But Dick Eade is one of the straightest traders there, and will tell you, if ever you meet him, more tales of the ups and downs of a trader’s life in half an hour than you will hear elsewhere in a lifetime. {75} A few years back he decided to take a trip home to the Old Country, as he had made enough money for a good holiday, so he left his partner in charge of his store and sailed away. But directly he reached Melbourne a letter was sent to him to say that his partner had been killed, and that his boat was high and dry on the rocks with a perforated bottom. So instead of going home he had to return and make a fresh start.

There is plenty of excitement in the South Seas, and a glorious uncertainty in the life, and none know it better than the traders and miners. The most surprising thing is that often no cause can be found to account for the natives rising. The Mambare river massacre was one of these strange risings, and when the survivors came to Port Moresby the story they told of that mining venture was grim indeed.

It appears that a party of miners, under the leadership of a man named George Clark, went up the river on a prospecting tour. They succeeded in making friends with all the natives they came across near the mouth of the river, and purchased several canoes from them.

For the first week or so all went well, and in every village they came to they were well received {76} by the natives, who even assisted them to get their canoes over the rapids which abound in the river. In spite of these friendly demonstrations the miners noticed that several canoes were following them and that each one contained armed natives, but as they showed no hostility and kept some distance behind, it was decided to take no notice of them.

They had travelled about forty miles up the river, when they reached a point where it was found necessary for all to disembark in order to get the boat up a particularly difficult rapid. Clark, however, remained in the boat to steer it, whilst the other miners, assisted by the natives, hauled the boat along with a tow-rope; the white men were at the far end of the line whilst the natives were close to the bow of the boat, there being in all about a dozen natives.

Suddenly, when the boat was nearly at the top of the rapid, the tow-line snapped, and after a moment’s confusion one of the miners sprang back and tried to seize the piece still attached to the boat, when to his horror he saw it had been cut. He yelled to his mates, but before they could come half-a-dozen natives had sprung into the boat and were being carried swiftly down the stream. {77}

All thought that they had done this to assist Clark in managing the boat, and no one suspected treachery. Even Clark appears to have been unalarmed, as he continued to guide the boat by means of the steer oar.

From the banks the miners watched the boat drifting until it reached the native canoes behind. Then the truth flashed upon them; in a moment a shower of spears were sent at Clark, and the natives in the boat rushed at him. From the banks the miners fired their revolvers, and two of them sprang into the river and swam to rescue Clark. In the meantime he fought like a Trojan, but several spears had struck him, and suddenly the miners saw him leap into the river, but directly he came to the surface one native struck him full on the head with a paddle, and just as he was sinking another drove a spear into him.

The whole ghastly episode happened before the swimmers could reach Clark, for the tide was strong and the men were carried helplessly along. As soon as Clark was disposed of, the natives threw all the firearms out of the boat; the provisions were taken to the other canoes and the boat abandoned, whilst the perpetrators of the crime beat a hasty retreat, but not before they had been {78} well peppered by the miners, who by now had all come to the scene of the tragedy.

Clark’s body was never found, and the miners, having lost all their provisions, tools, and practically all their arms, decided to return to the mouth of the river. On the way down they were greeted with spears and jeers, and had to clear their way every now and then with a shower of bullets from their revolvers, and yet when they had come by these same villages on their way up the river they had met with nothing but friendliness.

To this day the reason of the attack is not known, in spite of the fact that the Queensland Government sent an expedition to inquire into the matter, and to capture the natives responsible for Clark’s death.

Besides the grim stories of the Pacific there are plenty of amusing ones, and sometimes funny anecdotes are told of weird traders who have taken up their quarters along the coast. No one can go round far without meeting one, if not more, of these oddities.

Aoba, in the New Hebrides, however, stands unique in possessing the most original, if unorthodox, trader who has visited these islands for many a long year. Maybe the old chap is dead and {79} buried now, for I am writing of 1894 when “Tartan Jock” lived on Aoba. He was a wild Highlander with chest and shoulders like an ox. His face was as rugged as the mountains of his native country, and his accent was one you could cut with a knife. From his youth upwards he had led a life of adventure, and had come at last to the most God-forsaken island in the world to finish his days in peace and quietness, and to this end he had chosen the most dangerous and cut-throat part of the New Hebrides. Yet he seemed to have no particular desire that his death should be a sudden one. A year or so before going to Aoba he had paid a visit to his birthplace to see the old folks, but his stay there had been a short one, and the only result of it was that the brogue had gotten into his nostrils again, and judging by the sound of it would remain there till the sharp spear of one of his black neighbours let it out.

As tough a customer as ever trod these islands was Jock, but, strange to say, the natives rather liked him, as was proved by the fact that his tenancy of the tumble-down trader’s house on the beach had been longer than that of any of his predecessors.

Aoba has a reputation for being a trader’s burial {80} ground, but, as far as I know, Jock is still above ground; he was a man, too, who seemed to love it. If ever you managed to come across him unawares he was stretched out at full length on the bright warm sand, with his arms at right angles to his body, and his great legs spread out like young logs. Jock could sleep all day like this, when there was nothing else to do and no trading boats about where he could get a “wee drappie”—Jock’s wee drops were bottles. But when the wine was in, his wits were out, and then it was a case of “look out for yourself,” for at these times Jock was dangerous, but basking on the beach he was a picture, and a quaint one too, for he had an absolute horror of civilisation and clothes, and a tartan shawl and a Tam o’ Shanter hat, with more than one hole in it, constituted his complete attire.

Stretched out at full length he could often be seen on the beach, with his shawl wrapped round his shoulders and chest, a great pair of bare, brown, hoary legs sticking out, and his woollen hat pulled right over his face with the nob of it where his nose ought to have been. Like this he was a sight that would have scared the life out of his “puir mither.” But such was Jock, and when sober a more amusing man would be hard to find.