Adventure

by Jack London
CHAPTER I--SOMETHING TO BE DONE

He was a very sick white man. He rode pick-a-back on a woolly-
headed, black-skinned savage, the lobes of whose ears had been

pierced and stretched until one had torn out, while the other
carried a circular block of carved wood three inches in diameter.

The torn ear had been pierced again, but this time not so
ambitiously, for the hole accommodated no more than a short clay

pipe. The man-horse was greasy and dirty, and naked save for an
exceedingly narrow and dirty loin-cloth; but the white man clung to

him closely and desperately. At times, from weakness, his head
drooped and rested on the woolly pate. At other times he lifted

his head and stared with swimming eyes at the cocoanut palms that
reeled and swung in the shimmering heat. He was clad in a thin

undershirt and a strip of cotton cloth, that wrapped about his
waist and descended to his knees. On his head was a battered

Stetson, known to the trade as a Baden-Powell. About his middle
was strapped a belt, which carried a large-calibred automatic

pistol and several spare clips, loaded and ready for quick work.
The rear was brought up by a black boy of fourteen or fifteen, who

carried medicine bottles, a pail of hot water, and various other
hospital appurtenances. They passed out of the compound through a

small wicker gate, and went on under the blazing sun, winding about
among new-planted cocoanuts that threw no shade. There was not a

breath of wind, and the superheated, stagnant air was heavy with
pestilence. From the direction they were going arose a wild

clamour, as of lost souls wailing and of men in torment. A long,
low shed showed ahead, grass-walled and grass-thatched, and it was

from here that the noise proceeded. There were shrieks and
screams, some unmistakably of grief, others unmistakably of

unendurable pain. As the white man drew closer he could hear a low
and continuous moaning and groaning. He shuddered at the thought

of entering, and for a moment was quite certain that he was going
to faint. For that most dreaded of Solomon Island scourges,

dysentery, had struck Berande plantation, and he was all alone to
cope with it. Also, he was afflicted himself.

By stooping close, still on man-back, he managed to pass through
the low doorway. He took a small bottle from his follower, and

sniffed strong ammonia to clear his senses for the ordeal. Then he
shouted, "Shut up!" and the clamour stilled. A raised platform of

forest slabs, six feet wide, with a slight pitch, extended the full
length of the shed. Alongside of it was a yard-wide run-way.

Stretched on the platform, side by side and crowded close, lay a
score of blacks. That they were low in the order of human life was

apparent at a glance. They were man-eaters. Their faces were
asymmetrical, bestial; their bodies were ugly and ape-like. They

wore nose-rings of clam-shell and turtle-shell, and from the ends
of their noses which were also pierced, projected horns of beads

strung on stiff wire. Their ears were pierced and distended to
accommodate wooden plugs and sticks, pipes, and all manner of

barbaric ornaments. Their faces and bodies were tattooed or
scarred in hideous designs. In their sickness they wore no

clothing, not even loin-cloths, though they retained their shell
armlets, their bead necklaces, and their leather belts, between

which and the skin were thrust naked knives. The bodies of many
were covered with horrible sores. Swarms of flies rose and

settled, or flew back and forth in clouds.
The white man went down the line, dosing each man with medicine.

To some he gave chlorodyne. He was forced to concentrate with all
his will in order to remember which of them could stand

ipecacuanha, and which of them were constitutionally unable to
retain that powerful drug. One who lay dead he ordered to be

carried out. He spoke in the sharp, peremptory manner of a man who
would take no nonsense, and the well men who obeyed his orders

scowled malignantly. One muttered deep in his chest as he took the
corpse by the feet. The white man exploded in speech and action.

It cost him a painful effort, but his arm shot out, landing a back-
hand blow on the black's mouth.

"What name you, Angara?" he shouted. "What for talk 'long you, eh?
I knock seven bells out of you, too much, quick!"

With the automaticswiftness of a wild animal the black gathered
himself to spring. The anger of a wild animal was in his eyes; but

he saw the white man's hand dropping to the pistol in his belt.
The spring was never made. The tensed body relaxed, and the black,

stooping over the corpse, helped carry it out. This time there was
no muttering.

"Swine!" the white man gritted out through his teeth at the whole
breed of Solomon Islanders.

He was very sick, this white man, as sick as the black men who lay
helpless about him, and whom he attended. He never knew, each time

he entered the festering shambles, whether or not he would be able
to complete the round. But he did know in large degree of

certainty that, if he ever fainted there in the midst of the
blacks, those who were able would be at his throat like ravening

wolves.
Part way down the line a man was dying. He gave orders for his

removal as soon as he had breathed his last. A black stuck his
head inside the shed door, saying, -

"Four fella sick too much."
Fresh cases, still able to walk, they clustered about the

spokesman. The white man singled out the weakest, and put him in
the place just vacated by the corpse. Also, he indicated the next

weakest, telling him to wait for a place until the next man died.
Then, ordering one of the well men to take a squad from the field-

force and build a lean-to addition to the hospital, he continued
along the run-way, administering medicine and cracking jokes in

beche-de-mer English to cheer the sufferers. Now and again, from
the far end, a weird wail was raised. When he arrived there he

found the noise was emitted by a boy who was not sick. The white
man's wrath was immediate.

"What name you sing out alla time?" he demanded.
"Him fella my brother belong me," was the answer. "Him fella die

too much."
"You sing out, him fella brother belong you die too much," the

white man went on in threatening tones. "I cross too much along
you. What name you sing out, eh? You fat-head make um brother

belong you die dose up too much. You fella finish sing out,
savvee? You fella no finish sing out I make finish damn quick."

He threatened the wailer with his fist, and the black cowered down,
glaring at him with sullen eyes.

"Sing out no good little bit," the white man went on, more gently.
"You no sing out. You chase um fella fly. Too much strong fella

fly. You catch water, washee brother belong you; washee plenty too
much, bime bye brother belong you all right. Jump!" he shouted

fiercely at the end, his will penetrating the low intelligence of
the black with dynamic force that made him jump to the task of

brushing the loathsome swarms of flies away.
Again he rode out into the reeking heat. He clutched the black's

neck tightly, and drew a long breath; but the dead air seemed to
shrivel his lungs, and he dropped his head and dozed till the house

was reached. Every effort of will was torture, yet he was called
upon continually to make efforts of will. He gave the black he had

ridden a nip of trade-gin. Viaburi, the house-boy, brought him