The Island Queen

Chapter Eight.

The Coronation—Crown-Making Deliberations, Ceremonials, and Catastrophes

There came a day, not many weeks later in the history of our emigrants, when great preparations were made for an important and unusual event.

This was neither more nor less than the coronation of Queen Pauline the First.

The great event had been delayed by the unfortunate illness of the elect queen herself—an illness brought on by reckless exposure in the pursuit of the picturesque and beautiful among the islets of the lagoon. In other words, Otto and she, when off on a fishing and sketching excursion in the dinghy of the wreck, had been caught in a storm and drenched to the skin. The result to Otto was an increase of appetite; to Pauline, a sharp attack of fever, which confined her for some time to the palace, as their little hut was now styled. Here the widow Lynch—acting the united parts of nurse, lady of the bedchamber, mistress of the robes, maid of honour, chef de cuisine, and any other office that the reader may recollect as belonging to royalty—did so conduct herself as to gain not only the approval but the affection and gratitude of her royal mistress.

During the period of Pauline’s convalescence considerable changes had taken place in the circumstances and condition of the community. The mere fact that a government had been fixed on, the details of which were being wrought out by a committee of leading men appointed by the people, tended to keep the turbulent spirits pretty quiet, and enabled the well-disposed to devote all their strength of mind and body to the various duties that devolved upon them and the improving of their circumstances. Busy workers are usually peaceful. They have no time to quarrel. It is only when turbulent idlers interfere with or oppress them that the industrious are compelled to show their teeth and set up their backs.

During these weeks the appearance of the shores of Big Island began to change materially. All round the edge of Silver Bay a number of bright green patches were enclosed by rough but effective fences. These were the gardens of the community, in which sweet potatoes, yams, etcetera, grew spontaneously, while some vegetables of the northern hemisphere had already been sown, and were in some cases even beginning to show above ground. In these gardens, when the important work of planting had been finished, the people set about building huts of various shapes and sizes, according to their varying taste and capacity.

Even at this early stage in the life of the little community the difficulties which necessarily surround a state of civilisation began to appear, and came out at one of the frequent, though informal, meetings of the men on the sands of Silver Bay. It happened thus:—

It was evening. The younger and more lively men of the community, having a large store of surplus energy unexhausted after the labours of the day, began, as is the wont of the young and lively, to compete with one another in feats of agility and strength, while a group of their elders stood, sat, or reclined on a bank, discussing the affairs of the nation, and some of them enjoying their pipes—for, you see, everything in the wreck having been saved, they had, among other bad things, plenty of tobacco.

Dr Marsh sat among the elders, for, although several weeks on shore had greatly restored his health, he was still too weak to join in the athletics. A few of the women and children also looked on, but they stood aside by themselves, not feeling very much interested in the somewhat heated discussions of the men.

By degrees these discussions degenerated into disputes, and became at last so noisy that the young athletes were attracted, and some of them took part in the debates.

“I tell ’ee what it is,” exclaimed Nobbs, the blacksmith, raising his powerful voice above the other voices, and lifting his huge fist in the air, “something’ll have to be done, for I can’t go on workin’ for nothin’ in this fashion.”

“No more can I, or my mates,” said Abel Welsh, the carpenter.

“Here comes the Prime Minister,” cried Teddy Malone.

“To be—he ain’t Prime Minister yet,” growled Jabez Jenkins, who, being a secret ally of Hugh Morris, was one of the disaffected, and had, besides, a natural tendency to growl and object to everything.

“He is Prime Minister,” cried the fiery little Buxley, starting up and extending his hand with the air of one who is about to make a speech. “No doubt the Queen ain’t crowned yet, an’ hasn’t therefore appointed any one to be her Minister, but we know she means to do it and we’re all agreed about it.”

“No we ain’t,” interrupted Jenkins, angrily.

“Well, the most on us, then,” retorted Buxley.

“Shut up, you radical!” said Nobbs, giving the tailor a facetious slap on the back, “an’ let’s hear what the Prime Minister himself has got to say about it.”

“What is the subject under discussion?” inquired Dominick, who, with Otto, joined the group of men at the moment and flung down a basket of fine fish which he had just caught in the lagoon.

He turned to Dr Marsh for an answer.

“Do you explain your difficulties,” said the doctor to the blacksmith.

“Well, sir,” said Nobbs, “here’s where it is. When I fust comed ashore an’ set up my anvil an’ bellows I went to work with a will, enjyin’ the fun o’ the thing an’ the novelty of the sitivation; an’ as we’d lots of iron of all kinds I knocked off nails an’ hinges an’ all sorts o’ things for anybody as wanted ’em. Similarly, w’en Abel Welsh comed ashore he went to work with his mates at the pit-saw an’ tossed off no end o’ planks, etceterer. But you see, sir, arter a time we come for to find that we’re workin’ to the whole population for nothin’, and while everybody else is working away at his own hut or garden, or what not, our gardens is left to work themselves, an’ our huts is nowhere! Now, as we’ve got no money to pay for work with, and as stones an’ shells won’t answer the purpus—seein’ there’s a sight too much of ’em—the question is, what’s to be done?”

“Not an easy question to answer, Nobbs,” said Dominick, “and one that requires serious consideration. Perhaps, instead of trying to answer it at present, we might find a temporary expedient for the difficulty until a Committee of the House—if I may say so—shall investigate the whole problem.” (Hear, hear from Malone, Redding, and Buxley, and a growl from Jenkins.) “I would suggest, then, in the meantime, that while Nobbs and Welsh,—who are, perhaps, the most useful men among us—continue to ply their trades for the benefit of the community, every man in the community shall in turn devote a small portion of time to working in the gardens and building the huts of these two men.” (Hear, hear, from a great many of the hearers, and dissenting growls from a few.) “But,” continued Dominick, “as there are evidently some here who are not of an obliging disposition, and as the principle of willing service lies at the root of all social felicity, I would further suggest that, until our Queen is crowned and the Government fairly set up, all such labour shall be undertaken entirely by volunteers.”

This proposal was agreed to with boisterous acclaim, and nearly the whole community volunteered on the spot. While this little difficulty was being overcome, Pauline lay sleeping in the palace hard by, and the enthusiastic cheer with which the conclusion of Dominick’s speech was received awoke her.

“There—I know’d they’d do it!” exclaimed the lady of the bedchamber fiercely; “lie still, cushla! an’ shut your purty eyes. Maybe you’ll drop off again!”

A humorous smile beamed in Pauline’s countenance and twinkled in her eyes.

“Thank you, dear nurse, I’ve had enough of sleep. Indeed, I begin to feel so strong that I think I shall very soon be able to undergo that—”

Pauline stopped and burst into a fit of merry laughter.

“It’s that caronation, now, ye’ll be thinkin’ av?” said the widow Lynch, with a reproving look. “Faix, it’s no laughin’ matter ye’ll find it, dear. It’s onaisy is the hid as wears a crown.”

“Why you talk, nurse, as if you had worn one yourself, and knew all about its troubles.”

“Sure, av I didn’t, me progenissors did, in Munster, before you English konkered us an’ turned us topsy-turvy. But nivver mind. I don’t bear no ill-will to ’ee, darlint, bekaise o’ the evil deeds o’ yer forefathers. I’m of a forgivin’ disposition. An’ it’s a good quane you’ll make, too, av ye don’t let the men have too much o’ their own way. But I do think that you an’ me togither’ll be more than a match for them all. D’ee think ye could stand the caronation now, dear?”

“Yes, I think I could. But really, you know, I find it so hard to believe it is not all a joke, despite the grave deputations that have waited on me, and the serious arguments they have used. The idea of making me—Me—a Queen!”

Again Pauline Rigonda gave way to merry laughter, and again did her lady of the bedchamber administer a reproof by expressing the hope that she might take the matter as lightly a year hence.

This pertinacious reference to possible trouble being mingled with the contemplated honour checked Pauline’s disposition to laugh, and she had quite recovered her gravity when her brother Otto entered.

“Pina, I’ve come to tell you that they’ve fixed the coronation for Monday next if you feel up to it, and that the new palace is begun—a very different one, let me tell you, from this wretched affair with its tumble-down walls and low roof.”

“Indeed—is it so very grand?”

“Grand! I should think it is. Why, it has got three rooms—three rooms—think o’ that! Not countin’ a splendid out-house stuck on behind, about ten feet square and over six feet high. Each of the three rooms is twelve feet long by ten broad; seven feet high, and papered with palm leaves. The middle one is the hall of Audience and Justice—or injustice if you like—the Council Chamber, the House of Parliament, the mess-room, and the drawing-room. The one on the right with two windows, from which are magnificent views, is your Majesty’s sleeping-room and boudoir; that on the left is the ditto of Prime Minister Dominick and his Chief Secretary Prince Otto. The sort of hen-coop stuck on behind is to be the abode of the Court Physician, Dr John Marsh—whom, by the way, you’ll have to knight—and with whom is to be billeted the Court Jester, Man-at-Arms, Man-of-all-work and general retainer, little Buxley. So, you see, it’s all cut and dry, though of course it will take some little time to finish the palace in all its multitudinous details. Meanwhile I have been sent to sound you as to Monday next. Will you be able and ready?”

“If I could only get myself to believe,” answered Pauline, as she leaned on one elbow on her couch, and toyed contemplatively with a fold of the shawl that covered her, “that the people are really in earnest, I—”

“Really in earnest!” repeated Otto. “Why, Pina, never were people more in earnest in this world. If you’d heard and seen them talking about it as I have, you’d not doubt their earnestness. Besides, you have no idea how needful you are to the community. The fact is, it is composed of such rough and rowdy elements—though of course there are some respectable and well-principled fellows among them—that nothing short of a power standing high above them and out o’ their reach will have any influence with them at all. There are so many strong, determined, and self-willed men amongst them that there’s no chance of their ever agreeing to submit to each other; so, you see, you are a sort of good angel before whom they will be only too glad to bow—a kind of superior being whom they will reverence and to whom they will submit—a human safety-valve, in short, to prevent the community from blowing up—a species of—of—”

Here Pauline burst into another of her irrepressible fits of laughter, and being joined therein by Prince Otto, called forth a remonstrance from Mrs Lynch, who declared that if that was the way they were goin’ to manage the affairs of state, she would be obliged to advise the settlers to change their minds and set up a republic.

“An’ sure, mother,” said Otto, who was a privileged favourite, “nothing could be better, with yourself as President.”

“Go along wid ye, boy, an’ do yer dooty. Tell the people that Miss Pauline will be ready—wind an’ weather permittin’.”

“Am I to take back that message, Pina?” asked Otto, with a look of glee.

“Well, I suppose you may.”

It was not in the nature of things that a coronation in the circumstances which we have described should take place without being more or less intermingled with the unavoidable absurdities which mark the coronations of older and more densely peopled lands. It was felt that as the act was a seriously meant reality, and no mere joke, it should be gone about and accomplished with all due solemnity and proper ceremonial, somewhat after the pattern—as Teddy Malone suggested—of a Lord Mayor’s Show; a suggestion, by the way, which did not conduce to the solemnity of the preliminary discussions.

There was one great difficulty, however, with which the embryo nation had to contend, and this was that not one of the community had ever seen a coronation, or knew how the details of the matter should be arranged.

In these circumstances an assembly of the entire nation was convened to consider the matter. As this convention embraced the women (except, of course, the queen elect), it included the babies, and as most of these were self-assertive and well-developed in chest and throat, it was found necessary to relegate them and the women to an outer circle, while the men in an inner circle tackled the problem.

The widow Lynch, being quite irrepressible except by physical force, and even by that with difficulty, was admitted on sufferance to the inner circle, and took part in the discussions.

Like most large assemblies, this one was found so unmanageable, that, after an hour or two of hopeless wrangling, Buxley the tailor started up with dishevelled hair and glaring eyeballs, and uttered a yell that produced a momentary silence. Seizing the moment, he said—

“I moves that we apint a committee to inquire into the whole matter an’ report.”

“Hear, hear, and well said!” shouted a multitude of voices.

“An’ I moves,” cried Mrs Lynch, starting forward with both arms up and all her fingers rampant, “that—”

“No, no, mother,” interrupted Buxley, “you must second the motion.”

“Howld yer tongue, ye dirty spalpeen! Isn’t it the second motion that I’m puttin’? I moves that the committee is Mr Dumnik Rig Gundy an’ Dr Marsh—”

“An’ Mister Nobbs,” shouted a voice.

“An’ Mister Joe Binney,” said another.

“An’ little Mister Buxley, be way of variashun,” cried Teddy Malone.

“An’ Mistress Lynch, for a change,” growled Jabez Jenkins.

“Hear, hear! No, no! Hurrah! Nonsense! Howld yer tongue! Be serious!”—gradually drowned in a confusion of tongues with a yelling accompaniment from infantry in the outer circle.

It was finally agreed, however, that the arrangements for the coronation should be left entirely to a committee composed of Dominick, Dr Marsh, Joe Binney, and Hugh Morris—Joe being put forward as representing the agricultural interest, and Hugh the malcontents. Teddy Malone was added to make an odd number, “for there’s luck in odd numbers,” as he himself remarked on accepting office.

Immediately after the general meeting broke up, these five retired to the privacy of a neighbouring palm grove, where, seated on a verdant and flowering bank, they proceeded calmly to discuss details.

“You see, my friends,” said Dominick, “it must be our most earnest endeavour to carry out this important matter in a serious and business-like manner. Already there is too much of a spirit of levity among the people, who seem to look at the whole affair as a sort of game or joke, playing, as it were, at national life, whereas we actually are an independent nation—”

“A small wan, av coorse,” murmured Malone.

“Yes, a small one, but not the less real on that account, so that we are entitled to manage our own affairs, arrange our own government, and, generally, to act according to our united will. These islands and their surroundings are unknown—at least they are not put down on any chart; I believe we have discovered them. There are no inhabitants to set up a counter claim; therefore, being entitled to act according to our will, our appointment of a queen to rule us—under limited powers, to be hereafter well considered and clearly written down—is a reality; not a mere play or semi-jest to be undone lightly when the fancy takes us. That being so, we must go to work with gravity and earnestness of purpose.”

Teddy Malone, who was an impressionable creature, here became so solemnised that his lengthening visage and seriously wrinkled brow rendered gravity—especially on the part of Dr Marsh—almost impossible.

Overcoming his feelings with a powerful effort the doctor assented to what Dominick said, and suggested that some mild sort of ceremonial should be devised for the coronation, in order to impress the beholders as well as to mark the event.

“That’s so,” said Teddy Malone, “somethin’ quiet an’ orderly, like an Irish wake, or—. Ah! then ye needn’t smile, doctor. It’s the quietest an’ most comfortin’ thing in life is an Irish wake whin it’s gone about properly.”

“But we don’t want comforting, Teddy,” said Dominick, “it is rather a subject for rejoicing.”

“Well, then, what’s to hinder us rejoicin’ in comfort?” returned Teddy. “At all the wakes I ivver attinded there was more rejoicin’ than comfortin’ goin’ on; but that’s a matter of taste, av coorse.”

“There’ll have to be a crown o’ some sort,” remarked Hugh Morris.

“You’re right, lad,” said Joe Binney. “It wouldn’t do to make it o’ pasteboard, would it? P’r’aps that ’ud be too like playin’ at a game, an’ tin would be little better.”

“What else can we make it of, boys?” said Malone, “we’ve got no goold here—worse luck! but maybe the carpenter cud make wan o’ wood. With a lick o’ yellow paint it would look genuine.”

“Nonsense, Teddy,” said the doctor, “don’t you see that in this life men should always be guided by circumstances, and act with propriety. Here we are on an island surrounded by coral reefs, going to elect a queen; what more appropriate than that her crown should be made of coral.”

“The very thing, doctor,” cried Malone, with emphasis, “och! it’s the genius ye have! There’s all kinds o’ coral, red and white, an’ we could mix it up wi’ some o’ that fine-coloured seaweed to make it purty.”