Storytelling. The terrible Solomons and other stories. Сборник

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СКАЧАТЬ got to give the nigger first shot, or else the government calls it murder and you go to Fiji. That’s why there’s so many drowning accidents.”

      Dinner was called, and Bertie and the skipper went below, leaving the mate to watch on deck.

      “Keep an eye out for that black devil, Auiki,” was the skipper’s parting caution. “I haven’t liked his looks for several days.”

      “Right O,” said the mate.

      Dinner was part way along, and the skipper was in the middle of his story of the cutting out of the Scottish Chiefs.

      “Yes,” he was saying, “she was the finest vessel on the coast. But when she missed stays, and before ever she hit the reef, the canoes started for her. There were five white men, a crew of twenty Santa Cruz boys and Samoans, and only the supercargo escaped. Besides, there were sixty recruits. They were all kai-kai’d. Kai-kai? – oh, I beg your pardon. I mean they were eaten. Then there was the James Edwards, a dandy-rigged – ”

      But at that moment there was a sharp oath from the mate on deck and a chorus of savage cries. A revolver went off three times, and then was heard a loud splash. Captain Hansen had sprung up the companionway on the instant, and Bertie’s eyes had been fascinated by a glimpse of him drawing his revolver as he sprang.

      Bertie went up more circumspectly, hesitating before he put his head above the companionway slide. But nothing happened. The mate was shaking with excitement, his revolver in his hand. Once he startled, and half-jumped around, as if danger threatened his back.

      “One of the natives fell overboard,” he was saying, in a queer tense voice. “He couldn’t swim.”

      “Who was it?” the skipper demanded.

      “Auiki,” was the answer.

      “But I say, you know, I heard shots,” Bertie said, in trembling eagerness, for he scented adventure, and adventure that was happily over with.

      The mate whirled upon him, snarling:

      “It’s a damned lie. There ain’t been a shot fired. The nigger fell overboard.”

      Captain Hansen regarded Bertie with unblinking, lack-luster eyes.

      “I–I thought – ” Bertie was beginning.

      “Shots?” said Captain Hansen, dreamily. “Shots? Did you hear any shots, Mr. Jacobs?”

      “Not a shot,” replied Mr. Jacobs.

      The skipper looked at his guest triumphantly, and said:

      “Evidently an accident. Let us go down, Mr. Arkwright, and finish dinner.”

      Bertie slept that night in the captain’s cabin, a tiny stateroom off the main cabin. The for’ard bulkhead was decorated with a stand of rifles. Over the bunk were three more rifles. Under the bunk was a big drawer, which, when he pulled it out, he found filled with ammunition, dynamite, and several boxes of detonators. He elected to take the settee on the opposite side. Lying conspicuously on the small table, was the Arla’s log. Bertie did not know that it had been especially prepared for the occasion by Captain Malu, and he read therein how on September 21, two boat’s crew had fallen overboard and been drowned. Bertie read between the lines and knew better. He read how the Arla’s whale boat had been bushwhacked at Su’u and had lost three men; of how the skipper discovered the cook stewing human flesh on the galley fire – flesh purchased by the boat’s crew ashore in Fui; of how an accidental discharge of dynamite, while signaling, had killed another boat’s crew; of night attacks; ports fled from between the dawns; attacks by bushmen in mangrove swamps and by fleets of salt-water men in the larger passages. One item that occurred with monotonous frequency was death by dysentery. He noticed with alarm that two white men had so died – guests, like himself, on the Arla.

      “I say, you know,” Bertie said next day to Captain Hansen. “I’ve been glancing through your log.”

      The skipper displayed quick vexation that the log had been left lying about.

      “And all that dysentery, you know, that’s all rot, just like the accidental drownings,” Bertie continued. “What does dysentery really stand for?”

      The skipper openly admired his guest’s acumen, stiffened himself to make indignant denial, then gracefully surrendered.

      “You see, it’s like this, Mr. Arkwright. These islands have got a bad enough name as it is. It’s getting harder every day to sign on white men. Suppose a man is killed. The company has to pay through the nose for another man to take the job. But if the man merely dies of sickness, it’s all right. The new chums don’t mind disease. What they draw the line at is being murdered. I thought the skipper of the Arla had died of dysentery when I took his billet. Then it was too late. I’d signed the contract.”

      “Besides,” said Mr. Jacobs, “there’s altogether too many accidental drownings anyway. It don’t look right. It’s the fault of the government. A white man hasn’t a chance to defend himself from the niggers.”

      “Yes, look at the Princess and that Yankee mate,” the skipper took up the tale. “She carried five white men besides a government agent. The captain, the agent, and the supercargo were ashore in the two boats. They were killed to the last man. The mate and boson, with about fifteen of the crew – Samoans and Tongans – were on board. A crowd of niggers came off from shore. First thing the mate knew, the boson and the crew were killed in the first rush. The mate grabbed three cartridge belts and two Winchesters and skinned up to the cross-trees. He was the sole survivor, and you can’t blame him for being mad. He pumped one rifle till it got so hot he couldn’t hold it, then he pumped the other. The deck was black with niggers. He cleaned them out. He dropped them as they went over the rail, and he dropped them as fast as they picked up their paddles. Then they jumped into the water and started to swim for it, and being mad, he got half a dozen more. And what did he get for it?”

      “Seven years in Fiji,” snapped the mate.

      “The government said he wasn’t justified in shooting after they’d taken to the water,” the skipper explained.

      “And that’s why they die of dysentery nowadays,” the mate added.

      “Just fancy,” said Bertie, as he felt a longing for the cruise to be over.

      Later on in the day he interviewed the black who had been pointed out to him as a cannibal. This fellow’s name was Sumasai. He had spent three years on a Queensland plantation. He had been to Samoa, and Fiji, and Sydney; and as a boat’s crew had been on recruiting schooners through New Britain, New Ireland, New Guinea, and the Admiralties. Also, he was a wag, and he had taken a line on his skipper’s conduct. Yes, he had eaten many men. How many? He could not remember the tally. Yes, white men, too; they were very good, unless they were sick. He had once eaten a sick one.

      “My word!” he cried, at the recollection. “Me sick plenty along him. My belly walk about too much.”

      Bertie shuddered, and asked about heads. Yes, Sumasai had several hidden ashore, in good condition, sun-dried, and smoke-cured. One was of the captain of a schooner. It had long whiskers. He would sell it for two quid. Black men’s heads he would sell for one quid. He had some pickaninny heads, in poor condition, that he would let go for ten bob.

      Five minutes afterward, Bertie found himself sitting on the companionway-slide alongside a black with a horrible skin disease. He sheered off, and on inquiry СКАЧАТЬ