CHAPTER I—­SOMETHING TO BE DONE

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 been pierced and stretched until one had torn out, while the other carried a circular block of carved wood three inches in diameter.  The torn ear had been pierced again, but this time not so ambitiously, for the hole accommodated no more than a short clay pipe.  The man-horse was greasy and dirty, and naked save for an exceedingly narrow and dirty loin-cloth; but the white man clung to him closely and desperately.  At times, from weakness, his head drooped and rested on the woolly pate.  At other times he lifted his head and stared with swimming eyes at the cocoanut palms that reeled and swung in the shimmering heat.  He was clad in a thin undershirt and a strip of cotton cloth, that wrapped about his waist and descended to his knees.  On his head was a battered Stetson, known to the trade as a Baden-Powell.  About his middle was strapped a belt, which carried a large-calibred automatic pistol and several spare clips, loaded and ready for quick work.

The rear was brought up by a black boy of fourteen or fifteen, who carried medicine bottles, a pail of hot water, and various other hospital appurtenances.  They passed out of the compound through a small wicker gate, and went on under the blazing sun, winding about among new-planted cocoanuts that threw no shade.  There was not a breath of wind, and the superheated, stagnant air was heavy with pestilence.  From the direction they were going arose a wild clamour, as of lost souls wailing and of men in torment.  A long, low shed showed ahead, grass-walled and grass-thatched, and it was from here that the noise proceeded.  There were shrieks and screams, some unmistakably of grief, others unmistakably of unendurable pain.  As the white man drew closer he could hear a low and continuous moaning and groaning.  He shuddered at the thought of entering, and for a moment was quite certain that he was going to faint.  For that most dreaded of Solomon Island scourges, dysentery, had struck Berande plantation, and he was all alone to cope with it.  Also, he was afflicted himself.

By stooping close, still on man-back, he managed to pass through the low doorway.  He took a small bottle from his follower, and sniffed strong ammonia to clear his senses for the ordeal.  Then he shouted, “Shut up!” and the clamour stilled.  A raised platform of forest slabs, six feet wide, with a slight pitch, extended the full length of the shed.  Alongside of it was a yard-wide run-way.  Stretched on the platform, side by side and crowded close, lay a score of blacks.  That they were low in the order of human life was apparent at a glance.  They were man-eaters.  Their faces were asymmetrical, bestial; their bodies were ugly and ape-like.  They wore nose-rings of clam-shell and turtle-shell,