The Call Of The South. Becke Louis
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The Call Of The South / 1908
CHAPTER I ~ PAUL, THE DIVER
“Feeling any better to-day, Paul?”
“Guess I’m getting round,” and the big, bronzed-faced man raised his eyes to mine as he lay under the awning on the after deck of his pearling lugger. I sat down beside him and began to talk.
A mile away the white beach of a little, land-locked bay shimmered under the morning sun, and the drooping fronds of the cocos hung listless and silent, waiting for the rising of the south-east trade.
“Paul,” I said, “it is very hot here. Come on shore with me to the native village, where it is cooler, and I will make you a big drink of lime-juice.”
I helped him to rise—for he was weak from a bad attack of New Guinea fever—and two of our native crew assisted him over the side into my whaleboat. A quarter of an hour later we were seated on mats under the shade of a great wild mango tree, drinking lime-juice and listening to the lazy hum of the surf upon the reef, and the soft croo, croo of many “crested” pigeons in the branches above.
The place was a little bay in Callie Harbour on Admiralty Island in the South Pacific; and Paul Fremont was one of our European divers. I was in charge of the supply schooner which was tender to our fleet of pearling luggers, and was the one man among us to whom the silent, taciturn Paul would talk—sometimes.
And only sometimes, for usually Paul was too much occupied in his work to say more than “Good-morning, boss,” or “Good night,” when, after he had been disencumbered of his diving gear, he went aft to rest and smoke his pipe. But one day, however, he went down in twenty-six fathoms, stayed too long, and was brought up unconscious. The mate and I saw the signals go up for assistance, hurried on board his lugger, and were just in time to save his life.
Two days later he came on board the tender, shook hands in his silent, undemonstrative way, and held out for my acceptance an old octagon American fifty dollar gold piece.
“Got a gal, boss?” “I admitted that I had.
“Pure white, I mean. One thet you like well enough to marry?”
“I mean to try, Paul.”
“In Samoa?”
“No—Australia.”
“Guess I’d like you to give her this ‘slug’ I got it outer the wreck of a ship that was sunk off Galveston in the ‘sixties,’ in the war.”
It would have hurt him had I declined the gift. So I thanked him, and he nodded silently, filled his pipe and went back to the Montiara.
Nearly a year passed before we met again, for his lugger and six others went to New Guinea; and our next meeting was at Callie Harbour, where I found him down with malarial fever. Again I became his doctor, and ordered him to lie up.
He nodded.
“Guess I’ll have ter, boss. But I jest hate loafin’ around and seein’ the other divers bringin’ up shell in easy water.” For he was receiving eighty pounds per month wages—diving or no diving—and hated to be idle.
“Paul,” I said, as we lay stretched out under the wild mango tree, “would you mind telling me about that turn-up you had with the niggers at New Ireland, six years ago.”
“Ef you like, boss.” Then he added that he did not care about talking much at any time, as he was a mighty poor hand at the jaw-tackle.
“We were startin’ tryin’ some new ground between New Hanover and the North Cape of New Ireland. There were only two luggers, and we had for our store-ship a thirty-ton cutter. There were two white divers besides me and one Manila man, and our crews were all natives of some sort or another—Tokelaus, Manahikians and Hawaiians. The skipper of the storeship was a Dutchman—a chicken-hearted swab, who turned green at the sight of a nigger with a bunch of spears, or a club in his hand. He used to turn-in with a brace of pistols in his belt and a Winchester lying on the cabin table. At sea he would lose his funk, but whenever we dropped anchor and natives came aboard his teeth would begin to chatter, and he would just jump at his own shadder.
“We anchored in six fathoms, and in an hour or two we came across a good patch of black-edge shell, and we began to get the boats and pumps ready to start regular next morning. As I was boss, I had moored the cutter in a well-sheltered nook under a high bluff, and the luggers near to her. So far we had not seen any sign of natives—not even smoke—but knew that there was a big village some miles away, out o’ sight of us, an’ that the niggers were a bad lot, and would have a try at cuttin’ off if they saw a slant.
“Early next morning it set in to rain, with easterly squalls, and before long I saw that there was like to be a week of it, and that we should have to lie by and wait until it settled. About noon we sighted a dozen white lime-painted canoes bearing down on us, and Horn, the Dutchman, began to turn green as usual, and wanted me to heave up and clear out. I set on him and said I wanted the niggers to come alongside, an’ hev a good look at us—they would see that we were a hard nut to crack if they meant mischief.
“They came alongside, six or eight greasy-haired bucks in each canoe—and asked for terbacker and knives in exchange for some pigs and yams. I let twenty or so of ‘em come aboard, bought their provisions, and let ‘em have a good look around. Their chief was a fat, bloated feller, with a body like a barrel, and his face pitted with small-pox. He told me that he was boss of all the place around us, and had some big plantations about a mile back in the bush, just abreast of us, and that he would let me have all the food I wanted. In five days or so, he said, we should have fine weather for diving, and he and his crowd would help me all they could.
“About a quarter of a mile away was a rocky little island of about five acres in extent It had a few heavy trees on it, but no scrub, and there were some abandoned fishermen’s huts on the beach. I asked the fat hog if I could use it as a shore station to overhaul our boats and diving gear when necessary, and he agreed to let me use it as long as I liked for three hundred sticks of terbacker and two muskets.
“They went off on shore again to the plantations, and in a little while we saw smoke ascendin’—they were cookin’ food, and repairing their huts. Later on in the day they sent me a canoe load of yams, taro, and other stuff for the men, and asked me to come ashore and look at the village. I went, fur I knew that they would not try on any games so soon.
“There were, in addition to the bucks, a lot of women and children there, makin’ thatch, cookin’, and repairin’ the pig-proof fencin’. I stayed a bit, and then came on board again, an’ we made snug for the night.
“Next morning we landed on the island, repaired two of the huts, and started mendin’ sails, overhauling the boats, and doin’ such work that it was easier to do on shore than on board. Of course we kep’ our arms handy, and old Horn kep’ a good watch on board—he dassent put foot on shore himself—said he was skeered o’ fever.
“The natives sent us plenty of food, and a good many of ‘em loafed around on the island, and some on board the luggers and cutter, cadgin’ fur terbacker and biscuit Of course they always carried their clubs and spears with ‘em, as is usual in New Ireland, but they were quiet and civil enough. Every day canoes were passin’ from where we lay to the main village, and returnin’ with other batches of bucks and women all takin’ spells at work; an’ there was any amount o’ drum beating and duk duk1 dancin’, and old Horn shivered in his boots swearin’ they were comin’ to wipe us out But my native crews and I and the other white divers were used to the nigger customs at such times, and although we kep’ a good watch ashore and afloat, none o’ us were afraid of any trouble comin’.
“On the fifth night, I, another white diver, named Docky Mason, his Samoan wife, and a Manahiki sailor named ‘Star’ were sleeping on shore in one of the huts. In another hut were three or four New Ireland niggers, who had brought us some fish and were going away again in the mornin’.
“About ten o’clock the sky became as black as ink—a heavy blow was comin’ on, and we just had time to stow our loose gear up tidy, when the wind came down from between the mountains with a roar like thunder, and away went the roofs of the huts, and with it nearly everything around us that
The duk duk dance of Melanesia is merely a blackmailing ceremony by the men to obtain food from the women and the uninitiated.