South Sea Tales HTML version
The Inevitable White Man
"The black will never understand the white, nor the white the black, as long as black is
black and white is white."
So said Captain Woodward. We sat in the parlor of Charley Roberts' pub in Apia,
drinking long Abu Hameds compounded and shared with us by the aforesaid Charley
Roberts, who claimed the recipe direct from Stevens, famous for having invented the Abu
Hamed at a time when he was spurred on by Nile thirst--the Stevens who was responsible
for "With Kitchener to Kartoun," and who passed out at the siege of Ladysmith.
Captain Woodward, short and squat, elderly, burned by forty years of tropic sun, and with
the most beautiful liquid brown eyes I ever saw in a man, spoke from a vast experience.
The crisscross of scars on his bald pate bespoke a tomahawk intimacy with the black, and
of equal intimacy was the advertisement, front and rear, on the right side of his neck,
where an arrow had at one time entered and been pulled clean through. As he explained,
he had been in a hurry on that occasion--the arrow impeded his running--and he felt that
he could not take the time to break off the head and pull out the shaft the way it had come
in. At the present moment he was commander of the SAVAII, the big steamer that
recruited labor from the westward for the German plantations on Samoa.
"Half the trouble is the stupidity of the whites," said Roberts, pausing to take a swig from
his glass and to curse the Samoan bar-boy in affectionate terms. "If the white man would
lay himself out a bit to understand the workings of the black man's mind, most of the
messes would be avoided."
"I've seen a few who claimed they understood niggers," Captain Woodward retorted,
"and I always took notice that they were the first to be kai-kai'd (eaten). Look at the
missionaries in New Guinea and the New Hebrides--the martyr isle of Erromanga and all
the rest. Look at the Austrian expedition that was cut to pieces in the Solomons, in the
bush of Guadalcanar. And look at the traders themselves, with a score of years'
experience, making their brag that no nigger would ever get them, and whose heads to
this day are ornamenting the rafters of the canoe houses. There was old Johnny Simons--
twenty-six years on the raw edges of Melanesia, swore he knew the niggers like a book
and that they'd never do for him, and he passed out at Marovo Lagoon, New Georgia, had
his head sawed off by a black Mary (woman) and an old nigger with only one leg, having
left the other leg in the mouth of a shark while diving for dynamited fish. There was Billy
Watts, horrible reputation as a nigger killer, a man to scare the devil. I remember lying at
Cape Little, New Ireland you know, when the niggers stole half a case of trade-tobacco--
cost him about three dollars and a half. In retaliation he turned out, shot six niggers,
smashed up their war canoes and burned two villages. And it was at Cape Little, four
years afterward, that he was jumped along with fifty Buku boys he had with him fishing
bˆche-de-mer. In five minutes they were all dead, with the exception of three boys who
got away in a canoe. Don't talk to me about understanding the nigger. The white man's