The companionway into the main cabin was a steep ladder, and down this,
after his meal, Jerry was carried by the captain. The cabin was a long
room, extending for the full width of the _Arangi_ from a lazarette aft
to a tiny room for'ard. For'ard of this room, separated by a tight
bulkhead, was the forecastle where lived the boat's crew. The tiny room
was shared between Van Horn and Borckman, while the main cabin was
occupied by the three-score and odd return boys. They squatted about and
lay everywhere on the floor and on the long low bunks that ran the full
length of the cabin along either side.
In the little stateroom the captain tossed a blanket on the floor in a
corner, and he did not find it difficult to get Jerry to understand that
that was his bed. Nor did Jerry, with a full stomach and weary from so
much excitement, find it difficult to fall immediately asleep.
An hour later he was awakened by the entrance of Borckman. When he
wagged his stub of a tail and smiled friendly with his eyes, the mate
scowled at him and muttered angrily in his throat. Jerry made no further
overtures, but lay quietly watching. The mate had come to take a drink.
In truth, he was stealing the drink from Van Horn's supply. Jerry did
not know this. Often, on the plantation, he had seen the white men take
drinks. But there was something somehow different in the manner of
Borckman's taking a drink. Jerry was aware, vaguely, that there was
something surreptitious about it. What was wrong he did not know, yet he
sensed the wrongness and watched suspiciously.
After the mate departed, Jerry would have slept again had not the
carelessly latched door swung open with a bang. Opening his eyes,
prepared for any hostile invasion from the unknown, he fell to watching a
large cockroach crawling down the wall. When he got to his feet and
warily stalked toward it, the cockroach scuttled away with a slight
rustling noise and disappeared into a crack. Jerry had been acquainted
with cockroaches all his life, but he was destined to learn new things
about them from the particular breed that dwelt on the _Arangi_.
After a cursory examination of the stateroom he wandered out into the
cabin. The blacks, sprawled about everywhere, but, conceiving it to be
his duty to his _Skipper_, Jerry made it a point to identify each one.
They scowled and uttered low threatening noises when he sniffed close to
them. One dared to menace him with a blow, but Jerry, instead of
slinking away, showed his teeth and prepared to spring. The black
hastily dropped the offending hand to his side and made soothing,
penitent noises, while others chuckled; and Jerry passed on his way. It
was nothing new. Always a blow was to be expected from blacks when white
men were not around. Both the mate and the captain were on deck, and
Jerry, though unafraid, continued his investigations cautiously.
But at the doorless entrance to the lazarette aft, he threw caution to
the winds and darted in in pursuit of the new scent that came to his
nostrils. A strange person was in the low, dark space whom he had never
smelled. Clad in a single shift and lying on a coarse grass-mat spread
upon a pile of tobacco cases and fifty-pound tins of flour, was a young
black girl.
There was something furtive and lurking about her that Jerry did not fail
to sense, and he had long since learned that something was wrong when any
black lurked or skulked. She cried out with fear as he barked an alarm
and pounced upon her. Even though his teeth scratched her bare arm, she
did not strike at him. Not did she cry out again. She cowered down and
trembled and did not fight back. Keeping his teeth locked in the hold he
had got on her flimsy shift, he shook and dragged at her, all the while
growling and scolding for her benefit and yelping a high clamour to bring
Skipper or the mate.
In the course of the struggle the girl over-balanced on the boxes and
tins and the entire heap collapsed. This caused Jerry to yelp a more
frenzied alarm, while the blacks, peering in from the cabin, laughed with
cruel enjoyment.
When Skipper arrived, Jerry wagged his stump tail and, with ears laid
back, dragged and tugged harder than ever at the thin cotton of the
girl's garment. He expected praise for what he had done, but when
Skipper merely told him to let go, he obeyed with the realization that
this lurking, fear-struck creature was somehow different, and must be
treated differently, from other lurking creatures.
Fear-struck she was, as it is given to few humans to be and still live.
Van Horn called her his parcel of trouble, and he was anxious to be rid
of the parcel, without, however, the utter annihilation of the parcel. It
was this annihilation which he had saved her from when he bought her in
even exchange for a fat pig.
Stupid, worthless, spiritless, sick, not more than a dozen years old, no
delight in the eyes of the young men of her village, she had been
consigned by her disappointed parents to the cooking-pot. When Captain
Van Horn first encountered her had been when she was the central figure
in a lugubrious procession on the banks of the Balebuli River.
Anything but a beauty--had been his appraisal when he halted the
procession for a pow-wow. Lean from sickness, her skin mangy with the
dry scales of the disease called _bukua_, she was tied hand and foot and,
like a pig, slung from a stout pole that rested on the shoulders of the
bearers, who intended to dine off of her. Too hopeless to expect mercy,
she made no appeal for help, though the horrible fear that possessed her
was eloquent in her wild-staring eyes.
In the universal beche-de-mer English, Captain Van Horn had learned that
she was not regarded with relish by her companions, and that they were on
their way to stake her out up to her neck in the running water of the
Balebuli. But first, before they staked her, their plan was to dislocate
her joints and break the big bones of the arms and legs. This was no
religious rite, no placation of the brutish jungle gods. Merely was it a
matter of gastronomy. Living meat, so treated, was made tender and
tasty, and, as her companions pointed out, she certainly needed to be put
through such a process. Two days in the water, they told the captain,
ought to do the business. Then they would kill her, build the fire, and
invite in a few friends.
After half an hour of bargaining, during which Captain Van Horn had
insisted on the worthlessness of the parcel, he had bought a fat pig
worth five dollars and exchanged it for her. Thus, since he had paid for
the pig in trade goods, and since trade goods were rated at a hundred per
cent. profit, the girl had actually cost him two dollars and fifty cents.
And then Captain Van Horn's troubles had begun. He could not get rid of
the girl. Too well he knew the natives of Malaita to turn her over to
them anywhere on the island. Chief Ishikola of Su'u had offered five
twenties of drinking coconuts for her, and Bau, a bush chief, had offered
two chickens on the beach at Malu. But this last offer had been
accompanied by a sneer, and had tokened the old rascal's scorn of the
girl's scrawniness. Failing to connect with the missionary brig, the
_Western_ _Cross_, on which she would not have been eaten, Captain Van
Horn had been compelled to keep her in the cramped quarters of the
_Arangi_ against a problematical future time when he would be able to
turn her over to the missionaries.
But toward him the girl had no heart of gratitude because she had no
brain of understanding. She, who had been sold for a fat pig, considered
her pitiful role in the world to be unchanged. Eatee she had been. Eatee
she remained. Her destination merely had been changed, and this big
fella white marster of the _Arangi_ would undoubtedly be her destination
when she had sufficiently fattened. His designs on her had been
transparent from the first, when he had tried to feed her up. And she
had outwitted him by resolutely eating no more than would barely keep her
alive.
As a result, she, who had lived in the bush all her days and never so
much as set foot in a canoe, rocked and rolled unendingly over the broad
ocean in a perpetual nightmare of fear. In the beche-de-mer that was
current among the blacks of a thousand islands and ten thousand dialects,
the _Arangi's_ procession of passengers assured her of her fate. "My
word, you fella Mary," one would say to her, "short time little bit that
big fella white marster kai-kai along you." Or, another: "Big fella
white marster kai-kai along you, my word, belly belong him walk about too
much."
Kai-kai was the beche-de-mer for "eat." Even Jerry knew that. "Eat" did
not obtain in his vocabulary; but kai-kai did, and it meant all and more
than "eat," for it served for both noun and verb.
But the girl never replied to the jeering of the blacks. For that
matter, she never spoke at all, not even to Captain Van Horn, who did not
so much as know her name.
It was late afternoon, after discovering the girl in the lazarette, when
Jerry again came on deck. Scarcely had Skipper, who had carried him up
the steep ladder, dropped him on deck than Jerry made a new
discovery--land. He did not see it, but he smelled it. His nose went up
in the air and quested to windward along the wind that brought the
message, and he read the air with his nose as a man might read a
newspaper--the salt smells of the seashore and of the dank muck of
mangrove swamps at low tide, the spicy fragrances of tropic vegetation,
and the faint, most faint, acrid tingle of smoke from smudgy fires.
The trade, which had laid the _Arangi_ well up under the lee of this
outjutting point of Malaita, was now failing, so that she began to roll
in the easy swells with crashings of sheets and tackles and thunderous
flappings of her sails. Jerry no more than cocked a contemptuous
quizzical eye at the mainsail anticking above him. He knew already the
empty windiness of its threats, but he was careful of the mainsheet
blocks, and walked around the traveller instead of over it.
While Captain Van Horn, taking advantage of the calm to exercise the
boat's crew with the fire-arms and to limber up the weapons, was passing
out the Lee-Enfields from their place on top the cabin skylight, Jerry
suddenly crouched and began to stalk stiff-legged. But the wild-dog,
three feet from his lair under the trade-boxes, was not unobservant. He
watched and snarled threateningly. It was not a nice snarl. In fact, it
was as nasty and savage a snarl as all his life had been nasty and
savage. Most small creatures were afraid of that snarl, but it had no
deterrent effect on Jerry, who continued his steady stalking. When the
wild-dog sprang for the hole under the boxes, Jerry sprang after, missing
his enemy by inches. Tossing overboard bits of wood, bottles and empty
tins, Captain Van Horn ordered the eight eager boat's crew with rifles to
turn loose. Jerry was excited and delighted with the fusillade, and
added his puppy yelpings to the noise. As the empty brass cartridges
were ejected, the return boys scrambled on the deck for them, esteeming
them as very precious objects and thrusting them, still warm, into the
empty holes in their ears. Their ears were perforated with many of these
holes, the smallest capable of receiving a cartridge, while the larger
ones contained-clay pipes, sticks of tobacco, and even boxes of matches.
Some of the holes in the ear-lobes were so huge that they were plugged
with carved wooden cylinders three inches in diameter.
Mate and captain carried automatics in their belts, and with these they
turned loose, shooting away clip after clip to the breathless admiration
of the blacks for such marvellous rapidity of fire. The boat's crew were
not even fair shots, but Van Horn, like every captain in the Solomons,
knew that the bush natives and salt-water men were so much worse shots,
and knew that the shooting of his boat's crew could be depended upon--if
the boat's crew itself did not turn against the ship in a pinch.
At first, Borckman's automatic jammed, and he received a caution from Van
Horn for his carelessness in not keeping it clean and thin-oiled. Also,
Borckman was twittingly asked how many drinks he had taken, and if that
was what accounted for his shooting being under his average. Borckman
explained that he had a touch of fever, and Van Horn deferred stating his
doubts until a few minutes later, squatting in the shade of the spanker
with Jerry in his arms, he told Jerry all about it.
"The trouble with him is the schnapps, Jerry," he explained. "Gott-fer-
dang, it makes me keep all my watches and half of his. And he says it's
the fever. Never believe it, Jerry. It's the schnapps--just the plain s-
c-h-n-a-p-p-s schnapps. An' he's a good sailor-man, Jerry, when he's
sober. But when he's schnappy he's sheer lunatic. Then his noddle goes
pinwheeling and he's a blighted fool, and he'd snore in a gale and suffer
for sleep in a dead calm.--Jerry, you're just beginning to pad those four
little soft feet of yours into the world, so take the advice of one who
knows and leave the schnapps alone. Believe me, Jerry, boy--listen to
your father--schnapps will never buy you anything."
Whereupon, leaving Jerry on deck to stalk the wild-dog, Captain Van Horn
went below into the tiny stateroom and took a long drink from the very
bottle from which Borckman was stealing.
The stalking of the wild-dog became a game, at least to Jerry, who was so
made that his heart bore no malice, and who hugely enjoyed it. Also, it
gave him a delightful consciousness of his own mastery, for the wild-dog
always fled from him. At least so far as dogs were concerned, Jerry was
cock of the deck of the _Arangi_. It did not enter his head to query how
his conduct affected the wild-dog, though, in truth, he led that
individual a wretched existence. Never, except when Jerry was below, did
the wild one dare venture more than several feet from his retreat, and he
went about in fear and trembling of the fat roly-poly puppy who was
unafraid of his snarl.
In the late afternoon, Jerry trotted aft, after having administered
another lesson to the wild-dog, and found Skipper seated on the deck,
back against the low rail, knees drawn up, and gazing absently off to
leeward. Jerry sniffed his bare calf--not that he needed to identify it,
but just because he liked to, and in a sort of friendly greeting. But
Van Horn took no notice, continuing to stare out across the sea. Nor was
he aware of the puppy's presence.
Jerry rested the length of his chin on Skipper's knee and gazed long and
earnestly into Skipper's face. This time Skipper knew, and was
pleasantly thrilled; but still he gave no sign. Jerry tried a new tack.
Skipper's hand drooped idly, half open, from where the forearm rested on
the other knee. Into the part-open hand Jerry thrust his soft golden
muzzle to the eyes and remained quite still. Had he been situated to
see, he would have seen a twinkle in Skipper's eyes, which had been
withdrawn from the sea and were looking down upon him. But Jerry could
not see. He kept quiet a little longer, and then gave a prodigious
sniff.
This was too much for Skipper, who laughed with such genial heartiness as
to lay Jerry's silky ears back and down in self-deprecation of affection
and pleadingness to bask in the sunshine of the god's smile. Also,
Skipper's laughter set Jerry's tail wildly bobbing. The half-open hand
closed in a firm grip that gathered in the slack of the skin of one side
of Jerry's head and jowl. Then the hand began to shake him back and
forth with such good will that he was compelled to balance back and forth
on all his four feet.
It was bliss to Jerry. Nay, more, it was ecstasy. For Jerry knew there
was neither anger nor danger in the roughness of the shake, and that it
was play of the sort that he and Michael had indulged in. On occasion,
he had so played with Biddy and lovingly mauled her about. And, on very
rare occasion, _Mister_ Haggin had lovingly mauled him about. It was
speech to Jerry, full of unmistakable meaning.
As the shake grew rougher, Jerry emitted his most ferocious growl, which
grew more ferocious with the increasing violence of the shaking. But
that, too, was play, a making believe to hurt the one he liked too well
to hurt. He strained and tugged at the grip, trying to twist his jowl in
the slack of skin so as to reach a bite.
When Skipper, with a quick thrust, released him and shoved him clear, he
came back, all teeth and growl, to be again caught and shaken. The play
continued, with rising excitement to Jerry. Once, too quick for Skipper,
he caught his hand between teeth; but he did not bring them together.
They pressed lovingly, denting the skin, but there was no bite in them.
The play grew rougher, and Jerry lost himself in the play. Still
playing, he grew so excited that all that had been feigned became actual.
This was battle a struggle against the hand that seized and shook him and
thrust him away. The make-believe of ferocity passed out of his growls;
the ferocity in them became real. Also, in the moments when he was
shoved away and was springing back to the attack, he yelped in
high-pitched puppy hysteria. And Captain Van Horn, realizing, suddenly,
instead of clutching, extended his hand wide open in the peace sign that
is as ancient as the human hand. At the same time his voice rang out the
single word, "Jerry!" In it was all the imperativeness of reproof and
command and all the solicitous insistence of love.
Jerry knew and was checked back to himself. He was instantly contrite,
all soft humility, ears laid back with pleadingness for forgiveness and
protestation of a warm throbbing heart of love. Instantly, from an open-
mouthed, fang-bristling dog in full career of attack, he melted into a
bundle of softness and silkiness, that trotted to the open hand and
kissed it with a tongue that flashed out between white gleaming teeth
like a rose-red jewel. And the next moment he was in Skipper's arms,
jowl against cheek, and the tongue was again flashing out in all the
articulateness possible for a creature denied speech. It was a veritable
love-feast, as dear to one as to the other.
"Gott-fer-dang!" Captain Van Horn crooned. "You're nothing but a bunch
of high-strung sensitiveness, with a golden heart in the middle and a
golden coat wrapped all around. Gott-fer-dang, Jerry, you're gold, pure
gold, inside and out, and no dog was ever minted like you in all the
world. You're heart of gold, you golden dog, and be good to me and love
me as I shall always be good to you and love you for ever and for ever."
And Captain Van Horn, who ruled the _Arangi_ in bare legs, a loin cloth,
and a sixpenny under-shirt, and ran cannibal blacks back and forth in the
blackbird trade with an automatic strapped to his body waking and
sleeping and with his head forfeit in scores of salt-water villages and
bush strongholds, and who was esteemed the toughest skipper in the
Solomons where only men who are tough may continue to live and esteem
toughness, blinked with sudden moisture in his eyes, and could not see
for the moment the puppy that quivered all its body of love in his arms
and kissed away the salty softness of his eyes.