May 19, 2008
There can be something pathetic about inheritors of great wealth. Doug Meyers plaintively trying to bring us to an appreciation of the awesome responsibilities that beset the billionaire; Ollie Newlands quite genuinely bewildered when peasants on the sidewalk give him the unsolicited fingers as he drives by in his Rolls. Endowed from birth with an automatic authority whose basis they have never been called upon to question, and sheltered throughout their lives from the realities that have taught the rest of us to keep our heads down, they can be quite defenceless against the self sufficiency and “Jack’s as good as his master” attitude still to be found in the more remote outposts of civilisation.
Murray Heise had been a customs officer in Apia before the war, and as we sat at the bar of the RSA club, with the rain dripping dismally from the leaves of the banyan tree on to the tin table tops on the deserted terrace, he looked out across the misty bay and recalled the prewar visit to Apia of the 2000 ton motor yacht of one of the younger Vanderbilts. In those days of prohibition in Western Samoa one of the duties of a customs officer was to go aboard any visiting vessel and seal the liquor store for the duration of its stay. In the ordinary course of events the skipper would offer drinks and the customs man would generously leave out of bond a sufficient supply of liquor for the use of the ship's company while in port.
However, young Vanderbilt resented the intrusion of any authority on his ship, especially in such a dead and alive port as Apia, and offered not drinks, but haughty disdain. Customs officers are well accustomed to dealing with resentment among their clients, and Murray could be as haughty as anyone when the occasion called for it. He checked all the ship’s cabins and lockers for liquor, and ensured that every last bottle was securely locked away and sealed. It was going to be a dry stopover. It was not a happy ship in other respects either, and several of the crew took the opportunity to desert at Apia and disappear up country where the village life was more congenial. Vanderbilt reported the matter to the police, but what with the leisureliness of colonial law enforcement, and the heat and the desiccation, he was forced to sail for Suva without them.
In a small community like Samoa news spreads fast and it was not difficult for the police to locate the deserters when they got round to it. The deserters were duly charged and confined in the prison at Tafaigata. (This was no great hardship for I have myself seen a notice on the prison gate which says in two languages, “Prisoners who are not in by 6 pm will be locked out!”).
But the deserters now brought a counter claim against Vanderbilt for unpaid wages. This put a different complexion on the whole case.
In those days Western Samoa was still under New Zealand administration and expatriates and a small number of local Europeans held all the official positions. One may assume that the Administrator, the Chief Judge, the Comptroller of Customs, the Superintendent of Police, and the Harbourmaster all knew each other well, and probably discussed the gossip of the day on a regular basis over their gin and tonic. (Prohibition was not for everyone). Be that as it may, since the Vanderbilt yacht had left port without the matter of the deserters being settled, and the question of unpaid wages being also outstanding, someone decided that, the New Zealand cruiser Diomedes being in Suva at the time, it should be called upon to escort the Vanderbilt yacht back to Apia so that the cases could be given due process.
It was a disgruntled and aggressive Mr Vanderbilt who appeared in the High Court at Apia in his tropical whites, to give evidence relating to the desertion of his crew members. He restrained himself as well as he could while the verdict was given and the sentence passed, but when he was then called upon to answer the charge of unpaid wages his dignity rebelled. He said the charge was a mockery and the Court was a pantomime.
The presiding judge was John Luxford, who became a well known magistrate in New Zealand after his subsequent return. I suppose like the customs officers he was accustomed to bumptious witnesses of whatever rank, for the laws he was called upon to administer in Samoa under New Zealand administration were not always wise or even practically enforceable. He was not one to lose his composure.
“Twenty Pounds, Mr Vanderbilt,” he said, “for contempt of court.”
“Contempt of what bloody court?” said Vanderbilt. “I’ll buy this bloody island and sack all the public servants.
“A hundred pounds for contempt, Mr Vanderbilt. And if I hear any more of your outbursts you will find yourself sharing the accommodation up at Tafaigata with your crew members.”
And so the case concluded and the unpaid wages were added to the hundred pounds fine.
The ship’s purser paid the money on the following day, and the great yacht sailed away.