But at that moment there was a sharp oath from the mate on deck and a chorus of savage cries. A revolver went off three times, and then was heard a loud splash. Captain Hansen had sprung up the companionway on the instant, and Berties eyes had been fascinated by a glimpse of him drawing his revolver as he sprang.
Bertie went up more circumspectly, hesitating before he put his head above the companionway slide. But nothing happened. The mate was shaking with excitement, his revolver in his hand. Once he startled, and half-jumped around, as if danger threatened his back.
One of the natives fell overboard, he was saying, in a queer tense voice. He couldnt swim.
Who was it? the skipper demanded.
Auiki, was the answer.
But I say, you know, I heard shots, Bertie said, in trembling eagerness, for he scented adventure, and adventure that was happily over with.
The mate whirled upon him, snarling:
Its a damned lie. There aint been a shot fired. The nigger fell overboard.
Captain Hansen regarded Bertie with unblinking, lack-luster eyes.
I I thought Bertie was beginning.
Shots? said Captain Hansen, dreamily. Shots? Did you hear any shots, Mr. Jacobs?
Not a shot, replied Mr. Jacobs.
The skipper looked at his guest triumphantly, and said:
Evidently an accident. Let us go down, Mr. Arkwright, and finish dinner.
Bertie slept that night in the captains cabin, a tiny stateroom off the main cabin. The forard bulkhead was decorated with a stand of rifles. Over the bunk were three more rifles. Under the bunk was a big drawer, which, when he pulled it out, he found filled with ammunition, dynamite, and several boxes of detonators. He elected to take the settee on the opposite side. Lying conspicuously on the small table, was the Arlas log. Bertie did not know that it had been especially prepared for the occasion by Captain Malu, and he read therein how on September 21, two boats crew had fallen overboard and been drowned. Bertie read between the lines and knew better. He read how the Arlas whale boat had been bushwhacked at Suu and had lost three men; of how the skipper discovered the cook stewing human flesh on the galley fire flesh purchased by the boats crew ashore in Fui; of how an accidental discharge of dynamite, while signaling, had killed another boats crew; of night attacks; ports fled from between the dawns; attacks by bushmen in mangrove swamps and by fleets of salt-water men in the larger passages. One item that occurred with monotonous frequency was death by dysentery. He noticed with alarm that two white men had so died guests, like himself, on the Arla.
I say, you know, Bertie said next day to Captain Hansen. Ive been glancing through your log.
The skipper displayed quick vexation that the log had been left lying about.
And all that dysentery, you know, thats all rot, just like the accidental drownings, Bertie continued. What does dysentery really stand for?
The skipper openly admired his guests acumen, stiffened himself to make indignant denial, then gracefully surrendered.
You see, its like this, Mr. Arkwright. These islands have got a bad enough name as it is. Its getting harder every day to sign on white men. Suppose a man is killed. The company has to pay through the nose for another man to take the job. But if the man merely dies of sickness, its all right. The new chums dont mind disease. What they draw the line at is being murdered. I thought the skipper of the Arla had died of dysentery when I took his billet. Then it was too late. Id signed the contract.
Besides, said Mr. Jacobs, theres altogether too many accidental drownings anyway. It dont look right. Its the fault of the government. A white man hasnt a chance to defend himself from the niggers.
Yes, look at the Princess and that Yankee mate, the skipper took up the tale. She carried five white men besides a government agent. The captain, the agent, and the supercargo were ashore in the two boats. They were killed to the last man. The mate and boson, with about fifteen of the crew Samoans and Tongans[112] were on board. A crowd of niggers came off from shore. First thing the mate knew, the boson and the crew were killed in the first rush. The mate grabbed three cartridge belts and two Winchesters and skinned up to the cross-trees. He was the sole survivor, and you cant blame him for being mad. He pumped one rifle till it got so hot he couldnt hold it, then he pumped the other. The deck was black with niggers. He cleaned them out. He dropped them as they went over the rail, and he dropped them as fast as they picked up their paddles. Then they jumped into the water and started to swim for it, and being mad, he got half a dozen more. And what did he get for it?
Seven years in Fiji[113], snapped the mate.
The government said he wasnt justified in shooting after theyd taken to the water, the skipper explained.
And thats why they die of dysentery nowadays, the mate added.
Just fancy, said Bertie, as he felt a longing for the cruise to be over.
Later on in the day he interviewed the black who had been pointed out to him as a cannibal. This fellows name was Sumasai. He had spent three years on a Queensland[114] plantation. He had been to Samoa, and Fiji, and Sydney; and as a boats crew had been on recruiting schooners through New Britain, New Ireland[115], New Guinea[116], and the Admiralties[117]. Also, he was a wag, and he had taken a line on his skippers conduct. Yes, he had eaten many men. How many? He could not remember the tally. Yes, white men, too; they were very good, unless they were sick. He had once eaten a sick one.