South Sea traders good and bad; their ups and downs—Nicolas the Greek—The Mambare river massacre—Some queer creatures with queerer ways—A fitting end to a wasted life.

There is a grim uncertainty about the life of a South Sea trader. To-day he is alive and the centre of a crowd of cringing natives who bow down before him, offering their goods in exchange for others, obeying his every word, for he is their lord and they are his slaves. But to-morrow may alter everything, and find that all that is left of the once boastful trader is a mangled corpse.

He may curse the Papuan, he may cheat him and rob him of his wives up to a certain point, then the worm turns, and one dark night, when the trader is lying unsuspectingly in his lonely hut, murder steals through the jungle in the shape of a naked savage whose eyes gleam with revenge. Yes, there are no half-measures with these savages, {72} no gentle stabbing, no single shot, but absolute mangling in a ghastly form.

Sooner or later death has come to nine-tenths of the traders; sometimes it has been unjust, but more often richly deserved. The remaining one in ten lives free from all trouble and in harmony with his men, and he prospers and enjoys his life.

The majority of the men who trade out there are rough, uncouth beggars, but they have a jovial, devil-may-care way with them, taking both life and death as they come; they rise in the morning, not knowing if they will ever see their beds again in this world, but they don’t mind that. Some of them are as plucky as they are coarse, and as jolly as they are muscular; but it is deplorable to think that they are the men who are civilising and forming the future of the natives, and with such guides it is not surprising that they steal and murder, and that in some parts no trader dare leave his store for a night lest it be sacked by daybreak. A trader’s existence is no life for a peaceful white man; it means, as Louis Beck so aptly puts it, “a pistol in one hand and your life in the other.” Yet there is room for the honest man and plenty of money to be made, for these islands abound in untouched wealth, as the success of Messrs. Burns Philp {73} shows. They have made money, and their advancement shows that with honesty and enterprise there is plenty of room for good men. A few more such firms and the place would soon change and become a prosperous colony, where decent folks could live with some certainty of dying a natural death.
GOLD MINERS LEAVING A TRADING SHIP, BRITISH NEW GUINEA

There are tales galore, all filled with a grim humour, of the small traders in these islands; many of them are characters in their way, who have drifted over the whole world and finally settled, or become stranded, on these shores.

Perhaps one of the best known about New Guinea was Nicolas the Greek, whom Mr. Hardy met at Samarai and describes as a man of medium height and burly build, with a dark complexion and a clean-shaven, Yankee-cut face. He dealt chiefly in pearls, and had come on board the Titus (the boat on which Mr. Hardy was) to sell some. That day he wore a pair of canvas trousers, soiled and very much damaged, a soft hat that had at one time been black, and a dirty white jersey, which was tucked up in a roll at his waist. In this roll he kept his valuable pearls, and to get at them he would unroll a little of the jersey, and then having got hold of his pearl box he would work it up his chest and bring it out below his chin. His life {74} was not a rosy one, as he was wanted in all quarters by white and black men, and several attempts had been made to kill him, but he generally managed to get the first shot home, and so lived on. He was quite used to wrecks, for it almost seems that the sea required his life too, but that also went disappointed, for nothing seemed to be able to kill Nicolas. He was a dangerous man to chaff, even when he was well filled with wine, and most men kept clear of him, or when they did have dealings with him they were very civil and never gave him a chance of picking a quarrel.

Old Harry Hutten, who blew his arm off with a charge of dynamite whilst fishing, was a man with a history as long as your arm, but he fell foul of the natives, and was, I believe, found dead one morning. Johnnie Pratt, one of the most decent men out there, married a native bush girl, and by doing so offended the shore natives, who eventually killed him and carried her off, to show how hurt they were at his not choosing a wife from the “Women belong Sea.”
JOHNNIE PRATT WITH HIS IVORY NUTS, AT SIMBO, SOLOMON ISLANDS

At the time when I did the original sketch from which this picture was made, Johnnie Pratt, a French trader, was in health and prosperity. He had his small house with the copra and boat sheds down on a narrow beach under the shelter of a tropical forest that spread upwards over the hills round a lovely little bay. He was a jolly chap, and when last I saw him was singing among his “boys” at work. He had married a native girl, daughter of a local chief, and at the birth of their child this chief gave him the fore-shore round the bay. He seemed to have had a happy time as times go in these parts, though his life had been attempted more than once on a neighbouring island. I do not remember now when it happened, but not far from his place he was murdered, and so came to the end many traders do in the wild Solomons.

The drawing shows Pratt taking tally of the weight of the sacks of ivory nuts which the “boys” are bringing from the sheds to be put into boats. The native in the foreground is wearing a sunshade.

But Dick Eade is one of the straightest traders there, and will tell you, if ever you meet him, more tales of the ups and downs of a trader’s life in half an hour than you will hear elsewhere in a lifetime. {75} A few years back he decided to take a trip home to the Old Country, as he had made enough money for a good holiday, so he left his partner in charge of his store and sailed away. But directly he reached Melbourne a letter was sent to him to say that his partner had been killed, and that his boat was high and dry on the rocks with a perforated bottom. So instead of going home he had to return and make a fresh start.

There is plenty of excitement in the South Seas, and a glorious uncertainty in the life, and none know it better than the traders and miners. The most surprising thing is that often no cause can be found to account for the natives rising. The Mambare river massacre was one of these strange risings, and when the survivors came to Port Moresby the story they told of that mining venture was grim indeed.

It appears that a party of miners, under the leadership of a man named George Clark, went up the river on a prospecting tour. They succeeded in making friends with all the natives they came across near the mouth of the river, and purchased several canoes from them.

For the first week or so all went well, and in every village they came to they were well received {76} by the natives, who even assisted them to get their canoes over the rapids which abound in the river. In spite of these friendly demonstrations the miners noticed that several canoes were following them and that each one contained armed natives, but as they showed no hostility and kept some distance behind, it was decided to take no notice of them.

They had travelled about forty miles up the river, when they reached a point where it was found necessary for all to disembark in order to get the boat up a particularly difficult rapid. Clark, however, remained in the boat to steer it, whilst the other miners, assisted by the natives, hauled the boat along with a tow-rope; the white men were at the far end of the line whilst the natives were close to the bow of the boat, there being in all about a dozen natives.

Suddenly, when the boat was nearly at the top of the rapid, the tow-line snapped, and after a moment’s confusion one of the miners sprang back and tried to seize the piece still attached to the boat, when to his horror he saw it had been cut. He yelled to his mates, but before they could come half-a-dozen natives had sprung into the boat and were being carried swiftly down the stream. {77}

All thought that they had done this to assist Clark in managing the boat, and no one suspected treachery. Even Clark appears to have been unalarmed, as he continued to guide the boat by means of the steer oar.

From the banks the miners watched the boat drifting until it reached the native canoes behind. Then the truth flashed upon them; in a moment a shower of spears were sent at Clark, and the natives in the boat rushed at him. From the banks the miners fired their revolvers, and two of them sprang into the river and swam to rescue Clark. In the meantime he fought like a Trojan, but several spears had struck him, and suddenly the miners saw him leap into the river, but directly he came to the surface one native struck him full on the head with a paddle, and just as he was sinking another drove a spear into him.

The whole ghastly episode happened before the swimmers could reach Clark, for the tide was strong and the men were carried helplessly along. As soon as Clark was disposed of, the natives threw all the firearms out of the boat; the provisions were taken to the other canoes and the boat abandoned, whilst the perpetrators of the crime beat a hasty retreat, but not before they had been {78} well peppered by the miners, who by now had all come to the scene of the tragedy.

Clark’s body was never found, and the miners, having lost all their provisions, tools, and practically all their arms, decided to return to the mouth of the river. On the way down they were greeted with spears and jeers, and had to clear their way every now and then with a shower of bullets from their revolvers, and yet when they had come by these same villages on their way up the river they had met with nothing but friendliness.

To this day the reason of the attack is not known, in spite of the fact that the Queensland Government sent an expedition to inquire into the matter, and to capture the natives responsible for Clark’s death.

Besides the grim stories of the Pacific there are plenty of amusing ones, and sometimes funny anecdotes are told of weird traders who have taken up their quarters along the coast. No one can go round far without meeting one, if not more, of these oddities.

Aoba, in the New Hebrides, however, stands unique in possessing the most original, if unorthodox, trader who has visited these islands for many a long year. Maybe the old chap is dead and {79} buried now, for I am writing of 1894 when “Tartan Jock” lived on Aoba. He was a wild Highlander with chest and shoulders like an ox. His face was as rugged as the mountains of his native country, and his accent was one you could cut with a knife. From his youth upwards he had led a life of adventure, and had come at last to the most God-forsaken island in the world to finish his days in peace and quietness, and to this end he had chosen the most dangerous and cut-throat part of the New Hebrides. Yet he seemed to have no particular desire that his death should be a sudden one. A year or so before going to Aoba he had paid a visit to his birthplace to see the old folks, but his stay there had been a short one, and the only result of it was that the brogue had gotten into his nostrils again, and judging by the sound of it would remain there till the sharp spear of one of his black neighbours let it out.

As tough a customer as ever trod these islands was Jock, but, strange to say, the natives rather liked him, as was proved by the fact that his tenancy of the tumble-down trader’s house on the beach had been longer than that of any of his predecessors.

Aoba has a reputation for being a trader’s burial {80} ground, but, as far as I know, Jock is still above ground; he was a man, too, who seemed to love it. If ever you managed to come across him unawares he was stretched out at full length on the bright warm sand, with his arms at right angles to his body, and his great legs spread out like young logs. Jock could sleep all day like this, when there was nothing else to do and no trading boats about where he could get a “wee drappie”—Jock’s wee drops were bottles. But when the wine was in, his wits were out, and then it was a case of “look out for yourself,” for at these times Jock was dangerous, but basking on the beach he was a picture, and a quaint one too, for he had an absolute horror of civilisation and clothes, and a tartan shawl and a Tam o’ Shanter hat, with more than one hole in it, constituted his complete attire.

Stretched out at full length he could often be seen on the beach, with his shawl wrapped round his shoulders and chest, a great pair of bare, brown, hoary legs sticking out, and his woollen hat pulled right over his face with the nob of it where his nose ought to have been. Like this he was a sight that would have scared the life out of his “puir mither.” But such was Jock, and when sober a more amusing man would be hard to find.
SOLOMON ISLAND BOY CLIMBING AFTER GREEN COCOA-NUTS, NEAR GAVATU, NEW FLORIDA.

Nothing was to me more refreshing after or during a hot day in these islands than a long draught of milk from the green nut. On arrival at a trader’s or settler’s station, if you did not care for a “tot” of rum or “square face,” young cocoa-nuts were brought. If there were none about, a boy was sent up the nearest palm to fetch some down; when he brought them, one end was cut off with a large knife, and then you could drink long and deep. A large nut will hold more than one man can take at once. If you felt inclined you could eat the soft inside with a spoon.

In the South Seas no one thinks of eating the nut when the hard shell has come, it is then “Kaikai, belong pig,” and also made into copra.
{81}

His hut lay a hundred yards back from the sea, hidden away in the densest part of a clump of bush, and not a white man slept within miles of him, yet Jock was happier there than he had been for years, and when the boat called he always had plenty of copra and as good a show of ivory nuts as any of the traders.

Fifty miles from here there was one day a curious scene enacted: James Clark, a new trader, whom Messrs. Burns Philp were starting, had refused to go ashore at the island for which he was destined, owing to some ghastly reports he had heard whilst the steamer was lying outside it. The supercargo, a splendid fellow, was puzzled to know what to do, but at last suggested that he should try Aoba, where a trader was waiting to give up his store. Clark jumped at the idea, though he was warned it was, if anything, worse than the place at which he had refused to stop: he was sure, he said, no place could be.

A more depressed man than Clark during the remaining week of his voyage could not have been met, for bad accounts of murdered and boycotted traders were in the air just then. However, Aoba was reached at last, and after having supplied “Tartan Jock” with his goods and relieved him of {82} his copra, the steamer sailed on to Clark’s landing-place.

Here a most awful picture presented itself to the unhappy man.

The retiring trader rushed to the shore as he sighted the boat and waved frantically. He was an old worn-out man in a filthy pair of pyjama trousers and a coat torn and ragged. He looked as if he had neither washed nor slept for weeks, and he afterwards told the crew he hadn’t had a decent feed for a month. His account of the place was horrible in the extreme.

For some unknown reason the natives there had strong objections to traders in their territory: the one before him had been killed, and this man, I do not know his name, had been warned several times that, unless he went, he too would share the fate of the last. The natives had point blank refused to bring him copra, and to add to his discomforts had stolen nearly all his food. Day and night he had had to watch lest they killed him. His copra shed had been burnt down, and all his clothes, except those he stood in, had been seized and distributed.

This was the place on which poor Clark was landed, and his misery was too awful for words; {83} but there was no other station vacant, and so the only thing he could do was to stay.

Accompanied by the supercargo and a few of the crew he was taken to his hut, which lay a little way from the beach. It was almost in ruins, and contained nothing but a bed, a few empty boxes, and some soiled pages of illustrated magazines. After looking inside, he turned to one of the crew, who had shown sympathy for him, and said in the most plaintive tone:—

“This is a fitting end to a wasted life.”

Fifteen minutes later the steamer left the bay, and the last those on board saw of Clark was as he stood by his boxes on the shore waving a farewell to them.

Bad as the natives were to him they did not butcher him, and some months after a vacancy was found at Tanna Island which Clark took. His stay there was very short, for within a month a bullet sent him to a better land.

Such were the lives of the majority of the traders a few years ago, but things are better now, though there is still room for improvement, and still plenty of opportunities for good men.