Moati

The Judgment Of

"Cloughogue's" Story of Old Rarotonga

IN that not-so-long-ago yesterday, when the Arikis, the high chiefs of Rarotonga, ruled each his own quarter of the island with regal mana, under the fatherly tutelage of L.M.S. missionaries, there dwelt in Ngatangiia (centre of the Takitumu clans) in the bailiwick of Pa Ariki, a sojourner named Silvestre.

This Silvestre, a Portuguese, of the genus beachcomber, had discharged himself, or been voided, from a whale ship some years previously. Whatever the circumstances, the ship had departed without apparent grief at losing him.

He had captured—or been captured by —a native wife, somewhat past the first flush of youthful bloom. She, for pride of having a tane papaa (European hus band) was content to provide him with all those material necessities of life which natives valued, and which were within her means, in return for reason ably sole ownership of such a prize.

They were properly and most efficiently married, for the code of laws the mis sionaries had placed on the Islands left no loophole for marital partnerships unblessed by the Church.

Silvestre’s laxity concerning church attendance was a matter of regret to his native friends, but the European missionaries, assuming him to be a Catholic, were content to overlook it, lest sleeping dogs be awakened.

The islanders were kept on the nar row path of morality, honesty, righteous ness and church attendance (especially the latter) by duly appointed and em powered judges and police. These were selected from the elite of the local pure, or church members.

A chieftain of high native rank, Moati, was the judge for Silvestre’s residential district: and from the deacons supplied the police.

The Europeans on the island at this time were few, and they held together as a body of friends, social class dis tinction forgotten. Silvestre was wel comed and received amongst the whites, for he had a virtue which endeared him to them and to the more church-resis tant among his native neighbours. He was unequalled in his ability to brew bush beer and wine of highest quality— an ability due surely to his race, and fatherland of Portugal.

SOME eight or ten miles distant, at Titikaveka, lived his special friend, Charlie Smith, an American Dutch man, known colloqually as Charlie Boer, from the time of the Boer war.

Charlie, constrained by the united pressure of love, local law and the need of a housekeeper who would “cook and wash him”, was about to take unto himself a native girl as wife. I may add that she proved one of the best bargains Charlie ever made, until he “went west” some years ago.

That the wedding festivities might be worthy of the occasion, in the matter of feasting, and with proper liquid alterna tive to aqua pura and innocuous, green coconut water, Charlie despatched an early invitation to Silvestre, requesting his presence a few days ahead to_ give a hand with the quality and quantity of beer, so necessary and highly esteemed

by Islands guests on such occasions.

Silvestre’s native wife allowed him at this time to live a life of luxurious ease, but much material wealth was beyond her. What clothing Silvestre possessed, when he first landed, had long ceased to be. His wardrobe at the period consisted mainly of a pareu, a dilapidated singlet, and a hand woven hat of ran ara (pandanus leaf), the last a love-gift from his wife.

Jointly, with his wife, Silvestre was owner of the Island-plenty in pigs and fowl; but a horse or vehicle, with which to reach Titikaveka, formed no part of the joint domestic estate, nor of that of any of her many relatives. Therefore, it became imperative, if he were to get there and do honour to the occasion, in transport and appearance, that he should obtain a pair of dungaree trou sers, a new singlet and a buggy with horse and harness.

At the period referred to, the loan of a pair of dungaree trousers, where with to promenade at church-time on Sunday morning, was accepted as a quid pro quo for a week’s labour on a plan tation, by the native work-boys—in addi tion, of course, to their food, also shel ter if required.

In exchange for a couple of fowls, Silvestre wangled the loan of a pair of almost new dungaree trousers, and a new singlet, from a neighbour who occasionally ran to one or two work boys on his land. It was urgently stipulated that the garments were to be returned in perfect condition, unstained and undamaged, before the following Sunday morning.

For the horse and buggy, he made a deal with Ben Cummings, a Euronesian who owned and loaned on hire such rare properties. Silvestre could have them for the required few days, for the sum of two dollars Chile in advance.

Silvestre found a purchaser for some of his live stock, who had two such dollars in cash.

NEXT morning, dressed in his bor rowed plumes, the trousers starched and ironed till they shone, Sil vestre mounted on a box in the buggy and set off for Titikaveka.

Soon, arriving at the Vaikokopu River, he drove in to cross the forde —no bridge existing, then. Half way across, where the water was deep enough to invade the buggy floor, the horse took it on himself to halt, in the cool stream.

Standing high on the box, in the buggy, to save his trouser bottoms from getting wet, Silvestre, with voice and stick, vigorously urged the horse to “carry on”. In vain—the horse “stood fast”.

Suddenly, while jerking the reins with spiteful energy, Silvestre lost his bal ance on the box and toppled overboard.

Alas! for those garments of pride, naught now but wet cloth, with all glory of polish and starch gone. Angered, he reached to the river bottom for a stone, and the one he brought up was some what larger and heavier than it was fitting to throw at a horse.

With a vicious curse, he let fly with it, from where he stood, holding on to the tail end of the vehicle. It struck the animal just behind the ears, and, with a terrified leap or two, the horse made for the other side of the river, to stagger along for a few yards, and fall down.

All Silvestre’s efforts to get it upon its feet failed, for some time. However, at last, cleared of harness and shafts,

it struggled up, on tottery legs.

Time was passing, and if he didn’t hurry he would be too late for mid-day meal at Charlie’s. It was obvious that the horse could not get him there. He was in a quandary, with a useless horse, and the buggy on the wrong side of the stream to drag home.

Close by, lived Henry Nicholas, a European, with a large establishment and several horses, some of which were tethered within view. This gave Sil vestre a thought. He went to the house, explained his predicament, and suc ceeded in borrowing a horse, leaving that of Ben Cummings in its stead, to recover ere his return from Titikaveka.

THE festivities, for Silvestre, lasted almost a week, and on his return home from the direction opposite his departure--he had circled the island —he was met by a waiting member of the police force, who solemnly informed him that Ben Cummings’s horse had died. He was given formal notice to appear before Judge Moati, on next Court day, to answer a claim lodged by Cummings for 50 dollars Chile, being value of said horse.

After making a few inquiries, which but confirmed the bad news, and return

ing the borrowed horse to Henry Nicholas, Silvestre made his way to the home of Judge Moati.

Salutations were exchanged, and the Judge asked: “Well, my son, what can I do for you?”

“Judge,” said Silvestre, “I’m in big trouble, and I would like you to help me.”

“Sorry to hear that. Tell me all about it,” replied the Judge. Without doubt he already had heard particulars from Ben Cummings and others, but it was not good policy to expose such knowledge.

Silvestre duly recounted what had happened, as he wished it to be known, winding up with the remark: “Do you know, Judge, I have a very big, fat, black pig. Well, I’d give that to anybody who could help me out of this trouble.”

“It’s a very serious case, and 'l’m sorry for you,” returned the Judge.

“You’re my friend. But I must go by the law. I’m very sorry for you.”

Silvestre urged his need for sympathy and help. For some time they talked back and forth, but the Judge shed no beam of sympathetic sunshine.

At last, discouraged, Silvestre got up to go. He had reached the doorway, and was speaking his “Noo ra” of fare well, when the Judge, holding up his hand to stop him, remarked: “That must be a very fine pig of yours by what you say. I’d like to see it. Do you think you could tie it up in my

yard to-morrow, so that I could look at it?”

The very early risers, next morning, noticed a large, fat, black pig tied up in the Judge’s yard, and wondered what it had cost him.

In a few days, “Cummings v. Silvestre” came up in the Court. Ben Cummings deposed to all the circumstances, and emphasised the value of the horse.

Silvestre recounted the accident, laying stress on his discomfort, spoilage of clothing, minimising the size of the pebble he threw at the horse, and urging the horse’s worthlessness.

The Judge listened most carefully. He made no remarks and, at the end, pon dered deeply. Then, as if he had found a Solomon-like solution, he called on the plaintiff Cummings before him.

“Cummings,” said he, “what sort of a man are you, and what sort of work is this of yours? You hire to this respec table stranger among us, a horse unfit to do the work for which you knew it was hired. You take from him two good Chile dollars. Through your horse’s fault, his good clothing is spoiled and he might have lost his life or got sick ness in the river, and you have the impudence to waste the time of this Court, listening to your claim for 50 dollars Chile for a useless horse. I fine you eight dollars, to be paid at once, and the defendant leaves the Court blameless. The Court is dismissed.”

In those days, the Judge’s pay was represented by the fines, and the pig was in his yard.

Silvestre was ever after known to the natives as “Ki-rapa” (their nearest pro nunciation of “Git Up!”).