Back on board, Van Horn immediately hove short, hoisted² sail, broke out the anchor, and filled away for the ten-mile beat up the lagoon³ to windward that would fetch Somo.  On the way, he stopped at Binu to greet Chief Johnny and land a few Binu returns.  Then it was on to Somo, and to the end of voyaging for ever of the Arangi and of many that were aboard of her.  
Quite the opposite to his treatment at Langa-Langa was that accorded Van Horn at Somo.  Once the return boys were put ashore⁴, and this was accomplished⁵ no later than three-thirty in the afternoon, he invited Chief Bashti on board.  And Chief Bashti came, very nimble and active despite his great age, and very good-natured—so good-natured, in fact, that he insisted on bringing three of his elderly wives on board with him.  This was unprecedented⁶.  Never had he permitted any of his wives to appear before a white man, and Van Horn felt so honoured that he presented each of them with a gay clay pipe and a dozen sticks of tobacco.
 
Late as the afternoon was, trade was brisk, and Bashti, who had taken the lion’s share of the wages due to the fathers of two boys who had died, bought liberally of the Arangi’s stock.  When Bashti promised plenty of fresh recruits, Van Horn, used to the changeableness of the savage⁸ mind, urged signing them up right away.  Bashti demurred⁹, and suggested next day.  Van Horn insisted that there was no time like the present, and so well did he insist that the old chief sent a canoe ashore to round up the boys who had been selected to go away to the plantations¹⁰.
 
“Now, what do you think?” Van Horn asked of Borckman, whose eyes were remarkably¹² fishy¹³.  “I never saw the old rascal¹⁴ so friendly.  Has he got something up his sleeve?”
 
The mate stared at the many canoes alongside, noted¹⁵ the numbers of women in them, and shook his head.
 
“When they’re starting anything they always send the Marys into the bush,” he said.
 
“You never can tell about these niggers,” the captain grumbled¹⁶.  “They may be short on imagination, but once in a while they do figure out something new.  Now Bashti’s the smartest old nigger I’ve ever seen.  What’s to prevent his figuring out that very bet and playing it in reverse?  Just because they’ve never had their women around when trouble was on the carpet is no reason that they will always keep that practice.”
 
“Not even Bashti’s got the savvee to pull a trick like that,” Borckman objected.  “He’s just feeling good and liberal.  Why, he’s bought forty pounds of goods from you already.  That’s why he wants to sign on a new batch¹⁷ of boys with us, and I’ll bet he’s hoping half of them die so’s he can have the spending of their wages.”
 
All of which was most reasonable.  Nevertheless, Van Horn shook his head.
 
“All the same keep your eyes sharp on everything,” he cautioned.  “And remember, the two of us mustn’t ever be below at the same time.  And no more schnapps, mind, until we’re clear of the whole kit¹⁸ and caboodle.”
 
Bashti was incredibly lean and prodigiously¹⁹ old.  He did not know how old he was himself, although he did know that no person in his tribe had been alive when he was a young boy in the village.  He remembered the days when some of the old men, still alive, had been born; and, unlike him, they were now decrepit²⁰, shaken with palsy, blear-eyed, toothless of mouth, deaf of ear, or paralysed.  All his own faculties²¹ remained unimpaired.  He even boasted a dozen worn fangs²² of teeth, gum-level, on which he could still chew.  Although he no longer had the physical endurance of youth, his thinking was as original and clear as it had always been.  It was due to his thinking that he found his tribe stronger than when he had first come to rule it.  In his small way he had been a Melanesian Napoleon.  As a warrior²³, the play of his mind had enabled him to beat back the bushmen’s boundaries.  The scars on his withered²⁴ body attested²⁵ that he had fought to the fore⁷.  As a Law-giver, he had encouraged and achieved strength and efficiency within his tribe.  As a statesman, he had always kept one thought ahead of the thoughts of the neighbouring chiefs in the making of treaties and the granting of concessions²⁶.
 
And with his mind, still keenly alive, he had but just evolved a scheme whereby he might outwit Van Horn and get the better of the vast British Empire about which he guessed little and know less.
 
For Somo had a history.  It was that queer anomaly, a salt-water tribe that lived on the lagoon mainland where only bushmen were supposed to live.  Far back into the darkness of time, the folk-lore of Somo cast a glimmering²⁷ light.  On a day, so far back that there was no way of estimating its distance, one, Somo, son of Loti, who was the chief of the island fortress²⁸ of Umbo, had quarrelled with his father and fled from his wrath²⁹ along with a dozen canoe-loads of young men.  For two monsoons³⁰ they had engaged in an odyssey³¹.  It was in the myth that they circumnavigated Malaita twice, and forayed as far as Ugi and San Cristobal across the wide seas.
 
Women they had inevitably³² stolen after successful combats, and, in the end, being burdened with women and progeny³³, Somo had descended³⁴ upon the mainland shore, driven the bushmen back, and established the salt-water fortress of Somo.  Built it was, on its sea-front, like any island fortress, with walled coral-rock to oppose the sea and chance marauders from the sea, and with launching ways through the walls for the long canoes.  To the rear, where it encroached on the jungle, it was like any scattered³⁵ bush village.  But Somo, the wide-seeing father of the new tribe, had established his boundaries far up in the bush on the shoulders of the lesser³⁶ mountains, and on each shoulder had planted a village.  Only the greatly daring that fled to him had Somo permitted to join the new tribe.  The weaklings and cowards they had promptly³⁷ eaten, and the unbelievable tale of their many heads adorning³⁸ the canoe-houses was part of the myth.
 
And this tribe, territory, and stronghold, at the latter end of time, Bashti had inherited, and he had bettered his inheritance.  Nor was he above continuing to better it.  For a long time he had reasoned closely and carefully in maturing the plan that itched³⁹ in his brain for fulfilment.  Three years before, the tribe of Ano Ano, miles down the coast, had captured a recruiter, destroyed her and all hands, and gained a fabulous⁴⁰ store of tobacco, calico, beads⁴¹, and all manner of trade goods, rifles and ammunition⁴².
 
Little enough had happened in the way of price that was paid.  Half a year after, a war vessel⁴³ had poked⁴⁴ her nose into the lagoon, shelled Ano Ano, and sent its inhabitants scurrying⁴⁵ into the bush.  The landing-party that followed had futilely⁴⁶ pursued along the jungle runways.  In the end it had contented⁴⁷ itself with killing⁴⁸ forty fat pigs and chopping down a hundred coconut⁴⁹ trees.  Scarcely had the war vessel passed out to open sea, when the people of Ano Ano were back from the bush to the village.  Shell fire on flimsy grass houses is not especially destructive.  A few hours’ labour of the women put that little matter right.  As for the forty dead pigs, the entire tribe fell upon the carcasses, roasted them under the ground with hot stones, and feasted.  The tender tips of the fallen palms were likewise eaten, while the thousands of coconuts⁵⁰ were husked and split and sun-dried and smoke-cured into copra to be sold to the next passing trader.
 
Thus, the penalty exacted had proved a picnic and a feast—all of which appealed to the thrifty⁵¹, calculating brain of Bashti.  And what was good for Ano Ano, in his judgment⁵² was surely good for Somo.  Since such were white men’s ways who sailed under the British flag and killed pigs and cut down coconuts in cancellation⁵³ of blood-debts and headtakings, Bashti saw no valid⁵⁴ reason why he should not profit as Ano Ano had profited.  The price to be paid at some possible future time was absurdly disproportionate to the immediate¹ wealth to be gained.  Besides, it had been over two years since the last British war vessel had appeared in the Solomons.
 
And thus, Bashti, with a fine fresh idea inside his head, bowed his chief’s head in consent that his people could flock aboard and trade.  Very few of them knew what his idea was or that he even had an idea.
 
Trade grew still brisker as more canoes came alongside and black men and women thronged⁵⁵ the deck.  Then came the recruits, new-caught, young, savage things, timid as deer, yet yielding to stern parental⁵⁶ and tribal⁵⁷ law and going down into the Arangi’s cabin, one by one, their fathers and mothers and relatives accompanying them in family groups, to confront the big fella white marster, who wrote their names down in a mysterious book, had them ratify⁵⁸ the three years’ contract of their labour by a touch of the right hand to the pen with which he wrote, and who paid the first year’s advance in trade goods to the heads of their respective families.
 
Old Bashti sat near, taking his customary heavy tithes⁵⁹ out of each advance, his three old wives squatting⁶¹ humbly⁶² at his feet and by their mere⁶³ presence giving confidence to Van Horn, who was elated by the stroke of business.  At such rate his cruise on Malaita would be a short one, when he would sail away with a full ship.
 
On deck, where Borckman kept a sharp eye out against danger, Jerry prowled about, sniffing⁶⁵ the many legs of the many blacks he had never encountered before.  The wild-dog had gone ashore with the return boys, and of the return boys only one had come back.  It was Lerumie, past whom Jerry repeatedly and stiff-leggedly bristled⁶⁶ without gaining response of recognition.  Lerumie coolly ignored him, went down below once and purchased a trade hand-mirror, and, with a look of the eyes, assured old Bashti that all was ready and ripe to break at the first favourable⁶⁷ moment.
 
On deck, Borckman gave this favourable moment.  Nor would he have so given it had he not been guilty of carelessness and of disobedience to his captain’s orders.  He did not leave the schnapps alone.  Be did not sense what was impending⁶⁸ all about him.  Aft, where he stood, the deck was almost deserted⁶⁹.  Amidships and for’ard, gamming with the boat’s crew, the deck was crowded with blacks of both sexes.  He made his way to the yam sacks lashed⁷⁰ abaft⁷¹ the mizzenmast and got his bottle.  Just before he drank, with a shred⁷² of caution, he cast a glance behind him.  Near him stood a harmless Mary, middle-aged⁷³, fat, squat⁶⁰, asymmetrical⁷⁴,............