He was a whiskey-guzzling Scotchman, and he downed his whiskey neat, beginning with his first tot punctually at six in the morning, and thereafter repeating it at regular intervals throughout the day till bedtime, which was usually midnight.He slept but five hours out of the twenty- four, and for the remaining nineteen hours he was quietly and decently drunk.During the eight weeks I spent with him on Oolong Atoll, I never saw him draw a sober breath.In fact, his sleep was so short that he never had time to sober up.It was the most beautiful and orderly perennial drunk I have ever observed.
McAllister was his name.He was an old man, and very shaky on his pins.His hand trembled as with a palsy, especially noticeable when he poured his whiskey, though I never knew him to spill a drop.He had been twenty-eight years in Melanesia, ranging from German New Guinea to the German Solomons, and so thoroughly had he become identified with that portion of the world, that he habitually spoke in that bastard lingo called "bech-de-mer." Thus, in conversation with me, SUN HE COME UP meant sunrise; KAI-KAI HE STOP meant that dinner was served; and BELLY BELONG ME WALK ABOUT meant that he was sick at his stomach.He was a small man, and a withered one, burned inside and outside by ardent spirits and ardent sun.He was a cinder, a bit of a clinker of a man, a little animated clinker, not yet quite cold, that moved stiffly and by starts and jerks like an automaton.A gust of wind would have blown him away.He weighed ninety pounds.
But the immense thing about him was the power with which he ruled.Oolong Atoll was one hundred and forty miles in circumference.One steered by compass course in its lagoon.It was populated by five thousand Polynesians, all strapping men and women, many of them standing six feet in height and weighing a couple of hundred pounds.Oolong was two hundred and fifty miles from the nearest land.Twice a year a little schooner called to collect copra.The one white man on Oolong was McAllister, petty trader and unintermittent guzzler; and he ruled Oolong and its six thousand savages with an iron hand.He said come, and theycame, go, and they went.They never questioned his will nor judgment.He was cantankerous as only an aged Scotchman can be, and interfered continually in their personal affairs.When Nugu, the king's daughter, wanted to marry Haunau from the other end of the atoll, her father said yes; but McAllister said no, and the marriage never came off.When the king wanted to buy a certain islet in the lagoon from the chief priest, McAllister said no.The king was in debt to the Company to the tune of 180,000 cocoanuts, and until that was paid he was not to spend a single cocoanut on anything else.
And yet the king and his people did not love McAllister.In truth, they hated him horribly, and, to my knowledge, the whole population, with the priests at the head, tried vainly for three months to pray him to death.The devil-devils they sent after him were awe-inspiring, but since McAllister did not believe in devil-devils, they were without power over him.With drunken Scotchmen all signs fail.They gathered up scraps of food which had touched his lips, an empty whiskey bottle, a cocoanut from which he had drunk, and even his spittle, and performed all kinds of deviltries over them.But McAllister lived on.His health was superb.He never caught fever; nor coughs nor colds; dysentery passed him by; and the malignant ulcers and vile skin diseases that attack blacks and whites alike in that climate never fastened upon him.He must have been so saturated with alcohol as to defy the lodgment of germs.I used to imagine them falling to the ground in showers of microscopic cinders as fast as they entered his whiskey-sodden aura.No one loved him, not even germs, while he loved only whiskey, and still he lived.
I was puzzled.I could not understand six thousand natives putting up with that withered shrimp of a tyrant.It was a miracle that he had not died suddenly long since.Unlike the cowardly Melanesians, the people were high-stomached and warlike.In the big graveyard, at head and feet of the graves, were relics of past sanguinary history--blubber-spades, rusty old bayonets and cutlasses, copper bolts, rudder-irons, harpoons, bomb guns, bricks that could have come from nowhere but a whaler's trying-out furnace, and old brass pieces of the sixteenth century that verified the traditions of the early Spanish navigators.Ship after ship had come togrief on Oolong.Not thirty years before, the whaler BLENNERDALE, running into the lagoon for repair, had been cut off with all hands.In similar fashion had the crew of the GASKET, a sandalwood trader, perished.There was a big French bark, the TOULON, becalmed off the atoll, which the islanders boarded after a sharp tussle and wrecked in the Lipau Passage, the captain and a handful of sailors escaping in the longboat.Then there were the Spanish pieces, which told of the loss of one of the early explorers.All this, of the vessels named, is a matter of history, and is to be found in the SOUTH PACIFIC SAILING DIRECTORY.But that there was other history, unwritten, I was yet to learn.In the meantime I puzzled why six thousand primitive savages let one degenerate Scotch despot live.
One hot afternoon McAllister and I sat on the veranda looking out over the lagoon, with all its wonder of jeweled colors.At our backs, across the hundred yards of palm-studded sand, the outer surf roared on the reef.It was dreadfully warm.We were in four degree south latitude and the sun was directly overhead, having crossed the Line a few days before on its journey south.There was no wind--not even a catspaw.The season of the southeast trade was drawing to an early close, and the northwest monsoon had not yet begun to blow.
"They can't dance worth a damn," said McAllister.
