You could drive a horse and carriage through that
hole in his head."
Another recent courageous killing I heard of on Malaita was that of
an old man. A bush chief had died a natural death. Now the bushmen
don't believe in natural deaths. No one was ever known to die a
natural death. The only way to die is by bullet, tomahawk, or spear
thrust. When a man dies in any other way, it is a clear case of
having been charmed to death. When the bush chief died naturally,
his tribe placed the guilt on a certain family. Since it did not
matter which one of the family was killed, they selected this old
man who lived by himself. This would make it easy. Furthermore, he
possessed no Snider. Also, he was blind. The old fellow got an
inkling of what was coming and laid in a large supply of arrows.
Three brave warriors, each with a Snider, came down upon him in the
night time. All night they fought valiantly with him. Whenever
they moved in the bush and made a noise or a rustle, he discharged
an arrow in that direction. In the morning, when his last arrow was
gone, the three heroes crept up to him and blew his brains out.
Morning found us still vainly toiling through the passage. At last,
in despair, we turned tail, ran out to sea, and sailed clear round
Bassakanna to our objective, Malu. The anchorage at Malu was very
good, but it lay between the shore and an ugly reef, and while easy
to enter, it was difficult to leave. The direction of the southeast
trade necessitated a beat to windward; the point of the reef was
widespread and shallow; while a current bore down at all times upon
the point.
Mr. Caulfeild, the missionary at Malu, arrived in his whale-boat
from a trip down the coast. A slender, delicate man he was,
enthusiastic in his work, level-headed and practical, a true
twentieth-century soldier of the Lord. When he came down to this
station on Malaita, as he said, he agreed to come for six months.
He further agreed that if he were alive at the end of that time, he
would continue on. Six years had passed and he was still continuing
on. Nevertheless he was justified in his doubt as to living longer
than six months. Three missionaries had preceded him on Malaita,
and in less than that time two had died of fever and the third had
gone home a wreck.
"What murder are you talking about?" he asked suddenly, in the midst
of a confused conversation with Captain Jansen.
Captain Jansen explained.
"Oh, that's not the one I have reference to," quoth Mr. Caulfeild.
"That's old already. It happened two weeks ago."
It was here at Malu that I atoned for all the exulting and gloating
I had been guilty of over the Solomon sore Charmian had collected at
Langa Langa. Mr. Caulfeild was indirectly responsible for my
atonement. He presented us with a chicken, which I pursued into the
bush with a rifle. My intention was to clip off its head. I
succeeded, but in doing so fell over a log and barked my shin.
Result: three Solomon sores. This made five all together that were
adorning my person. Also, Captain Jansen and Nakata had caught
gari-gari. Literally translated, gari-gari is scratch-scratch. But
translation was not necessary for the rest of us. The skipper's and
Nakata's gymnastics served as a translation without words.
(No, the Solomon Islands are not as healthy as they might be. I am
writing this article on the island of Ysabel, where we have taken
the Snark to careen and clean her cooper. I got over my last attack
of fever this morning, and I have had only one free day between
attacks. Charmian's are two weeks apart. Wada is a wreck from
fever. Last night he showed all the symptoms of coming down with
pneumonia. Henry, a strapping giant of a Tahitian, just up from his
last dose of fever, is dragging around the deck like a last year's
crab-apple. Both he and Tehei have accumulated a praiseworthy
display of Solomon sores. Also, they have caught a new form of
gari-gari, a sort of vegetable poisoning like poison oak or poison
ivy. But they are not unique in this. A number of days ago
Charmian, Martin, and I went pigeon-shooting on a small island, and
we have had a foretaste of eternal torment ever since. Also, on
that small island, Martin cut the soles of his feet to ribbons on
the coral whilst chasing a shark - at least, so he says, but from the
glimpse I caught of him I thought it was the other way about. The
coral-cuts have all become Solomon sores. Before my last fever I
knocked the skin off my knuckles while heaving on a line, and I now
have three fresh sores. And poor Nakata! For three weeks he has
been unable to sit down. He sat down yesterday for the first time,
and managed to stay down for fifteen minutes. He says cheerfully
that he expects to be cured of his gari-gari in another month.
Furthermore, his gari-gari, from too enthusiastic scratch-
scratching, has furnished footholds for countless Solomon sores.
Still furthermore, he has just come down with his seventh attack of
fever. If I were king, the worst punishment I could inflict on my
enemies would be to banish them to the Solomons. On second thought,
king or no king, I don't think I'd have the heart to do it.)
Recruiting plantation labourers on a small, narrow yacht, built for
harbour sailing, is not any too nice. The decks swarm with recruits
and their families. The main cabin is packed with them. At night
they sleep there.
