Jack London
A Son Of The Sun
Chapter One A SON OF THE SUN
IThe Willi-Waw lay in the passage between the shore-reef and the outer-reef. From the latter came the low murmur of a lazy surf, but the sheltered stretch of water, not more than a hundred yards across to the white beach of pounded coral sand, was of glass-like smoothness. Narrow as was the passage, and anchored as she was in the shoalest place that gave room to swing, the Willi-Waws chain rode up-and-down a clean hundred feet. Its course could be traced over the bottom of living coral. Like some monstrous snake, the rusty chains slack wandered over the ocean floor, crossing and recrossing itself several times and fetching up finally at the idle anchor. Big rock-cod, dun and mottled, played warily in and out of the coral. Other fish, grotesque of form and colour, were brazenly indifferent, even when a big fish-shark drifted sluggishly along and sent the rock-cod scuttling for their favourite crevices.
On deck, forard, a dozen blacks pottered clumsily at scraping the teak rail. They were as inexpert at their work as so many monkeys. In fact they looked very much like monkeys of some enlarged and prehistoric type. Their eyes had in them the querulous plaintiveness of the monkey, their faces were even less symmetrical than the monkeys, and, hairless of body, they were far more ungarmented than any monkey, for clothes they had none. Decorated they were as no monkey ever was. In holes in their ears they carried short clay pipes, rings of turtle shell, huge plugs of wood, rusty wire nails, and empty rifle cartridges. The calibre of a Winchester rifle was the smallest hole an ear bore; some of the largest holes were inches in diameter, and any single ear averaged from three to half a dozen holes. Spikes and bodkins of polished bone or petrified shell were thrust through their noses. On the chest of one hung a white doorknob, on the chest of another the handle of a china cup, on the chest of a third the brass cogwheel of an alarm clock. They chattered in queer, falsetto voices, and, combined, did no more work than a single white sailor.
Aft, under an awning, were two white men. Each was clad in a six-penny undershirt and wrapped about the loins with a strip of cloth. Belted about the middle of each was a revolver and tobacco pouch. The sweat stood out on their skin in myriads of globules. Here and there the globules coalesced in tiny streams that dripped to the heated deck and almost immediately evaporated. The lean, dark-eyed man wiped his fingers wet with a stinging stream from his forehead and flung it from him with a weary curse. Wearily, and without hope, he gazed seaward across the outer-reef, and at the tops of the palms along the beach.
Eight oclock, an hell dont get hot till noon, he complained. Wisht to God for a breeze. Aint we never goin to get away?
The other man, a slender German of five and twenty, with the massive forehead of a scholar and the tumble-home chin of a degenerate, did not trouble to reply. He was busy emptying powdered quinine into a cigarette paper. Rolling what was approximately fifty grains of the drug into a tight wad, he tossed it into his mouth and gulped it down without the aid of water.
Wisht I had some whiskey, the first man panted, after a fifteen-minute interval of silence.
Another equal period elapsed ere the German enounced, relevant of nothing:
Im rotten with fever. Im going to quit you, Griffiths, when we get to Sydney. No more tropics for me. I ought to known better when I signed on with you.
You aint been much of a mate, Griffiths replied, too hot himself to speak heatedly. When the beach at Guvutu heard Id shipped you, they all laughed. What? Jacobsen? they said. You cant hide a square face of trade gin or sulphuric acid that he wont smell out! Youve certainly lived up to your reputation. I aint had a drink for a fortnight, what of your snoopin my supply.
If the fever was as rotten in you as me, youd understand, the mate whimpered.
I aint kickin, Griffiths answered. I only wisht Godd send me a drink, or a breeze of wind, or something. Im ripe for my next chill to-morrow.
The mate proffered him the quinine. Rolling a fifty-grain dose, he popped the wad into his mouth and swallowed it dry.
God! God! he moaned. I dream of a land somewheres where they aint no quinine. Damned stuff of hell! Ive scoffed tons of it in my time.
Again he quested seaward for signs of wind. The usual trade-wind clouds were absent, and the sun, still low in its climb to meridian, turned all the sky to heated brass. One seemed to see as well as feel this heat, and Griffiths sought vain relief by gazing shoreward. The white beach was a searing ache to his eyeballs. The palm trees, absolutely still, outlined flatly against the unrefreshing green of the packed jungle, seemed so much cardboard scenery. The little black boys, playing naked in the dazzle of sand and sun, were an affront and a hurt to the sun-sick man. He felt a sort of relief when one, running, tripped and fell on all-fours in the tepid sea-water.
An exclamation from the blacks forard sent both men glancing seaward. Around the near point of land, a quarter of a mile away and skirting the reef, a long black canoe paddled into sight.
Gooma boys from the next bight, was the mates verdict.
One of the blacks came aft, treading the hot deck with the unconcern of one whose bare feet felt no heat. This, too, was a hurt to Griffiths, and he closed his eyes. But the next moment they were open wide.
White fella marster stop along Gooma boy, the black said.
Both men were on their feet and gazing at the canoe. Aft could be seen the unmistakable sombrero of a white man. Quick alarm showed itself on the face of the mate.
Its Grief, he said.
Griffiths satisfied himself by a long look, then ripped out a wrathful oath.
Whats he doing up here? he demanded of the mate, of the aching sea and sky, of the merciless blaze of sun, and of the whole superheated and implacable universe with which his fate was entangled.
The mate began to chuckle.
I told you you couldnt get away with it, he said.
But Griffiths was not listening.
With all his money, coming around like a rent collector, he chanted his outrage, almost in an ecstasy of anger. Hes loaded with money, hes stuffed with money, hes busting with money. I know for a fact he sold his Yringa plantations for three hundred thousand pounds. Bell told me so himself last time we were drunk at Guvutu. Worth millions and millions, and Shylocking me for what he wouldnt light his pipe with. He whirled on the mate. Of course you told me so. Go on and say it, and keep on saying it. Now just what was it you did tell me so?
I told you you didnt know him, if you thought you could clear the Solomons without paying him. That man Grief is a devil, but hes straight. I know. I told you hed throw a thousand quid away for the fun of it, and for sixpence fight like a shark for a rusty tin, I tell you I know. Didnt he give his Balakula to the Queensland Mission when they lost their Evening Star on San Cristobal? and the Balakula worth three thousand pounds if she was worth a penny? And didnt he beat up Strothers till he lay abed a fortnight, all because of a difference of two pound ten in the account, and because Strothers got fresh and tried to make the gouge go through?
God strike me blind! Griffiths cried in im-potency of rage.