A Yankee doctor in paradise

by S. M. Lambert

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Templeton Crocker had gone to the greatest pains and expense to organize this expedition. All along the way he had been annoyed by a quaint turn in customs regulations, which suddenly whimmed to charge duties on a little of everything. Never before had the Zaca been bothered that way by a British Colony. We were out serving the High Commission by invitation and deserved the freedom of the port. However, you never can tell which way island politics are going to turn.

Those of us working ashore had our basket of troubles also, and trouble on Malaita means that you’d better run for your life.

As I have said, tuberculin tests take five days. We inject one day, then skip a day, and on the third inject the cases found negative with a stronger solution; then we skip another day and on the fifth get our final negative cases—those thought not to have an infection and never to have had one. A positive reaction, showing that a person has, or has had, tuberculosis, is revealed by a small and slightly raised pink circle around the site of injection. The confused natives thought that the pink circle was the desirable thing, and they would strut proudly away to show their friends. It was very difficult to make the final negatives understand that they had had the full works—for where was the pink spot they were after?

Well, we had been at it four days, and the course was almost over. Then who should show up but several native teachers with a note from the Seventh Day Adventist white missionary, asking us to inject his people. We knew that we wouldn’t have time to finish the five-day job, but a single injection to the new lot might prove something. Also one always wants to sustain a white man’s authority before the natives, and it wouldn’t do to refuse this request. Remember, the Malaitamen thought that our tests were a cure, for God knows what—tuberculosis or leprosy or yaws, it was all about the same, so long as they got the magic “neela.” No, one jab wouldn’t do them any harm; it might buck them up spiritually. So on that sophistry, we decided to inject the Adventist’s choice.

To complicate matters, we had been obliged to refuse injections to the multitude of natives who had come after the first day, and they were pretty sullen about it. Who could blame them, considering their long trudge over mountaintops, probably without food? They gathered around us with black scowls, inwardly wondering why if five days did a lot of good, four or three wouldn’t do some good, anyhow. Then the word got around that we were making an exception in favor of the Adventist crowd—and things started to boil.

Newcomers had been flocking in daily, and in front of our “house takis” there was a jam almost as far as one could see: black, ugly faces, determined to have their share of injections, if we started another lot. We had already tested about 1,500, and eight native policemen had guarded us every minute of the time. They changed guard every hour, with impressive swinging of rifles, always with fixed bayonets. I was soon to realize good old Barley’s common sense in sending them along under John White’s direction, for John knew his job.

But here we were on a tough spot. I had promised to inject the Adventist’s natives. Looking around at the angry black men, crowding in on us, I changed my mind. Not only did we have to save our own skins, but if the mob set on us the Adventist converts would be the first to go. I had thought that the native police were a joke, until I saw them spring into line. I yelled to an interpreter, “Tell the Adventists that we haven’t got time!”

He told them. Arms flourished and waved and there was a deafening racket from a thousand husky throats. “Neela! Neela! Me want im neela!” The noise was so great that John White had to shout in my ear, “Better give it to them. Just jab them any way, never mind if it doesn’t mean anything. If you don’t treat them all, and the mission natives especially, they’ll certainly kill the lot of us.” I stood my ground with nothing more defensive than a hypodermic syringe. Maybe it was long medical discipline that made me shake my head; I wasn’t going to waste a batch of expensive tuberculin on any wholesale fake. “What have we got an armed guard for?” I asked.

Much to my surprise the native police began doing their duty. With bayonets leveled they formed a rough cordon between us and the mass of howling hill-fellows. Then we stood not upon the manner of our beating, but beat it at once, an undignified scramble into the otter boat and a frantic paddling back to the ship. A bedlam of threatening yells followed us out to sea.