Jack London scary Solomon Islands. Jack London - Scary Solomon Islands

Bertie Arkwright arrived in the Solomon Islands to get acquainted with their colorful and harsh life...

There is no doubt that the Solomon Islands are a destitute and inhospitable land. There are, of course, worse places in the world. But to a newcomer who is unable to understand life and people in their basic, unsightly brutality, the Solomon Islands can seem truly scary.

Indeed, fever and dysentery are rampant there, sick people with disgusting skin diseases are found at every turn, and the air is saturated with poison, which penetrates into every pore, scratch and abrasion, giving rise to malignant ulcers. Many who escaped death in the Solomon Islands return to their homeland as pathetic ruins. It is also known that the natives of the Solomon Islands are a wild people, partial to human flesh and inclined to collect human heads. They consider it a brave act to attack a person from behind and inflict a well-aimed blow on him with a tomahawk, cutting the spine at the base of the brain. No less true are the rumors about some of these islands, such as Malaita, where a person's social position is determined by the number of murders he commits. Heads are an exchange value there; preference is always given to the head of a white man. Very often, several villages, month after month, put their supplies into a common cauldron, until some brave warrior presents them with a fresh, bloody head of a white man and demands the entire cauldron in exchange.

All of the above is the absolute truth; Meanwhile, other whites live in the Solomon Islands for decades and, leaving them, experience longing and a desire to return. A person who intends to settle there for a long time needs to have a certain caution and a kind of happiness. In addition, he must belong to a special category of people. His soul must be marked with the mark of the white man's inflexibility. He must be relentless. He must face all kinds of unforeseen surprises with equanimity and be distinguished by boundless self-confidence, as well as a racial egoism that convinces him that on any day of the week a white man is worth a thousand blacks, and on Sunday he is allowed to destroy them in more. All these qualities make the white man unyielding. Yes, there is another circumstance: a white person who wants to be inflexible must not only despise other races and have a high opinion of himself, but must also not give free rein to his imagination. He does not need to delve into the morals, customs and psychology of black, yellow and brown people, for this is not at all the way the white race paved its royal path throughout the globe.

Bertie Arkwright was not inflexible. He was too sensitive, sophisticated and had an excess of imagination. He perceived all impressions too painfully, reacted too sharply to his surroundings. Therefore, the Solomon Islands were the most unsuitable place for him. He didn't intend to settle there for long. A five-week stay in the Solomon Islands until the arrival of the next ship seemed to him quite sufficient to satisfy that craving for the primitive that had taken possession of his entire being. At least that's what he said, although in different terms, to the tourists on the Macambo; they admired his heroism: after all, these were ladies doomed to stay on the boring and safe deck of a steamship making its way between the Solomon Islands.

There was another man on board, but the ladies did not pay attention to him. It was a small, hunched creature with wrinkled, mahogany-colored skin. His name, included in the passenger list, is of no interest, but his other name - Captain Malu - was sworn to the natives; They frightened small children all over the area from New Hanover to the New Hebrides. He exploited the labor of savages, suffered from fevers and all sorts of hardships, and with the help of rifles and whips of overseers amassed a fortune of five million dollars, consisting of sea snails, sandalwood, mother-of-pearl, tortoiseshell bone, ivory nuts, copra, land plots, trading posts and plantations. There was more strength in Captain Malu's broken little finger than in the whole person of Bertie Arkwright. But female tourists are accustomed to judging only by appearance, and Bertie was undoubtedly handsome.

Jack London

Scary Solomon Islands

It is unlikely that anyone would argue that the Solomon Islands are a paradise, although, on the other hand, there are worse places in the world. But to a newcomer unfamiliar with life away from civilization, the Solomon Islands may seem like a living hell.

True, tropical fever, dysentery, and all sorts of skin diseases are still rampant there; the air is so thoroughly saturated with poison, which seeps into every scratch and abrasion, turning them into festering ulcers, so that rarely does anyone manage to get out of there alive, and even the strongest and healthiest people often return to their homeland as pitiful ruins. It is also true that the native inhabitants of the Solomon Islands are still in a rather savage state; they eat human flesh with great pleasure and are obsessed with collecting human heads. Sneaking up behind your prey and breaking the vertebrae at the base of the skull with one blow of a club is considered the height of the art of hunting. Until now, on some islands, such as Malaita, a person’s weight in society depends on the number of people he killed, as in our case - on the current bank account; human heads are the most popular item of exchange, and the heads of whites are especially valued. Very often, several villages come together and start a common pot, which is replenished from month to month, until some brave warrior presents a fresh white head, with blood not yet dried on it, and demands all the accumulated goods in exchange.

All this is true, and, however, many white people live in dozens in the Solomon Islands and are sad when they have to leave them. White can live a long time in the Solomon Islands - for this he only needs caution and luck, and in addition, he must be indomitable. The stamp of indomitability must mark his thoughts and actions. He must be able to face failures with magnificent indifference, must have colossal self-esteem, the confidence that whatever he does is right; must, finally, unshakably believe in his racial superiority and never doubt that one white man at any time can cope with a thousand blacks, and on Sundays - with two thousand. This is what made the white man indomitable. Yes, and one more circumstance: a white person who wants to be indomitable must not only deeply despise all other races and put himself above everyone else, but must also be deprived of all fantasies. Nor should he delve into the motives, thoughts and customs of the blacks, yellows and redskins, for this was not at all what guided the white race in its triumphal march around the entire globe.

Bertie Arkwright was not one of those whites. He was too nervous and sensitive for this, with an overly developed imagination. He perceived all impressions too painfully, reacted too sharply to his surroundings. Therefore, the Solomon Islands were the most unsuitable place for him. True, he did not intend to stay there for long. Five weeks until the next ship arrived was, in his opinion, quite enough to satisfy the craving for the primitive, which tickled his nerves so pleasantly. At least this is how - albeit in slightly different expressions - he outlined his plans to his fellow travelers on the Makembo, and they looked at him as a hero, because they themselves, as befits traveling ladies, intended to get acquainted with the Solomon Islands without leaving the ship decks.

There was another passenger on board the ship, who, however, did not enjoy the attention of the fair sex. He was a small, wrinkled man with a darkly tanned face, dried out by the winds and the sun. His name - the one under which he was listed on the passenger list - did not mean anything to anyone. But the nickname - Captain Malu - was well known to all the natives from New Hanover to the New Hebrides; they even scared naughty children with it. Using everything - the labor of savages, the most barbaric measures, fever and hunger, bullets and whips of overseers - he amassed a fortune of five million, expressed in vast reserves of sea cucumber and sandalwood, mother-of-pearl and tortoiseshell bone, palm nuts and copra, in plots of land, trading posts and plantations.

There was more indomitability in one crippled little finger of Captain Malu than in the whole being of Bertie Arkwright. But what can you do! Traveling ladies judge mainly by appearance, and Bertie's appearance always won him the sympathy of the ladies.

While talking once with Captain Malu in the smoking room, Bertie revealed to him his firm intention to experience “the stormy and dangerous life in the Solomon Islands,” as he put it on this occasion. Captain Malu agreed that this was a very brave and worthy intention. But his real interest in Bertie appeared only a few days later, when he decided to show him his 44-caliber automatic pistol. After explaining the loading system, Bertie inserted the loaded magazine into the handle for clarity.

See how simple it is,” he said, moving the barrel back. - Now the gun is loaded and the hammer is cocked. All that remains is to press the trigger, up to eight times, at any speed you desire. And look here at the fuse latch. That's what I like most about this system. Complete safety! The possibility of an accident is absolutely excluded! - He pulled out the magazine and continued: - Here! See how secure this system is?

There is no doubt that the Solomon Islands are a destitute and inhospitable land. There are, of course, worse places in the world. But to a newcomer who is unable to understand life and people in their basic, unsightly brutality, the Solomon Islands can seem truly scary.

Indeed, fever and dysentery are rampant there, sick people with disgusting skin diseases are found at every turn, and the air is saturated with poison, which penetrates into every pore, scratch and abrasion, giving rise to malignant ulcers. Many who escaped death in the Solomon Islands return to their homeland as pathetic ruins. It is also known that the natives of the Solomon Islands are a wild people, partial to human flesh and inclined to collect human heads. They consider it a brave act to attack a person from behind and inflict a well-aimed blow on him with a tomahawk, cutting the spine at the base of the brain. No less true are the rumors about some of these islands, such as Malaita, where a person's social position is determined by the number of murders he commits. Heads are an exchange value there; preference is always given to the head of a white man. Very often, several villages, month after month, put their supplies into a common cauldron, until some brave warrior presents them with a fresh, bloody head of a white man and demands the entire cauldron in exchange.

All of the above is the absolute truth; Meanwhile, other whites live in the Solomon Islands for decades and, leaving them, experience longing and a desire to return. A person who intends to settle there for a long time needs to have a certain caution and a kind of happiness. In addition, he must belong to a special category of people. His soul must be marked with the mark of the white man's inflexibility. He must be relentless. He must face all kinds of unforeseen surprises with equanimity and be distinguished by boundless self-confidence, as well as a racial egoism that convinces him that on any day of the week a white man is worth a thousand blacks, and on Sunday he is allowed to destroy them in greater numbers. All these qualities make the white man unyielding. Yes, there is another circumstance: a white person who wants to be inflexible must not only despise other races and have a high opinion of himself, but must also not give free rein to his imagination. He does not need to delve into the morals, customs and psychology of black, yellow and brown people, for this is not at all the way the white race paved its royal path throughout the globe.

Bertie Arkwright was not inflexible. He was too sensitive, sophisticated and had an excess of imagination. He perceived all impressions too painfully, reacted too sharply to his surroundings. Therefore, the Solomon Islands were the most unsuitable place for him. He didn't intend to settle there for long. A five-week stay in the Solomon Islands until the arrival of the next ship seemed to him quite sufficient to satisfy that craving for the primitive that had taken possession of his entire being. At least that's what he said, although in different terms, to the tourists on the Macambo; they admired his heroism: after all, these were ladies doomed to stay on the boring and safe deck of a steamship making its way between the Solomon Islands.

There was another man on board, but the ladies did not pay attention to him. It was a small, hunched creature with wrinkled, mahogany-colored skin. His name, included in the passenger list, is of no interest, but his other name - Captain Malu - was sworn to the natives; They frightened small children all over the area from New Hanover to the New Hebrides. He exploited the labor of savages, suffered from fevers and all sorts of hardships and, with the help of rifles and whips of overseers, amassed for himself a five-million-dollar fortune consisting of sea snails, sandalwood, mother-of-pearl, tortoiseshell bones, ivory nuts, copra, land plots, trading posts and plantations. There was more strength in Captain Malu's broken little finger than in the whole person of Bertie Arkwright. But female tourists are used to judging only by appearance, and Bertie was undoubtedly handsome.

Bertie talked with Captain Malu in the smoking room and told him that he intended to get acquainted with the “colorful, bloodthirsty life of the Solomon Islands.” Captain Malu recognized this endeavor as ambitious and commendable. But it was only a few days later that he became interested in Bertie when this young adventurer wanted to show him his .44 caliber automatic pistol. Bertie explained the mechanism and demonstrated it by taking out a clip of cartridges.

“It’s quite simple,” he said, inserting the clip and pulling the barrel back. - This is how it charges and discharges, see? Then all I have to do is press the pawl eight times in a row, as quickly as possible. Look at this fuse. That's why I like him so much. It's quite safe. There can be no doubt. - He took out the clip again. - Judge for yourself how safe it is.

He held the muzzle of the gun level with Captain Malu's stomach, and the captain's blue eyes watched him intently.

Wouldn't it be better to turn it the other way? - asked the captain.

But it’s completely safe,” Bertie assured him. - I pulled out the clip. You understand, it is now not charged.

Firearms are always loaded.

But I assure you, it is not charged!

Anyway, move the muzzle to the side.

"I'll bet you five pounds it's not loaded," Bertie suggested eagerly.

But he shook his head.

Well, I'll prove it to you.

Bertie raised the revolver and put the muzzle to his temple with the clear intention of pulling the trigger.

Just a second,” Captain Malu said calmly, holding out his hand. - Let me take a look.

He pointed the revolver towards the sea and pressed the trigger. A deafening shot followed, and at the same time the mechanism threw a hot, smoking cartridge to the side, along the deck.

Bertie's jaw dropped, startled.

That means there was a cartridge left there,” he tried to explain. - I must admit that it was very stupid.

He chuckled sheepishly and sank into a chair. The blood had drained from his face and dark circles appeared under his eyes. His hands were shaking and could not lift the cigarette to his mouth. He loved life too much, and now he saw himself with a crushed head, stretched out on the deck.

But really,” he muttered, “really...

This is a wonderful weapon,” said Captain Malu, returning the automatic pistol to him.

The Macambo had a commissioner on board returning from Sydney, and with his permission the ship stopped at Uji to land the missionary. In Uji there was the ketch "Arla" under the command of Captain Hansen. The Arla was one of many ships owned by Captain Mal, and he tempted Bertie with the offer of boarding the Arla for a four-day recruiting voyage along the coast of Malaita. After this, the Arla was supposed to deliver him to the Reminge plantations, also owned by Captain Mal; there Bertie will stay for a week and then go to Tulagi, the seat of government, where he will enjoy the hospitality of the commissioner. Captain Malu, having given two other orders, which later did not remain without consequences, disappears from the pages of this story. One order was received by Captain Hansen, the other by Mr. Harriwell, manager of the Reminge plantations. Both instructions were similar in nature: they were ordered to provide Mr. Bertram Arkwright with the opportunity to become acquainted with the “harsh and bloodthirsty life of the Solomon Islands.” And many whispered that Captain Malu had promised a box of Scotch whiskey to anyone who would give Mr. Arkwright the opportunity to experience the most exciting adventures.

Yes, Schwartz has always been stubborn. You see, he took four sailors from his crew to Tulagi, where they were to be flogged - officially, you understand; and then went back with them on the whaleboat. There was wind and the boat capsized. Only Schwartz drowned. Of course it's an accident.

Accident? True? asked Bertie, only slightly interested; he carefully examined the black man at the helm.

Uji disappeared astern, and the Arla glided slowly across the sunlit sea, heading towards the forested shores of Malaita. The helmsman who captured Bertie's attention was decorated with a nail threaded through the nasal cartilage. Around his neck hung a necklace made from trouser buttons. In the holes made in the ears were inserted: a key from a box of canned food, a broken toothbrush handle, a clay pipe, a copper alarm clock wheel and several rifle cartridges. On his chest was half a porcelain plate hanging from his neck. About forty blacks painted in the same spirit wandered about the deck; fifteen of them were the ship's crew, the rest were recently recruited workers.

Of course it was an accident,” said the Arla’s mate Jacobs, slender and dark-eyed, looking more like a professor than a sailor. - Johnny Bedipp experienced approximately the same thing. He was returning with several flogged sailors, and they capsized the boat. But he could swim as well as they did, and two of them drowned. He also used a rowing stand and a revolver. Undoubtedly it was an accident.

A common occurrence,” the skipper noted. - Do you see that man at the helm, Mr. Arkwright? He is a cannibal. Six months ago, he and the rest of the crew drowned the captain of the Arla. They attacked him on this very deck, just aft, near the mizzenmast.

The deck was in terrible shape,” added the assistant.

Do you mean... - Bertie began.

Yes Yes! - said Captain Hansen. - It's an accident; he drowned by accident.

But the deck?..

That's it. I'll tell you a secret: they used an axe.

Is this your team?

Captain Hansen nodded his head affirmatively.

The previous skipper was too careless,” the mate explained. “He didn’t have time to turn around before they finished him off.”

“We have no power over them,” the skipper complained. - The government usually sides with the blacks and protects them against the whites. You have no right to shoot first. You must let the Negro take the first shot, otherwise the law will charge you with murder and send you to Fiji. That's why accidents are so common here.

They called for dinner, and Bertie and the skipper went below, leaving the mate on deck.

Keep a close eye on this black devil Auiki,” the skipper warned as he left. - He doesn't inspire confidence in me. I've been eyeing him for several days now.

Okay,” the assistant replied.

Dinner was already over, and the skipper was only halfway through his story about the massacre on the Scottish Chiefs.

Yes,” he continued, “it was the best ship on the entire coast. And so they did not manage to turn in time and ran into the reefs; a whole flotilla of canoes immediately headed towards him. There were five whites on board and a crew of twenty blacks, natives of Santa Cruz and Samoa, and only the ship's clerk escaped. In addition, there were sixty recruited workers. And they were all kai-kai...

Kai-kai?

Oh, I'm sorry, that means they were eaten. And another ship, the James Edward, wonderfully equipped...

At this time, a sharp shout from the assistant and wild screams came from the deck. Three shots were heard, then a distinct splash of water was heard. Captain Hansen immediately ran up the ladder, and a shiny revolver, snatched by the captain as he ran, flashed before Bertie’s eyes. Bertie stood up much more slowly and hesitantly stuck his head out of the hatch. But nothing seemed to happen. The assistant, trembling with excitement, stood with a revolver in his hand. Suddenly he jumped back, half turning back, as if danger threatened from the rear.

One of the natives fell overboard,” he said in an unnatural, strained tone. - He didn't know how to swim.

Who? - asked the skipper.

“Auiki,” came the answer.

But wait, I heard shots, I’m telling you, shots,” said Bertie in terrible excitement, sensing some mysterious adventure, which, fortunately, had already passed.

The assistant attacked him, growling:

This is a blatant lie! There wasn't a single shot fired. The black man fell overboard.

Captain Hansen looked at Bertie with dull, unblinking eyes.

But I... I thought... - Bertie began.

Shots? - Captain Hansen said thoughtfully. - Shots? Did you hear one shot, Mr. Jacobs?

“None,” Mr. Jacobs replied.

The skipper looked triumphantly at his guest and said:

Undoubtedly an accident. Let's go downstairs, Mr. Arkwright, and finish our lunch.

That night Bertie slept in the captain's cabin, a tiny room separated from the large wardroom. The forward bulkhead was decorated with a rack of guns. Three more guns hung above the bunk. There was a large box under the bunk; Having pulled it out, Bertie found there a supply of ammunition, dynamite and several boxes of detonators. He chose to take a bed against the opposite wall. On a small table, in full view, lay logbook"Arly." Bertie had no idea that Captain Malu had ordered it to be made especially for him. Bertie read in it that on September 20, two sailors fell overboard and drowned. Bertie read between the lines and understood what was going on. Then he learned that one whaling boat from the Arly was attacked by forest inhabitants off the coast of Suu and lost three sailors; that the skipper found the cook cooking human meat in the ship's boiler; the meat was purchased by the team on shore at Foui; An accidental explosion of dynamite during a signal killed the sailors of one boat. There were stories of night attacks; about fleeing ports and waiting for dawn; of attacks by forest dwellers in the mangroves and by fleets of seaside dwellers in the great straits. With monotonous insistence, cases of death from dysentery were listed there. With fear, he noted that two whites who were on board the Arla as guests had died of dysentery.

I must tell you,” Bertie told the captain the next day, “I have looked through your journal.”

The skipper was unhappy and even angry that the ship's log was left in the cabin.

“All these cases of death from dysentery are nonsense, just like accidental jumping overboard,” Bertie continued. - What does this dysentery actually mean?

The skipper was amazed at the guest’s insight, made an attempt to deny everything, and then confessed:

You see, Mr. Arkwright, the situation is this: these islands already have a bad reputation. Every day it becomes more and more difficult to get a white man into the service. Suppose a person is killed. The company must hire someone else at great expense. But if a person died simply from an illness, then everything is fine. Newcomers are not afraid of disease, they are afraid of being killed. When I boarded the Arla, I believed that her skipper had died of dysentery. And then it was too late. The contract was concluded.

And besides,” added Mr. Jacobs, “accidents happen too often.” This may raise suspicions. Government policy is to blame for everything. There is no other way for a white man to defend himself against blacks.

Yes, remember the “Princess” and her Yankee assistant,” the skipper picked up. “There were five white people on it, not counting the government agent.” The captain, agent and clerk moored to the shore in two boats. They were all killed - every single one. The mate, the boatswain and about fifteen sailors from Samoa and Tongan remained on board. A crowd of blacks rushed towards them from the shore. At the first onslaught, the entire crew and boatswain were killed. The assistant grabbed three bags of ammunition and two hard drives and climbed onto the mast. He was the only survivor, and it is not surprising that he was completely mad. He fired one gun until he could no longer hold it in his hands, it became so hot; then he took another. The deck was all black with blacks. He drove them away. He killed them as they jumped overboard and continued to shoot as they grabbed the oars. Then they rushed into the water and swam, and he, distraught, killed six more. How do you think he paid for this?

“Seven years of hard labor in Fiji,” the assistant snorted angrily.

The government said he had no right to shoot when they jumped overboard, the skipper explained. “That’s why they’re dying of dysentery now,” the assistant finished.

Incredible! - said Bertie, feeling a strong desire to finish his journey as quickly as possible.

Later, he got into a conversation with a black man, whom he was pointed out as a cannibal. His name was Sumasoi. He spent three years on plantations in Queensland, visited Samoa, Fiji, and Sydney; serving as a sailor on a schooner for recruiting workers, visited New Britain, New Ireland, New Guinea and the Admiralty Islands. He was a great joker and in conversation with Bertie followed the skipper's example. Yes, he ate a lot of people. How many? He can't remember everyone. Yes, and white people too; their meat is very tasty, unless they are sick. One day Sumasoi ate a sick man.

Bad deal! - he exclaimed at this memory. - Mine got really sick after it. My stomach hurt a lot.

Bertie shuddered and inquired about the heads. Yes, on the banks of Sumasoi he keeps several heads; good heads are sun-dried and smoked. There is a head of a schooner captain. With long sideburns. Sumasoi would sell it for two sovereigns. He also has several children's heads, but they are poorly preserved; he will sell them for ten shillings.

Five minutes later Bertie found himself next to a black man stricken with a terrible skin disease; he sat next to him on the top step of the ladder. Bertie moved away from him and after questioning learned that the black man had leprosy. He hurried downstairs and carefully washed himself with antiseptic soap.

Many times during the day he had to resort to antiseptics; almost every native on board had malignant ulcers.

The Arla dropped anchor near the mangrove swamps; a double row was stretched along the side barbed wire. Apparently, the matter was serious; Seeing a line of canoes with savages armed with javelins, bows, arrows, and Winchesters, Bertie wished more fervently than ever that his trip would be over quickly.

All evening, after sunset, the natives were spinning in their canoes at the side of the ship. And they were rude to the assistant when he ordered them to go ashore.

“Be calm, I’ll deal with them now,” said Captain Hansen, going down.

When he returned, he showed Bertie a stick of dynamite attached to a fishhook. The fact is that a bottle of chloridine with a torn off label and a piece of the most harmless wick can mislead everyone. This bottle fooled both Bertie and the natives. Captain Hansen lit the fuse and caught the loincloth of a native on board with a fishhook; the native rushed, seized by a passionate desire to escape to the shore and in a hurry, not thinking about tearing off his bandage. He started to run, and the wick hissed and crackled behind him; the natives jumped over the wire fence, clinging to the thorns. Bertie was overcome with horror. And Captain Hansen shared his feeling: he forgot about his twenty-five workers, paid at thirty shillings each. They all threw themselves overboard along with the coastal inhabitants, followed by a black man with a hissing bottle of chloridine.

Bertie didn't see if the bottle exploded; but the assistant, by the way, discharged a stick of real dynamite on the stern, which did not harm anyone; Bertie was ready to swear in court that one black man was torn to pieces.

The disappearance of twenty-five workmen cost Arla forty pounds; there could be no hope of their return once they reached the forest. The skipper and mate decided to drown their sorrows in iced tea. The iced tea was kept in whiskey bottles, and Bertie had no idea what they were consuming. He saw that both were drinking heavily and seriously discussing whether to report the case of the exploding black man to the government as an accidental fall into the water or to record the death from dysentery. They soon fell asleep, and Bertie, the only white man on board, had no choice but to keep watch. Until dawn he remained at a dangerous post, fearfully awaiting an attack from the shore or an uprising of the crew.

The Arla stood off the coast for more than three days, and every night the skipper and mate drank themselves to smithereens with cold tea, leaving Bertie to keep watch. They knew they could trust him, and he was equally convinced that he would report their behavior to Captain Mal if he lived. Finally, the Arla dropped anchor at the Reminge plantation, on Guadalcanar, and Bertie, coming ashore, sighed with relief, shaking hands with the manager. Mr. Harriwell was prepared to receive his guest.

Please don’t worry if the mood of our Negro workers seems a little strange to you,” said Mr. Harrivel, mysteriously taking him aside. - There is talk of an uprising, and indeed, there are some suspicious signs, but I am personally convinced that this is empty chatter.

How many... how many blacks do you have on your plantation? - Bertie asked with a sinking heart.

“There are four hundred at the moment,” Mr. Harriwell answered encouragingly, “but there are three of us—with you, plus the skipper and mate from the Arla; we'll do just fine with black people.

Bertie went to meet McTavish, the warehouse manager; but he paid almost no attention to the new arrival and, worried, announced his intention to leave the service.

I'm a married man, Mr. Harriwell, I can't stay here any longer. A riot is inevitable, it's clear as day. The blacks are ready to revolt, and the horrors of Hohono will be repeated here.

What are these horrors of Hohono? - asked Bertie, after he managed to convince the warehouse manager to stay until the end of the month.

He meant the Hohono plantation on Isabella,” the manager explained. - There the blacks killed five whites who lived on the shore, captured the schooner, killed the captain and mate, and every one of them fled to Malaita. But I always said that there, on the Hohono plantations, the whites were too careless. We won't be caught by surprise. Come on, Mr. Arkwright, I'll show you the view from our veranda.

Bertie was busy thinking about how he could quickly get to Tulagi to see the commissar, and he was not in the mood for appearances.

He was still figuring out a way when very close, behind him, a shot from a gun was heard. And at that very moment Mr. Harriwell quickly grabbed him, almost twisting his arm, and pushed him into the room.

Well, I’ll tell you, buddy, you were on the verge of death,” said the manager, feeling him to see if he was injured. - I'm terribly upset. I never thought that in broad daylight...

Bertie turned pale.

That’s how they attacked the previous manager,” McTavish said condescendingly. - What a nice guy he was! They smashed his head here on the veranda. See that dark spot between the stairs and the door?

Bertie thought the cocktail Mr. Harrivel had prepared and served him would be just the thing when a man in riding clothes entered.

Well, what's the matter? - asked the manager, looking at the newcomer. - Has the river overflowed again?

To hell with the river; we are talking about blacks. They jumped out of the reeds twelve paces from me, and a shot rang out. It was a Winchester, and the shooter held the gun at his hip. I would like to know where he got this hard drive from? Oh, I'm sorry! Pleased to meet you, Mr Arkwright.

Mr. Brown, my assistant,” Mr. Harriwell introduced him. - Well, let's have a drink.

But where did he get the hard drive? - Mr. Brown insisted. - I always advised not to keep weapons in the office.

The weapon is in its place,” Mr. Harrivel answered irritably.

Mr. Brown grinned incredulously.

Let’s go have a look,” the manager suggested.

Bertie followed them into the office, where Mr. Harriwell pointed triumphantly to a large box that stood in a dusty corner.

Great, but where did this scoundrel get the hard drive? - Mr. Brown persisted.

At this time MacTavish lifted the lid. The manager shuddered. The box was empty. Everyone looked at each other, speechless with horror. Harrivel, exhausted, fell into a chair.

MacTavish swore angrily.

What did I keep repeating? Black servants cannot be trusted.

“This is getting serious,” Harrivel agreed, “but we’ll get through it.” This bloodthirsty black is a good shake. Please, gentlemen, do not let go of your guns during dinner, and you, Mr. Brown, be so good as to prepare forty or fifty sticks of dynamite; Cut the wicks shorter. We'll teach them a lesson. And now, gentlemen, lunch is served.

Bertie hated Indian spiced rice and turned to scrambled eggs. He had almost finished his portion when Harriwell put scrambled eggs on his plate.

He took the piece into his mouth and immediately spat it out, cursing.

This is the second time,” MacTavish announced ominously. Harriwell was still coughing and spitting.

What is secondary? - Bertie shuddered.

“Poison,” came the answer. - The cook will be hanged.

This is how the accountant died at Cape Marsh,” Brown said. - A terrible death. On the ship "Jesse" they said that his inhuman screams could be heard at a distance of more than three miles.

“I’ll put the cook in shackles,” muttered Harrivel. - Fortunately, we discovered it in time.

Bertie sat as if paralyzed. There was no blood on his face. He tried to speak, but all he could hear was inarticulate sounds and wheezing. Everyone looked at him with concern.

Don't talk, don't talk! - MacTavish exclaimed in a tense voice.

I ate it, ate it all, the whole plate! - Bertie cried, like a man who has suddenly emerged from under the water and can barely catch his breath.

The terrible silence lasted for another half a minute, and in their eyes he read his sentence.

After all, it is possible that it was not poison,” said Harrivel gloomily.

Call the cook,” Brown said.

A black boy cook with a pierced nose and holes in his ears entered, baring his teeth.

Look here, Wee Wee, what does this mean? - Harrivel yelled, pointing at the scrambled eggs.

It is quite natural that Wee Wee was scared and confused.

“Good mister kai-kai,” he muttered, making excuses.

Let him eat it,” advised MacTavish. - This will be the best test.

Harrivel rushed to the cook with the scrambled eggs; he fled in horror.

“Everything is clear,” Brown said solemnly. - He doesn't want to eat it.

Mr. Brown, would you have the courtesy to go and put him in irons? - Then Harrivel turned to Bertie nonchalantly. - It's okay, buddy; the commissar will deal with him, and if you die, rest assured, he will be hanged.

“I don’t think the government will do that,” MacTavish objected.

But, gentlemen, gentlemen, - cried Bertie, - still think about me!

Harrivel shrugged his shoulders sympathetically.

It's sad, my friend, but it's a native poison, and we don't know any antidotes. Take heart and calm down, and if...

Two loud rifle shots interrupted his speech. Brown came in, loaded his rifle and sat down at the table.

The cook has died,” he announced. - Fever. Sudden attack.

I just told Mr. Arkwright that we don’t know how to fight native poison, we don’t know any antidotes...

Except for gin,” Brown added.

Harrivel called himself a brainless idiot and rushed for a bottle of gin.

Right away, my friend, right away,” he instructed Bertie, who drank two-thirds of a large glass of pure alcohol and, choking, coughed until tears flowed from his eyes.

Harrivel felt his pulse, pretending that he could not feel it, and doubted the presence of poison in the scrambled eggs. Brown and McTavish also began to doubt, but Bertie detected a hint of insincerity in their tone. He could no longer eat or drink and secretly began to feel his pulse under the table. Of course, his pulse kept getting faster, but Bertie didn’t think of attributing this to the effects of the gin.

McTavish, rifle in hand, went out onto the veranda to reconnoiter.

“They are crowding around the kitchen,” he reported. - And they have incredible amount Winchesters. I have a plan to get around them from the other side and attack from the flank. Strike the first blow, you know. Are you coming, Brown?

Harrivel, sitting at the table, continued to eat, and Bertie found his heart rate increased by five beats. But still, at the sound of the firing, he jumped up from his seat. Among the crackling of the Winchesters, shots from the guns of Brown and McTavish stood out loudly; the firing was accompanied by wild squeals and screams.

Our guns put them to flight,” Harrivel noted as the voices and shots began to fade away as they moved away.

As soon as Brown and McTavish returned to the table, the latter again went on reconnaissance.

“They got dynamite,” he announced.

Then we’ll use dynamite,” suggested Harrivel.

All three put half a dozen sticks in their pockets, lit their cigars and headed for the door.

And that's when the explosion happened. Subsequently, McTavish was blamed for this, and he agreed that he had indeed used more dynamite than he should have. Be that as it may, the house exploded - it rose at an angle, and then settled again on the foundation. Almost all the dishes on the table were smashed to pieces, and the weekly clock on the wall stopped. Screaming for vengeance, all three rushed into the pitchless darkness of the night, and the bombardment began.

When they returned, they did not find Bertie. He somehow dragged himself to the office, barricaded himself there and fell to the floor; he was tormented by drunken nightmares, he died from a thousand different deaths; and the battle was going on around him. In the morning he woke up completely exhausted and with a headache from the gin. He got out of the office and saw that the sun was in its place - probably God had not left the sky, for Bertie’s owners were safe and sound.

Harriwell urged him to stay longer, but Bertie insisted on immediately sailing on the Arla to Tulagi, where he sat hopelessly in the agent's house until the arrival of the ship. The ship was the same, and the tourist ladies were the same, and Bertie turned into a hero again, but no one paid attention to Captain Mala as before. From Sydney, Captain Malu sent two boxes of the best Scotch whiskey. He could not decide who to give preference to: Captain Hansen or Mr. Harrivel - which of the two showed Bertie Arkwright in all its splendor the life of the Solomon Islands, “harsh and bloodthirsty”?

Scary Solomon Islands
Jack London

London Jack

Scary Solomon Islands

Jack London

THE TERRIBLE SOLOMON ISLANDS

It is unlikely that anyone would argue that the Solomon Islands are a paradise, although, on the other hand, there are worse places in the world. But to a newcomer unfamiliar with life away from civilization, the Solomon Islands may seem like a living hell.

True, tropical fever, dysentery, and all sorts of skin diseases are still rampant there; the air is so thoroughly saturated with poison, which seeps into every scratch and abrasion, turning them into festering ulcers, so that rarely does anyone manage to get out of there alive, and even the strongest and healthiest people often return to their homeland as pitiful ruins. It is also true that the native inhabitants of the Solomon Islands are still in a rather savage state; they eat human flesh with great pleasure and are obsessed with collecting human heads. Sneaking up behind your prey and breaking the vertebrae at the base of the skull with one blow of a club is considered the height of the art of hunting. Until now, on some islands, such as Malaita, a person’s weight in society depends on the number of people he killed, as in our case - on the current bank account; human heads are the most popular item of exchange, and the heads of whites are especially valued. Very often, several villages come together and start a common pot, which is replenished from month to month, until some brave warrior presents a fresh white head, with blood not yet dried on it, and demands all the accumulated goods in exchange.

All this is true, and, however, many white people live in dozens in the Solomon Islands and are sad when they have to leave them. White can live a long time in the Solomon Islands - for this he only needs caution and luck, and in addition, he must be indomitable. The stamp of indomitability must mark his thoughts and actions. He must be able to face failures with magnificent indifference, must have colossal self-esteem, the confidence that whatever he does is right; must, finally, unshakably believe in his racial superiority and never doubt that one white man at any time can cope with a thousand blacks, and on Sundays - with two thousand. This is what made the white man indomitable. Yes, and one more circumstance: a white person who wants to be indomitable must not only deeply despise all other races and put himself above everyone else, but must also be deprived of all fantasies. Nor should he delve into the motives, thoughts and customs of the blacks, yellows and redskins, for this was not at all what guided the white race in its triumphal march around the entire globe.

Bertie Arkwright was not one of those whites. He was too nervous and sensitive for this, with an overly developed imagination. He perceived all impressions too painfully, reacted too sharply to his surroundings. Therefore, the Solomon Islands were the most unsuitable place for him. True, he did not intend to stay there for long. Five weeks until the next ship arrived was, in his opinion, quite enough to satisfy the craving for the primitive, which tickled his nerves so pleasantly. At least this is how - albeit in slightly different expressions - he outlined his plans to his fellow travelers on the Makembo, and they looked at him as a hero, because they themselves, as befits traveling ladies, intended to get acquainted with the Solomon Islands without leaving the ship decks.

There was another passenger on board the ship, who, however, did not enjoy the attention of the fair sex. He was a small, wrinkled man with a darkly tanned face, dried out by the winds and the sun. His name - the one under which he was listed on the passenger list - did not mean anything to anyone. But the nickname - Captain Malu - was well known to all the natives from New Hanover to the New Hebrides; they even scared naughty children with it. Using everything - the labor of savages, the most barbaric measures, fever and hunger, bullets and whips of overseers - he amassed a fortune of five million, expressed in vast reserves of sea cucumber and sandalwood, mother-of-pearl and tortoiseshell bone, palm nuts and copra, in plots of land, trading posts and plantations.

There was more indomitability in one crippled little finger of Captain Malu than in the whole being of Bertie Arkwright. But what can you do! Traveling ladies judge mainly by appearance, and Bertie's appearance always won him the sympathy of the ladies.

While talking once with Captain Malu in the smoking room, Bertie revealed to him his firm intention to experience “the stormy and dangerous life in the Solomon Islands,” as he put it on this occasion. Captain Malu agreed that this was a very brave and worthy intention. But his real interest in Bertie appeared only a few days later, when he decided to show him his 44-caliber automatic pistol. After explaining the loading system, Bertie inserted the loaded magazine into the handle for clarity.

See how simple it is,” he said, moving the barrel back. - Now the gun is loaded and the hammer is cocked. All that remains is to press the trigger, up to eight times, at any speed you desire. And look here at the fuse latch. That's what I like most about this system. Complete safety! The possibility of an accident is absolutely excluded! - He pulled out the magazine and continued: - Here! See how secure this system is?

While Bertie carried out the manipulations, Captain Malu's faded eyes closely watched the pistol, especially towards the end, when the muzzle was aimed right in the direction of his stomach.

Please point your gun at something else, he asked.

“It’s not loaded,” Bertie reassured him. - I pulled out the store. And unloaded pistols don’t fire, as you know.

It happens that the stick shoots.

This system will not fire.

But you still turn it the other way.

Captain Malu spoke quietly and calmly, with a metallic note in his voice, but his eyes never left the barrel of the gun for a moment until Bertie finally turned it aside.

Would you like to bet five pounds that the gun isn't loaded? - Bertie exclaimed passionately.

His interlocutor shook his head negatively.

Okay, I'll prove it to you...

And Bertie put the gun to his temple with the obvious intention of pulling the trigger.

Wait a minute,” Captain Malu said calmly, holding out his hand. - Let me look at him one more time.

He pointed the gun out to sea and pulled the trigger. A deafening shot rang out, the mechanism clicked and threw a smoking cartridge case onto the deck. Bertie froze with his mouth open.

I think I pulled the barrel back, right? - he muttered. - So silly...

He smiled pitifully and sank heavily into a chair. There was not a trace of blood in his face, dark circles appeared under his eyes, his hands were shaking so much that he could not bring the trembling cigarette to his mouth. He had too rich an imagination: he already saw himself stretched out on the deck with a bullet through his head.

W-here's the story! - he stammered.

Nothing, good thing,” said Captain Malu, returning the gun.

On board the Makembo was a Government Resident returning from Sydney, and with his permission the steamer called at Ugi to land the missionary. In Ugi there was a small two-masted boat "Arla" under the command of skipper Hansen. The Arla, like many other things, also belonged to Captain Malu: and at his invitation, Bertie transferred to her to stay there for a few days and take part in a recruiting voyage along the coast of Malaita. Four days later he was to be dropped off at the Reminge plantation (also the property of Captain Malu), where he could live for a week, and then go to Tulagi - the residence of the resident - and stay in his house. It remains to be mentioned that Captain Malu made two proposals to Skipper Hansen and Mr. Garivel, the plantation manager, after which he disappears from our narrative for a long time. The essence of both proposals boiled down to the same thing - to show Mr. Bertram Arkwright "the stormy and dangerous life in the Solomon Islands." It is also said that Captain Malu hinted that whoever gave Mr. Arkwright the most vivid experience would receive a prize in the form of a box of Scotch whiskey.

Between you and me, Swartz has always been a decent idiot. Once he took four of his rowers to Tulagi to be flogged there - of course, quite officially. And he went back with them on the whaleboat. The sea was a little stormy, and the whaleboat capsized. Everyone escaped, but Svarts Svarts drowned. Of course it was an accident.

How's that? “Very interesting,” Bertie noted absently, as all his attention was absorbed by the black giant standing at the helm.

Oogie remained astern, and the Arla glided easily across the sparkling surface of the sea, heading towards the densely forested shores of Malaita. The helmsman, who so occupied Bertie's attention, had a large nail ostentatiously threaded through the tip of his nose, a necklace of trouser buttons adorned his neck, a can opener, a broken toothbrush, a clay pipe, a brass alarm clock wheel and several cartridge cases from Winchester cartridges hanging in his ears; Half a porcelain plate dangled from his chest. Along the deck in different places about forty black people, painted in approximately the same way, lay down. Fifteen of them made up the ship's crew, the rest were recruited workers.

“Of course, it was an accident,” said the assistant skipper of the Arla, Jacobs, thin, with dark eyes, looking more like a professor than a sailor. - Johnny Bedil almost had the same accident. He was also bringing home some of the carved ones, and they capsized his boat. But he swam no worse than them and escaped with the help of a hook and a revolver, while the two blacks drowned. Also an accident.

This happens here often,” the skipper noted. - Look at that guy at the helm, Mr. Arkwright! After all, a real cannibal. Six months ago, he and the rest of the crew drowned the then skipper of the Arla. Right on deck, sir, over there by the mizzenmast.

And the look the deck was in was scary to look at, said the assistant.

Excuse me, do you want to say?.. - Bertie began.

Here, here,” skipper Hansen interrupted him. - Accident. A man drowned.

But what about on deck?

Yes, that's it. Just between you and me, they used an axe.

And this is your current crew?!

Skipper Hansen nodded.

That skipper was very careless,” the mate explained. He turned his back to them, well... and got hurt.

We will have to avoid unnecessary noise,” the skipper complained. The government always stands behind the Black Sea. We cannot shoot first, but must wait until the black one shoots. Otherwise the government will declare this murder and you will be sent to Fiji. That's why there are so many accidents. They're drowning, what can you do?

Dinner was served, and Bertie and the skipper went below, leaving the mate on deck.

Keep your eyes peeled for that devil Auki,” the skipper warned as he left. - I don’t like his face lately.

Okay,” the assistant replied.

Dinner had not yet ended, and the skipper was just in the middle of his story about how the crew on the ship "Chiefs of Scotland" was slaughtered.

Yes,” he said, “it was an excellent ship, one of the best on the coast.” They didn’t manage to turn in time, and they ran into a reef, and then a whole flotilla of canoes immediately attacked them. There were five whites on board and twenty crew from Samoa and St. Croix, and one second mate escaped. In addition, sixty recruits died. All of them are savages - kai-kai. What is kai-kai? I'm sorry, I meant to say that they were all eaten. Then there's James Edwards, superbly equipped...

The skipper was interrupted by loud swearing from the mate. Wild screams were heard on the deck, then three shots rang out, and something heavy fell into the water. In one leap, Skipper Hansen flew up the ladder leading to the deck, drawing his revolver as he went. Bertie also climbed up, although not so quickly, and carefully poked his head out of the hatch. But nothing happened. An assistant stood on the deck with a revolver in his hand, shaking as if in a fever. Suddenly he shuddered and jumped to the side, as if danger was threatening him from behind.

The native fell overboard,” he reported in a strange, ringing voice. - He didn't know how to swim.

Who was that? - the skipper asked sternly.

Excuse me, I think I heard shots,” Bertie intervened, experiencing a pleasant thrill from the awareness of danger - all the more pleasant since the danger had already passed.

The assistant turned sharply to him and growled:

Lies! Nobody fired. The black guy just fell overboard.

Hansen looked at Bertie with an unblinking, unseeing gaze.

It seemed to me... - Bertie began.

Shots? - the skipper said thoughtfully. - Did you hear the shots, Mr. Jacobs?

“Not a single one,” answered the assistant.

The skipper turned to his guest with a triumphant look.

Obviously an accident. Let's go downstairs, Mr. Arkwright, and finish lunch.

That night Bertie slept in a tiny cabin, fenced off from the wardroom and importantly called the captain's cabin. At the bow bulkhead there was a rifle pyramid. Three more guns hung above the head of the bunk. Under the bunk there was a large box in which Bertie found cartridges, dynamite and several boxes of fuse. Bertie chose to move to the sofa against the opposite wall, and then his gaze fell on the Arly ship's magazine, lying on the table. It never occurred to him that this magazine was made by Captain Malu especially for him. From the journal, Bertie learned that on September 21, two sailors fell overboard and drowned. But now Bertie had already learned to read between the lines and knew how to understand it. Then he read about how, in the thickets on Suu, a whaleboat from the Arly was ambushed and lost three people killed, how the skipper discovered human meat in the cook’s cauldron, which the crew bought when they went ashore in Fui; how during the signaling, an accidental explosion of dynamite killed all the rowers in the boat. He also read about night attacks on the schooner, about its hasty escape from anchorages under the cover of darkness, about attacks by forest inhabitants on the crew in the mangroves, and about battles with savages in lagoons and bays. Every now and then Bertie came across cases of death from dysentery. With fear, he noticed that two whites, like him, who were staying on the Arles, died in this way.

"The Terrible Solomons"

Translation by E. Utkina

There is no doubt that the Solomon Islands are a destitute and inhospitable land. There are, of course, worse places in the world. But to a newcomer who is unable to understand life and people in their basic, unsightly brutality, the Solomon Islands can seem truly scary.

Indeed, fever and dysentery are rampant there, sick people with disgusting skin diseases are found at every turn, and the air is saturated with poison, which penetrates into every pore, scratch and abrasion, giving rise to malignant ulcers. Many who escaped death in the Solomon Islands return to their homeland as pathetic ruins. It is also known that the natives of the Solomon Islands are a wild people, partial to human flesh and inclined to collect human heads. They consider it a brave act to attack a person from behind and inflict a well-aimed blow on him with a tomahawk, cutting the spine at the base of the brain. No less true are the rumors about some of these islands, such as Malaita, where a person's social position is determined by the number of murders he commits. Heads are an exchange value there; preference is always given to the head of a white man. Very often, several villages, month after month, put their supplies into a common cauldron, until some brave warrior presents them with a fresh, bloody head of a white man and demands the entire cauldron in exchange.

All of the above is the absolute truth; Meanwhile, other whites live in the Solomon Islands for decades and, leaving them, experience longing and a desire to return. A person who intends to settle there for a long time needs to have a certain caution and a kind of happiness. In addition, he must belong to a special category of people. His soul must be marked with the mark of the white man's inflexibility. He must be relentless. He must face all kinds of unforeseen surprises with equanimity and be distinguished by boundless self-confidence, as well as a racial egoism that convinces him that on any day of the week a white man is worth a thousand blacks, and on Sunday he is allowed to destroy them in greater numbers. All these qualities make the white man unyielding. Yes, there is another circumstance: a white person who wants to be inflexible must not only despise other races and have a high opinion of himself, but must also not give free rein to his imagination. He does not need to delve into the morals, customs and psychology of black, yellow and brown people, for this is not at all the way the white race paved its royal path throughout the globe.

Bertie Arkwright was not inflexible. He was too sensitive, sophisticated and had an excess of imagination. He perceived all impressions too painfully, reacted too sharply to his surroundings. Therefore, the Solomon Islands were the most unsuitable place for him. He didn't intend to settle there for long. A five-week stay in the Solomon Islands until the arrival of the next ship seemed to him quite sufficient to satisfy that craving for the primitive that had taken possession of his entire being. At least that's what he said, although in different terms, to the tourists on the Macambo; they admired his heroism: after all, these were ladies doomed to stay on the boring and safe deck of a steamship making its way between the Solomon Islands.

There was another man on board, but the ladies did not pay attention to him. It was a small, hunched creature with wrinkled, mahogany-colored skin. His name, included in the passenger list, is of no interest, but his other name - Captain Malu - was sworn to the natives; They frightened small children all over the area from New Hanover to the New Hebrides. He exploited the labor of savages, suffered from fevers and all sorts of hardships and, with the help of rifles and whips of overseers, amassed for himself a five-million-dollar fortune consisting of sea snails, sandalwood, mother-of-pearl, tortoiseshell bones, ivory nuts, copra, land plots, trading posts and plantations. There was more strength in Captain Malu's broken little finger than in the whole person of Bertie Arkwright. But female tourists are used to judging only by appearance, and Bertie was undoubtedly handsome.

Bertie talked with Captain Malu in the smoking room and told him that he intended to get acquainted with the “colorful, bloodthirsty life of the Solomon Islands.” Captain Malu recognized this endeavor as ambitious and commendable. But it was only a few days later that he became interested in Bertie when this young adventurer wanted to show him his .44 caliber automatic pistol. Bertie explained the mechanism and demonstrated it by taking out a clip of cartridges.

“It’s quite simple,” he said, inserting the clip and pulling the barrel back. - This is how it charges and discharges, see? Then all I have to do is press the pawl eight times in a row, as quickly as possible. Look at this fuse. That's why I like him so much. It's quite safe. There can be no doubt. - He took out the clip again. - Judge for yourself how safe it is.

He held the muzzle of the gun level with Captain Malu's stomach, and the captain's blue eyes watched him intently.

Wouldn't it be better to turn it the other way? - asked the captain.

But it’s completely safe,” Bertie assured him. - I pulled out the clip. You understand, it is now not charged.

Firearms are always loaded.

But I assure you, it is not charged!

Anyway, move the muzzle to the side.

"I'll bet you five pounds it's not loaded," Bertie suggested eagerly.

But he shook his head.

Well, I'll prove it to you.

Bertie raised the revolver and put the muzzle to his temple with the clear intention of pulling the trigger.

Just a second,” Captain Malu said calmly, holding out his hand. - Let me take a look.

He pointed the revolver towards the sea and pressed the trigger. A deafening shot followed, and at the same time the mechanism threw a hot, smoking cartridge to the side, along the deck.

Bertie's jaw dropped, startled.

That means there was a cartridge left there,” he tried to explain. - I must admit that it was very stupid.

He chuckled sheepishly and sank into a chair. The blood had drained from his face and dark circles appeared under his eyes. His hands were shaking and could not lift the cigarette to his mouth. He loved life too much, and now he saw himself with a crushed head, stretched out on the deck.

But really,” he muttered, “really...

This is a wonderful weapon,” said Captain Malu, returning the automatic pistol to him.

There was a commissioner on board the Macambo, returning from Sydney, and with his permission the ship stopped at Uji to land the missionary. In Uji there was the ketch "Arla" under the command of Captain Hansen. The Arla was one of many ships owned by Captain Mal, and he tempted Bertie with the offer of boarding the Arla for a four-day recruiting voyage along the coast of Malaita. After this, the Arla was supposed to take him to the Reminge plantations, also owned by Captain Mal; there Bertie will stay for a week and then go to Tulagi, the seat of government, where he will enjoy the hospitality of the commissioner. Captain Malu, having given two other orders, which later did not remain without consequences, disappears from the pages of this story. One order was received by Captain Hansen, the other by Mr. Harriwell, manager of the Reminge plantations. Both instructions were similar in nature: they were ordered to provide Mr. Bertram Arkwright with the opportunity to become acquainted with the “harsh and bloodthirsty life of the Solomon Islands.” And many whispered that Captain Malu had promised a box of Scotch whiskey to anyone who would give Mr. Arkwright the opportunity to experience the most exciting adventures.

Yes, Schwartz has always been stubborn. You see, he took four sailors from his crew to Tulagi, where they were to be flogged - officially, you understand; and then went back with them on the whaleboat. There was wind and the boat capsized. Only Schwartz drowned. Of course it's an accident.

Accident? True? asked Bertie, only slightly interested; he carefully examined the black man at the helm.

Uji disappeared astern, and the Arla glided slowly across the sunlit sea, heading towards the forested shores of Malaita. The helmsman who captured Bertie's attention was decorated with a nail threaded through the nasal cartilage. Around his neck hung a necklace made from trouser buttons. In the holes made in the ears were inserted: a key from a box of canned food, a broken toothbrush handle, a clay pipe, a copper alarm clock wheel and several rifle cartridges. On his chest was half a porcelain plate hanging from his neck. About forty blacks painted in the same spirit wandered about the deck; fifteen of them were the ship's crew, the rest were recently recruited workers.

Of course it was an accident,” said the Arla’s mate Jacobs, slender and dark-eyed, looking more like a professor than a sailor. - Johnny Bedipp experienced approximately the same thing. He was returning with several flogged sailors, and they capsized the boat. But he could swim as well as they did, and two of them drowned. He also used a rowing stand and a revolver. Undoubtedly it was an accident.

A common occurrence,” the skipper noted. - Do you see that man at the helm, Mr. Arkwright? He is a cannibal. Six months ago, he and the rest of the crew drowned the captain of the Arla. They attacked him on this very deck, just aft, near the mizzenmast.

The deck was in terrible shape,” added the assistant.

Do you mean... - Bertie began.

Yes Yes! - said Captain Hansen. - It's an accident; he drowned by accident.

But the deck?..

That's it. I'll tell you a secret: they used an axe.

Is this your team?

Captain Hansen nodded his head affirmatively.

The previous skipper was too careless,” the mate explained. “He didn’t have time to turn around before they finished him off.”

“We have no power over them,” the skipper complained. - The government usually sides with the blacks and protects them against the whites. You have no right to shoot first. You must let the Negro take the first shot, otherwise the law will charge you with murder and send you to Fiji. That's why accidents are so common here.

They called for dinner, and Bertie and the skipper went below, leaving the mate on deck.

Keep a close eye on this black devil Auiki,” the skipper warned as he left. - He doesn't inspire confidence in me. I've been eyeing him for several days now.

Okay,” the assistant replied.

Dinner was already over, and the skipper was only halfway through his story about the massacre on the Scottish Chiefs.

Yes,” he continued, “it was the best ship on the entire coast. And so they did not manage to turn in time and ran into the reefs; a whole flotilla of canoes immediately headed towards him. There were five whites on board and a crew of twenty blacks, natives of Santa Cruz and Samoa, and only the ship's clerk escaped. In addition, there were sixty recruited workers. And they were all kai-kai...

Kai-kai?

Oh, I'm sorry, that means they were eaten. And another ship, the James Edward, wonderfully equipped...

At this time, a sharp shout from the assistant and wild screams came from the deck. Three shots were heard, then a distinct splash of water was heard. Captain Hansen immediately ran up the ladder, and a shiny revolver, snatched by the captain as he ran, flashed before Bertie’s eyes. Bertie stood up much more slowly and hesitantly stuck his head out of the hatch. But nothing seemed to happen. The assistant, trembling with excitement, stood with a revolver in his hand. Suddenly he jumped back, half turning back, as if danger threatened from the rear.

One of the natives fell overboard,” he said in an unnatural, strained tone. - He didn't know how to swim.

Who? - asked the skipper.

“Auiki,” came the answer.

But wait, I heard shots, I’m telling you, shots,” said Bertie in terrible excitement, sensing some mysterious adventure, which, fortunately, had already passed.

The assistant attacked him, growling:

This is a blatant lie! There wasn't a single shot fired. The black man fell overboard.

Captain Hansen looked at Bertie with dull, unblinking eyes.

But I... I thought... - Bertie began.

Shots? - Captain Hansen said thoughtfully. - Shots? Did you hear one shot, Mr. Jacobs?

“None,” Mr. Jacobs replied.

The skipper looked triumphantly at his guest and said:

Undoubtedly an accident. Let's go downstairs, Mr. Arkwright, and finish our lunch.

That night Bertie slept in the captain's cabin, a tiny room separated from the large wardroom. The forward bulkhead was decorated with a rack of guns. Three more guns hung above the bunk. There was a large box under the bunk; Having pulled it out, Bertie found there a supply of ammunition, dynamite and several boxes of detonators. He chose to take a bed against the opposite wall. On a small table, in full view, lay the Arly's logbook. Bertie had no idea that Captain Malu had ordered it to be made especially for him. Bertie read in it that on September 20, two sailors fell overboard and drowned. Bertie read between the lines and understood what was going on. Then he learned that one whaling boat from the Arly was attacked by forest inhabitants off the coast of Suu and lost three sailors; that the skipper found the cook cooking human meat in the ship's boiler; the meat was purchased by the team on shore at Foui; An accidental explosion of dynamite during a signal killed the sailors of one boat. There were stories of night attacks; about fleeing ports and waiting for dawn; of attacks by forest dwellers in the mangroves and by fleets of seaside dwellers in the great straits. With monotonous insistence, cases of death from dysentery were listed there. With fear, he noted that two whites who were on board the Arla as guests had died of dysentery.

I must tell you,” Bertie told the captain the next day, “I have looked through your journal.”

The skipper was unhappy and even angry that the ship's log was left in the cabin.

“All these cases of death from dysentery are nonsense, just like accidental jumping overboard,” Bertie continued. - What does this dysentery actually mean?

The skipper was amazed at the guest’s insight, made an attempt to deny everything, and then confessed:

You see, Mr. Arkwright, the situation is this: these islands already have a bad reputation. Every day it becomes more and more difficult to get a white man into the service. Suppose a person is killed. The company must hire someone else at great expense. But if a person died simply from an illness, then everything is fine. Newcomers are not afraid of disease, they are afraid of being killed. When I boarded the Arla, I believed that her skipper had died of dysentery. And then it was too late. The contract was concluded.

And besides,” added Mr. Jacobs, “accidents happen too often.” This may raise suspicions. Government policy is to blame for everything. There is no other way for a white man to defend himself against blacks.

Yes, remember the “Princess” and her Yankee mate,” the skipper picked up. “There were five white people on it, not counting the government agent.” The captain, agent and clerk moored to the shore in two boats. They were all killed - every single one. The mate, the boatswain and about fifteen sailors from Samoa and Tongan remained on board. A crowd of blacks rushed towards them from the shore. At the first onslaught, the entire crew and boatswain were killed. The assistant grabbed three bags of ammunition and two hard drives and climbed onto the mast. He was the only survivor, and it is not surprising that he was completely mad. He fired one gun until he could no longer hold it in his hands, it became so hot; then he took another. The deck was all black with blacks. He drove them away. He killed them as they jumped overboard and continued to shoot as they grabbed the oars. Then they rushed into the water and swam, and he, distraught, killed six more. How do you think he paid for this?

“Seven years of hard labor in Fiji,” the assistant snorted angrily.

The government said he had no right to shoot when they jumped overboard, the skipper explained. “That’s why they’re dying of dysentery now,” the assistant finished.

Incredible! - said Bertie, feeling a strong desire to finish his journey as quickly as possible.

Later, he got into a conversation with a black man, whom he was pointed out as a cannibal. His name was Sumasoi. He spent three years on plantations in Queensland, visited Samoa, Fiji, and Sydney; While serving as a sailor on a recruiting schooner, he visited New Britain, New Ireland, New Guinea and the Admiralty Islands. He was a great joker and in conversation with Bertie followed the skipper's example. Yes, he ate a lot of people. How many? He can't remember everyone. Yes, and white people too; their meat is very tasty, unless they are sick. One day Sumasoi ate a sick man.

Bad deal! - he exclaimed at this memory. - Mine got really sick after it. My stomach hurt a lot.

Bertie shuddered and inquired about the heads. Yes, on the banks of Sumasoi he keeps several heads; good heads are sun-dried and smoked. There is a head of a schooner captain. With long sideburns. Sumasoi would sell it for two sovereigns. He also has several children's heads, but they are poorly preserved; he will sell them for ten shillings.

Five minutes later Bertie found himself next to a black man stricken with a terrible skin disease; he sat next to him on the top step of the ladder. Bertie moved away from him and after questioning learned that the black man had leprosy. He hurried downstairs and carefully washed himself with antiseptic soap.

Many times during the day he had to resort to antiseptics; almost every native on board had malignant ulcers.

The Arla dropped anchor near the mangrove swamps; A double row of barbed wire was stretched along the side. Apparently, the matter was serious; Seeing a line of canoes with savages armed with javelins, bows, arrows, and Winchesters, Bertie wished more fervently than ever that his trip would be over quickly.

All evening, after sunset, the natives were spinning in their canoes at the side of the ship. And they were rude to the assistant when he ordered them to go ashore.

“Be calm, I’ll deal with them now,” said Captain Hansen, going down.

When he returned, he showed Bertie a stick of dynamite attached to a fishhook. The fact is that a bottle of chloridine with a torn off label and a piece of the most harmless wick can mislead everyone. This bottle fooled both Bertie and the natives. Captain Hansen lit the fuse and caught the loincloth of a native on board with a fishhook; the native rushed, seized by a passionate desire to escape to the shore and in a hurry, not thinking about tearing off his bandage. He started to run, and the wick hissed and crackled behind him; the natives jumped over the wire fence, clinging to the thorns. Bertie was overcome with horror. And Captain Hansen shared his feeling: he forgot about his twenty-five workers, paid at thirty shillings each. They all threw themselves overboard along with the coastal inhabitants, followed by a black man with a hissing bottle of chloridine.

Bertie didn't see if the bottle exploded; but the assistant, by the way, discharged a stick of real dynamite on the stern, which did not harm anyone; Bertie was ready to swear in court that one black man was torn to pieces.

The disappearance of twenty-five workmen cost the Arla forty pounds; there could be no hope of their return once they reached the forest. The skipper and mate decided to drown their sorrows in iced tea. The iced tea was kept in whiskey bottles, and Bertie had no idea what they were consuming. He saw that both were drinking heavily and seriously discussing whether to report the case of the exploding black man to the government as an accidental fall into the water or to record the death from dysentery. They soon fell asleep, and Bertie, the only white man on board, had no choice but to keep watch. Until dawn he remained at a dangerous post, fearfully awaiting an attack from the shore or an uprising of the crew.

The Arla stood off the coast for more than three days, and every night the skipper and mate drank themselves to smithereens with cold tea, leaving Bertie to keep watch. They knew they could trust him, and he was equally convinced that he would report their behavior to Captain Mal if he lived. Finally, the Arla dropped anchor at the Reminge plantation, on Guadalcanar, and Bertie, coming ashore, sighed with relief, shaking hands with the manager. Mr. Harriwell was prepared to receive his guest.

Please don’t worry if the mood of our Negro workers seems a little strange to you,” said Mr. Harrivel, mysteriously taking him aside. - There is talk of an uprising, and indeed, there are some suspicious signs, but I am personally convinced that this is empty chatter.

How many... how many blacks do you have on your plantation? - Bertie asked with a sinking heart.

At present there are four hundred,” replied Mr. Harrivel encouragingly, “but there are three of us with you, plus the skipper and mate from the Arla; we'll do just fine with black people.

Bertie went to meet McTavish, the warehouse manager; but he paid almost no attention to the new arrival and, worried, announced his intention to leave the service.

I'm a married man, Mr. Harriwell, I can't stay here any longer. A riot is inevitable, it's clear as day. The blacks are ready to revolt, and the horrors of Hohono will be repeated here.

What are these horrors of Hohono? - asked Bertie, after he managed to convince the warehouse manager to stay until the end of the month.

He meant the Hohono plantation on Isabella,” the manager explained. - There the blacks killed five whites who lived on the shore, captured the schooner, killed the captain and mate, and every one of them fled to Malaita. But I always said that there, on the Hohono plantations, the whites were too careless. We won't be caught by surprise. Come on, Mr. Arkwright, I'll show you the view from our veranda.

Bertie was busy thinking about how he could quickly get to Tulagi to see the commissar, and he was not in the mood for appearances.

He was still figuring out a way when very close, behind him, a shot from a gun was heard. And at that very moment Mr. Harriwell quickly grabbed him, almost twisting his arm, and pushed him into the room.

Well, I’ll tell you, buddy, you were on the verge of death,” said the manager, feeling him to see if he was injured. - I'm terribly upset. I never thought that in broad daylight...

Bertie turned pale.

That’s how they attacked the previous manager,” McTavish said condescendingly. - What a nice guy he was! They smashed his head here on the veranda. See that dark spot between the stairs and the door?

Bertie thought the cocktail Mr. Harrivel had prepared and served him would be just the thing when a man in riding clothes entered.

Well, what's the matter? - asked the manager, looking at the newcomer. - Has the river overflowed again?

To hell with the river; we are talking about blacks. They jumped out of the reeds twelve paces from me, and a shot rang out. It was a Winchester, and the shooter held the gun at his hip. I would like to know where he got this hard drive from? Oh, I'm sorry! Pleased to meet you, Mr Arkwright.

Mr. Brown, my assistant,” Mr. Harriwell introduced him. - Well, let's have a drink.

But where did he get the hard drive? - Mr. Brown insisted. - I always advised not to keep weapons in the office.

The weapon is in its place,” Mr. Harrivel answered irritably.

Mr. Brown grinned incredulously.

Let’s go have a look,” the manager suggested.

Bertie followed them into the office, where Mr. Harriwell pointed triumphantly to a large box that stood in a dusty corner.

Great, but where did this scoundrel get the hard drive? - Mr. Brown persisted.

At this time MacTavish lifted the lid. The manager shuddered. The box was empty. Everyone looked at each other, speechless with horror. Harrivel, exhausted, fell into a chair.

MacTavish swore angrily.

What did I keep repeating? Black servants cannot be trusted.

“This is getting serious,” Harrivel agreed, “but we’ll get through it.” This bloodthirsty black is a good shake. Please, gentlemen, do not let go of your guns during dinner, and you, Mr. Brown, be so good as to prepare forty or fifty sticks of dynamite; Cut the wicks shorter. We'll teach them a lesson. And now, gentlemen, lunch is served.

Bertie hated Indian spiced rice and turned to scrambled eggs. He had almost finished his portion when Harriwell put scrambled eggs on his plate.

He took the piece into his mouth and immediately spat it out, cursing.

This is the second time,” MacTavish announced ominously. Harriwell was still coughing and spitting.

What is secondary? - Bertie shuddered.

“Poison,” came the answer. - The cook will be hanged.

This is how the accountant died at Cape Marsh,” Brown said. - A terrible death. On the ship "Jesse" they said that his inhuman screams could be heard at a distance of more than three miles.

“I’ll put the cook in shackles,” muttered Harrivel. - Fortunately, we discovered it in time.

Bertie sat as if paralyzed. There was no blood on his face. He tried to speak, but all he could hear was inarticulate sounds and wheezing. Everyone looked at him with concern.

Don't talk, don't talk! - MacTavish exclaimed in a tense voice.

I ate it, ate it all, the whole plate! - Bertie cried, like a man who has suddenly emerged from under the water and can barely catch his breath.

The terrible silence lasted for another half a minute, and in their eyes he read his sentence.

After all, it is possible that it was not poison,” said Harrivel gloomily.

Call the cook,” Brown said.

A black boy cook with a pierced nose and holes in his ears entered, baring his teeth.

Look here, Wee Wee, what does this mean? - Harrivel yelled, pointing at the scrambled eggs.

It is quite natural that Wee Wee was scared and confused.

“Good mister kai-kai,” he muttered, making excuses.

Let him eat it,” advised MacTavish. - This will be the best test.

Harrivel rushed to the cook with the scrambled eggs; he fled in horror.

“Everything is clear,” Brown said solemnly. - He doesn't want to eat it.

Mr. Brown, would you have the courtesy to go and put him in irons? - Then Harrivel turned to Bertie nonchalantly. - It's okay, buddy; the commissar will deal with him, and if you die, rest assured, he will be hanged.

“I don’t think the government will do that,” MacTavish objected.

But, gentlemen, gentlemen, - cried Bertie, - still think about me!

Harrivel shrugged his shoulders sympathetically.

It's sad, my friend, but it's a native poison, and we don't know any antidotes. Take heart and calm down, and if...

Two loud rifle shots interrupted his speech. Brown came in, loaded his rifle and sat down at the table.

The cook has died,” he announced. - Fever. Sudden attack.

I just told Mr. Arkwright that we don’t know how to fight native poison, we don’t know any antidotes...

Except for gin,” Brown added.

Harrivel called himself a brainless idiot and rushed for a bottle of gin.

Right away, my friend, right away,” he instructed Bertie, who drank two-thirds of a large glass of pure alcohol and, choking, coughed until tears flowed from his eyes.

Harrivel felt his pulse, pretending that he could not feel it, and doubted the presence of poison in the scrambled eggs. Brown and McTavish also began to doubt, but Bertie detected a hint of insincerity in their tone. He could no longer eat or drink and secretly began to feel his pulse under the table. Of course, his pulse kept getting faster, but Bertie didn’t think of attributing this to the effects of the gin.

McTavish, rifle in hand, went out onto the veranda to reconnoiter.

“They are crowding around the kitchen,” he reported. - And they have an incredible number of hard drives. I have a plan to get around them from the other side and attack from the flank. Strike the first blow, you know. Are you coming, Brown?

Harrivel, sitting at the table, continued to eat, and Bertie found his heart rate increased by five beats. But still, at the sound of the firing, he jumped up from his seat. Among the crackling of the Winchesters, shots from the guns of Brown and McTavish stood out loudly; the firing was accompanied by wild squeals and screams.

Our guns put them to flight,” Harrivel noted as the voices and shots began to fade away as they moved away.

As soon as Brown and McTavish returned to the table, the latter again went on reconnaissance.

“They got dynamite,” he announced.

Then we’ll use dynamite,” suggested Harrivel.

All three put half a dozen sticks in their pockets, lit their cigars and headed for the door.

And that's when the explosion happened. Subsequently, McTavish was blamed for this, and he agreed that he had indeed used more dynamite than he should have. Be that as it may, the house exploded - it rose at an angle, and then settled again on the foundation. Almost all the dishes on the table were smashed to pieces, and the weekly clock on the wall stopped. Screaming for vengeance, all three rushed into the pitchless darkness of the night, and the bombardment began.

When they returned, they did not find Bertie. He somehow dragged himself to the office, barricaded himself there and fell to the floor; he was tormented by drunken nightmares, he died from a thousand different deaths; and the battle was going on around him. In the morning he woke up completely exhausted and with a headache from the gin. He got out of the office and saw that the sun was in its place - probably God had not left the sky, for Bertie’s owners were safe and sound.

Harriwell urged him to stay longer, but Bertie insisted on immediately sailing on the Arle to Tulagi, where he sat hopelessly in the agent's house until the arrival of the ship. The ship was the same, and the tourist ladies were the same, and Bertie turned into a hero again, but no one paid attention to Captain Mala as before. From Sydney, Captain Malu sent two boxes of the best Scotch whiskey. He could not decide who to give preference to: Captain Hansen or Mr. Harrivel - which of the two showed Bertie Arkwright in all its splendor the life of the Solomon Islands, “harsh and bloodthirsty”?

Jack London - The Terrible Solomons, read the text

See also Jack London - Prose (stories, poems, novels...):

Son of the Wolf
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A Son of the Sun
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