Chapter I--Something to be Done

by Jack London

　　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 beenpierced and stretched until one had torn out, while the othercarried a circular block of carved wood three inches in diameter.The torn ear had been pierced again, but this time not soambitiously, for the hole accommodated no more than a short claypipe. The man-horse was greasy and dirty, and naked save for anexceedingly narrow and dirty loin-cloth; but the white man clung tohim closely and desperately. At times, from weakness, his headdrooped and rested on the woolly pate. At other times he liftedhis head and stared with swimming eyes at the cocoanut palms thatreeled and swung in the shimmering heat. He was clad in a thinundershirt and a strip of cotton cloth, that wrapped about hiswaist and descended to his knees. On his head was a batteredStetson, known to the trade as a Baden-Powell. About his middlewas strapped a belt, which carried a large-calibred automaticpistol and several spare clips, loaded and ready for quick work.

　　The rear was brought up by a black boy of fourteen or fifteen, whocarried medicine bottles, a pail of hot water, and various otherhospital appurtenances. They passed out of the compound through asmall wicker gate, and went on under the blazing sun, winding aboutamong new-planted cocoanuts that threw no shade. There was not abreath of wind, and the superheated, stagnant air was heavy withpestilence. From the direction they were going arose a wildclamour, as of lost souls wailing and of men in torment. A long,low shed showed ahead, grass-walled and grass-thatched, and it wasfrom here that the noise proceeded. There were shrieks andscreams, some unmistakably of grief, others unmistakably ofunendurable pain. As the white man drew closer he could hear a lowand continuous moaning and groaning. He shuddered at the thoughtof entering, and for a moment was quite certain that he was goingto faint. For that most dreaded of Solomon Island scourges,dysentery, had struck Berande plantation, and he was all alone tocope with it. Also, he was afflicted himself.

　　By stooping close, still on man-back, he managed to pass throughthe low doorway. He took a small bottle from his follower, andsniffed strong ammonia to clear his senses for the ordeal. Then heshouted, "Shut up!" and the clamour stilled. A raised platform offorest slabs, six feet wide, with a slight pitch, extended the fulllength of the shed. Alongside of it was a yard-wide run-way.Stretched on the platform, side by side and crowded close, lay ascore of blacks. That they were low in the order of human life wasapparent at a glance. They were man-eaters. Their faces wereasymmetrical, bestial; their bodies were ugly and ape-like. Theywore nose-rings of clam-shell and turtle-shell, and from the endsof their noses which were also pierced, projected horns of beadsstrung on stiff wire. Their ears were pierced and distended toaccommodate wooden plugs and sticks, pipes, and all manner ofbarbaric ornaments. Their faces and bodies were tattooed orscarred in hideous designs. In their sickness they wore noclothing, not even loin-cloths, though they retained their shellarmlets, their bead necklaces, and their leather belts, betweenwhich and the skin were thrust naked knives. The bodies of manywere covered with horrible sores. Swarms of flies rose andsettled, 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 allhis will in order to remember which of them could standipecacuanha, and which of them were constitutionally unable toretain that powerful drug. One who lay dead he ordered to becarried out. He spoke in the sharp, peremptory manner of a man whowould take no nonsense, and the well men who obeyed his ordersscowled malignantly. One muttered deep in his chest as he took thecorpse 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 gatheredhimself to spring. The anger of a wild animal was in his eyes; buthe 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 wasno muttering.

　　"Swine!" the white man gritted out through his teeth at the wholebreed of Solomon Islanders.

　　He was very sick, this white man, as sick as the black men who layhelpless about him, and whom he attended. He never knew, each timehe entered the festering shambles, whether or not he would be ableto complete the round. But he did know in large degree ofcertainty that, if he ever fainted there in the midst of theblacks, those who were able would be at his throat like raveningwolves.

　　Part way down the line a man was dying. He gave orders for hisremoval as soon as he had breathed his last. A black stuck hishead inside the shed door, saying, -

　　"Four fella sick too much."

　　Fresh cases, still able to walk, they clustered about thespokesman. The white man singled out the weakest, and put him inthe place just vacated by the corpse. Also, he indicated the nextweakest, 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 continuedalong the run-way, administering medicine and cracking jokes inbeche-de-mer English to cheer the sufferers. Now and again, fromthe far end, a weird wail was raised. When he arrived there hefound the noise was emitted by a boy who was not sick. The whiteman's wrath was immediate.

　　"What name you sing out alla time?" he demanded.

　　"Him fella my brother belong me," was the answer. "Him fella dietoo much."

　　"You sing out, him fella brother belong you die too much," thewhite man went on in threatening tones. "I cross too much alongyou. What name you sing out, eh? You fat-head make um brotherbelong 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 fellafly. You catch water, washee brother belong you; washee plenty toomuch, bime bye brother belong you all right. Jump!" he shoutedfiercely at the end, his will penetrating the low intelligence ofthe black with dynamic force that made him jump to the task ofbrushing the loathsome swarms of flies away.

　　Again he rode out into the reeking heat. He clutched the black'sneck tightly, and drew a long breath; but the dead air seemed toshrivel his lungs, and he dropped his head and dozed till the housewas reached. Every effort of will was torture, yet he was calledupon continually to make efforts of will. He gave the black he hadridden a nip of trade-gin. Viaburi, the house-boy, brought himcorrosive sublimate and water, and he took a thorough antisepticwash. He dosed himself with chlorodyne, took his own pulse, smokeda thermometer, and lay back on the couch with a suppressed groan.It was mid-afternoon, and he had completed his third round thatday. 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 searchedthe sea.

　　"One fella schooner long way little bit," he announced. "One fellaJessie."

　　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 eagerimpatience.

　　"Maybe Jessie, maybe other fella schooner," came the falteringadmission.

　　The man wormed to the edge of the couch, and slipped off to thefloor on his knees. By means of a chair he drew himself to hisfeet. Still clinging to the chair, supporting most of his weighton it, he shoved it to the door and out upon the veranda. Thesweat from the exertion streamed down his face and showed throughthe undershirt across his shoulders. He managed to get into thechair, where he panted in a state of collapse. In a few minutes heroused himself. The boy held the end of the telescope against oneof the veranda scantlings, while the man gazed through it at thesea. At last he picked up the white sails of the schooner andstudied them.

　　"No Jessie," he said very quietly. "That's the Malakula."

　　He changed his seat for a steamer reclining-chair. Three hundredfeet away the sea broke in a small surf upon the beach. To theleft he could see the white line of breakers that marked the bar ofthe Balesuna River, and, beyond, the rugged outline of Savo Island.Directly before him, across the twelve-mile channel, lay FloridaIsland; and, farther to the right, dim in the distance, he couldmake out portions of Malaita--the savage island, the abode ofmurder, and robbery, and man-eating--the place from which his owntwo hundred plantation hands had been recruited. Between him andthe beach was the cane-grass fence of the compound. The gate wasajar, and he sent the house-boy to close it. Within the fence grewa number of lofty cocoanut palms. On either side the path that ledto the gate stood two tall flagstaffs. They were reared onartificial mounds of earth that were ten feet high. The base ofeach staff was surrounded by short posts, painted white andconnected by heavy chains. The staffs themselves were like ships'masts, with topmasts spliced on in true nautical fashion, withshrouds, ratlines, gaffs, and flag-halyards. From the gaff of one,two gay flags hung limply, one a checkerboard of blue and whitesquares, the other a white pennant centred with a red disc. It wasthe international code signal of distress.

　　On the far corner of the compound fence a hawk brooded. The manwatched it, and knew that it was sick. He wondered idly if it feltas bad as he felt, and was feebly amused at the thought of kinshipthat somehow penetrated his fancy. He roused himself to order thegreat bell to be rung as a signal for the plantation hands to ceasework and go to their barracks. Then he mounted his man-horse andmade 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 haddied. He inspected the copra-drying that had been going on, andwent through the barracks to see if there were any sick lyinghidden and defying his rule of segregation. Returned to the house,he received the reports of the boss-boys and gave instructions fornext day's work. The boat's crew boss also he had in, to giveassurance, as was the custom nightly, that the whale-boats werehauled up and padlocked. This was a most necessary precaution, forthe blacks were in a funk, and a whale-boat left lying on the beachin the evening meant a loss of twenty blacks by morning. Since theblacks were worth thirty dollars apiece, or less, according to howmuch of their time had been worked out, Berande plantation couldill afford the loss. Besides, whale-boats were not cheap in theSolomons; and, also, the deaths were daily reducing the workingcapital. Seven blacks had fled into the bush the week before, andfour had dragged themselves back, helpless from fever, with thereport that two more had been killed and kai-kai'd by thehospitable bushmen. The seventh man was still at large, and wassaid to be working along the coast on the lookout to steal a canoeand get away to his own island.

　　Viaburi brought two lighted lanterns to the white man forinspection. He glanced at them and saw that they were burningbrightly with clear, broad flames, and nodded his head. One washoisted up to the gaff of the flagstaff, and the other was placedon the wide veranda. They were the leading lights to the Berandeanchorage, and every night in the year they were so inspected andhung out.

　　He rolled back on his couch with a sigh of relief. The day's workwas done. A rifle lay on the couch beside him. His revolver waswithin reach of his hand. An hour passed, during which he did notmove. He lay in a state of half-slumber, half-coma. He becamesuddenly alert. A creak on the back veranda was the cause. Theroom was L-shaped; the corner in which stood his couch was dim, butthe hanging lamp in the main part of the room, over the billiardtable and just around the corner, so that it did not shine on him,was burning brightly. Likewise the verandas were well lighted. Hewaited without movement. The creaks were repeated, and he knewseveral men lurked outside.

　　"What name?" he cried sharply.

　　The house, raised a dozen feet above the ground, shook on its pilefoundations to the rush of retreating footsteps.

　　"They're getting bold," he muttered. "Something will have to bedone."

　　The full moon rose over Malaita and shone down on Berande. Nothingstirred in the windless air. From the hospital still proceeded themoaning of the sick. In the grass-thatched barracks nearly twohundred woolly-headed man-eaters slept off the weariness of theday's toil, though several lifted their heads to listen to thecurses of one who cursed the white man who never slept. On thefour verandas of the house the lanterns burned. Inside, betweenrifle and revolver, the man himself moaned and tossed in intervalsof troubled sleep.