Jack london - scary solomon islands

Bertie Arkwright came to the Solomon Islands to get acquainted with their bright and harsh life ...

Undoubtedly, the Solomon Islands is a destitute and inhospitable land. There are, of course, worse places in the world. But to a novice who is unable to understand life and people in their original, unsightly rudeness, the Solomon Islands can seem truly scary.

Indeed, fever and dysentery tirelessly roam there, patients with disgusting skin diseases are found at every step, and the air is saturated with poison that penetrates into every pore, scratch or abrasion, giving rise to malignant ulcers. Many who escaped death in the Solomon Islands return to their homeland in pitiful ruins. It is also known that the natives of the Solomon Islands are a wild people, addicted to human flesh and inclined to collect human heads. It is considered a courageous act for them to attack a person from behind and inflict a well-aimed blow with a tomahawk, dissecting the spine at the base of the brain. No less true are rumors about some of these islands, such as Malaita, where a person's social status is determined by the number of murders committed by him. Heads are bargaining value there, preference is always given to the head of a white person. Very often, month after month, several villages put their supplies into a common cauldron, until some brave warrior presents them with a fresh, bloody head of a white man and demands the whole cauldron in exchange.

All of the above is true; and meanwhile, some white people have been living on the Solomon Islands for decades and, leaving them, feel melancholy and a desire to return. A person intending to settle there for a long time must have a certain caution and a kind of happiness. In addition, he must belong to a special category of people. His soul must be marked with the stigma of a white man. He must be unforgiving. He must face all kinds of unforeseen surprises with equanimity and be distinguished by boundless self-confidence, as well as racial selfishness, convincing him that on any day of the week a white man is worth a thousand blacks, and on Sunday he is allowed to destroy them in large numbers. All these qualities make a white person adamant. Yes, there is one more circumstance: the white, who wants to be adamant, not only must despise other races and have a high opinion of himself, but must also not give free rein to the imagination. He does not need to delve into the mores, customs and psychology of black, yellow and brown people, because it is not at all in this way White race paved her royal path across the globe.

Bertie Arkwright was not adamant. He was too sensitive, sophisticated and overly imaginative. He perceived all impressions too painfully, reacted too sharply to his surroundings. Therefore, the Solomon Islands was the most inappropriate place for him. He was not going to settle there for long. A five-week stay in the Solomon Islands before the arrival of the next steamer seemed to him quite enough to satisfy the craving for the primitive that took possession of his entire being. At least that's what he said, albeit in different terms, to the tourists on the Macambo; they admired his heroism: these were the ladies who were doomed to stay on the dull and safe deck of the steamer making its way between the Solomon Islands.

There was another man on board, but the ladies ignored him. It was a small, hunched creature with wrinkled mahogany skin. His name, entered in the passenger list, is of no interest, but his other name - Captain Malu - was sworn to the natives; they scared small children all over the area from New Hanover to the New Hebrides. He exploited the labor of savages, suffered from fevers and all sorts of hardships, and with the help of rifles and scourges of overseers made himself a fortune of five million, which consisted of sea snails, sandalwood, mother of pearl, tortoiseshell, elephants, copra, land, trading posts and plantations. Captain Malu's broken pinky had more strength than Bertie Arkwright's whole person. But the tourist ladies were used to judging only by appearance, and Bertie was undoubtedly handsome.

Scary Solomon Islands

Hardly anyone would argue that the Solomon Islands is a heavenly place, although, on the other hand, there are worse places in the world. But to a newcomer unfamiliar with life far from civilization, the Solomon Islands may seem like a living hell.
True, there is still raging tropical fever, and dysentery, and all sorts of skin diseases; the air is so thoroughly saturated with poison, which seeps into every scratch and abrasion, turns them into festering ulcers, so that rarely anyone can get out of there alive, and even the strongest and healthiest people often return to their homeland in pitiful ruins. It is also true that the native inhabitants of the Solomon Islands are still in a rather wild state; they eagerly eat human flesh and are obsessed with collecting human heads. Sneaking up to your victim from behind and with one blow of a club to kill her vertebrae at the base of the skull is considered the height of the hunting art there. Until now, on some islands, as, for example, in Malaita, the weight of a person in society depends on the number of those killed by him, as in ours - on the current bank account; human heads are the most traded commodities, and whites are especially prized. Very often, several villages add up and start a common cauldron, which is replenished from month to month, until some brave warrior presents a fresh white head, with blood not yet caked on it, and demands in exchange all the accumulated good.
All this is true, and yet there are dozens of white people living in the Solomon Islands and longing when they have to leave them. White can live a long time in the Solomon Islands - for this he needs only caution and luck, and besides, he needs to be indomitable. His thoughts and deeds should be marked with the seal of indomitability. He must be able to meet failure with magnificent indifference, must have colossal conceit, the confidence that whatever he does is right; must, finally, unswervingly believe in his racial superiority and never doubt that one white man can handle a thousand blacks at any time, and on Sundays, two thousand. This is what made the white man indomitable. Yes, and one more circumstance: the white, who wants to be indomitable, not only must deeply despise all other races and put himself above all, but must also be devoid of any fantasies. He should also not delve into the motives, thoughts and customs of black, yellow and red, for this was not at all the white race was guided, making its triumphant march around everything. the globe.
Bertie Arkwright was not one of those whites. For this, he was too nervous and sensitive, with an overdeveloped imagination. He perceived all impressions too painfully, reacted too sharply to his surroundings. Therefore, the Solomon Islands was the most inappropriate place for him. True, he was not going to stay there for a long time. Five weeks, until the next steamer arrived, was, in his opinion, quite enough to satisfy the craving for the primitive, which tickled his nerves so pleasantly. At least this way - albeit in slightly different terms - he expounded his plans to his fellow travelers on "Makembo", and they looked at him as a hero, for they themselves, as befits traveling ladies, intended to get acquainted with the Solomon Islands without leaving the steamer decks.
There was another passenger on board the ship, who, however, did not receive the attention of the fair sex. It was a small, wrinkled man with a tanned daughter's face, withered by the winds and the sun. His name - the one under which he was on the passenger list - did not tell anyone anything. But the nickname - Captain Malu - was well known to all the natives from New Hanover to the New Hebrides; they even frightened naughty children with them. Using everything - the labor of savages, the most barbaric measures, fever and hunger, bullets and scourges of overseers - he made a fortune of five million, expressed in vast reserves of trepang and sandalwood, mother of pearl and tortoiseshell, palm nuts and copra, in land plots, trading posts and plantations.
There was more indomitability in Captain Malu's one crippled little finger than in Bertie Arkwright's entire being. But what can you do! Traveling ladies are judged mainly by their appearance, and Bertie's appearance has always won him the sympathy of the ladies.
Speaking once with Captain Malu in the smoking room, Bertie revealed to him his firm intention to experience "the stormy and dangerous life in the Solomon Islands," so he put it on this occasion. Captain Malu agreed that this was a very bold and man-worthy intention. But it wasn't until a few days later that Bertie really got interested in Bertie, when he decided to show him his 44-caliber automatic pistol. Explaining the loading system, Bertie inserted the loaded magazine into the handle for clarity.
“See how easy it is,” he said, pulling the barrel back. - The pistol is now loaded and the hammer cocked. All that remains is to pull the trigger, up to eight times, at whatever speed you want. Look here at the fuse latch. This is what I like the most about this system. Complete safety! The possibility of an accident is absolutely excluded! - He pulled out the store and continued: - Here! See how secure this system is?
While Bertie was manipulating, Captain Malu's faded eyes watched the pistol intently, especially towards the end, when the muzzle came right in the direction of his belly.
“Be so kind as point your pistol at something else,” he said.
“It's not loaded,” Bertie reassured him. - I pulled out the store. And unloaded pistols don't fire, as you know.
- It happens that the stick shoots.
- This system will not fire.
- And you still turn it the other way.
Captain Malu spoke softly and calmly, with a metallic note in his voice, but his eyes never left the barrel of the gun until Bertie finally turned him aside.
“You want a five-pound bet that the pistol is not loaded? Bertie exclaimed fervently.
His interlocutor shook his head negatively.
- Well, I'll prove to you ...
And Bertie held the pistol to his temple with the obvious intention of pulling the trigger.
“Wait a minute,” the captain said calmly to Malu, holding out his hand.
- Let me take one more look at him.
He pointed his pistol out to sea and pulled the trigger. A deafening shot rang out, the mechanism clicked and threw a smoking sleeve onto the deck. Bertie froze with his mouth open.
- I seem to have pulled back the barrel, right? he muttered. - So silly…
He smiled pitifully and sat down heavily in a chair. There was no blood in his face, dark circles appeared under his eyes, his hands were shaking so that he could not bring a trembling cigarette to his mouth. He had too much imagination: he already saw himself prostrate on deck with a bullet in his head.
- That's the story! he stammered.
“Nothing, good thing,” the captain said to Malu, returning the pistol.
A government resident returning from Sydney was aboard the Makembo, and with his permission the steamer entered Ugi to disembark the missionary. In Ugi there was a small two-masted boat "Arla" under the command of the skipper Hansen. The Arla, like many other things, also belonged to Captain Mal: and at his invitation, Bertie crossed over to her to stay there for several days and take part in a recruiting voyage along the coast of Malaita. Four days later, he was to be dropped off at the Reminge plantation (also the property of Captain Malu), where he could live for a week, and then go to Tulagi - the residence of the resident - and stay at his house. It remains to mention two offers of Captain Malu, made by him to skipper Hansen and Mr. Garivel, the plantation manager, after which he disappears from our narrative for a long time. The essence of both proposals boiled down to the same thing - to show Mr. Bertram Arkwright "the turbulent and dangerous life in the Solomon Islands." It is also said that Captain Malu hinted that whoever gives Mr. Arkwright the most vivid experience will receive an award in the form of a box of Scotch whiskey.

Between us, Swartz has always been a decent idiot. Once he took four of his rowers to Tulagi to be flogged there - of course, quite officially. And with them I went back on the whaleboat. There was a little storm in the sea, and the whaleboat capsized. All were saved, well, and Swartz - Swartz drowned. It was, of course, an accident.
- How is it? Very interesting, ”Bertie remarked absently, as all his attention was absorbed by the black giant at the helm.
Ugi stayed astern, and the Arla glided effortlessly across the sparkling sea, heading for the densely forested shores of Malaita. Through the tip of the nose of the helmsman, who so attracted Bertie's attention, was smartly threaded a large nail, a necklace of trouser buttons flaunted around his neck, a can opener, a broken toothbrush, a clay pipe, a brass alarm wheel, and several Winchester cartridge cases hung in his ears; a half of a china plate dangled across his chest. On deck in different places spread out about forty blacks, painted in much the same way. Fifteen of them were the crew of the ship, the rest were recruited workers.
“Of course, an accident,” said Arla's mate Jacobs, thin, with dark eyes, more like a professor than a sailor. “Johnny Bedil almost had the same accident. He was also taking home some carved ones, and they turned the boat over for him. But he swam no worse than them and escaped with the help of a boat hook and a revolver, and two black men drowned. Also an accident.
“It happens here quite often,” said the skipper. “Look at that guy at the helm, Mr. Arkwright! After all, a real cannibal. Six months ago, he, along with the rest of the crew, drowned the then skipper of the Arla. Right on deck, sir, over there by the mizzen mast.
- And what kind of deck they brought - it was scary to look, - said the assistant.
- Excuse me, you mean? .. - began Bertie.
“Here, here,” interrupted the skipper Hansen. - Accident. A man drowned.
- But what about - on deck?
- Yes, just like that. Between us, they used an ax.
- And this is your current crew ?!
Skipper Hansen nodded.
“That skipper was too careless,” the mate explained. - I turned my back on them, well ... and got hurt.
“We'll have to avoid unnecessary noise,” the skipper complained. - The government is always worth the blacks. We cannot shoot first, but must wait for the black one to shoot. Otherwise the government will declare it murder and you will be sent to Fiji. This is why there are so many accidents. Drowning, what can you do.
Dinner was served, and Bertie and the skipper went downstairs, leaving the mate on deck.
“Keep your eye on this feature of Auki,” the skipper warned at parting. - Something I don't like his face lately.
“Okay,” the assistant replied.
Lunch was not over yet, and the skipper was just halfway through his story of how the crew was slaughtered on the Chiefs of Scotland.
“Yes,” he said, “it was an excellent ship, one of the best on the coast. They did not have time to turn in time, well, and ran into a reef, and then immediately a whole flotilla of canoes pounced on them. On board there were five whites and twenty crewmen from Samoa and Santa Cruz, and one second mate escaped. In addition, sixty people were killed. All their savages are kai-kai. What is kai-kai? I'm sorry, I wanted to say - they all ate. Then there was James Edwards, well equipped ...
Loud cursing from the mate interrupted the skipper. Wild screams rang out on deck, then three shots rang out, and something heavy fell into the water. In one leap, skipper Hansen took off up the gangway leading to the deck, pulling out his revolver as he walked. Bertie climbed up, too, though not so quickly, and cautiously stuck his head out of the hatch. But nothing happened. The mate stood on deck, revolver in hand, shaking as if in a fever. Suddenly he shuddered and jumped to the side, as if he was in danger from behind.
“The native fell overboard,” he reported in a strange, ringing voice. “He couldn't swim.
- Who was that? the skipper asked sternly.
- Auki!
“Excuse me, I think I heard shots,” Bertie intervened, experiencing a pleasant thrill from the awareness of danger - all the more pleasant since the danger had already passed.
The assistant turned to him abruptly and growled:
- Lies! Nobody fired. Black eyed just fell overboard.
Hansen looked at Bertie with unblinking, unseeing eyes.
“It seemed to me…” Bertie began.
- Shots? - said the skipper thoughtfully. “Did you hear the shots, Mr. Jacobs?
“Not a single one,” the assistant answered.
The skipper turned triumphantly to his guest.
- Obviously an accident. Let's go downstairs, Mr. Arkwright, and finish lunch.
That night, Bertie slept in a tiny cabin, fenced off from the wardroom and importantly called the captain's cabin. There was a rifle pyramid at the bow bulkhead. Three more guns hung over the head of the bunk. Under the bunk was a large box in which Bertie found cartridges, dynamite, and several boxes of fuse-cord. Bertie chose to move to the sofa on the opposite wall, and then his eyes fell on the ship's log "Arly", which lay on the table. It never occurred to him that this magazine had been made by Captain Malu especially for him. Bertie learned from the magazine that on the twenty-first of September two sailors fell overboard and drowned. But now Bertie had already learned to read between the lines and knew how to understand it. Then he read about how in the thickets on Suu a whaleboat from "Arla" was ambushed and lost three people killed; how the skipper discovered in the cook's cauldron human meat, which the team had bought when they went ashore in Fuy; how during the signaling, an accidental explosion of dynamite killed all the rowers in the boat. He also read about night attacks on the schooner, about her haste escape from the camps under the cover of night darkness, about the attacks of forest dwellers on the crew in the mangroves, and about battles with savages in lagoons and bays. Every now and then Bertie ran across cases of death from dysentery. With fear he noticed that two whites had died in this way, like him who had stayed on the Arles.
- Listen, uh! - Bertie turned the next day to the skipper Hansen. - I looked in your logbook ...
The skipper was apparently extremely annoyed that the ship's log caught the eye of a stranger.
“So this dysentery is the same nonsense as all your accidents,” Bertie continued. - What does dysentery really mean?
The skipper was amazed at the insight of his guest, made an attempt to deny everything, then confessed.
“You see, Mr. Arkwright, this is the point. These islands already have a sad reputation. It is getting harder every day to recruit whites for the work here. Suppose a white man is killed - the Company will have to pay big money to lure another here. And if he died of an illness - well, then nothing. Newbies don't mind disease, they just don't agree to be killed. When I came here to the Arla, I was sure that her former skipper had died of dysentery. Then I found out the truth, but it was too late: I signed a contract.
“Besides,” added Mr. Jacobs, “there are too many accidents. This can lead to unnecessary conversations. And the government is to blame for everything. What else remains to do if white does not have the ability to protect himself from black masses?
“That's right,” said skipper Hansen. “Take the case of The Princess and this Yankee who served as her assistant. Besides him, there were five other whites on the ship, including a government agent. The skipper, agent and second mate went ashore in two boats. They were all killed to one. The mate, the boatswain and fifteen crew members, natives of Samoa and Tonga, remained on the ship. A crowd of savages came from the shore. The assistant did not even have time to look back, as the boatswain and the crew were killed. Then he grabbed three cartridge belts and two Winchesters, climbed onto the mast and began to shoot from there. He seemed furious at the thought that all his comrades had died. He fired from one gun until it was hot. Then he took up something else. The deck was black with savages - well, he finished them all. He hit them in flight when they jumped overboard, hit them in boats before they had time to grab the oars. Then they began to throw themselves into the water, they thought to get to the shore by swimming, but he was already so furious that he shot another half dozen in the water. And what did he receive as a reward?
“Seven years of hard labor in Fiji,” said the assistant sullenly.
“Yes, the government said that he had no right to shoot savages in the water,” explained the skipper.
“That's why they're dying of dysentery now,” Jacobs finished.
“Just think,” Bertie remarked, feeling a burning desire that this trip would end soon.
On the same day he had a conversation with a native, who, as he was told, was a cannibal. The native's name was Sumazai. For three years he worked on a plantation in Queensland, visited Sydney, Samoa and Fiji. As a sailor on a recruiting schooner, he traveled to almost all the islands - New Britain and New Ireland, New Guinea and the Admiralty Islands. He was a great joker and in conversation with Bertie followed the example of the skipper. Did he eat human flesh? Happened. How many times? Well, do you remember. I also ate whites. Delicious, but not when they are sick. Once it happened to him to try the patient.
- Ugh! Bad! - he exclaimed with disgust, remembering this meal. - Later I myself was very sick, I almost got my guts out.
Bertie winced, but he bravely continued his inquiries. Does Sumazai have the heads of the slain? Yes, he hid several heads on the shore, all of them in good condition - dried and smoked. One with long sideburns is the head of the schooner skipper. He agrees to sell it for two pounds, and the black heads for a pound each. He also has several children's heads, but they are poorly preserved. For them, he asks for only ten shillings.
A little later, sitting down in thought on the gangplank, Bertie suddenly found next to him a native with some terrible skin disease. He jumped up and hurried away. When he asked what this guy had, he was told - leprosy. Like lightning, he flew into his cabin and washed himself thoroughly with antiseptic soap. During the day he had to wash several more times, as it turned out that all the natives on board were sick with one or another infectious disease.
As the Arla dropped anchor in the mangrove swamps, a double row of barbed wire was stretched over the side. It looked very impressive, and when a multitude of canoes appeared nearby, in which the natives were sitting, armed with spears, bows and rifles, Bertie thought once again that it would be good to end the trip sooner.
That evening the natives were in no hurry to leave the ship, although they were not allowed to remain on board after sunset. They even became insolent when the assistant ordered them to get out.
- Nothing, now they will sing differently with me, - said the skipper Hansen, diving into the hatch.
When he returned, he surreptitiously showed Bertie a wand with a fish hook attached to it. A simple chemist's bottle of chlorine, wrapped in paper, with a piece of fuse cord tied to it, may well pass for a stick of dynamite. Both Bertie and the natives were deceived. As soon as skipper Hansen set fire to the cord and hooked the hook to the loincloth of the first savage he came across, he was immediately seized with a passionate desire to find himself as soon as possible on the shore. Forgetting everything in the world and not guessing to throw off the bandage, the unfortunate man rushed to the side. Behind him, hissing and smoking, a cord dragged, and the natives began to rush headlong through the barbed wire into the sea. Bertie was horrified. Skipper Hansen too. Still would! The twenty-five natives he had recruited - for each he paid thirty shillings in advance - jumped overboard with local residents... He was followed by the one with the smoking bottle.
What happened next with this bottle, Bertie did not see, but since at that very time the assistant blew up a real stick of dynamite in the stern, which, of course, did not cause any harm to anyone, but Bertie with a clear conscience would have sworn in court that he had a native eyes ripped to shreds.
The flight of the twenty-five recruits had cost the captain of the Arla forty pounds sterling, since there was, of course, no hope of finding the fugitives in the dense thickets and returning them to the ship. The skipper and the mate decided to drown their grief in cold tea. And since this tea was bottled in whiskey bottles, it never occurred to Bertie that they were consuming such an innocent drink. He saw only that they very quickly got drunk to the position of the robe and began to fiercely argue about how to report the blown up native - as a drowned man or died of dysentery. Then they both began to snore, and Bertie, seeing that, besides him, there was not a single white sober on board, he was vigilant until dawn, every minute expecting an attack from the shore or a riot of the crew.
For three more days the Arla remained off the coast of Malaita, and another three agonizing nights Bertie spent on watch, while the skipper and mate pumped themselves with cold tea in the evening and slept peacefully until morning, fully relying on his vigilance. Bertie firmly decided that if he remained alive, he would definitely inform Captain Mal of their drunkenness.
Finally the Arla dropped anchor at the Reminge plantation on the Guadalcanar. With a sigh of relief, Bertie stepped ashore and shook hands with the steward. Mr. Garivel had everything ready to receive his guest.
“Just don’t worry, please, if you notice that my subordinates are not in a good mood,” Mr. Garivel whispered in secret, pulling Bertie aside. - There are rumors that we are preparing a riot, and it must be admitted that there are some reasons for this, but personally I am sure that all this is sheer nonsense.
“And — and… are there many natives on your plantation? Bertie asked in a low voice.
“Now there are four hundred people,” Mr. Garivel said readily, “but there are three of us, and you, of course, and the skipper of the Arla with an assistant — we can easily handle them.
At that moment a certain McTavish, a storekeeper at the plantation, approached, and, barely greeting Bertie, excitedly turned to Mr. Garivel with a request to immediately dismiss him.
- I have a family, children, Mr. Garivel! I have no right to risk my life! The trouble is on the nose, and the blind can see it. Even the black ones will rebel, and here all the horrors of Hohono will be repeated!
"And what are these Hohono horrors?" - asked Bertie when the storekeeper, after much persuasion, agreed to stay until the end of the month.
“It’s about the Hohono plantation on Isabelle Island,” the manager replied. - There the savages killed five whites on the shore, captured the schooner, stabbed the captain and the mate, and they all fled en masse to Malaita. I've always said that the bosses there are too careless. They won't take us by surprise! .. Come here, to the veranda, Mr. Arkwright. See what a view of the surroundings!
But Bertie had no time for species. He figured out how he could get to Tulagi as soon as possible, under the wing of the resident. And while he was busy thinking on this topic, a shot suddenly rang out behind him. At the same moment, Mr. Garivel swiftly dragged him into the house, almost twisting his arm at the same time.
“Well, buddy, you're in luck. A drop to the left - and ... - said the manager, feeling Bertie and gradually making sure that he was safe and sound. - Forgive me, for God's sake, it's all my fault, but who would have thought
- in broad daylight ...
Bertie turned pale.
“They also killed the former manager,” McTavish said condescendingly. - He was a good guy, sorry! The whole veranda was then spattered with brains. You have noticed - over there is a dark speck, in-it, between the porch and the door.
Bertie was so distraught that the cocktail Mr. But before he had time to raise the glass to his lips, a man in breeches and leggings entered.
- What else happened there? - asked the manager, glancing at the newcomer. - Is the river overflowed again?
- What the hell river - savages. Ten paces from here, they climbed out of the reeds and fired at me. It's good that they had a snider rifle, not a Winchester, and they were shooting from the hip ... But I would like to know where they got this snider from? .. Ah, excuse me, Mr. Arkwright. I am glad to welcome you.
“Mr. Brown, my assistant,” Mr. Garivel introduced him. - Now let's have a drink.
- But where did they get their weapons? - inquired Mr. Brown. “I told you that you can't keep guns in the house.
“But they haven’t gone anywhere,” said Mr. Garivel with irritation.
Mr Brown grinned incredulously.
- Let's go see! - demanded the manager.
Bertie also went to the office with the others. As he entered, Mr. Garivel pointed triumphantly to a large box in a dark dusty corner.
- Fine, but where, then, the villains have guns? - repeated Mr. Brown for the umpteenth time.

Jack London

Scary Solomon Islands

All of the above is true; and meanwhile, some white people have been living on the Solomon Islands for decades and, leaving them, feel melancholy and a desire to return. A person intending to settle there for a long time must have a certain caution and a kind of happiness. In addition, he must belong to a special category of people. His soul must be marked with the stigma of a white man. He must be unforgiving. He must face all kinds of unforeseen surprises with equanimity and be distinguished by boundless self-confidence, as well as racial selfishness, convincing him that on any day of the week a white man is worth a thousand blacks, and on Sunday he is allowed to destroy them in large numbers. All these qualities make a white person adamant. Yes, there is one more circumstance: the white, who wants to be adamant, not only must despise other races and have a high opinion of himself, but must also not give free rein to the imagination. He does not need to delve into the mores, customs and psychology of black, yellow and brown people, for it was not at all in this way that the white race paved its royal path throughout the globe.

Bertie got into a conversation with Captain Malu in the smoking room and told him that he intends to get acquainted with "the bright, bloodthirsty life of the Solomon Islands." Captain Malu found this commitment ambitious and commendable. But it wasn't until a few days later that he became interested in Bertie when this young adventurer wanted to show him his 44 automatic pistol. Bertie explained the mechanism and demonstrated it by taking out a cartridge clip.

It's quite simple, ”he said, inserting the clip and pulling the barrel back. - So it charges and discharges, see? Then all I have to do is press the dog eight times in a row, as quickly as possible. Look at this fuse. That's why I like him so much. It is quite safe. There can be no doubt. He took out the clip again. - Judge for yourself how safe it is.

He held the muzzle of the pistol at Captain Malu's stomach, and the captain's blue eyes followed him intently.

Wouldn't it be better to turn it the other way? the captain asked.

But he's perfectly safe, Bertie assured him. - I pulled out the clip. You understand, he is now not charged.

Firearms are always loaded.

But I assure you, it's not loaded!

Anyway, take the muzzle aside.

I’m willing to bet five pounds it’s not loaded, ”Bertie suggested eagerly.

But he shook his head.

Well, I'll prove it to you.

Bertie raised the revolver and pressed the muzzle to his temple with the clear intention of pulling the trigger.

One second, ”the captain said calmly to Malu, holding out his hand. - Let me see.

He pointed his revolver towards the sea and pressed the dog. A deafening shot ensued, and at the same time the mechanism threw a hot, smoking bullet sideways, along the deck.

The startled Bertie's jaw dropped.

So the patron remained there, ”he tried to explain. - I must confess that it was very stupid.

He chuckled in embarrassment and sank into a chair. The blood drained from his face and dark circles appeared under his eyes. His hands were trembling and could not bring the cigarette to his mouth. He loved life too much, and now he saw himself with a smashed head, prostrate on the deck.

But really, - he muttered, - right ...

It's a fine weapon, ”Captain Malu said, handing the automatic pistol back to him.

On board the Macambo was a commissioner returning from Sydney, and with his permission the ship stopped at Ouji to disembark the missionary. In Uji there was a ketch "Arla" under the command of Captain Gansen. The Arla was one of many ships owned by Captain Mal, and he seduced Bertie with an offer to board the Arla for a four-day voyage along the coast of Malaita to recruit workers. After that, the Arla was to deliver him to the Reminge plantations, also owned by Captain Mal; there Bertie will stay for a week, and then travel to Tulagi, the seat of the government, where he will enjoy the hospitality of the Commissioner. Captain Malu, having given two other orders, which later did not remain without consequences, disappears from the pages of this story. Captain Gansen received one order, and Mr. Garriwell, plantation manager Reminge, received another. In nature, both instructions were similar: it was ordered to give Mr. Bertram Arkwright the opportunity to get acquainted with the "harsh and bloodthirsty life of the Solomon Islands." And it was whispered by many that Captain Malu had promised a box of Scotch whiskey to the one who would bring Mr. Arkwright the opportunity to experience the most exciting adventures.

London Jack

Scary Solomon Islands

Jack London

SCARY SOLOMON ISLANDS

True, there is still raging tropical fever, and dysentery, and all sorts of skin diseases; the air is so thoroughly saturated with poison, which seeps into every scratch and abrasion, turns them into festering ulcers, so that rarely anyone can get out of there alive, and even the strongest and healthiest people often return to their homeland in pitiful ruins. It is also true that the native inhabitants of the Solomon Islands are still in a rather wild state; they eagerly eat human flesh and are obsessed with collecting human heads. Sneaking up to your victim from behind and with one blow of a club to kill her vertebrae at the base of the skull is considered the height of the hunting art there. Until now, on some islands, as, for example, in Malaita, the weight of a person in society depends on the number of those killed by him, as in ours - on the current bank account; human heads are the most traded commodities, and whites are especially prized. Very often, several villages add up and start a common cauldron, which is replenished from month to month, until some brave warrior presents a fresh white head, with blood not yet caked on it, and demands in exchange all the accumulated good.

All this is true, and yet there are dozens of white people living in the Solomon Islands and longing when they have to leave them. White can live a long time in the Solomon Islands - for this he needs only caution and luck, and besides, he needs to be indomitable. His thoughts and deeds should be marked with the seal of indomitability. He must be able to meet failure with magnificent indifference, must have colossal conceit, the confidence that whatever he does is right; must, finally, unswervingly believe in his racial superiority and never doubt that one white man can handle a thousand blacks at any time, and on Sundays, two thousand. This is what made the white man indomitable. Yes, and one more circumstance: the white, who wants to be indomitable, not only must deeply despise all other races and put himself above all, but must also be devoid of any fantasies. He should also not delve into the motives, thoughts and customs of black, yellow and red, for this was not at all guided by the white race, making its triumphant march around the entire globe.

Bertie Arkwright was not one of those whites. For this, he was too nervous and sensitive, with an overdeveloped imagination. He perceived all impressions too painfully, reacted too sharply to his surroundings. Therefore, the Solomon Islands was the most inappropriate place for him. True, he was not going to stay there for a long time. Five weeks, until the next steamer arrived, was, in his opinion, quite enough to satisfy the craving for the primitive, which tickled his nerves so pleasantly. At least in this way - albeit in slightly different terms - he outlined his plans to fellow travelers on "Makembo", and they looked at him as a hero, for they themselves, as befits traveling ladies, intended to get acquainted with the Solomon Islands without leaving the steamship decks.

There was another passenger on board the ship, who, however, did not receive the attention of the fair sex. It was a small, wrinkled man with a tanned daughter's face, withered by the winds and the sun. His name - the one under which he was on the passenger list - did not tell anyone anything. But the nickname - Captain Malu - was well known to all the natives from New Hanover to the New Hebrides; they even frightened naughty children with them. Using everything - the labor of savages, the most barbaric measures, fever and hunger, bullets and scourges of overseers - he made a fortune of five million, expressed in vast reserves of trepang and sandalwood, mother of pearl and tortoiseshell, palm nuts and copra, in land plots, trading posts and plantations.

There was more indomitability in Captain Malu's one crippled little finger than in Bertie Arkwright's entire being. But what can you do! Traveling ladies are judged mainly by their appearance, and Bertie's appearance has always won him the sympathy of the ladies.

Speaking once with Captain Malu in the smoking room, Bertie revealed to him his firm intention to experience "the stormy and dangerous life in the Solomon Islands," - so he put it on this occasion. Captain Malu agreed that this was a very bold and man-worthy intention. But it wasn't until a few days later that Bertie really got interested in Bertie, when he decided to show him his 44-caliber automatic pistol. Explaining the loading system, Bertie inserted the loaded magazine into the handle for clarity.

See how easy it is, ”he said, pulling the barrel back. - The pistol is now loaded and the hammer cocked. All that remains is to pull the trigger, up to eight times, at whatever speed you want. Look here at the fuse latch. This is what I like the most about this system. Complete safety! The possibility of an accident is absolutely excluded! - He pulled out the store and continued: - Here! See how secure this system is?

While Bertie was manipulating, Captain Malu's faded eyes watched the pistol intently, especially towards the end, when the muzzle came right in the direction of his belly.

Be so kind as point your pistol at something else, he asked.

It's not loaded, ”Bertie reassured him. - I pulled out the store. And unloaded pistols don't fire, as you know.

It happens that the stick also shoots.

This system won't fire.

And you still turn it the other way.

Captain Malu spoke softly and calmly, with a metallic note in his voice, but his eyes never left the barrel of the gun until Bertie finally turned him aside.

Would you like a five pound wager the pistol is not loaded? Bertie exclaimed fervently.

His interlocutor shook his head negatively.

Okay, I'll prove it to you ...

And Bertie held the pistol to his temple with the obvious intention of pulling the trigger.

Wait a minute, ”the captain said calmly to Malu, holding out his hand. - Let me take one more look at him.

He pointed his pistol out to sea and pulled the trigger. A deafening shot rang out, the mechanism clicked and threw a smoking sleeve onto the deck. Bertie froze with his mouth open.

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London Jack
Scary Solomon Islands
Jack London
SCARY SOLOMON ISLANDS
Hardly anyone would argue that the Solomon Islands is a heavenly place, although, on the other hand, there are worse places in the world. But to a newcomer unfamiliar with life far from civilization, the Solomon Islands may seem like a living hell.
True, there is still raging tropical fever, and dysentery, and all sorts of skin diseases; the air is so thoroughly saturated with poison, which seeps into every scratch and abrasion, turns them into festering ulcers, so that rarely anyone can get out of there alive, and even the strongest and healthiest people often return to their homeland in pitiful ruins. It is also true that the native inhabitants of the Solomon Islands are still in a rather wild state; they eagerly eat human flesh and are obsessed with collecting human heads. Sneaking up to your victim from behind and with one blow of a club to kill her vertebrae at the base of the skull is considered the height of the hunting art there. Until now, on some islands, as, for example, in Malaita, the weight of a person in society depends on the number of those killed by him, as in ours - on the current bank account; human heads are the most traded commodities, and whites are especially prized. Very often, several villages add up and start a common cauldron, which is replenished from month to month, until some brave warrior presents a fresh white head, with blood not yet caked on it, and demands in exchange all the accumulated good.
All this is true, and yet there are dozens of white people living in the Solomon Islands and longing when they have to leave them. White can live a long time in the Solomon Islands - for this he needs only caution and luck, and besides, he needs to be indomitable. His thoughts and deeds should be marked with the seal of indomitability. He must be able to meet failure with magnificent indifference, must have colossal conceit, the confidence that whatever he does is right; must, finally, unswervingly believe in his racial superiority and never doubt that one white man can handle a thousand blacks at any time, and on Sundays, two thousand. This is what made the white man indomitable. Yes, and one more circumstance: the white, who wants to be indomitable, not only must deeply despise all other races and put himself above all, but must also be devoid of any fantasies. He should also not delve into the motives, thoughts and customs of black, yellow and red, for this was not at all guided by the white race, making its triumphant march around the entire globe.
Bertie Arkwright was not one of those whites. For this, he was too nervous and sensitive, with an overdeveloped imagination. He perceived all impressions too painfully, reacted too sharply to his surroundings. Therefore, the Solomon Islands was the most inappropriate place for him. True, he was not going to stay there for a long time. Five weeks, until the next steamer arrived, was, in his opinion, quite enough to satisfy the craving for the primitive, which tickled his nerves so pleasantly. At least in this way - albeit in slightly different terms - he outlined his plans to fellow travelers on "Makembo", and they looked at him as a hero, for they themselves, as befits traveling ladies, intended to get acquainted with the Solomon Islands without leaving the steamship decks.
There was another passenger on board the ship, who, however, did not receive the attention of the fair sex. It was a small, wrinkled man with a tanned daughter's face, withered by the winds and the sun. His name - the one under which he was on the passenger list - did not tell anyone anything. But the nickname - Captain Malu - was well known to all the natives from New Hanover to the New Hebrides; they even frightened naughty children with them. Using everything - the labor of savages, the most barbaric measures, fever and hunger, bullets and scourges of overseers - he made a fortune of five million, expressed in vast reserves of trepang and sandalwood, mother of pearl and tortoiseshell, palm nuts and copra, in land plots, trading posts and plantations.
There was more indomitability in Captain Malu's one crippled little finger than in Bertie Arkwright's entire being. But what can you do! Traveling ladies are judged mainly by their appearance, and Bertie's appearance has always won him the sympathy of the ladies.
Speaking once with Captain Malu in the smoking room, Bertie revealed to him his firm intention to experience "the stormy and dangerous life in the Solomon Islands," - so he put it on this occasion. Captain Malu agreed that this was a very bold and man-worthy intention. But it wasn't until a few days later that Bertie really got interested in Bertie, when he decided to show him his 44-caliber automatic pistol. Explaining the loading system, Bertie inserted the loaded magazine into the handle for clarity.
“See how easy it is,” he said, pulling the barrel back. - The pistol is now loaded and the hammer cocked. All that remains is to pull the trigger, up to eight times, at whatever speed you want. Look here at the fuse latch. This is what I like the most about this system. Complete safety! The possibility of an accident is absolutely excluded! - He pulled out the store and continued: - Here! See how secure this system is?
While Bertie was manipulating, Captain Malu's faded eyes watched the pistol intently, especially towards the end, when the muzzle came right in the direction of his belly.
“Be so kind as point your pistol at something else,” he said.
“It's not loaded,” Bertie reassured him. - I pulled out the store. And unloaded pistols don't fire, as you know.
- It happens that the stick shoots.
- This system will not fire.
- And you still turn it the other way.
Captain Malu spoke softly and calmly, with a metallic note in his voice, but his eyes never left the barrel of the gun until Bertie finally turned him aside.
“You want a five-pound bet that the pistol is not loaded? Bertie exclaimed fervently.
His interlocutor shook his head negatively.
- Well, I'll prove it to you ...
And Bertie held the pistol to his temple with the obvious intention of pulling the trigger.
“Wait a minute,” the captain said calmly to Malu, holding out his hand. - Let me take one more look at him.
He pointed his pistol out to sea and pulled the trigger. A deafening shot rang out, the mechanism clicked and threw a smoking sleeve onto the deck. Bertie froze with his mouth open.
- I seem to have pulled back the barrel, right? he muttered. - So silly...
He smiled pitifully and sat down heavily in a chair. There was no blood in his face, dark circles appeared under his eyes, his hands were shaking so that he could not bring a trembling cigarette to his mouth. He had too much imagination: he already saw himself prostrate on deck with a bullet in his head.
- That's the story! he stammered.
“Nothing, good thing,” the captain said to Malu, returning the pistol.
A government resident returning from Sydney was aboard the Makembo, and with his permission the steamer entered Ugi to disembark the missionary. In Ugi there was a small two-masted boat "Arla" under the command of the skipper Hansen. "Arla", like many other things, also belonged to Captain Mal: and at his invitation, Bertie went to her to stay there for several days and take part in a recruiting voyage along the coast of Malaita. Four days later, he was to be dropped off at the Reminge plantation (also the property of Captain Malu), where he could live for a week, and then go to Tulagi - the residence of the resident - and stay at his house. It remains to mention two offers of Captain Malu, made by him to skipper Hansen and Mr. Garivel, the plantation manager, after which he disappears from our narrative for a long time. The essence of both proposals boiled down to the same thing - to show Mr. Bertram Arkwright "the turbulent and dangerous life in the Solomon Islands." It is also said that Captain Malu hinted that whoever gives Mr. Arkwright the most vivid experience will receive an award in the form of a box of Scotch whiskey.
- Between us, Swartz has always been a decent idiot. Once he took four of his rowers to Tulagi to be flogged there - of course, quite officially. And with them I went back on the whaleboat. There was a little storm in the sea, and the whaleboat capsized. All were saved, well, but Swartz Swartz drowned. It was, of course, an accident.
- How is it? Very interesting, ”Bertie remarked absently, as all his attention was absorbed by the black giant at the helm.
Ugi stayed astern, and the Arla glided effortlessly across the sparkling sea, heading for the densely forested shores of Malaita. Through the tip of the nose of the helmsman, who so attracted Bertie's attention, was smartly threaded a large nail, a necklace of trouser buttons flaunted around his neck, a can opener, a broken toothbrush, a clay pipe, a brass alarm wheel, and several Winchester cartridge cases hung in his ears; a half of a china plate dangled across his chest. On the deck in various places spread about forty blacks, painted in much the same way. Fifteen of them were the crew of the ship, the rest were recruited workers.
“Of course, an accident,” said Arla's mate Jacobs, thin, with dark eyes, more like a professor than a sailor. “Johnny Bedil almost had the same accident. He was also taking home some carved ones, and they turned the boat over for him. But he swam no worse than them and escaped with the help of a boat hook and a revolver, and two black men drowned. Also an accident.
“It happens here quite often,” said the skipper. “Look at that guy at the helm, Mr. Arkwright! After all, a real cannibal. Six months ago, he, along with the rest of the crew, drowned the then skipper of "Arla". Right on deck, sir, over there by the mizzen mast.
- And what kind of deck they brought - it was scary to look, said the assistant.
- Excuse me, you mean? .. - began Bertie.
“Here, here,” interrupted the skipper Hansen. - Accident. A man drowned.
- But what about - on deck?
- Yes, just like that. Between us, they used an ax.
- And this is your current crew ?!
Skipper Hansen nodded.
“That skipper was too careless,” the mate explained. He turned his back on them, well ... and got hurt.
“We'll have to avoid unnecessary noise,” the skipper complained. The government is always worth the blacks. We cannot shoot first, but must wait for the black one to shoot. Otherwise the government will declare it murder and you will be sent to Fiji. This is why there are so many accidents. Drowning, what can you do.
Dinner was served, and Bertie and the skipper went downstairs, leaving the mate on deck.
“Keep your eye on this feature of Auki,” the skipper warned at parting. - Something I don't like his face lately.
“Okay,” the assistant replied.
Lunch was not over yet, and the skipper had reached the middle of his story about how the crew was slaughtered on the Chiefs of Scotland.
“Yes,” he said, “it was an excellent ship, one of the best on the coast. They did not have time to turn in time, well, and ran into a reef, and then immediately a whole flotilla of canoes pounced on them. On board there were five whites and twenty crewmen from Samoa and Santa Cruz, and one second mate escaped. In addition, sixty people were killed. All their savages are kai-kai. What is kai-kai? I'm sorry, I wanted to say - they all ate. Then another "James Edwards", perfectly equipped ...
Loud cursing from the mate interrupted the skipper. Wild screams rang out on deck, then three shots rang out, and something heavy fell into the water. In one leap, skipper Hansen took off up the gangway leading to the deck, pulling out his revolver as he walked. Bertie climbed up, too, though not so quickly, and cautiously stuck his head out of the hatch. But nothing happened. The mate stood on deck, revolver in hand, shaking as if in a fever. Suddenly he shuddered and jumped to the side, as if he was in danger from behind.
“The native fell overboard,” he reported in a strange, ringing voice. “He couldn't swim.
- Who was that? the skipper asked sternly.
- Auki!
“Excuse me, I think I heard shots,” Bertie intervened, experiencing a pleasant thrill from the awareness of danger - all the more pleasant since the danger had already passed.
The assistant turned to him abruptly and growled:
- Lies! Nobody fired. Black eyed just fell overboard.
Hansen looked at Bertie with unblinking, unseeing eyes.
“It seemed to me ...” Bertie began.
- Shots? - said the skipper thoughtfully. “Did you hear the shots, Mr. Jacobs?
“Not a single one,” the assistant answered.
The skipper turned triumphantly to his guest.
- Obviously an accident. Let's go downstairs, Mr. Arkwright, and finish lunch.
That night, Bertie slept in a tiny cabin, fenced off from the wardroom and importantly called the captain's cabin. There was a rifle pyramid at the bow bulkhead. Three more guns hung over the head of the bunk. Under the bunk was a large box in which Bertie found cartridges, dynamite, and several boxes of fuse-cord. Bertie chose to move to the sofa on the opposite wall, and then his gaze fell on the ship's log "Arly", which lay on the table. It never occurred to him that this magazine had been made by Captain Malu especially for him. Bertie learned from the magazine that on the twenty-first of September two sailors fell overboard and drowned. But now Bertie had already learned to read between the lines and knew how to understand it. Then he read about how in the thickets on Suu a whaleboat from the "Arla" was ambushed and lost three people killed; how the skipper discovered in the cook's cauldron human meat, which the team had bought when they went ashore in Fuy; how during the signaling, an accidental explosion of dynamite killed all the rowers in the boat. He also read about night attacks on the schooner, about her haste escape from the camps under the cover of night darkness, about the attacks of forest dwellers on the crew in the mangroves, and about battles with savages in lagoons and bays. Every now and then Bertie ran across cases of death from dysentery. With fear he noticed that two white men had died like that on the Arles.
- Listen, uh! - Bertie turned the next day to the skipper Hansen. - I looked in your logbook ...
The skipper was apparently extremely annoyed that the ship's log caught the eye of a stranger.
“So this dysentery is the same nonsense as all your accidents,” Bertie continued. - What does dysentery really mean?
The skipper was amazed at the insight of his guest, made an attempt to deny everything, then confessed.
“You see, Mr. Arkwright, this is the point. These islands already have a sad reputation. It is getting harder every day to recruit whites for the work here. Suppose a white man is killed - the Company will have to pay big money to lure another here. And if he died of an illness - well, then nothing. Newbies don't mind disease, they just don't agree to be killed. When I came here to the Arla, I was sure that her former skipper had died of dysentery. Then I found out the truth, but it was too late: I signed a contract.
“Besides,” added Mr. Jacobs, “there are too many accidents. This can lead to unnecessary conversations. And the government is to blame for everything. What else remains to do if white does not have the ability to protect himself from black masses?
“That's right,” said skipper Hansen. “Take the case of The Princess and this Yankee who served as her assistant. Besides him, there were five other whites on the ship, including a government agent. The skipper, agent and second mate went ashore in two boats. They were all killed to one. The mate, the boatswain and fifteen crew members, natives of Samoa and Tonga, remained on the ship. A crowd of savages came from the shore. The assistant did not even have time to look back, as the boatswain and the crew were killed. Then he grabbed three cartridge belts and two Winchesters, climbed onto the mast and began to shoot from there. He seemed furious at the thought that all his comrades had died. He fired from one gun until it was hot. Then he took up something else. The deck was black with savages - well, he finished them all. He hit them in flight when they jumped overboard, hit them in boats before they had time to grab the oars. Then they began to throw themselves into the water, they thought to get to the shore by swimming, but he was already so furious that he shot another half dozen in the water. And what did he receive as a reward?
“Seven years of hard labor in Fiji,” said the assistant sullenly.
“Yes, the government said that he had no right to shoot savages in the water,” explained the skipper.
“That's why they're dying of dysentery now,” Jacobs finished.
“Just think,” Bertie remarked, feeling a burning desire that this trip would end soon.
On the same day he had a conversation with a native, who, as he was told, was a cannibal. The native's name was Sumazai. For three years he worked on a plantation in Queensland, visited Sydney, Samoa and Fiji. As a sailor on a recruiting schooner, he traveled to almost all the islands - New Britain and New Ireland, New Guinea and the Admiralty Islands. He was a great joker and in conversation with Bertie followed the example of the skipper. Did he eat human flesh? Happened. How many times? Well, do you remember. I also ate whites. Delicious, but not when they are sick. Once it happened to him to try the patient.
- Ugh! Bad! - he exclaimed with disgust, remembering this meal. - Later I myself was very sick, I almost got my guts out.
Bertie winced, but he bravely continued his inquiries. Does Sumazai have the heads of the slain? Yes, he hid several heads on the shore, all of them in good condition - dried and smoked. One with long sideburns is the head of the schooner skipper. He agrees to sell it for two pounds, and the black heads for a pound each. He also has several children's heads, but they are poorly preserved. For them, he asks for only ten shillings.
A little later, sitting down in thought on the gangplank, Bertie suddenly found next to him a native with some terrible skin disease. He jumped up and hurried away. When he asked what the guy had, he was told leprosy. Like lightning, he flew into his cabin and washed himself thoroughly with antiseptic soap. During the day he had to wash several more times, as it turned out that all the natives on board were sick with one or another infectious disease.
As the Arla dropped anchor in the mangrove swamps, a double row of barbed wire was stretched over the side. It looked very impressive, and when a multitude of canoes appeared nearby, in which the natives were sitting, armed with spears, bows and rifles, Bertie thought once again that it would be good to end the trip sooner.
That evening the natives were in no hurry to leave the ship, although they were not allowed to remain on board after sunset. They even became insolent when the assistant ordered them to get out.
- Nothing, now they will sing differently with me, - said the skipper Hansen, diving into the hatch.
When he returned, he surreptitiously showed Bertie a wand with a fish hook attached to it. A simple chemist's bottle of chlorine, wrapped in paper, with a piece of fuse cord tied to it, may well pass for a stick of dynamite. Both Bertie and the natives were deceived. As soon as skipper Hansen set fire to the cord and hooked the hook to the loincloth of the first savage he came across, he was immediately seized with a passionate desire to find himself as soon as possible on the shore. Forgetting everything in the world and not guessing to throw off the bandage, the unfortunate man rushed to the side. Behind him, hissing and smoking, a cord dragged, and the natives began to rush headlong through the barbed wire into the sea. Bertie was horrified. Skipper Hansen too. Still would! Twenty-five of the natives he had recruited — for each he paid thirty shillings in advance — jumped overboard with the natives. He was followed by the one with the smoking bottle.
What happened next with this bottle, Bertie did not see, but since at that very time the assistant blew up a real stick of dynamite in the stern, which, of course, did not cause any harm to anyone, but Bertie with a clear conscience would have sworn in court that he had a native eyes ripped to shreds.
The flight of the twenty-five recruits cost the captain of the Arla forty pounds sterling, since there was, of course, no hope of finding the fugitives in the dense thickets and returning them to the ship. The skipper and the mate decided to drown their grief in cold tea. And since this tea was bottled in whiskey bottles, it never occurred to Bertie that they were consuming such an innocent drink. He saw only that they very quickly got drunk to the position of the robe and began to fiercely argue about how to report the blown up native - as a drowned man or died of dysentery. Then they both began to snore, and Bertie, seeing that, besides him, there was not a single white sober on board, he was vigilant until dawn, every minute expecting an attack from the shore or a riot of the crew.
For another three days the Arla remained off the coast of Malaita, and Bertie spent another three agonizing nights on watch, while the skipper and mate pumped themselves up with cold tea in the evening and slept peacefully until morning, fully relying on his vigilance. Bertie firmly decided that if he remained alive, he would definitely inform Captain Mal of their drunkenness.
Finally, the Arla dropped anchor at the Reminge plantation in Guadalcanar. With a sigh of relief, Bertie stepped ashore and shook hands with the steward. Mr. Garivel had everything ready to receive his guest.
“Just don’t worry, please, if you notice that my subordinates are not in a good mood,” Mr. Garivel whispered in secret, pulling Bertie aside. - There are rumors that we are preparing a riot, and it must be admitted that there are some reasons for this, but personally I am sure that all this is sheer nonsense.
- And - and ... a lot of natives on your plantation? Bertie asked in a low voice.
“Now there are four hundred people,” Mr. Garivel said readily, but there are three of us, and you, of course, and the skipper of the Arla and his assistant, we can easily handle them.
At that moment a certain McTavish, a storekeeper at the plantation, approached, and, barely greeting Bertie, excitedly turned to Mr. Garivel with a request to immediately dismiss him.
- I have a family, children, Mr. Garivel! I have no right to risk my life! The trouble is on the nose, and the blind can see it. Even the black ones will rebel, and here all the horrors of Hohono will be repeated!
"And what are these Hohono horrors?" - asked Bertie when the storekeeper, after much persuasion, agreed to stay until the end of the month.
“It’s about the Hohono plantation on Isabelle Island,” the manager replied. - There the savages killed five whites on the shore, captured the schooner, stabbed the captain and the mate, and they all fled en masse to Malaita. I've always said that the bosses there are too careless. They won't take us by surprise! .. Come here, to the veranda, Mr. Arkwright. See what a view of the surroundings!
But Bertie had no time for species. He figured out how he could get to Tulagi as soon as possible, under the wing of the resident. And while he was busy thinking on this topic, a shot suddenly rang out behind him. At the same moment, Mr. Garivel swiftly dragged him into the house, almost twisting his arm at the same time.
“Well, buddy, you're in luck. A drop to the left - and ... - said the manager, feeling Bertie and gradually becoming convinced that he was safe and sound. - Forgive me, for God's sake, it's all my fault, but who would have thought - in broad daylight ...
Bertie turned pale.
“They also killed the former manager,” McTavish said condescendingly. - He was a good guy, sorry! The whole veranda was then spattered with brains. You have noticed - over there is a dark speck, in-it, between the porch and the door.
Bertie was so distraught that the cocktail Mr. But before he had time to raise the glass to his lips, a man in breeches and leggings entered.
- What else happened there? - asked the manager, glancing at the newcomer. - Is the river overflowed again?
- What the hell river - savages. Ten paces from here, they climbed out of the reeds and fired at me. It's good that they had a snider rifle, not a Winchester, and they were shooting from the hip ... But I would like to know where they got this snider from? .. Ah, excuse me, Mr. Arkwright. I am glad to welcome you.
“Mr. Brown, my assistant,” Mr. Garivel introduced him. - Now let's have a drink.
- But where did they get their weapons? - inquired Mr. Brown. “I told you that you can't keep guns in the house.
“But they haven’t gone anywhere,” said Mr. Garivel with irritation.
Mr Brown grinned incredulously.
- Let's go see! - demanded the manager.
Bertie also went to the office with the others.