The night was close and stifling, and the dulled bellowing of the surf
on the weather side of the island told me that the calm was about to
break at last, and in another hour or so the thirsty, sandy soil would
be drenched with the long-expected rain, and the drooping palms and
pandanus trees wave their wearied branches to the cooling trade-wind
once more.
I rose from my rough bed of cane-work and mats, and, lighting my pipe,
went outside, walked down to the beach, and seating myself on a canoe,
looked out upon the wide expanse of ocean, heaving under a dark and
lowering sky, and wondered moodily why I was ever such an idiot as to
take charge of a trading station on such a God-forsaken place as Tarawa
Island in the Gilbert Group.
My house--or rather the collection of thatched huts which formed the
trading station--stood quite apart from the native village, but not so
far that I could not hear the murmur of voices talking in their deep,
hoarse, guttural tongue, and see, moving to and fro on the beach, the
figures of women and children sent out to see that the fleet of canoes
lying on the beach was safe beyond the reach of the waves which the
coming storm would send in sweeping, endless lines across the outer reef
to the foot of the coco-palms fringing the low-lying, monotonous shore.
The day had been a more than usually depressing one with me; and I had
had many depressing days for the last four months. First of all, ever
since I had landed on the island, nearly half a year before, I had
suffered from bad health. Malarial fever, contracted in the gloomy,
rain-soaked forests of New Ireland and New Britain, had poisoned
my blood, soured my temper, and all but made me an old man at
seven-and-twenty years of age. Violent attacks of ague, recurring with
persistent and diabolical regularity every week for many months, had so
weakened me, that although I was able to attend to my business and do
justice to my employers, I felt that I should never live to see the end
of my two years' engagement unless I either shook off the fever or was
enabled to leave the torrid regions of the Equatorial Pacific for a
cooler climate--such as Samoa or the Marquesas or Society Islands. The
knowledge, moreover, of the fact that the fever was slowly but surely
killing me, and that there was no prospect of my being relieved by my
employers and sent elsewhere--for I had neither money, friends, nor
influence--was an additional factor towards sending me into such a
morbid condition of mind that I had often contemplated the idea--weak
and ill as I was--of leaving the island alone in my whaleboat, and
setting sail for Fiji or Samoa, more than a thousand miles distant.
Most people may, perhaps, think that such an idea could only emanate
in the brain of a lunatic; but such things had been done, time and time
again, in my own knowledge in the Pacific, and as the fever racked my
bones and tortured my brain, and the fear of death upon this lonely
island assailed me in the long, long hours of night as I lay groaning
and sweltering, or shaking with ague upon my couch of mats, the thought
of the whale-boat so constantly recurred to me even in my more cheerful
moments, when I was free from pain, that eventually I half formed a
resolution to make the attempt.
For at the root of the despondency that ever overpowered me after a
violent attack of ague there was a potent and never dormant agent urging
me to action which kept me alive; and that was my personal vanity and
desire to distinguish myself before I died, or when I died.
For ten years I had sailed in the South Seas, and had had my full share
of adventure and exciting episode, young as I was, as befell those who,
in the “sixties” and “seventies,” ranged the Western and North-Western
Pacific. But though I had been thrice through the murderous Solomon
Group as “recruiter” for a Fijian labour vessel--“blackbirders” or
“slavers” these craft are designated by good people who know nothing of
the subject, and judge the Pacific Islands labour trade by two or three
dreadful massacres perpetrated by Englishmen in the past--I had “never
done anything.”
And to have “done something” in those days meant something worth talking
about, something that would give a man a name and a place in the ranks
of the daring men who had spent nearly all their lives in the South
Seas. Little Barney Watt, the chief engineer of the _Ripple_, when the
captain and most of the crew had been slaughtered by the niggers of
Bougainville Island, had shut himself up in the deck-house, and, wounded
badly as he was, shot seventeen of them dead with his Winchester, and
cleared the steamer's decks. Then, with no other white man to help, he
succeeded in bringing the _Ripple_ to Sydney; Cameron, the shark-fisher,
after his crew mutinied at Wake Island, escaped with his native wife
in a dinghy, and made a voyage of fifteen hundred miles to the Marshall
Group; Collier, of Tahiti, when the barque of which he was mate was
seized by the native passengers off Peru Island and every white man of
the crew but himself was murdered, blew up the vessel's main deck and
killed seventy of the treacherous savages. Then, with but three native
seamen and two little native girls to assist him, he sailed the barque
back safely to Tahiti. And wherever men gathered together in the South
Seas--in Levuka, in Apia, in Honolulu, in Papeite--you would hear them
talk of “Barney Watt,” and “Cameron,” and “Jack Collier.”
Should I, “Jim Sherry,” ever succeed in doing something similar? Would
Fate be kind to me and give me a chance to distinguish myself, not only
among my fellows, but to make my name known to that outside world from
which in a fit of sullen resentment I had so long severed myself?
As I sat on the mat-covered canoe, moody yet feverish, the first squall
of rain came sweeping shoreward from the darkened sea-rim, and in a
few minutes my burning skin was drenched and cooled from head to foot.
Heedless of the storm, however, I remained without moving, watching the
curling, phosphorescent breakers tumbling on the reef and listening with
a feeling of pleasure to the rush and seethe of the rain squalls as they
swept through the dense groves of coco-palms behind me.
Presently I rose, and walking over to my boat-shed, which was but a few
yards distant, I endeavoured to close the rough wooden doors so as
to prevent the rain from blowing in and flooding the ground. But my
strength was not equal to the task, for a puff of more than usual
violence not only tore the handle of the door from my hand, but blew me
inside the house. Feeling my way in the darkness along the boat's side,
I reached her stern, where I was sheltered, and searched my saturated
pockets to see if by any chance I had a box of matches, so that I could
light my boat's lantern and have a look round the shed. I found a few
loose ones, but so wetted as to be useless, and was just about to return
to my dwelling-house in disgust, when I heard my name called softly, and
a hand touched my knee.
“Who is it?” I said, greatly startled that any one should be in the
boat-shed at such a time.
“'Tis I, Niâbon, the Danger Island girl; and Tematau lieth here on the
ground near me. His master hath beaten him so that he is near to death.
And we have come to seek aid from thee.”
I knew the speaker, but did not question her any further at the time,
beyond asking her if he whom she called Tematau could rise and walk to
the house. She replied in the affirmative, but the injured man was so
weak that the girl and I had to support him between us and grope our
way over to the house in face of the furious wind and driving rain. The
moment we were inside we laid the injured man down, and I struck a match
and lit a lamp, whilst Niâbon shut and locked the door, not against
any possible intruders, but to keep out the rain and wind. Then, before
doing anything else, I went into the store-room and got the woman a
change of clothes--a rough, ready-made print gown such as the native
women occasionally wear--and a warm rug for the man, who was wearing
only the usual _airiri_ or girdle of long grass, and then, changing
my own sodden garments as quickly as possible, Niâbon and I gave our
attention to her companion.
The poor fellow had been fearfully beaten. The whole of his back, arms,
and thighs were in a dreadful state, and the rain had caused the wounds
to bleed afresh. But the worst injury was a deep cut on the face,
extending from the lower left eyelid to the lobe of the ear, and
exposing the bone. My surgery was none of the best, but I succeeded at
last in sewing up the wound satisfactorily, the patient bearing the pain
without flinching, and pressing my hand in gratitude when I told him I
could do no more. As for his other injuries, the girl assured me that
she herself would apply proper native remedies in the morning; and,
knowing how very clever these natives are in such matters, I attempted
nothing further beyond giving the man a glass or two of grog and a tin
of sardines and some bread to eat.
“Niâbon,” I said to the girl, whose face was stern and set, “thou, too,
must eat and then lie on my conch and sleep. I will sit here and read my
book and watch the sick man, for the fever is in my bones to-night and I
cannot sleep. So eat and rest.”
She shook her head. “Nay, I feel no hunger, Simi,{*} and I would sit
here with thee if it offend not. And then when the cold seizeth thee
at the time when the dawn pushes away the night I can boil thee thy
coffee.”
* Jim--pronounced Seemee.
I was somewhat surprised that she knew that at dawn I usually had an
attack of ague, for she lived ten miles away, and seldom even met any
of the natives of the village where I was stationed, though she was well
known to them by reputation. However, I was too ill and wearied at the
time to think anything more of the matter, so after thanking her for her
offer to sit up and attend the unfortunate Tematau I lay down on a cane
lounge in the room and watched her making a cigarette.
“Shall I fill thy pipe, Simi?” she asked me as she approached me in
a manner so self-reliant and unconcerned, and yet so dignified,
that physically and mentally exhausted as I was I could not but feel
astonished. For to me she was nothing more--as far as her appearance
went--than an ordinary native woman, although I had quite often heard
her name spoken in whispers as one who had dealings with the spirits and
who had supernatural protection, and all that sort of stuff.
“No, thank you, Niabon,” I replied, unintentionally speaking in English,
“I must not smoke again tonight.”
She smiled and seated herself on a mat beside my couch, then rising
suddenly she placed her hand on mine, and said as she looked into my
eyes--
“Why do you speak Englis* to me, Simi? Who has been tell you I
understan' Englis'?”
“No one, Niâbon. I did not know you could speak English or even
understand it. Who taught you?”
“I shall tell thee at some other time,” she replied in the Tarawa
dialect, and then pointing to the figure of her companion she said she
was sure a smoke would do him good. I gave her a new clay pipe, which
she filled, lit, and placed in Tematau's mouth. He drew at it with such
a deep sigh of satisfaction that the woman's stern features relaxed into
a smile.
“My blessing on thee, Simi,” said the man, as he blew a stream of smoke
through his nostrils; “in but a few days I shall be strong, and then
there shall be but one white man alive on Tarawa--thyself.”
Niâbon angrily bade him be silent and make no threats; it would be time
enough, she said, to talk of revenge when he was able to put a gun to
his shoulder or a hand to his knife.
“How came this thing about?” I asked her presently.
“The German sent Tematau away in his boat to one of the little islands
at the far end of the lagoon to gather coco-nuts, and bade him hasten
back quickly. Tematau and those with him filled the boat with husked
coco-nuts, and were sailing homewards in the night when she struck on
a reef and tore a great hole in her side. Then the surf broke her in
pieces, and Tematau and the other men had to swim long hours to reach
the shore. And as thou knowest, the north end of the lagoon hath many
sharks, and it is bad to swim there at night even for a little time.”
“Bad indeed, Niâbon,” I said, with a shudder; “'tis a wonder that any
one of them reached the shore.”
She smiled mysteriously. “They were safe, for each one had around his
neck a cord of black cinnet interwoven with the hair of a sea-ghost. So
they came to no harm.”
She spoke with such calm assurance that I carefully abstained from even
a smile. Then she went on--
“When they reached the white man's house and told him that the boat
was lost he became mad with rage, and seizing a hatchet he hurled it at
Tematau and cut his face open. Then as he fell to the ground the German
seized a whip of twisted shark-skin and beat him until he could beat no
longer.”
Then she went on to tell me that the unfortunate man was carried to the
house where she lived, and she, knowing that I should be well able and
willing to protect him, decided to bring him to me. The only difficulty
that presented itself to her was that the people of the village in which
I lived, though not exactly at enmity with the natives of the north end
of the island, were distinctly averse to holding any more communication
with them than was absolutely necessary, and a refugee such as Tematau
would either be turned back or kept as a slave. For, for nearly
fifty-five years internecine feuds had been kept alive among the
various clans on the island, and had caused terrible slaughter on many
occasions. Whole villages had been given to the flames, and every soul,
even children in arms, massacred by the conquering party. The advent of
white men as traders had, however, been of great advantage to the island
generally in one respect--the savage, intractable inhabitants began
to recognise the fact that so long as they warred among themselves the
white man would be averse to remaining among them, and consequently for
the four years previous to my arrival on Tarawa there had been no tribal
battle, though isolated murders were by no means uncommon. But owing to
the white men's influence an amicable arrangement was always arrived at
by the contending parties, i.e., the relatives of the murdered man and
the aggressors.
It was for this reason that Niâbon had brought the injured man to my
village by a very circuitous route, so as to avoid meeting any of the
people. Once he and she were inside my house to claim my protection
there would be no further difficulty. She had succeeded in getting her
companion into my boat-shed unobserved, and when the storm burst was
patiently awaiting darkness so that she might bring the man to me.
That was her story, and now I will relate something of the woman herself
and of the white man of whom she had spoken, the German trader Krause.