Adventure | Page 9

the compound gate, Sheldon sank down half-
fainting on his couch.
"You're a sick man," he groaned. "A sick man."
"But you can sleep at ease to-night," he added, half an hour later.


CHAPTER III
--THE JESSIE

Two days passed, and Sheldon felt that he could not grow any weaker
and live, much less make his four daily rounds of the hospital. The
deaths were averaging four a day, and there were more new cases than
recoveries. The blacks were in a funk. Each one, when taken sick,
seemed to make every effort to die. Once down on their backs they
lacked the grit to make a struggle. They believed they were going to die,
and they did their best to vindicate that belief. Even those that were

well were sure that it was only a mater of days when the sickness
would catch them and carry them off. And yet, believing this with
absolute conviction, they somehow lacked the nerve to rush the frail
wraith of a man with the white skin and escape from the charnel house
by the whale-boats. They chose the lingering death they were sure
awaited them, rather than the immediate death they were very sure
would pounce upon them if they went up against the master. That he
never slept, they knew. That he could not be conjured to death, they
were equally sure--they had tried it. And even the sickness that was
sweeping them off could not kill him.
With the whipping in the compound, discipline had improved. They
cringed under the iron hand of the white man. They gave their scowls
or malignant looks with averted faces or when his back was turned.
They saved their mutterings for the barracks at night, where he could
not hear. And there were no more runaways and no more
night-prowlers on the veranda.
Dawn of the third day after the whipping brought the Jessie's white
sails in sight. Eight miles away, it was not till two in the afternoon that
the light air-fans enabled her to drop anchor a quarter of a mile off the
shore. The sight of her gave Sheldon fresh courage, and the tedious
hours of waiting did not irk him. He gave his orders to the boss-boys
and made his regular trips to the hospital. Nothing mattered now. His
troubles were at an end. He could lie down and take care of himself and
proceed to get well. The Jessie had arrived. His partner was on board,
vigorous and hearty from six weeks' recruiting on Malaita. He could
take charge now, and all would be well with Berande.
Sheldon lay in the steamer-chair and watched the Jessie's whale- boat
pull in for the beach. He wondered why only three sweeps were pulling,
and he wondered still more when, beached, there was so much delay in
getting out of the boat. Then he understood. The three blacks who had
been pulling started up the beach with a stretcher on their shoulders. A
white man, whom he recognized as the Jessie's captain, walked in front
and opened the gate, then dropped behind to close it. Sheldon knew that
it was Hughie Drummond who lay in the stretcher, and a mist came

before his eyes. He felt an overwhelming desire to die. The
disappointment was too great. In his own state of terrible weakness he
felt that it was impossible to go on with his task of holding Berande
plantation tight-gripped in his fist. Then the will of him flamed up
again, and he directed the blacks to lay the stretcher beside him on the
floor. Hughie Drummond, whom he had last seen in health, was an
emaciated skeleton. His closed eyes were deep-sunken. The shrivelled
lips had fallen away from the teeth, and the cheek-bones seemed
bursting through the skin. Sheldon sent a house-boy for his
thermometer and glanced questioningly at the captain.
"Black-water fever," the captain said. "He's been like this for six days,
unconscious. And we've got dysentery on board. What's the matter with
you?"
"I'm burying four a day," Sheldon answered, as he bent over from the
steamer-chair and inserted the thermometer under his partner's tongue.
Captain Oleson swore blasphemously, and sent a house-boy to bring
whisky and soda. Sheldon glanced at the thermometer.
"One hundred and seven," he said. "Poor Hughie."
Captain Oleson offered him some whisky.
"Couldn't think of it--perforation, you know," Sheldon said.
He sent for a boss-boy and ordered a grave to be dug, also some of the
packing-cases to be knocked together into a coffin. The blacks did not
get coffins. They were buried as they died, being carted on a sheet of
galvanized iron, in their nakedness, from the hospital to the hole in the
ground. Having given the orders, Sheldon lay back