canoe. Don’t talk to me about understanding the nigger. The white man’s
mission is to farm the world, and it’s a big enough job cut out for him. What
time has he got left to understand niggers anyway?”
“Just so,” said Roberts. “And somehow it doesn’t seem necessary, after all, to
understand the niggers. In direct proportion to the white man’s stupidity is
his success in farming the world–”
“And putting the fear of God into the nigger’s heart,” Captain Woodward
blurted out. “Perhaps you’re right, Roberts. Perhaps it’s his stupidity that
makes him succeed, and surely one phase of his stupidity is his inability to
understand the niggers. But there’s one thing sure, the white has to run the
niggers whether he understands them or not. It’s inevitable. It’s fate.”
“And of course the white man is inevitable–it’s the niggers’ fate,” Roberts
broke in. “Tell the white man there’s pearl shell in some lagoon infested by
ten-thousand howling cannibals, and he’ll head there all by his lonely, with
half a dozen kanaka divers and a tin alarm clock for chronometer, all packed
like sardines on a commodious, five-ton ketch. Whisper that there’s a gold
strike at the North Pole, and that same inevitable white-skinned creature will
set out at once, armed with pick and shovel, a side of bacon, and the latest
patent rocker–and what’s more, he’ll get there. Tip it off to him that
there’s diamonds on the red-hot ramparts of hell, and Mr. White Man will storm
the ramparts and set old Satan himself to pick-and-shovel work. That’s what
comes of being stupid and inevitable.”
“But I wonder what the black man must think of the–the inevitableness,” I
said.
Captain Woodward broke into quiet laughter. His eyes had a reminiscent gleam.
“I’m just wondering what the niggers of Malu thought and still must be
thinking of the one inevitable white man we had on board when we visited them
in the DUCHESS,” he explained.
SOUTH SEA TALES
71
Roberts mixed three more Abu Hameds.
“That was twenty years ago. Saxtorph was his name. He was certainly the most
stupid man I ever saw, but he was as inevitable as death. There was only one
thing that chap could do, and that was shoot. I remember the first time I ran
into him–right here in Apia, twenty years ago. That was before your time,
Roberts. I was sleeping at Dutch Henry’s hotel, down where the market is now.
Ever heard of him? He made a tidy stake smuggling arms in to the rebels, sold
out his hotel, and was killed in Sydney just six weeks afterward in a saloon
row.
“But Saxtorph. One night I’d just got to sleep, when a couple of cats began to
sing in the courtyard. It was out of bed and up window, water jug in hand. But
just then I heard the window of the next room go up. Two shots were fired, and
the window was closed. I fail to impress you with the celerity of the
transaction. Ten seconds at the outside. Up went the window, bang bang went
the revolver, and down went the window. Whoever it was, he had never stopped
to see the effect of his shots. He knew. Do you follow me?–he KNEW. There was
no more cat concert, and in the morning there lay the two offenders, stone
dead. It was marvelous to me. It still is marvelous. First, it was starlight,
and Saxtorph shot without drawing a bead; next, he shot so rapidly that the
two reports were like a double report; and finally, he knew he had hit his
marks without looking to see.
“Two days afterward he came on board to see me. I was mate, then, on the
Duchess, a whacking big one-hundred-and fifty-ton schooner, a blackbirder. And
let me tell you that blackbirders were blackbirders in those days. There
weren’t any government protection for US, either. It was rough work, give and
take, if we were finished, and nothing said, and we ran niggers from every
south sea island they didn’t kick us off from. Well, Saxtorph came on board,
John Saxtorph was the name he gave. He was a sandy little man, hair sandy,
complexion sandy, and eyes sandy, too. Nothing striking about him. His soul
was as neutral as his color scheme. He said he was strapped and wanted to ship
on board. Would go cabin boy, cook, supercargo, or common sailor. Didn’t know
anything about any of the billets, but said that he was willing to learn. I
didn’t want him, but his shooting had so impressed me that I took him as
common sailor, wages three pounds per month.
“He was willing to learn all right, I’ll say that much. But he was
constitutionally unable to learn anything. He could no more box the compass
than I could mix drinks like Roberts here. And as for steering, he gave me my
first gray hairs. I never dared risk him at the wheel when we were running in
a big sea, while full-and-by and close-and-by were insoluble mysteries.
Couldn’t ever tell the difference between a sheet and a tackle, simply
couldn’t. The fore-throat-jig and the jib-jig were all one to him. Tell him to
slack off the mainsheet, and before you know it, he’d drop the peak. He fell
overboard three times, and he couldn’t swim. But he was always cheerful, never
seasick, and he was the most willing man I ever knew. He was an
uncommunicative soul. Never talked about himself. His history, so far as we
were concerned, began the day he signed on the DUCHESS. Where he learned to
shoot, the stars alone can tell. He was a Yankee–that much we knew from the
twang in his speech. And that was all we ever did know.
SOUTH SEA TALES
72
“And now we begin to get to the point. We had bad luck in the New Hebrides,
only fourteen boys for five weeks, and we ran up before the southeast for the
Solomons. ‘malaita, then as now, was good recruiting ground, and we ran into
Malu, on the northwestern corner. There’s a shore reef and an outer reef, and
a mighty nervous anchorage; but we made it all right and fired off our
dynamite as a signal to the niggers to come down and be recruited. In three
days we got not a boy. The niggers came off to us in their canoes by hundreds,
but they only laughed when we showed them beads and calico and hatchets and
talked of the delights of plantation work in Samoa.
“On the fourth day there came a change. Fifty-odd boys signed on and were
billeted in the main-hold, with the freedom of the deck, of course. And of
course, looking back, this wholesale signing on was suspicious, but at the
time we thought some powerful chief had removed the ban against recruiting.
The morning of the fifth day our two boats went ashore as usual–one to cover
the other, you know, in case of trouble. And, as usual, the fifty niggers on
board were on deck, loafing, talking, smoking, and sleeping. Saxtorph and
myself, along with four other sailors, were all that were left on board. The
two boats were manned with Gilbert Islanders. In the one were the captain, the
supercargo, and the recruiter. In the other, which was the covering boat and
which lay off shore a hundred yards, was the second mate. Both boats were
well-armed, though trouble was little expected.
“Four of the sailors, including Saxtorph, were scraping the poop rail. The
fifth sailor, rifle in hand, was standing guard by the water-tank just for’ard
of the mainmast. I was for’ard, putting in the finishing licks on a new jaw
for the fore-gaff. I was just reaching for my pipe where I had laid it down,
when I heard a shot from shore. I straightened up to look. Something struck me
on the back of the head, partially stunning me and knocking me to the deck.
‘my first thought was that something had carried away aloft; but even as I
went down, and before I struck the deck, I heard the devil’s own tattoo of
rifles from the boats, and twisting sidewise, I caught a glimpse of the sailor
who was standing guard. Two big niggers were holding his arms, and a third
nigger from behind was braining him with a tomahawk.
“I can see it now, the water-tank, the mainmast, the gang hanging on to him,
the hatchet descending on the back of his head, and all under the blazing
sunlight. I was fascinated by that growing vision of death. The tomahawk
seemed to take a horribly long time to come down. I saw it land, and the man’s
legs give under him as he crumpled. The niggers held him up by sheer strength
while he was hacked a couple of times more. Then I got two more hacks on the
head and decided that I was dead. So did the brute that was hacking me. I was