On a heavenly morning in early July, one of the workers appeared in the yard with black paint on his nose and stripes across his cheekbones. War was at hand.
For the past two months, heated talk had only grown hotter. The consuls of the Three Powers were united behind Malietoa Laupepa and eager to put down any attempt by Mata’afa at a takeover. Every trip into Apia turned up more hysterical gossip. Recently, Louis and Belle had ridden down to one of the balls that the Europeans and Americans put on to amuse themselves. A normally sensible Englishwoman told Louis that he and his family were marked for murder by Laupepa’s soldiers the moment the fighting began.
He had come back that night and taken stock of their armory. There were eight revolvers, a half-dozen Colt rifles, and a variety of old swords hanging on walls. He made a drawing of the house and its vulnerabilities. And then he set about cleaning weapons. From that night on, they heard war drums pounding in the distance.
“Poor Lafaele begged to stay here. I told him yes, of course,” Fanny said one morning at breakfast. “Whether they support Laupepa or Mata’afa, nearly all the men want to stay out of the fighting.”
“I don’t know what more I can do,” Louis said. His recent attempts to intercede had come to naught. “It will be any day now, I think,” he said. “I fear for Mata’afa.”
“I will have Lafaele butcher the big pig,” Fanny said. “Our people should eat it instead of some party of foragers.”
THE WAR WOULD last nine days. It was briefly colorful, as Moors said it would be. And then it was bloody.
“Do you remember what Clarke told us about Samoans choosing sides in a war?” Louis asked. “He said, ‘You will know where they stand when the first shot is fired, and not before.’ ”
“Apparently, a shot has been fired somewhere,” Fanny said sadly.
They were on the verandah, watching a group of their workers talking intently in a huddle on the lawn. Several of the young men had come to her and asked that their wages be held back until the fighting was over.
“Lafaele says that those who go will not support Mata’afa, even though he is a Catholic,” she said. “He says they will fight as Malietoa Laupepa’s soldiers.”
Louis shrugged. “I have no influence over that. I’m going to ride down to town to get the lay of the land. I will speak to Lloyd and Talolo and Lafaele before I go. You’ll be safe here.”
“I’m going as well.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Louis …”
“I won’t go, then.”
Fanny looked up at his eyes. “Louis, you are a chivalrous man. But I have never been very good at staying in the back room while the action is out front. I’ve been in tough situations, and I have always kept my head. If you’re afraid that I’m not recovered enough, I can assure you I haven’t seen any ghosts today.” She patted his arm. “Really, I am tip-top. And I want to see Reverend Clarke. I heard he is setting up an infirmary in the mission house. If this truly is war, they will need me.”
He sighed. “Very well.”
Is it every former madwoman’s worst nightmare to be thought crazy when she isn’t? Fanny felt that each conversation with Louis required clear proof of her sanity. Lately, she noticed people’s eyes linger a little too long on her, as if weighing the soundness of her remarks. Did they think she was a danger to herself or, worse, to them? She drew in a deep breath. One foot in front of the other, Fanny.
In town, they found the streets full of warriors, some of them mere children, with black-painted faces and red bandannas tied around their foreheads, signifying their status as Laupepa’s troops. All of them were in a high state of excitement, even the women, who carried food to the front and sometimes followed the men into battle to feed them ammunition. Along the main street, some Samoans were trying to sell their belongings. Old cherished tapa mats were being sold for a pittance so the families could get out of town. In the harbor, boatloads of men were coming from other islands to join in the fight.
They went into the general store and talked to the fellow standing in for Moors, who had gone with his wife and a handful of Samoans to Chicago for the Exposition.
“Rich, ain’t it?” said the stand-in. “Moors is up in Chicago giving kava-making demonstrations, and here I stand, trying to find more ammunition and red kerchiefs and wondering if I got enough bullets to hold down my own fort.”
At the mission house, they found Reverend Clarke, who confirmed that war was under way. “Three dead came in,” he said, “and several wounded. There is a doctor from the German man-of-war in the other room, doing surgery. I heard eleven heads were taken to the camp of Laupepa. One of the heads belonged to a girl.”
“Dear God, how can that be?” Louis said.
“She was probably mistaken for a man,” Clarke said. “Her hair was cut short.”
Louis went into the surgery room and came back looking peaked. “Two men in there are dying.”
WITHIN DAYS, MATA’AFA was thoroughly routed and taken as a prisoner of war to the Marshall Islands, while twenty-three of his subchiefs were jailed in Apia. The war stories flowed into Vailima. Villages burned. Many dead. Mata’afa’s son was killed in battle, along with his wife, who refused to stay behind. Fanny and Louis knew them both.
“Never,” Lafaele assured Fanny. Never before had women’s heads been taken. One warrior was said to have carried a man’s head triumphantly to Laupepa, only to discover upon washing off the black war paint that it was the head of his brother.
Mata’afa’s men did not take heads, the Vailima men insisted. Fanny didn’t know what to believe.