Tom and His Concerns

DOMESTIC AND OTHER BRAWLS
Tom, who holds himself well in reserve, stood once before an armed and angry white man, defiant, unflinching, bold.
As I have had the privilege of listening in confidence to both sides of the story, and as the main facts are minutely corroborative, I judge Tom’s recitation of them to be quite reliable.
He was “mate” at the time of a small cutter, the master of which could teach him very little in practical seamanship. The captain was rather hasty and excitable. Tom never hurries, fusses, or falters, be the weather never so boisterous afloat or the domestic tribulations never so wild ashore. When Nelly, his third wife, tore her hair out by the roots in double handfuls and danced upon it, Tom calmly observed, “That fella make fool belonga himself!” But when she rushed at him, clawing blindly, he promptly and without the least consideration for her sex, silenced her for the time being with a stone. The sudden peace after Nelly’s squeals and yells of temper was quite a shock; and when she woke her loving-kindnesses to Tom were quite engaging. Tom will ever be master in his own humpy.
To tell of that other incident that caused Tom to look wicked and so bellicose. The captain of the cutter lost half a crown. His excitement began to simmer at once. A hasty general search was made without result, every nook and corner of the boat and all the captain’s garments and the belongings of Tom and the other blacks being ransacked. The money declined to be found, and the captain, like David of old, refused to be comforted, and further following the fashion of the psalmist, said in his haste all blacks are thieves. Tom put on the stern, sulky, sullen aspect that so becomes him, and when he was individually challenged with the theft, disdainfully told his master, “Me no take your money! You lost em yourself!”
This calm, plain statement of fact so angered the boss that, calling Tom a cowardly thief, he yelled, “You take my money! I shoot you!”
It is placing rather a paltry valuation even on the life of a black fellow to threaten to shoot him for the sake of half a crown; but the death penalty has been exacted for far less, according to the boastful statements of self-glorifying white men. The boss was raging. He groped in the locker for his revolver, while Tom took a side glance at a tomahawk lying on the thwart.
Presenting the revolver, the boss yelled, “You rogue, Tom! You steal my money! I shoot you!” Tom changed his sulky demeanour for the pose and look that a camera has preserved, saying, “My word! you shoot one time, straight. Subpose you no shoot one time straight, look out.”
The shot was never fired.
I asked Tom what he would have done suppose the revolver had been fired and he not killed.
“My word! Subpose that fella he no kill me one time, I finish him one time quick alonga tomahawk!”
In the course of the day the half-crown was found under the stern sheets, where the boss had been sitting.
To coolly face death under such circumstances is surely evidence of rare mental repose.
Once Tom had a jovial misunderstanding with his half-brother Willie, who cut a neat wedge out of the rim of Tom’s ear with a razor. He had intended, of course, to gash Tom’s throat, but Tom was on the alert. In revenge and defence Tom merely sat upon Willie, who is a frail, thin fellow, but the sitting down was literal and so deliberate and long-continued that Willie was all crumpled up and out of shape for a week after. Indeed, the “crick” in his back was chronic for a much longer period. Tom was half ashamed of this encounter, and while glorying in the scar with which Willie had decorated him, excused his own conduct in these terms:
“Willie fight alonga razor. He bin make mark alonga my ear. My word! Me savage then. B’mbi sit down alonga Willie. Willie close up finish. Me bin forget about that fella altogether. When Willie wake up he walk about all asame old man l-o-n-g time!”
With whatsoever missile or weapon is at hand Tom is marvellously expert. As we rested in the dim jungle after a long and much entangled walk, a shake — a poor, thin thing, about four feet long, wriggled up a bank ten or twelve yards off, just ahead of a pursuing dog. On the instant Tom picked up a flake of slate and threw it with such precision and force that the snake became two — the tail end squirmed back, to be seized and shaken by the dog, and the other disappeared with gory flourish under a root.
Most of Tom’s feats of marksmanship, though performed with what white men would despise as arms of precision, end seriously. Yet on one occasion the result was broadly farcical. He has a son, known to our little world as Jimmy, who, like his father, is given to occasional sulks, a luxury that even a black boy may become bloated on. Tom does not tolerate that frame of mind in others. The attentions of “divinest melancholy” he likes to monopolise for himself, and when Jimmy becomes pensive without just cause, Tom’s mood swerves to paternal and active indignation — which is very painful to Jimmy.
Jimmy, in the very rapture of sulkiness, refused to express pleasure or gratitude upon the presentation of a “hand” of ripe bananas. Tom’s wrath at his son’s mute obstinacy reached the explosive climax just as he had peeled a luscious banana. He sacrificed it, and Jimmy appeared the next instant with a moustache and dripping beard of squashed fruit as an adornment to his astonished face. Then he opened his mouth to pour forth his soul in an agonising bleat. Tom got in a second shot with the banana skin. With a report like unto that which one makes by bursting an air-distended paper bag, the missile plastered Jimmy’s cavernous mouth, smothered his squeal, and sat him down so suddenly that Tom thought his “wind” had stopped for ever. Kneeling beside the boy, he set about kneading his stomach, while Jimmy gasped and glared, making horrible grimaces, as he struggled for breath. Nelly, nervous Nelly, concluding that Tom was determined to thump the life out of Jimmy, assailed him with her bananas and vocal efforts of exquisite shrillness. Just as matters were becoming seriously complicated, Jimmy rolled away, scrambled to his feet, and fled, yelling, to the camp, firm in the belief that his doting father had made an attempt on his young life.
THE LOGIC OF THE CAMP
Poor half-caste Jimmy Yaeki Muggie, a pleasant-voiced lad, who always wore in his face the slur of conscious shame of birth, died apparently from heart failure, an after-effect of rheumatic fever. Tom and Nelly mourned deeply and wrathfully. Smarting under the rod of fate, they sought with indignant mien counsel upon the cause of death.
Jimmy was a young fellow. Why should a young man, who had been lusty until a couple of months ago, die? Somebody must have killed him by covert means. In the first outburst of grief they blamed me. Tom declared, with passion in his eyes, that I had killed Jimmy by making him drunk. The charge was not absolutely groundless, for when the yellow-faced fellow was chilly with a collapse, I had administered reviving sips of whisky-and-water.
Yes, Tom declared in an angry mood, and with the air of one who washed his hands of the whole sad business, the doses of whisky had killed Jimmy. As Tom indulged to the fulness of his heart in the luxury of his woe, he began to reflect further, and to change his opinion.
He mentioned incidentally that whisky was “good.” “Before you gib em that boy whisky, he close up dead-finish. B’mby he more better.”
Then he began vehemently to protest against the malign influence of some “no good” boy on the mainland, and Nelly, eager to satisfy her own cravings for some definite cause for the ending of the life of a strong boy, supported Tom’s vague theories quite enthusiastically. To each distinct natural phenomenon blacks assign a real presence. Even toothache, to which he is subject, Tom ascribes to a malignant fiend, so he asks for a pin which, without a wince, he forces into the decaying bicuspid. His theory is that the little “debil-debil” molesting it will abandon the tooth to attack furiously the obtrusive pin. The affliction upon the camp had certainly been wrought by some boy who had been angry with Jimmy. The how and the why and wherefore of such malignant influence mattered not.
There was the dead boy rolled in his blanket, with a petrified smile on his thin lips. Obviously death was due to some illicit control of the laws of Nature. No one but a black boy could so grossly intercept the course of ordinary events as to produce death. Such, at least, was the logic of the camp.
Reflecting still deeper, and always with Nelly’s unswerving corroboration, Tom began to urge that Jimmy had been poisoned.
“Yes,” said Nelly, quite cheerfully, “some boy bin poison em. What’s the matter that boy want poison Jimmy? Jimmy good fella!”
“Who poison that boy?” I asked.
“Some fella alonga mainland..He no good that fella!”
“He bin sick long time. Poison kill em one time quick!”
Tom dissented. “Some boy make em poison slow. I know that kind.”
Then he explained. “Some time ‘nother fella tchausey belonga Jimmy. He wan make Jimmy shout. Jimmy no wan shout for that boy. They have little bit row.”
“That boy wouldn’t poison Jimmy because he no shout,” I reasoned. Everybody liked Jimmy.”
“Yes,” said Tom. “Sometime he might have row.”
With an air of mystery, Tom continued: “When that boy have row, he get bone belonga dead man, scrape that bone alonga old bottle. When get little heap all asame sugar, put into tea. Jimmy drink tea. B’mby get sick — die long time. Bad poison that.”
Nelly’s grief, which had been shrilly expressed at intervals, became subdued as she listened to Tom’s theories. To her mind the whole mystery had been settled. There need be no further anxiety, and only formal expressions of grief.
During the rest of the evening the wailing was purely official. Tom’s wit had so circumstantially accounted for the event, that it ceased to be solemn.
The next day they dug a hole five feet deep in the clean sand at the back of the humpy, and there Jimmy was laid to rest with the whole of his personal property, the most substantial of which consisted of an enamel billy, plate, and mug. The Chinese matting on which he had slept was used to envelop the body, and the sand was compressed in the grave.
But Tom and his family had gone. He said — and the deep furrows of grief were in his face: “Carn help it. Must go away one month. I bin think about that boy too much.”
TOM’S PHILOSOPHY
Tom had been so long intimately associated with cynical white people that several of the more fantastic customs of his race are by him contemned. Accordingly I was somewhat surprised to discover, after a few weeks of rainless weather, during which the shady pool at the mouth of the creek whence the supplies for his camp are drawn had decreased in depth, that he had been slyly practising the arts of the rain-maker.
As a matter of fact Tom was not in need of water, but, calculating fellow that he is, he foresaw the probability of having to carry it in buckets from the creek for the house, and to obviate such drudgery he shrewdly exercised his wit. A thoughtful, designing person is Tom — ever ready to accept the inevitable, with unruffled aboriginal calm, and just as willing — and as competent, too — to assist weary Nature by any of the little arts which he, by close observation of her moods, has acquired, or the knowledge which has been handed down from generation to generation. As it was the season of thunderstorms, he craftily so timed his designs that their consummation was not in direct opposition to meteorological conditi............