, and my boat'screw, to whom it was handed over, with many strong expressions aboutMacBride's beastly provincial taste, said that it _smelt_ good, likeshark's liver, but was not at all so juicy.)
Meanwhile, Wolfen, a fat, good-hearted Teuton, with a face like a fullmoon in a fog, called upon me, and remarked in a squashy tone of voice,superinduced by too many years of lager beer, and its resultant adiposetissue, that he and Peter Huysmans, his neighbour, would feel very muchhurt if we did not invite them to participate in the festivities. I saidthat 'Blazy-head' (for so we called dear old MacBride) and myself wouldbe delighted; whereupon Wolfen, who had once, when he was a sailor onan English ship, spent a Christmas in a public-house somewhere in thevicinity of the East India Docks, said that the correct thing for usto do would be to have a Christmas cake; also, he suggested we shouldinvite Tom Devine and Charley de Buis, the two American traders wholived across the lagoon, to join the party. Being aware of the factthat, from trade jealousies, there had hitherto been a somewhatnotorious bitterness of feeling between my German fellow-trader and thetwo Americans, I shook his hand warmly, said that I was delighted to seethat he could forgive and forget, and that I should that moment sendmy boat across the lagoon to Devine and Charley de Buis with a writteninvitation, and ask them to favour us with their company; also, thatas Mrs Charley--who was a Samoan half-caste girl--was skilled in bakingbread, perhaps she would lend Mesdames MacBride, Wolfen and Huysmans herassistance in making a Christmas cake, the size of which should causethe native population to sit up and respect us as men of more thanordinary intelligence and patriotism.
On the evening of the 24th, three whale-boats, attended by a flotilla ofsmall native canoes, sailed into the little sandy-beached nook upon theshores of which the trading station was situated. The three boats weresteered by the Messrs Peter Huysmans, Charles de Buis and Thomas Devine,who were accompanied by their wives, children and numerous femalerelatives, all of the latter being clad in their holiday attire of newmats, and with their hair excessively anointed with scented coco-nutoil, scarlet hibiscus flowers behind their ears, and necklaces ofsweet-smelling pieces of pandanus drupes.
MacBride, Mrs MacBride and I received them the moment they stepped outof the boats, and then Ludwig Wolfen, who was disposed in the backgroundwith an accordion, and seated on a gin case, played 'The Star SpangledBanner,' to the accompaniment of several native drums, beaten by hiswife and her sister and brothers. Then my boatman--a stalwart Maorihalf-caste--advanced from out the thronging crowd of natives whichsurrounded us, and planted in the sand a British red ensign attachedto a tall bamboo pole, and called for three cheers for the Queen ofEngland, and three for the President of the United States. This at oncegave offence to Ludwig Wolfen, who asked what was the matter with theEmperor of Germany; whereupon Bill Grey (the Maori) took off his coatand asked him what he meant, and a fierce encounter was only avoided byhalf a dozen strapping natives seizing Billy and making him sit down onthe sand, while the wrathful Ludwig was hustled by Donald MacBride andMrs Ludwig and threatened with a hammering if he insulted the gatheringby his ill-timed and injudicious remarks about a foreign potentate.(Ludwig, I regret to say, had begun his Christmas on the previousevening.)
But we were all too merry, and too filled with right good downcomradeship to let such a trifle as this disturb the harmony of ourfirst Christmas foregathering; and presently Bill Grey, his dark,handsome face wreathed in a sunny smile, came up to the sulky andrightly-indignant trader with outstretched hand, and said he was sorry.And Wolfen, good-hearted German that he was, grasped it warmly, and saidhe was sorry too; and then we all trooped up to the house and sat down,only to rise up again with our glasses clinking together as we drankto our wives and ourselves and the coming Christmas, and to the brownsmiling faces of the people around us, who wondered why we grew merryso suddenly; for sometimes, as they knew, we had all quarrelled with oneanother, and bitter words had passed; for so it ever is, and ever shallbe, even in the far South Seas, when questions of 'trade' and 'money'come between good fellowship and old-time _camaraderie_. And then sweet,dark-eyed Sera, MacBride's young wife, took up her guitar and sang uslove songs in the old Lusitanian tongue of her father; and Tom Devine,the ex-boat-steerer, and Charley de Buis, the reckless; and PeterHuysmans, the red-faced, white-haired old Dutchman, all joined hands anddanced around the rough table; while Billy Grey and Ludwig Wolfen stoodon the top of it and sang, or tried to sing, 'Home Sweet Home'; and thewriter of this memory of those old Pacific days sat in a chair in thedoorway and wondered where we should all be the next year. For, as wesang and danced, and the twang, twang of Sera's guitar sounded throughthe silent night without, Tom Devine, the American, held up his hand toMacBride, and silence fell.
'Boys,' he said, 'let us drink to the memory of the far-off faces ofthose dear ones whom we never may see again!'
He paused a moment, and then caught sight of Sera as she bent over herguitar with downcast eyes; 'And to those who are with us now--our wivesand our children, and our friends! Drink, my boys; and the first manwho, either to-night or to-morrow, talks about business and dirty,filthy dollars, shall get fired out right away before he knows where heis; for this is Christmas time--and, Sera MacBride, why the devil don'tyou play something and keep me from making a fool of myself?'
So Sera, with a twist of her lithe body and a merry gleam in her full,big eyes, sang another song; and then long, bony MacBride came over toher and kissed her on her fair, smooth forehead, whispered somethingthat we did not hear, and pointed to Charley de Buis, who stood, glassin hand, at the furthest corner of the big room, his thin, suntannedface as grave and sober as that of an English judge.
'Gentlemen'--(then _sotto voce_ to the chairman in the doorway, 'Justfancy us South Sea loafers calling ourselves gentlemen!')--'gentlemen,we are here to spend a good time, and I move that we quit speech-makingand start the women on that cake. Tom Devine and myself are, as youknow, members of two of the First Families in America, and only came tothe South Seas to wear out our old clothes--'
'Shut up,' said Devine; 'we don't want to hear anything about the FirstAmerican families; this is an English Christmas, with full-blooded SouthSea trimmings. Off you go, you women, and start on the cake.'
So Charley de Buis 'shut up,' and then the women, headed by Sera andMary Devine, trooped off to the cook-house to beat up eggs for the cake,and left us to ourselves. When it drew near midnight they returned, andPeter Huysmans arose, and, twisting his grizzled moustaches, said,--
'Mine boys, will you led me dell you dot now is coming der morn venJesus Christ vos born? And vill you blease, Mary Devine, dell dosenatives outside to stop those damdt drums vile I speaks? Und come hereyou, MacBride, mit your red het, und you, Ludwig Wolfen, and you TomDevine, und you Charley de Buis, you wicked damdt devil, und you, TomDenison, you saucy Australian boy, mit your curlt
moustache and yoursvell vite tuck suit; und led us join our hands together, and agreeto have no more quarrellings und no more angry vorts. For vy should vequarrel, as our good friendt says, over dirty dollars, ven dere is roomenough for us all on dis lagoon to get a decent livings? Und den veshould try und remember dot ve, none of us, is going to live forever, and ven ve is dead, ve is dead a damdt long time. But now, minefriendts, I vill say no more, vor I am dry; so here's to all our goodhealths, and let us bromise one another not to haf no more angry vorts.'
And so we all gathered around the big table, and, grasping each other'shands, raised our glasses and drank together without speaking, for therewas something--we knew not what--that lay behind Dutch Peter'slittle speech which made us _think_. Presently, when a big and gaudyGerman-made cuckoo clock in the room struck twelve, even recklessCharley de Buis forgot his old joke about Tom Denison's 'damned oldsquawking British duck,' as he called the little painted bird, and weall went outside, and sat smoking our pipes on the wide verandah, andwatching the flashing torchlights of the fishing canoes as they paddledslowly to and fro over the smooth waters of the sleeping lagoon. Then,almost ere we knew it, the quick red sun had turned the long, black lineof palms on Karolyne to purple, and then to shining green, and ChristmasDay had come.
* * * * *
To-night, as a chill December wind wails through the leafless elmsand chestnuts of this quiet Kentish village, I think of that far-awayChristmas eve, and the rough, honest, sun-browned faces of the men whowere around me, and pressed my hand when Peter Huysmans spoke of homeand Christmas, and Tom Devine of 'the dear faces whom we never might seeagain.' For only one, with the writer, is left. MacBride and his gentle,sweet-voiced Sera went to their death a year or two later in the savageand murderous Solomons; Wolfen and his wife and children perished at seawhen the _Sadie Foster_ schooner turned turtle off the Marshalls; andDevine and Charley de Buis, comrades to the last, sailed away to theMoluccas in a ten-ton boat and were never heard of again--their fate isone of the many mysteries of the deep. Peter Huysmans is alive and well,and only a year ago I grasped his now trembling hand in mighty London,and spoke of our meeting on Milli Lagoon.
And then again, in a garish and tinselled City bar, we raised ourglasses and drank to the memory of those who had gone before.
THE END
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