The Eleventh Hour (Stock)

by Ralph Stock

For works with similar titles, see The Eleventh Hour.

THE ELEVENTH HOUR

By RALPH STOCK

TOMMIE rolled on to his side and lifted the mosquito bar. There was no one in the house, and this annoyed him.

"Weslie," he snapped, "Weslie!"

His voice rose in a querulous crescendo, but there was no answer, only the drowsy hum of insects and the eternal plaint of the reef.

Tommie always hated to find himself alone. Where were Weslie, and Akanesi, and—and—— But it was really too much trouble to recall the name of each member of the household that shared the honour of supporting him. Where were they? That was the point.

He blinked inquiringly at the yellow sunlight streaming through the low doorway on to the mats, up into the dim recesses of the raftered roof, but failed to find an answer. He needed a drink of yaquona,^[1] and there was no one to give it him; indeed, it seemed more than likely that he would have to get it himself, which involved the laborious process of rising, crossing the room to the three-legged yaquona bowl on Weslie's camphorwood chest, and returning to his pile of mats in the corner. Could anything be more annoying?

All of which makes it appear that Tommie was either an infant or an exceedingly old man, and he was neither, only a white man "gone native." There are many like him south of the Line, men who have suddenly appeared on the beaches and as suddenly vanished, to live in seclusive idleness as the pet, the mascot of some native tribe,. defying the curse of Adam. Life without work, without responsibility, almost without thought—these are their maxims, and Tommie had followed them to such purpose that at fifty he was practically helpless.

He was vaguely conscious that the sun shone, that it was pleasant to receive homage—and incidentally food and lodging—that he had in no way earned, that he enjoyed the easy-going society of those about him, their days of fishing and philandering, their evenings of sing-songs and revelry, even their faint odour of cocoa-nut oil, and, after all, what else mattered—except yaquona? Yaquona was distinctly worth while; it numbed, deadened, rendered life a thing less arduous.

That was why Tommie took so long to struggle from his pile of mats and cross the room; that was why—but yaquona can account for a good deal.

With some of the muddy fluid still clinging to his beard, he stood at the open doorway, blinking into the sunlight like an owl strayed from its cranny in the light of day. Where was everybody? He took his favourite yakawood stick and passed outside. The spirit of adventure had descended upon Tommie, and he followed the beach road towards Apia for the first time in twelve months.

He even succeeded in passing the missionary's bungalow, where a white woman, with the languid pose and tired eyes of the Tropics, reclined in a wicker chair. This was exactly as Tommie remembered having seen her a year ago, when she had "striven" with him, and he guessed that she was still dreaming of cool rains and the other things that some white people seemed to think worth having. He shuffled on the faster, for to him the missionary's wife represented everything that was direful.

Half a mile out of Apia he came upon a group of natives squatting under a palm. One of them was laboriously translating the contents of a Sydney newspaper, while the others listened with absorbed interest. No one seemed to notice Tommie, so he listened, too, at first almost mechanically, then with dawning comprehension, to the news which a month ago had staggered the world.

England at war with Germany! His mind refused to focus the stupendous fact. England—Germany—war! It was incredible, another beach rumour. England—and he was English; nothing could alter that, not even ten years of life as a Samoan in a German colony. England—— He snatched the paper from the astonished native's hand and tried to read. The letters swam before his eyes—yaquona again.

"is it true what you have read, Malisie?" he demanded, with an absurd imperiousness.

The native grinned good-naturedly. Everyone humoured Tommie.

"How otherwise should I know?" he retorted.

"There are such things as fairy tales," suggested Tommie.

"See for yourself," protested Malisie, indicating the printed headlines with an indignant finger. "War, war, war! Beritannia—Germanic—war! Is it not enough?"

It seemed to be, for Tommie turned slowly about and shuffled along the beach road with bowed head.

The Weslie household was somewhat concerned about Tommie for the rest of the day. Instead of displaying his usual alternate irritability and child-like pleasure, he lay on his mats staring at the ceiling. He even refused yaquona on three occasions. Truly their Tommie was a very sick man, or his mind was engaged with great thoughts.

Towards evening they called in the village doctor and held a consultation.

"Our Tommie is sick," they told this individual, a white-haired Tongan with a face like crumpled brown paper; "we wish you to make him well."

And the doctor did his best, even to burning one of his patient's vests wrapped up in dry banana-leaf to drive away the evil spirit. Tommie seemed to have no particular objection to this treatment, but towards evening, when the doctor, driven desperate by failure and the thought of lost "presents," commenced incantations which involved squatting back on his heels and howling like a dog, a strange thing happened: the patient struggled to his feet and, with strange oaths and well-directed kicks, ejected his medical adviser from the house.

The Weslies clapped their hands and clucked with delight. Here was their Tommie his old self again. The miracle was accomplished, and out on the village path, in the moonlight, they loaded the good doctor with taro and tobacco.

But Tommie must have suffered a relapse, for he spent the rest of the night staring, staring at the steady flame of the Weslies' candle-nut with puckered brow and troubled eyes. The wheels of his memory had been jerked into motion, and the thoughts they evolved alternately frightened and fascinated him.

In the morning he was gone.

The Weslies could not have been more perturbed over the loss of a pet turtle. They scoured the beach and the bush without result.

"He was a great man over there," said Akanesi, nodding vaguely out to sea. "Did he not tell us of his regimen'—two thousand full-grown men. Perhaps he has returned."

"How would he go?" sneered Weslie. "I tell you he is still with us. Go, search Apia."

But there was no need. About noon Tommie returned to his home, very tired, very old-looking, and, flinging himself on his mats, slept until the evening. Then it seemed to Weslie that there was a different look in his eyes, and, what was still more strange, he refused yaquona.

"Weslie," he said, and even his voice had changed, "you have been good to me. Be good to me a little longer. Do not ask where I go, do not search for me, just leave me alone, and, for Heaven's sake, keep that doctor away!"

Weslie promised. He seldom refused Tommie anything. But Akanesi did not. Consequently, the next morning she saw that which mystified her greatly—a white man of uncertain age creeping from the house with the first hint of dawn, plodding up the red earth path past the bathing pool, and diving into the heart of the bush.

She followed at a discreet distance with a wariness of foot only possible to a Samoan native, and presently, from behind a friendly pandanus trunk, looked out on a strange scene. Tommie had reached a disused clearing in the bush, and, methodically divesting himself of his dirty duck jacket, seized his yakawood stick and sprang into an attitude of rigid attention, at the same time uttering a strange noise that sounded like "Shun!" Then followed a series of evolutions which convinced Akanesi that her mascot was either mad or engaged in the strenuous business of propitiating his gods. First he held the stick aloft at arm's length, and slowly brought it down to a level with his knees—he tried to reach lower, but failed. This he did five times. Then he raised himself on his toes, and, holding the stick in front of him, sank slowly on to his heels. This movement was accompanied by much grunting and heavy breathing, and, after a third effort, resulted in Tommie staggering to a fallen palm trunk and mopping his forehead.

But there was apparently no end to these strange rites. It was necessary to carry the stick smartly to the shoulder and again to the ground in response to guttural cries, to double the fists and trot round the clearing five—six times, and at the end of it all to plunge head foremost into the bathing-pool.

For two weeks this ceremony was repeated daily, and Akanesi thanked her own particular spirits that they demanded nothing so arduous in the way of devotion.

Then came an evening when Tommie called Weslie into consultation, and they sat long over the candle-nut. Akanesi, squatting in the dark shadows, listened and watched, for that is all women are expected to do in Samoa.

"You wonder what I have been doing," said Tommie, in glib Polynesian. "The time has come for me to tell you. I have been making myself fit to fight for my country. Have I succeeded?" He thumped his hollow chest with his fist, and Weslie nodded approvingly. "England is at war, and I am English." Again the chest was thumped and the head nodded. "England must win." Tommie announced this with a conviction that caused Weslie to stare at him wide-eyed.

"And Samoa?" he suggested meekly.

"I was coming to that," said Tommie. "Samoa will be British. You know, I know, everyone knows, how the people of Samoa will welcome this. They have made no secret of it. Well, a day will come when warships will enter Apia harbour, and from that day Samoa will be British."

Weslie was impressed. Who could fail to be, with Tommie's blazing eyes fastened upon

"And that day will come—to-morrow—next week—a month?" Weslie suggested.

"How can I tell?" protested Tommie. "But it will come. As surely as the sun rises, it will come, and we must be ready to do our part. From this hour I take command. You are my lieutenant, and will see that my instructions are carried out."

Akanesi heard no more. Their heads were now so close together, and they spoke in such earnest undertones, that it was impossible to catch more than a word here and there; but the next morning, and many mornings to follow, strange sounds and much coming and going might have been heard and seen in the neighbourhood of the clearing in the bush.

Akanesi took to squatting on the beach and watching the channel in the barrier reef; but the sun-bathed days and weeks drifted by, and there was no sign of the promised warships. She began to fear for Tommie. He had grown so thin, and his eyes were so unnaturally bright, that it seemed he must be living by the heat of some fire within him. Weslie, too, seemed to have caught Tommie's enthusiasm. He hurried over his food, slept little, and suffered from strange fits of abstraction.

Things came to such a pass that one day Akanesi made up her own mind—a dangerous thing for any Samoan woman to do. She told herself that she could no longer watch Tommie and her husband drifting away from her and hold her peace. She would inform the authorities in Apia; perhaps that would put a stop to it.

It was quite by chance that Weslie, hurrying back from the clearing in the bush, met her on the beach road, empty-handed. Island women never move from their villages without a purpose, and what other purpose should they have than to carry water in bamboos or baskets of taro or fish? Weslie questioned her, and she confessed her errand. It was impossible to tell Weslie a lie. She had never seen him so angry. For the first time in their married lives her husband laid hands on her—took her by the throat and shook her like a rag doll.

"Fool!" he barked. "Must I strangle you to keep your tongue still? Go back, and thank the spirits that I have spared you!"

And such are the strange ways of the uncivilised that Akanesi obeyed.

Perhaps a month had passed when Akanesi paid another visit to the clearing in the bush, and she was forced to admit that the progress made was little short of miraculous. The clearing had been enlarged, and now, instead of one solitary figure engaged in the strange process of preparation for war, there were quite a hundred—a hundred strapping Samoans in trim white kilts, each bearing a weapon of sorts. Akanesi was not to know that these ranged from twelve-bore shot-guns loaded with rusty nails to "twenty-two" rook rifles. She only knew that it thrilled her strangely to see these fine men standing in symmetrical lines and moving as one man in answer to commands that Tommie—their Tommie—snapped at them.

Neither was she to know that there came a time when Weslie and Tommie found themselves in an awkward predicament. Despite his gentle, lethargic ways, the Samoan is at heart a born fighter even to this day. He has never forgotten his warlike past and the part his grandfather played in the history of the South Pacific; there are too many bards and song-makers in the islands for that. And, like warriors the world over, they are impatient of delay. Their commander had foretold a day of days, when warships should enter Apia harbour, and they would be at liberty to use the strength and cunning that they had developed in the depths of their native jungle. And they waited, patiently at first, then with growing truculence, for the promised hour.

The position reached a climax one morning on parade. Without saluting, with his thumbs stuck carelessly into his kilt, one of the natives fell out of the ranks and confronted Tommie with an insolent grin.

"We have worked for you long enough," he told his commander. "Things do not come to pass as you promise. How do we know that Beritannia will win this war? How do we know that warships will come to Apia? Give us our task, and we will carry it through, but——"

"About—turn! Quick—march!" snapped Tommie. He was white to the lips. The look of him seemed to frighten the native, for he saluted and fell into his place mechanically.

But this was not the end. There were murmurings and dour looks in the ranks, and Tommie and Weslie held long consultations over the candle-nut.

"They will kill us," Weslie announced without emotion.

"Perhaps," said Tommie. "But we shall know that we have done our best. That is war."

That they were not killed, or, at least, betrayed, was solely due to the extraordinary influence—almost hypnotic—which Tommie wielded over his insubordinate troops, and only Weslie knew how the strain of suspense was telling on his chief. There were times when Tommie collapsed utterly, whimpering like a child, but these painful exhibitions were strictly reserved for the privacy of the mosquito bar. And he always recovered. It was wonderful, Weslie thought, how he recovered by the morning, and went out to parade with head held high and shoulders squared. Weslie knew that Tommie was already fighting his battle.

Then came the day of days—out of a clear sky and sparkling sea. A smudge of smoke growing blacker, larger, and presently four faint grey forms creeping down from the horizon.

Apia was already in a panic. Were they German? Were they British? In either case Apia was going to be on the safe side, and fled precipitately to the hills—all except the German soldiery, who lined the beach in immaculate formation, prepared to salute their brothers-in-arms.

Not until the transports and their cruiser convoys had passed the reef channel and slowed down in Apia harbour did they realise their mistake, and then—what was the use? Not a shot was fired. Boat-load after boat-load of khaki-clad New Zealanders was towed ashore, as though at manœuvres. In silence they fell in and marched to Government House, forming three sides of a square around the compound.

Palms rustled in the trade wind, the yellow sun shone on beach and hill when German Samoa changed hands.

It was at this very moment that a strange procession filed into the open—a hundred stalwart Samoans, bearing arms of varied and antiquated pattern, but marching with a precision that attracted the professional eye of many a trooper, and led by a shrivelled old man whose efforts at deportment would have been laughable on any other occasion.

With the utmost solemnity he swung his troops into the compound and halted them before Government House. But the commanding officer was far too occupied with the business of the moment to question the presence of a squad of comic opera island soldiers. Besides, it was as well to humour the natives; that was why—you may have heard of it—a Samoan was chosen to haul the Union Jack to the masthead. It was Weslie. He will never forget it. Neither will he forget the look in Tommie's eyes as they watched the coloured square creep up the mast and unfurl to the breeze.

He carried his commanding officer most of the way home. After the ceremony Tommie collapsed like a toy balloon. He laid him on his pile of mats and listened to his whimperings.

"No chance, Weslie—not even a scrap. The men will be disappointed. Right wheel! Didn't I say they'd come? England——"

Weslie offered him yaquona. He shook his head, smiled, and turned his face to the wall.

Tommie's battle was fought and won.

1. A root from which a drink is made.