Mr.Caulfeild, the missionary at Malu, arrived in his whale-boat from a trip down the coast.A slender, delicate man he was, enthusiastic in his work, level-headed and practical, a true twentieth-century soldier of the Lord.When he came down to this station on Malaita, as he said, he agreed to come for six months.
He further agreed that if he were alive at the end of that time, he would continue on.Six years had passed and he was still continuing on.Nevertheless he was justified in his doubt as to living longer than six months.Three missionaries had preceded him on Malaita, and in less than that time two had died of fever and the third had gone home a wreck.
"What murder are you talking about?" he asked suddenly, in the midst of a confused conversation with Captain Jansen.
Captain Jansen explained.
"Oh, that's not the one I have reference to," quoth Mr.Caulfeild.
"That's old already.It happened two weeks ago."It was here at Malu that I atoned for all the exulting and gloating I had been guilty of over the Solomon sore Charmian had collected at Langa Langa.Mr.Caulfeild was indirectly responsible for my atonement.He presented us with a chicken, which I pursued into the bush with a rifle.My intention was to clip off its head.Isucceeded, but in doing so fell over a log and barked my shin.
Result: three Solomon sores.This made five all together that were adorning my person.Also, Captain Jansen and Nakata had caught gari-gari.Literally translated, gari-gari is scratch-scratch.But translation was not necessary for the rest of us.The skipper's and Nakata's gymnastics served as a translation without words.
(No, the Solomon Islands are not as healthy as they might be.I am writing this article on the island of Ysabel, where we have taken the Snark to careen and clean her cooper.I got over my last attack of fever this morning, and I have had only one free day between attacks.Charmian's are two weeks apart.Wada is a wreck from fever.Last night he showed all the symptoms of coming down with pneumonia.Henry, a strapping giant of a Tahitian, just up from his last dose of fever, is dragging around the deck like a last year's crab-apple.Both he and Tehei have accumulated a praiseworthy display of Solomon sores.Also, they have caught a new form of gari-gari, a sort of vegetable poisoning like poison oak or poison ivy.But they are not unique in this.A number of days ago Charmian, Martin, and I went pigeon-shooting on a small island, and we have had a foretaste of eternal torment ever since.Also, on that small island, Martin cut the soles of his feet to ribbons on the coral whilst chasing a shark--at least, so he says, but from the glimpse I caught of him I thought it was the other way about.The coral-cuts have all become Solomon sores.Before my last fever Iknocked the skin off my knuckles while heaving on a line, and I now have three fresh sores.And poor Nakata! For three weeks he has been unable to sit down.He sat down yesterday for the first time, and managed to stay down for fifteen minutes.He says cheerfully that he expects to be cured of his gari-gari in another month.
Furthermore, his gari-gari, from too enthusiastic scratch-scratching, has furnished footholds for countless Solomon sores.
Still furthermore, he has just come down with his seventh attack of fever.If I were king, the worst punishment I could inflict on my enemies would be to banish them to the Solomons.On second thought, king or no king, I don't think I'd have the heart to do it.)Recruiting plantation labourers on a small, narrow yacht, built for harbour sailing, is not any too nice.The decks swarm with recruits and their families.The main cabin is packed with them.At night they sleep there.The only entrance to our tiny cabin is through the main cabin, and we jam our way through them or walk over them.
Nor is this nice.One and all, they are afflicted with every form of malignant skin disease.Some have ringworm, others have bukua.
This latter is caused by a vegetable parasite that invades the skin and eats it away.The itching is intolerable.The afflicted ones scratch until the air is filled with fine dry flakes.Then there are yaws and many other skin ulcerations.Men come aboard with Solomon sores in their feet so large that they can walk only on their toes, or with holes in their legs so terrible that a fist could be thrust in to the bone.Blood-poisoning is very frequent, and Captain Jansen, with sheath-knife and sail needle, operates lavishly on one and all.No matter how desperate the situation, after opening and cleansing, he claps on a poultice of sea-biscuit soaked in water.Whenever we see a particularly horrible case, we retire to a corner and deluge our own sores with corrosive sublimate.And so we live and eat and sleep on the Minota, taking our chance and "pretending it is good."At Suava, another artificial island, I had a second crow over Charmian.A big fella marster belong Suava (which means the high chief of Suava) came on board.But first he sent an emissary to Captain Jansen for a fathom of calico with which to cover his royal nakedness.Meanwhile he lingered in the canoe alongside.The regal dirt on his chest I swear was half an inch thick, while it was a good wager that the underneath layers were anywhere from ten to twenty years of age.He sent his emissary on board again, who explained that the big fella marster belong Suava was condescendingly willing enough to shake hands with Captain Jansen and me and cadge a stick or so of trade tobacco, but that nevertheless his high-born soul was still at so lofty an altitude that it could not sink itself to such a depth of degradation as to shake hands with a mere female woman.Poor Charmian! Since her Malaita experiences she has become a changed woman.Her meekness and humbleness are appallingly becoming, and I should not be surprised, when we return to civilization and stroll along a sidewalk, to see her take her station, with bowed head, a yard in the rear.
