His hut lay a hundred yards back from the sea, hidden away in the densest part of a clump of bush, and not a white man slept within miles of him, yet Jock was happier there than he had been for years, and when the boat called he always had plenty of copra and as good a show of ivory nuts as any of the traders.
Fifty miles from here there was one day a curious scene enacted: James Clark, a new trader, whom Messrs. Burns Philp were starting, had refused to go ashore at the island for which he was destined, owing to some ghastly reports he had heard whilst the steamer was lying outside it. The supercargo, a splendid fellow, was puzzled to know what to do, but at last suggested that he should try Aoba, where a trader was waiting to give up his store. Clark jumped at the idea, though he was warned it was, if anything, worse than the place at which he had refused to stop: he was sure, he said, no place could be.
A more depressed man than Clark during the remaining week of his voyage could not have been met, for bad accounts of murdered and boycotted traders were in the air just then. However, Aoba was reached at last, and after having supplied “Tartan Jock” with his goods and relieved him of {82} his copra, the steamer sailed on to Clark’s landing-place.
Here a most awful picture presented itself to the unhappy man.
The retiring trader rushed to the shore as he sighted the boat and waved frantically. He was an old worn-out man in a filthy pair of pyjama trousers and a coat torn and ragged. He looked as if he had neither washed nor slept for weeks, and he afterwards told the crew he hadn’t had a decent feed for a month. His account of the place was horrible in the extreme.
For some unknown reason the natives there had strong objections to traders in their territory: the one before him had been killed, and this man, I do not know his name, had been warned several times that, unless he went, he too would share the fate of the last. The natives had point blank refused to bring him copra, and to add to his discomforts had stolen nearly all his food. Day and night he had had to watch lest they killed him. His copra shed had been burnt down, and all his clothes, except those he stood in, had been seized and distributed.
This was the place on which poor Clark was landed, and his misery was too awful for words; {83} but there was no other station vacant, and so the only thing he could do was to stay.
Accompanied by the supercargo and a few of the crew he was taken to his hut, which lay a little way from the beach. It was almost in ruins, and contained nothing but a bed, a few empty boxes, and some soiled pages of illustrated magazines. After looking inside, he turned to one of the crew, who had shown sympathy for him, and said in the most plaintive tone:—
“This is a fitting end to a wasted life.”
Fifteen minutes later the steamer left the bay, and the last those on board saw of Clark was as he stood by his boxes on the shore waving a farewell to them.