The Call Of The South, George Lewis Becke [best management books of all time txt] 📗

to the southern littoral, some mongrel curs that belonged to our carriers, and had gone on ahead of us, put up a wild sow with seven suckers, and at once started off in pursuit. The old, razor-backed sow doubled and came flying past us, with her nimble-footed and striped progeny following. Marchmont and I both fired simultaneously--at the sow. I missed her, but my charge of No 3 shot tumbled over one of the piglets, which was at her heels, and Marchmont's Soper bullet took her in the belly, and passed clean through her. But although she went down for a few moments she was up again like a Jack-in-the-box, and with an angry squeal scurried along the thick carpet of dead leaves, and then darted into the buttressed recesses of a great _masa'oi_ (cedar) tree, which was evidently her home, followed by two or three game mongrels.

Dropping his rifle, Marchmont ran to the trees, seized the nearest cur by the tail, and slung it away down the side of the slope, then he kicked the others out of his way, and kneeling down peered into the dark recess formed by two of the buttresses.

"Come out of that," I shouted, "you'll get bitten if you go near her. What are you trying to do? Get out, and give the dogs a chance to turn her out."

"Bosh! Mind your own business. I know what I'm about. She's lying inside, as dead as a brickbat I'll have her out in a jiffy," and then his head and shoulders disappeared--then came a wild, blood-curdling yell of rage and pain, and the Man Who Knew Everything backed out with the infuriated sow's teeth deeply imbedded into both sides of his right hand; his left gripped her by the loose and pendulous skin of her throat. One of the native boys darted to his aid, and with one blow of his hatchet split open the animal's skull.

"Well, of all the born idiots----" I began, when I stopped, for I saw that Marchmont's face was very pale, and that he was suffering excruciating pain. A pig bite is always dangerous and that which he had sustained was a serious one. Fortunately, it was bleeding profusely, and as quickly as possible we procured water, and thoroughly cleansed, and then bound up his hand.

As soon as we got to Siumu I hurried to the house of the one white trader, and was lucky in getting a bottle of that good old-fashioned remedy--Friar's balsam. I poured it into a clean basin, and Marchmont unhesitatingly put in his hand, and let it stay there. The agony was great, and the language that poured from the patient was of an extremely lurid character. But he had wonderful grit, and I had to laugh when he began abusing himself for being such an idiot. He then allowed a native woman to cover the entire hand with a huge poultice, made of the beaten-up pulp of wild oranges--a splendid antiseptic. But it was a week before he could use his hand again, and his temper was something abominable. However, we managed to put in the time very pleasantly by paying a round of visits to the villages along the coast, and were entertained and feasted to our heart's content by the natives. Then followed some days' grand pig hunting and pigeon shooting in the mountains, amidst some of the most lovely tropical scenery in the world. Marchmont killed a grand old tusker, and presented the tusks to the local chief, who in return gave him a very old kava bowl--a valuable article to Samoans. He was, as usual, incredulous when I told him that it was worth L10, and that Theodor Weber, the German Consul General, who was a collector, would be only too glad to get it at that price.

"What, for that thing?"

"Yes, for that thing. Quite apart from its size, its age makes it valuable. I daresay that more than half a century has passed since the tree from which it was made was felled by stone axes, and the bowl cut out from a solid piece." It was fifteen inches high, two feet in diameter, and the four legs and exterior were black with age, whilst the interior, from constant use of kava, was coated with a bright yellow enamel. The labour of cutting out such a vessel with such implements--it being, legs and bowl, in one piece--must have taken long months. Then came the filing down with strips of shark skin, which had first been softened, and then allowed to dry and contract over pieces of wood, round and flat; then the final polishing with the rough underside of wild fig-leaves, and then its final presentation, with such ceremony, to the chief who had ordered it to be made.

I explained all this to Marchgiont, and he actually believed me and did not say "Bosh!"

"I thought that you made a fearfully long-winded oration on my behalf when the chief gave me the thing," he remarked.

"I did. I can tell you, Marchmont, that I should have felt highly flattered if he had presented it to me. He seems to have taken a violent fancy to you. But, for Heaven's sake, don't think that, because he has been told that you are a rich man, he has any ulterior motive. And don't, I beg of you, offer him money. He has a reason for showing his liking for you."

I knew what that reason was. Suisala, the chief of Siumu, had, from the very first, expressed to me his admiration of Marchmont's stalwart, athletic figure, and his fair complexion, and was anxious to confer on him a very great honour--that of exchanging names. Suisala was of one of the oldest and most chiefly families in Samoa, and was proud of the fact that the French navigator Bougainville had taken especial notice of his grandfather (who was also a Suisala) and who had been presented with a fowling piece and ammunition by the French officer. As I have before mentioned, physical strength and manliness always attract the Samoan mind, and the chief of Siumu had, as I afterwards explained to March-mont, fallen a victim to his "fatal beauty".

One morning, a few days after the presentation of the _tanoa_ (kava-bowl) to the Man Who Knew Everything, a schooner appeared outside the reef and hove-to, there being no harbour at Siumu. She was an American vessel, and had come to buy copra from, and land goods for, the local trader. There was a rather heavy sea running on the reef at the time, and the work of shipping the copra and landing the stores proved so difficult and tedious that I lent my boat and crew to help. Unfortunately Marama was laid up with influenza, so could not take charge of the boat; I also was on the sick list, with a heavy cold. However, my crew were to be trusted, and they made several trips during the morning. Marchmont, after lunch, wanted to board the schooner, and also offered to take charge of the boat and crew for the rest of the day. Knowing that he was not used to surf work, I declined his offer, but told him he could go off on board if he did not mind a wetting. He was quite nettled, and angrily asked me if I thought he could not take a whaleboat through a bit of surf as well as either Marama or myself. I replied frankly that I did not.

He snorted with contempt "Bosh. I've taken boats through surf five times as bad as it is now--a tinker could manage a boat in the little sea that is running now. You fellows are all alike--you think that you and your natives know everything."

"Oh, then, do as you like," I replied angrily, "but if you smash that boat it means a loss of L50, and----"

"Hang your L50! If I hurt your boat, I'll pay for the damage. But don't begin to preach at me."

With great misgivings, I saw the boat start off, manned by eight men, using native paddles, instead of oars, as was customary in surf work. Marchmont, certainly, by good luck, managed to get her over the reef, for I could see that he was quite unused to handling a steer oar. However, my native crew, by watching the sea and taking no heed of the steersman, shot the boat over the reef into deep water beyond. But in getting alongside the schooner he nearly swamped, and I was told began abusing my crew for a set of blockheads. This, of course, made them sulky--to be abused for incompetence by an incompetent stranger, was hard to bear, especially as the men, like all the natives of their islands (Rotumah and Niue), were splendid fellows at boat work.

However, the boat at last cast off, and headed for the shore, and then I saw something that filled me with wrath. As the lug sail was being hoisted, March-mont drew in his steer-oar, and shipped the rudder, and in another minute the boat was bounding over the rolling seas at a great rate towards the white breakers on the reef, but steering so wildly that I foresaw disaster. The crew, in vain, urged Marchmont to ship the steer-oar again, but he told them to mind their own business, and sat there, calm and strong, in his mighty conceit.

On came the boat, and we on shore watched her as she rose stern up to a big comber, then down she sank from view into the trough, broached to, and the next roller fell upon and smothered her, and rolled her over and over into the wild boil of surf on the reef.

The Man Who Knew Everything came off badly, and was brought on shore full of salt water, and unconscious. He had been dashed against the jagged coral, and from his left thigh down to his foot had been terribly lacerated; then as the crew swam to his assistance--for his clothing had caught in the coral, and he was under water and drowning--and brought him to the surface, the despised steer-oar (perhaps out of revenge) came hurtling along on a swirling sea, and the haft of it struck him a fearful blow on the head, nearly fracturing his skull.

Fearing his injuries would prove fatal, I sent a canoe off to the schooner with a message to the captain to come on shore, but the vessel, having finished her business, was off under full sail, and did not see the canoe. Then the trader and I did our best for the poor fellow, who, as soon as he regained consciousness, began to suffer agonies from the poison of the wounds inflicted by the coral. We sent a runner to Apia for a doctor, and early next morning one arrived.

Marchmont was quite a month recovering, and when he was fully convalescent, he kept his opinions to himself, and I think that the lesson he had received did him good. He afterwards told me that he determined to sail the boat in with a rudder purely to annoy me, and was sorry for it.

When he was able to get about again as usual, the devil of restlessness again took possession of him and he was soon in trouble again--through the bursting of a gun. I was away from Apia at the time--at the little island of Manono, buying yams for the ship which was getting ready for sea again--when I received a letter from a friend giving me the Apia gossip, and was not surprised that Marchmont figured therein.

"Your friend Marchmont," so ran the letter, "is around, as usual, and in great form, though he had a