the old chief himself. “Hello! who’s this?”
“Hello, Koho!” Grief said genially, though he knew better than to offer to
shake hands.
It was one of Koho’s tambos, given him by the devil-devil doctors when
he was born, that never was his flesh to come in contact with the flesh of a
white man. Worth and Captain Ward, of the Wonder, greeted Koho, but
Worth frowned at sight of the Snider, for it was one of his tambos that no
visiting bushman should carry a weapon on the plantation. Rifles had a
nasty way of going off at the hip under such circumstances. The manager
clapped his hands, and a black house-boy, recruited from San Cristobal,
came running. At a sign from Worth, he took the rifle from the visitor’s
hand and carried it inside the bungalow.
“Koho,” Grief said, introducing the German Resident, “this big fella
marster belong Bougainville-my word, big fella marster too much.”
Koho, remembering the visits of the various German cruisers, smiled with
a light of unpleasant reminiscence in his eyes.
“Don’t shake hands with him, Wallenstein,” Grief warned. “Tambo, you
know.” Then to Koho, “My word, you get ‘m too much fat stop along you.
Bime by you marry along new fella Mary, eh?”
“Too old fella me,” Koho answered, with a weary shake of the head. “Me
no like ‘m Mary. Me no like ‘m kai-kai (food). Close up me die along
A SON OF THE SUN
66
altogether.” He stole a significant glance at Worth, whose head was tilted
back to a long glass. “Me like ‘m rum.”
Grief shook his head.
“Tambo along black fella.”
“He black fella no tambo,” Koho retorted, nodding toward the groaning
labourer.
“He fella sick,” Grief explained.
“Me fella sick.”
“You fella big liar,” Grief laughed. “Rum tambo, all the time tambo. Now,
Koho, we have big fella talk along this big fella marster.”
And he and Wallenstein and the old chief sat down on the veranda to
confer about affairs of state. Koho was complimented on the peace he had
kept, and he, with many protestations of his aged decrepitude, swore peace
again and everlasting. Then was discussed the matter of starting a German
plantation twenty miles down the coast. The land, of course, was to be
bought from Koho, and the price was arranged in terms of tobacco, knives,
beads, pipes, hatchets, porpoise teeth and shell-money—in terms of
everything except rum. While the talk went on, Koho, glancing through
the window, could see Worth mixing medicines and placing bottles back
in the medicine cupboard. Also, he saw the manager complete his labours
by taking a drink of Scotch. Koho noted the bottle carefully. And, though
he hung about for an hour after the conference was over, there was never a
moment when some one or another was not in the room. When Grief and
Worth sat down to a business talk, Koho gave it up.
“Me go along schooner,” he announced, then turned and limped out.
“How are the mighty fallen,” Grief laughed. “To think that used to be
Koho, the fiercest red-handed murderer in the Solomons, who defied all
his life two of the greatest world powers. And now he’s going aboard to try
and cadge Denby for a drink.”
III
For the last time in his life the supercargo of the Wonder perpetrated a
practical joke on a native. He was in the main cabin, checking off the list
of goods being landed in the whaleboats, when Koho limped down the
companionway and took a seat opposite him at the table.
A SON OF THE SUN
67
“Close up me die along altogether,” was the burden of the old chief’s
plaint. All the delights of the flesh had forsaken him. “Me no like ‘m Mary.
Me no like ‘m kai-kai. Me too much sick fella. Me close up finish.” A
long, sad pause, in which his face expressed unutterable concern for his
stomach, which he patted gingerly and with an assumption of pain. “Belly
belong me too much sick.” Another pause, which was an invitation to
Denby to make suggestions. Then followed a long, weary, final sigh, and a
“Me like ‘m rum.”
Denby laughed heartlessly. He had been cadged for drinks before by the
old cannibal, and the sternest tambo Grief and McTavish had laid down
was the one forbidding alcohol to the natives of New Gibbon.
The trouble was that Koho had acquired the taste. In his younger days he
had learned the delights of drunkenness when he cut off the schooner
Dorset, but unfortunately he had learned it along with all his tribesmen,
and the supply had not held out long. Later, when he led his naked
warriors down to the destruction of the German plantation, he was wiser,
and he appropriated all the liquors for his sole use. The result had been a
gorgeous mixed drunk, on a dozen different sorts of drink, ranging from
beer doctored with quinine to absinthe and apricot brandy. The drunk had
lasted for months, and it had left him with a thirst that would remain with
him until he died. Predisposed toward alcohol, after the way of savages,
all the chemistry of his flesh clamoured for it. This craving was to him
expressed in terms of tingling and sensation, of maggots crawling warmly
and deliciously in his brain, of good feeling, and well being, and high
exultation. And in his barren old age, when women and feasting were a
weariness, and when old hates had smouldered down, he desired more and
more the revivifying fire that came liquid out of bottles—out of all sorts of
bottles—for he remembered them well. He would sit in the sun for hours,
occasionally drooling, in mournful contemplation of the great orgy which
had been his when the German plantation was cleaned out.
Denby was sympathetic. He sought out the old chief’s symptoms and
offered him dyspeptic tablets from the medicine chest, pills, and a varied
assortment of harmless tabloids and capsules. But Koho steadfastly
declined. Once, when he cut the Dorset off, he had bitten through a
capsule of quinine; in addition, two of his warriors had partaken of a white
powder and laid down and died very violently in a very short time. No; he
did not believe in drugs. But the liquids from bottles, the cool-flaming
youth-givers and warm-glowing dream-makers. No wonder the white men
valued them so highly and refused to dispense them.
“Rum he good fella,” he repeated over and over, plaintively and with the
weary patience of age.
A SON OF THE SUN
68
And then Denby made his mistake and played his joke. Stepping around
behind Koho, he unlocked the medicine closet and took out a four-ounce
bottle labelled essence of mustard. As he made believe to draw the cork
and drink of the contents, in the mirror on the for-and bulkhead he
glimpsed Koho, twisted half around, intently watching him. Denby
smacked his lips and cleared his throat appreciatively as he replaced the
bottle. Neglecting to relock the medicine closet, he returned to his chair,
and, after a decent interval, went on deck. He stood beside the
companionway and listened. After several moments the silence below was
broken by a fearful, wheezing, propulsive, strangling cough. He smiled to
himself and returned leisurely down the companionway. The bottle was
back on the shelf where it belonged, and the old man sat in the same
position. Denby marvelled at his iron control. Mouth and lips and tongue,
and all sensitive membranes, were a blaze of fire. He gasped and nearly
coughed several times, while involuntary tears brimmed in his eyes and
ran down his cheeks. An ordinary man would have coughed and strangled
for half an hour. But old Koho’s face was grimly composed. It dawned on
him that a trick had been played, and into his eyes came an expression of
hatred and malignancy so primitive, so abysmal, that it sent the chills up
and down Denby’s spine. Koho arose proudly.
“Me go along,” he said. “You sing out one fella boat stop along me.”
IV
Having seen Grief and Worth start for a ride over the plantation,
Wallenstein sat down in the big living-room and with gun-oil and old rags
proceeded to take apart and clean his automatic pistol. On the table beside
him stood the inevitable bottle of Scotch and numerous soda bottles.
Another bottle, part full, chanced to stand there. It was also labelled
Scotch, but its content was liniment which Worth had mixed for the horses
and neglected to put away.
As Wallenstein worked, he glanced through the window and saw Koho
coming up the compound path. He was limping very rapidly, but when he
came along the veranda and entered the room his gait was slow and
dignified. He sat down and watched the gun-cleaning. Though mouth and
lips and tongue were afire, he gave no sign. At the end of five minutes he
spoke.
“Rum he good fella. Me like ‘m rum.”