He was a very sick white man.
He rode pick-a-back on a woolly-
headed, black-skinned savage,
the lobes of whose ears had been
pierced and stretched until one
had torn out, while the other
carried a circular block of carved
wood three inches in diameter.
The torn ear had been pierced
again, but this time not so ambitiously,
for the hole accommodated no
more than a short clay pipe.
The man-horse was greasy and
dirty, and naked save for an
exceedingly narrow and dirty
loin-cloth; but the white man
clung to him closely and desperately.
At times, from weakness, his
head drooped and rested on the
woolly pate. At other times he
lifted his head and stared with
swimming eyes at the cocoanut
palms that reeled and swung in
the shimmering heat. He was clad
in a thin undershirt and a strip
of cotton cloth, that wrapped
about his waist and descended
to his knees. On his head was
a battered Stetson, known to
the trade as a Baden-Powell.
About his middle was strapped
a belt, which carried a large-calibred
automatic pistol and several
spare clips, loaded and ready
for quick work.
The rear was brought up by
a black boy of fourteen or fifteen,
who carried medicine bottles,
a pail of hot water, and various
other hospital appurtenances.
They passed out of the compound
through a small wicker gate,
and went on under the blazing
sun, winding about among new-planted
cocoanuts that threw no shade.
There was not a breath of wind,
and the superheated, stagnant
air was heavy with pestilence.
From the direction they were
going arose a wild clamour, as
of lost souls wailing and of
men in torment. A long, low shed
showed ahead, grass-walled and
grass-thatched, and it was from
here that the noise proceeded.
There were shrieks and screams,
some unmistakably of grief, others
unmistakably of unendurable pain.
As the white man drew closer
he could hear a low and continuous
moaning and groaning. He shuddered
at the thought of entering, and
for a moment was quite certain
that he was going to faint. For
that most dreaded of Solomon
Island scourges, dysentery, had
struck Berande plantation, and
he was all alone to cope with
it. Also, he was afflicted himself.
By stooping
close, still on man-back, he
managed to pass
through the low doorway. He took
a small bottle from his follower,
and sniffed strong ammonia to
clear his senses for the ordeal.
Then he shouted, "Shut up!" and
the clamour stilled. A raised
platform of forest slabs, six
feet wide, with a slight pitch,
extended the full length of the
shed. Alongside of it was a yard-wide
run-way. Stretched on the platform,
side by side and crowded close,
lay a score of blacks. That they
were low in the order of human
life was apparent at a glance.
They were man-eaters. Their faces
were asymmetrical, bestial; their
bodies were ugly and ape-like.
They wore nose-rings of clam-shell
and turtle-shell, and from the
ends of their noses which were
also pierced, projected horns
of beads strung on stiff wire.
Their ears were pierced and distended
to accommodate wooden plugs and
sticks, pipes, and all manner
of barbaric ornaments. Their
faces and bodies were tattooed
or scarred in hideous designs.
In their sickness they wore no
clothing, not even loin-cloths,
though they retained their shell
armlets, their bead necklaces,
and their leather belts, between
which and the skin were thrust
naked knives. The bodies of many
were covered with horrible sores.
Swarms of flies rose and settled,
or flew back and forth in clouds.
The white man went down the
line, dosing each man with medicine.
To some he gave chlorodyne. He
was forced to concentrate with
all his will in order to remember
which of them could stand ipecacuanha,
and which of them were constitutionally
unable to retain that powerful
drug. One who lay dead he ordered
to be carried out. He spoke in
the sharp, peremptory manner
of a man who would take no nonsense,
and the well men who obeyed his
orders scowled malignantly. One
muttered deep in his chest as
he took the corpse by the feet.
The white man exploded in speech
and action. It cost him a painful
effort, but his arm shot out,
landing a back- hand blow on
the black's mouth.
"What name you, Angara?" he
shouted. "What for talk 'long
you, eh? I knock seven bells
out of you, too much, quick!"
With the automatic swiftness
of a wild animal the black gathered
himself to spring. The anger
of a wild animal was in his eyes;
but he saw the white man's hand
dropping to the pistol in his
belt. The spring was never made.
The tensed body relaxed, and
the black, stooping over the
corpse, helped carry it out.
This time there was no muttering.
"Swine!" the
white man gritted out through
his teeth at the
whole breed of Solomon Islanders.
He was very sick, this white
man, as sick as the black men
who lay helpless about him, and
whom he attended. He never knew,
each time he entered the festering
shambles, whether or not he would
be able to complete the round.
But he did know in large degree
of certainty that, if he ever
fainted there in the midst of
the blacks, those who were able
would be at his throat like ravening
wolves.
Part way down the line a man
was dying. He gave orders for
his removal as soon as he had
breathed his last. A black stuck
his head inside the shed door,
saying, -
"Four fella
sick too much."
Fresh cases, still able to
walk, they clustered about the
spokesman. The white man singled
out the weakest, and put him
in the place just vacated by
the corpse. Also, he indicated
the next weakest, telling him
to wait for a place until the
next man died. Then, ordering
one of the well men to take a
squad from the field- force and
build a lean-to addition to the
hospital, he continued along
the run-way, administering medicine
and cracking jokes in beche-de-mer
English to cheer the sufferers.
Now and again, from the far end,
a weird wail was raised. When
he arrived there he found the
noise was emitted by a boy who
was not sick. The white man's
wrath was immediate.
"What name you sing out alla
time?" he demanded.
"Him fella my brother belong
me," was the answer. "Him fella
die too much."
"You sing out, him fella brother
belong you die too much," the
white man went on in threatening
tones. "I cross too much along
you. What name you sing out,
eh? You fat-head make um brother
belong you die dose up too much.
You fella finish sing out, savvee?
You fella no finish sing out
I make finish damn quick."
He threatened the wailer with
his fist, and the black cowered
down, glaring at him with sullen
eyes.
"Sing out no good little bit," the
white man went on, more gently. "You
no sing out. You chase um fella
fly. Too much strong fella fly.
You catch water, washee brother
belong you; washee plenty too
much, bime bye brother belong
you all right. Jump!" he shouted
fiercely at the end, his will
penetrating the low intelligence
of the black with dynamic force
that made him jump to the task
of brushing the loathsome swarms
of flies away.
Again he rode out into the
reeking heat. He clutched the
black's neck tightly, and drew
a long breath; but the dead air
seemed to shrivel his lungs,
and he dropped his head and dozed
till the house was reached. Every
effort of will was torture, yet
he was called upon continually
to make efforts of will. He gave
the black he had ridden a nip
of trade-gin. Viaburi, the house-boy,
brought him corrosive sublimate
and water, and he took a thorough
antiseptic wash. He dosed himself
with chlorodyne, took his own
pulse, smoked a thermometer,
and lay back on the couch with
a suppressed groan. It was mid-afternoon,
and he had completed his third
round that day. He called the
house-boy.
"Take um big fella look along
Jessie," he commanded.
The boy carried the long telescope
out on the veranda, and searched
the sea.
"One fella schooner long way
little bit," he announced. "One
fella Jessie."
The white man gave a little
gasp of delight.
"You make um Jessie, five sticks
tobacco along you," he said.
There was silence for a time,
during which he waited with eager
impatience.
"Maybe Jessie, maybe other
fella schooner," came the faltering
admission.
The man wormed to the edge
of the couch, and slipped off
to the floor on his knees. By
means of a chair he drew himself
to his feet. Still clinging to
the chair, supporting most of
his weight on it, he shoved it
to the door and out upon the
veranda. The sweat from the exertion
streamed down his face and showed
through the undershirt across
his shoulders. He managed to
get into the chair, where he
panted in a state of collapse.
In a few minutes he roused himself.
The boy held the end of the telescope
against one of the veranda scantlings,
while the man gazed through it
at the sea. At last he picked
up the white sails of the schooner
and studied them.
"No Jessie," he said very quietly. "That's
the Malakula."
He changed his seat for a steamer
reclining-chair. Three hundred
feet away the sea broke in a
small surf upon the beach. To
the left he could see the white
line of breakers that marked
the bar of the Balesuna River,
and, beyond, the rugged outline
of Savo Island. Directly before
him, across the twelve-mile channel,
lay Florida Island; and, farther
to the right, dim in the distance,
he could make out portions of
Malaita--the savage island, the
abode of murder, and robbery,
and man-eating--the place from
which his own two hundred plantation
hands had been recruited. Between
him and the beach was the cane-grass
fence of the compound. The gate
was ajar, and he sent the house-boy
to close it. Within the fence
grew a number of lofty cocoanut
palms. On either side the path
that led to the gate stood two
tall flagstaffs. They were reared
on artificial mounds of earth
that were ten feet high. The
base of each staff was surrounded
by short posts, painted white
and connected by heavy chains.
The staffs themselves were like
ships' masts, with topmasts spliced
on in true nautical fashion,
with shrouds, ratlines, gaffs,
and flag-halyards. From the gaff
of one, two gay flags hung limply,
one a checkerboard of blue and
white squares, the other a white
pennant centred with a red disc.
It was the international code
signal of distress.
On the far corner of the compound
fence a hawk brooded. The man
watched it, and knew that it
was sick. He wondered idly if
it felt as bad as he felt, and
was feebly amused at the thought
of kinship that somehow penetrated
his fancy. He roused himself
to order the great bell to be
rung as a signal for the plantation
hands to cease work and go to
their barracks. Then he mounted
his man-horse and made the last
round of the day.
In the hospital were two new
cases. To these he gave castor-oil.
He congratulated himself. It
had been an easy day. Only three
had died. He inspected the copra-drying
that had been going on, and went
through the barracks to see if
there were any sick lying hidden
and defying his rule of segregation.
Returned to the house, he received
the reports of the boss-boys
and gave instructions for next
day's work. The boat's crew boss
also he had in, to give assurance,
as was the custom nightly, that
the whale-boats were hauled up
and padlocked. This was a most
necessary precaution, for the
blacks were in a funk, and a
whale-boat left lying on the
beach in the evening meant a
loss of twenty blacks by morning.
Since the blacks were worth thirty
dollars apiece, or less, according
to how much of their time had
been worked out, Berande plantation
could ill afford the loss. Besides,
whale-boats were not cheap in
the Solomons; and, also, the
deaths were daily reducing the
working capital. Seven blacks
had fled into the bush the week
before, and four had dragged
themselves back, helpless from
fever, with the report that two
more had been killed and kai-kai'd
{1} by the hospitable bushmen.
The seventh man was still at
large, and was said to be working
along the coast on the lookout
to steal a canoe and get away
to his own island.
Viaburi brought two lighted
lanterns to the white man for
inspection. He glanced at them
and saw that they were burning
brightly with clear, broad flames,
and nodded his head. One was
hoisted up to the gaff of the
flagstaff, and the other was
placed on the wide veranda. They
were the leading lights to the
Berande anchorage, and every
night in the year they were so
inspected and hung out.
He rolled back on his couch
with a sigh of relief. The day's
work was done. A rifle lay on
the couch beside him. His revolver
was within reach of his hand.
An hour passed, during which
he did not move. He lay in a
state of half-slumber, half-coma.
He became suddenly alert. A creak
on the back veranda was the cause.
The room was L-shaped; the corner
in which stood his couch was
dim, but the hanging lamp in
the main part of the room, over
the billiard table and just around
the corner, so that it did not
shine on him, was burning brightly.
Likewise the verandas were well
lighted. He waited without movement.
The creaks were repeated, and
he knew several men lurked outside.
"What name?" he
cried sharply.
The house, raised a dozen feet
above the ground, shook on its
pile foundations to the rush
of retreating footsteps.
"They're getting bold," he
muttered. "Something will have
to be done."
The full moon rose over Malaita
and shone down on Berande. Nothing
stirred in the windless air.
From the hospital still proceeded
the moaning of the sick. In the
grass-thatched barracks nearly
two hundred woolly-headed man-eaters
slept off the weariness of the
day's toil, though several lifted
their heads to listen to the
curses of one who cursed the
white man who never slept. On
the four verandas of the house
the lanterns burned. Inside,
between rifle and revolver, the
man himself moaned and tossed
in intervals of troubled sleep.
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