Adventure
By Jack London
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Jack London
Jack London was born in San Francisco in 1876, and was a prolific and successful writer until his death in 1916. During his lifetime he wrote novels, short stories and essays, and is best known for ‘The Call of the Wild’ and ‘White Fang’.
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Reviews for Adventure
2 ratings2 reviews
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I was surprised by this incredible book. All I had previously known by Jack London was "The Call of the Wild" and "White Fang". I wish I had known about "Adventure" before now! I had read a just a few paragraphs a few months ago and stopped and for some reason decided to give it another try. I'm so glad I did. Although the end is predictable, the excitement that goes on throughout the book certainly makes up for it, jungle fever, murder, cannibalism, exotic islands, what more could you ask for?
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5"ADVENTURE" by Jack LondonThe novel starts with DAVID SHELDON, an Englishman, who is the owner of the Berande coconut plantation. He is the only white man on the Solomon Islands surrounded by scores of hostile natives - black workers (slaves) - who are about to stage rebellion and try to kill him. Despite his poor health (suffers from malaria fever) David manages to quell rebellion and mercilessly punish its instigators. These are the most memorable scenes in the whole book. Soon, David Sheldon is unexpectedly visited by an unusual sailor and adventurer - a woman. It is JOAN LACKLAND and her crew. This American girl is totally fascinated with the spirit of adventure and although beautiful outward, her spirit is more of a rugged man than of a delicate woman. Joan likes the island and helps David run business affairs. Soon, she becomes his business partner and partial owner of the plantation. Joan's youthfulness and her adventurous spirit, coupled with her shrewd and often aggressive business tactics, brings additional wealth to the plantation. However, despite these positive changes, David is not happy with the existing situation. He is in love with Joan, but doesn't want to scare her with the marriage proposal knowing too well that her restless spirit, a spirit of a boy in the woman's body, looks at marriage and romance with suspicion and even hatred. Things got even more complicated later with the arrival of a boat-crew led by "an adventurer of adventurers" JOHN TUDOR. Tudor is an American born in Germany and the leading man on a gold-hunting expedition to the Solomons under the command of the wealthy individual Von Blix. David and Joan welcomed them warmly, offering them hospitality and necessary assistance. However, Joan gets mesmerized by Mr. Tudor's adventures. He often talks to her about his dangerous expeditions around the world and they are seeing each other quite often. Their cozy relationship, however, sparks Sheldon's jealousy...The second part of the novel depicts a new rebellion on the plantation by the black workers who secretly amassed guns and ammunition in order to kill their white masters. Lives of both Sheldon and Ms. Lackland are seriously endangered. Luckily for them, the conspiracy and murder are prevented at the last moment, and the leaders of the rebellion are hunted down one by one. In their pursuit for culprits, David, Joan and their supporters enter particularly dangerous part of the island (jungle) inhabited by cannibals. This area had never been encroached by the white man before. Of course, the jungle brings new dangers. The pursuers are particularly shocked by the cruelty of cannibals who had captured Tudor and eaten his crew of gold hunters. In the end, Tudor is brought to safety, and all black rebels are either killed by their pursuers or eaten by the cannibalistic tribe. The Chapter XXVII of the book (next to the last) portrays an armed duel between Tudor and David. This is certainly the most exciting part of the novel, its culmination and ultimate adventure, surpassing even the encounter with cannibals in the jungle. This time, two jealous and love-stricken males (David Sheldon and John Tudor) are fighting over Joan. This time, it's the fight to death. David first laughs at this ridiculous proposal, then soon angrily accepts the duel. This duel has some rules however: "no seconds, no onlookers, and the two principals alone are necessary". Also, "they may use any weapons they please, from revolvers and rifles to machine guns and pompoms. They start a mile apart, and advance on each other, taking advantage of cover, retreating, circling, fainting - anything and everything permissible. In short, Sheldon and Tudor hunt each other like a couple of wild Indians, and Berande is just the place". The book ends with a happy ending, however. Sheldon becomes a winner of the duel. He could have killed Tudor, but he just wounded him instead, and then took care of his wounds. Having realized what happened, JOAN LACKLAND declares her love for David. In fact, she loved him all the time but somehow got scared of the marriage. As in any great novel, however, there is no outward (excessive) sentimentalism in these paragraphs. More often, sentimentalism is replaced with humor, bickering, irony, and unpredictable witty dialogue. In short, this novel is about adventure, but it is not just adventure. It is also a love story (however atypical it seems to be). It is also an interesting portrayal of its leading characters, where their strong will, dedication and perseverance are glorified. Also, the story setting (the Solomon Islands), is not just a mere decoration in the novel, it also takes a role of an invisible character (inhospitable, and cruel, but also beautiful body with soul). As for London's style of writing, his sentences are rich, neither too long nor too short, the words are carefully selected, and when carefully read, sentences look like skillfully composed pieces of music, with melody and rhythm. Long narratives are often interspersed with colorful dialogue. This dialogue is particularly impressive when the plantation owner (Sheldon) communicates with his black workers. He uses the same broken English as his slaves. For example: "What name you sing out alla time?" he demanded."Him fella my brother belong me," was the answer. "Him fella die too much.""You sing out, him fella brother belong you die too much," the white man went on in threatening tones. "I cross too much along you. What name you sing out, eh? You fat-head make um brother belong you die dose up too much. You fella finish sing out, savvee? You fella no finish sing out I make finish damn quick." As for socio-political and ideological layer of this novel, many modern readers, influenced by the contemporary political correctness, will scream: RACISM!Yes, derogatory and racist statements against the blacks are numerous in this novel. However, it doesn't make Jack London a racist. Since the novel portrays a typical white male (i.e. plantation owner) at the beginning of the 20th Century, it is natural that a realistic novel mirrors the spirit of the time. Since many white people held views at the time that the white race was superior to blacks, it is expected that these views are revealed in the novel. In fact, this is what makes this novel a great work of literature. Without it, the novel wouldn't exist in its existing form. In short, this is not just a novel, but also a historic document which could help today's young generations better understand complexity of life (especially relationship between the blacks and the whites) at the beginning of the 20th century. We shouldn't forget that Jack London lived in an era where the racial superiority of the white Anglo-Saxon man was seriously promoted in the political circles through expansionistic policy of American "Manifest Destiny" or Kipling’s "The White Man’s Burden". However, some of London's novels sympathetically portray Mexicans (The Mexican), Hawai'ian (Koolau the Leper), and Asian (The Chinago) and this tells us that Jack London is NOT a racist. Some elements of the novel that could be incorporated in the elementary/high school curriculum: GEOGRAPHY (the Solomon Islands: how is it portrayed in the book? Describe climate, plantation, jungle), HISTORY (discuss racism, slavery, Manifest Destiny, Kipling’s White Man’s Burden, Colonialism at the beginning of the 20th century, the role of women in America: How typical is Joan Lackland?), BUSINESS/ECONOMICS (Carefully investigate business decisions of David Shaldon and Joan Lackland; discuss their strangths and weaknesses: If you had a coconut plantation, how would you run the business? How would you treat your workers? Where would you sell your products ? As for the "slavery" depicted in the book, to what extent could it be called "slavery"? To what extent is it similar/different to the slavery on the white plantations in the American South prior to the Civil War? Are the black workers on Berande economically speaking, better off working on plantation? Would their conditions improve if they were not dependent on Sheldon and his plantation? Think about lawlessness on the island, different tribes trying to exterminate each other, cannibals, and rule of the jungle. Does Sheldon equally treat all the black workers? Do loyal blacks get the same treatment as the undisciplined/rebellious ones? Provide some examples.).IMOTA DINAROID
Book preview
Adventure - Jack London
ADVENTURE
by
Jack London
Copyright © 2013 Read Books Ltd.
This book is copyright and may not be
reproduced or copied in any way without
the express permission of the publisher in writing
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Contents
ADVENTURE
Jack London
CHAPTER I—SOMETHING TO BE DONE
CHAPTER II—SOMETHING IS DONE
CHAPTER III—THE JESSIE
CHAPTER IV—JOAN LACKLAND
CHAPTER V—SHE WOULD A PLANTER BE
CHAPTER VI—TEMPEST
CHAPTER VII—A HARD-BITTEN GANG
CHAPTER VIII—LOCAL COLOUR
CHAPTER IX—AS BETWEEN A MAN AND A WOMAN
CHAPTER X—A MESSAGE FROM BOUCHER
CHAPTER XI—THE PORT ADAMS CROWD
CHAPTER XII—MR. MORGAN AND MR. RAFF
CHAPTER XIII—THE LOGIC OF YOUTH
CHAPTER XIV—THE MARTHA
CHAPTER XV—A DISCOURSE ON MANNERS
CHAPTER XVI—THE GIRL WHO HAD NOT GROWN UP
CHAPTER XVII—YOUR
MISS LACKLAND
CHAPTER XVIII—MAKING THE BOOKS COME TRUE
CHAPTER XIX—THE LOST TOY
CHAPTER XX—A MAN-TALK
CHAPTER XXI—CONTRABAND
CHAPTER XXII—GOGOOMY FINISHES ALONG KWAQUE ALTOGETHER
CHAPTER XXIII—A MESSAGE FROM THE BUSH
CHAPTER XXIV—IN THE BUSH
CHAPTER XXV—THE HEAD-HUNTERS
CHAPTER XXVI—BURNING DAYLIGHT
CHAPTER XXVII—MODERN DUELLING
CHAPTER XXVIII—CAPITULATION
"We are those fools who could not rest
In the dull earth we left behind,
But burned with passion for the West,
And drank strange frenzy from its wind.
The world where wise men live at ease
Fades from our unregretful eyes,
And blind across uncharted seas
We stagger on our enterprise."
THE SHIP OF FOOLS.
Jack London
Jack London was born in San Francisco, USA in 1876. In order to support his working class family, he left school at the age of fourteen and worked in a string of unskilled jobs, before returning briefly to graduate. Around this time, London discovered the public library in Oakland, and immersed himself in the literature of the day. In 1894, after a spell working on merchant ships, he set out to experience the life of the tramp, with a view to gaining an insight into the national class system and the raw essence of the human condition. At the age of nineteen, upon returning, London was admitted to the University of California in Berkeley, but left before graduating after just six months due to financial pressures.
London published his first short story, ‘Typhoon off the Coast of Japan’, in 1893. At this point, he turned seriously to writing, producing work at a prolific rate. Over the next decade, he began to be published in major magazines of the day, producing some of his best-remembered stories, such as ‘To Build a Fire’. Starting in 1902, London turned to novels, producing almost twenty in fifteen years. Of these, his best-known are Call of the Wild and White Fang, both set during the Klondike Gold Rush. He also produced a number of popular and still widely-anthologized stories, such as ‘An Odyssey of the North’ and ‘Love of Life’. London even proved himself as an excellent journalist, reporting on the 1906 earthquake in San Francisco and the Mexican Revolution of 1910.
London was an impassioned advocate of socialism and workers’ rights, and these themes inform a number of his works – most notably his dystopian novel The Iron Heel, published in 1907. He even ran unsuccessfully as the Socialist nominee for mayor of Oakland on two occasions. London died in 1916, aged 40.
CHAPTER I—SOMETHING TO BE DONE
He was a very sick white man. He rode pick-a-back on a woolly-headed, black-skinned savage, the lobes of whose ears had been pierced and stretched until one had torn out, while the other carried a circular block of carved wood three inches in diameter. The torn ear had been pierced again, but this time not so ambitiously, for the hole accommodated no more than a short clay pipe. The man-horse was greasy and dirty, and naked save for an exceedingly narrow and dirty loin-cloth; but the white man clung to him closely and desperately. At times, from weakness, his head drooped and rested on the woolly pate. At other times he lifted his head and stared with swimming eyes at the cocoanut palms that reeled and swung in the shimmering heat. He was clad in a thin undershirt and a strip of cotton cloth, that wrapped about his waist and descended to his knees. On his head was a battered Stetson, known to the trade as a Baden-Powell. About his middle was strapped a belt, which carried a large-calibred automatic pistol and several spare clips, loaded and ready for quick work.
The rear was brought up by a black boy of fourteen or fifteen, who carried medicine bottles, a pail of hot water, and various other hospital appurtenances. They passed out of the compound through a small wicker gate, and went on under the blazing sun, winding about among new-planted cocoanuts that threw no shade. There was not a breath of wind, and the superheated, stagnant air was heavy with pestilence. From the direction they were going arose a wild clamour, as of lost souls wailing and of men in torment. A long, low shed showed ahead, grass-walled and grass-thatched, and it was from here that the noise proceeded. There were shrieks and screams, some unmistakably of grief, others unmistakably of unendurable pain. As the white man drew closer he could hear a low and continuous moaning and groaning. He shuddered at the thought of entering, and for a moment was quite certain that he was going to faint. For that most dreaded of Solomon Island scourges, dysentery, had struck Berande plantation, and he was all alone to cope with it. Also, he was afflicted himself.
By stooping close, still on man-back, he managed to pass through the low doorway. He took a small bottle from his follower, and sniffed strong ammonia to clear his senses for the ordeal. Then he shouted, Shut up!
and the clamour stilled. A raised platform of forest slabs, six feet wide, with a slight pitch, extended the full length of the shed. Alongside of it was a yard-wide run-way. Stretched on the platform, side by side and crowded close, lay a score of blacks. That they were low in the order of human life was apparent at a glance. They were man-eaters. Their faces were asymmetrical, bestial; their bodies were ugly and ape-like. They wore nose-rings of clam-shell and turtle-shell, and from the ends of their noses which were also pierced, projected horns of beads strung on stiff wire. Their ears were pierced and distended to accommodate wooden plugs and sticks, pipes, and all manner of barbaric ornaments. Their faces and bodies were tattooed or scarred in hideous designs. In their sickness they wore no clothing, not even loin-cloths, though they retained their shell armlets, their bead necklaces, and their leather belts, between which and the skin were thrust naked knives. The bodies of many were covered with horrible sores. Swarms of flies rose and settled, or flew back and forth in clouds.
The white man went down the line, dosing each man with medicine. To some he gave chlorodyne. He was forced to concentrate with all his will in order to remember which of them could stand ipecacuanha, and which of them were constitutionally unable to retain that powerful drug. One who lay dead he ordered to be carried out. He spoke in the sharp, peremptory manner of a man who would take no nonsense, and the well men who obeyed his orders scowled malignantly. One muttered deep in his chest as he took the corpse by the feet. The white man exploded in speech and action. It cost him a painful effort, but his arm shot out, landing a back-hand blow on the black’s mouth.
What name you, Angara?
he shouted. What for talk ’long you, eh? I knock seven bells out of you, too much, quick!
With the automatic swiftness of a wild animal the black gathered himself to spring. The anger of a wild animal was in his eyes; but he saw the white man’s hand dropping to the pistol in his belt. The spring was never made. The tensed body relaxed, and the black, stooping over the corpse, helped carry it out. This time there was no muttering.
Swine!
the white man gritted out through his teeth at the whole breed of Solomon Islanders.
He was very sick, this white man, as sick as the black men who lay helpless about him, and whom he attended. He never knew, each time he entered the festering shambles, whether or not he would be able to complete the round. But he did know in large degree of certainty that, if he ever fainted there in the midst of the blacks, those who were able would be at his throat like ravening wolves.
Part way down the line a man was dying. He gave orders for his removal as soon as he had breathed his last. A black stuck his head inside the shed door, saying,—
Four fella sick too much.
Fresh cases, still able to walk, they clustered about the spokesman. The white man singled out the weakest, and put him in the place just vacated by the corpse. Also, he indicated the next weakest, telling him to wait for a place until the next man died. Then, ordering one of the well men to take a squad from the field-force and build a lean-to addition to the hospital, he continued along the run-way, administering medicine and cracking jokes in bêche-de-mer English to cheer the sufferers. Now and again, from the far end, a weird wail was raised. When he arrived there he found the noise was emitted by a boy who was not sick. The white man’s wrath was immediate.
What name you sing out alla time?
he demanded.
Him fella my brother belong me,
was the answer. Him fella die too much.
You sing out, him fella brother belong you die too much,
the white man went on in threatening tones. I cross too much along you. What name you sing out, eh? You fat-head make um brother belong you die dose up too much. You fella finish sing out, savvee? You fella no finish sing out I make finish damn quick.
He threatened the wailer with his fist, and the black cowered down, glaring at him with sullen eyes.
Sing out no good little bit,
the white man went on, more gently. You no sing out. You chase um fella fly. Too much strong fella fly. You catch water, washee brother belong you; washee plenty too much, bime bye brother belong you all right. Jump!
he shouted fiercely at the end, his will penetrating the low intelligence of the black with dynamic force that made him jump to the task of brushing the loathsome swarms of flies away.
Again he rode out into the reeking heat. He clutched the black’s neck tightly, and drew a long breath; but the dead air seemed to shrivel his lungs, and he dropped his head and dozed till the house was reached. Every effort of will was torture, yet he was called upon continually to make efforts of will. He gave the black he had ridden a nip of trade-gin. Viaburi, the house-boy, brought him corrosive sublimate and water, and he took a thorough antiseptic wash. He dosed himself with chlorodyne, took his own pulse, smoked a thermometer, and lay back on the couch with a suppressed groan. It was mid-afternoon, and he had completed his third round that day. He called the house-boy.
"Take um big fella look along Jessie," he commanded.
The boy carried the long telescope out on the veranda, and searched the sea.
One fella schooner long way little bit,
he announced. "One fella Jessie."
The white man gave a little gasp of delight.
"You make um Jessie, five sticks tobacco along you," he said.
There was silence for a time, during which he waited with eager impatience.
"Maybe Jessie, maybe other fella schooner," came the faltering admission.
The man wormed to the edge of the couch, and slipped off to the floor on his knees. By means of a chair he drew himself to his feet. Still clinging to the chair, supporting most of his weight on it, he shoved it to the door and out upon the veranda. The sweat from the exertion streamed down his face and showed through the undershirt across his shoulders. He managed to get into the chair, where he panted in a state of collapse. In a few minutes he roused himself. The boy held the end of the telescope against one of the veranda scantlings, while the man gazed through it at the sea. At last he picked up the white sails of the schooner and studied them.
"No Jessie, he said very quietly.
That’s the Malakula."
He changed his seat for a steamer reclining-chair. Three hundred feet away the sea broke in a small surf upon the beach. To the left he could see the white line of breakers that marked the bar of the Balesuna River, and, beyond, the rugged outline of Savo Island. Directly before him, across the twelve-mile channel, lay Florida Island; and, farther to the right, dim in the distance, he could make out portions of Malaita—the savage island, the abode of murder, and robbery, and man-eating—the place from which his own two hundred plantation hands had been recruited. Between him and the beach was the cane-grass fence of the compound. The gate was ajar, and he sent the house-boy to close it. Within the fence grew a number of lofty cocoanut palms. On either side the path that led to the gate stood two tall flagstaffs. They were reared on artificial mounds of earth that were ten feet high. The base of each staff was surrounded by short posts, painted white and connected by heavy chains. The staffs themselves were like ships’ masts, with topmasts spliced on in true nautical fashion, with shrouds, ratlines, gaffs, and flag-halyards. From the gaff of one, two gay flags hung limply, one a checkerboard of blue and white squares, the other a white pennant centred with a red disc. It was the international code signal of distress.
On the far corner of the compound fence a hawk brooded. The man watched it, and knew that it was sick. He wondered idly if it felt as bad as he felt, and was feebly amused at the thought of kinship that somehow penetrated his fancy. He roused himself to order the great bell to be rung as a signal for the plantation hands to cease work and go to their barracks. Then he mounted his man-horse and made the last round of the day.
In the hospital were two new cases. To these he gave castor-oil. He congratulated himself. It had been an easy day. Only three had died. He inspected the copra-drying that had been going on, and went through the barracks to see if there were any sick lying hidden and defying his rule of segregation. Returned to the house, he received the reports of the boss-boys and gave instructions for next day’s work. The boat’s crew boss also he had in, to give assurance, as was the custom nightly, that the whale-boats were hauled up and padlocked. This was a most necessary precaution, for the blacks were in a funk, and a whale-boat left lying on the beach in the evening meant a loss of twenty blacks by morning. Since the blacks were worth thirty dollars apiece, or less, according to how much of their time had been worked out, Berande plantation could ill afford the loss. Besides, whale-boats were not cheap in the Solomons; and, also, the deaths were daily reducing the working capital. Seven blacks had fled into the bush the week before, and four had dragged themselves back, helpless from fever, with the report that two more had been killed and kai-kai’d {1} by the hospitable bushmen. The seventh man was still at large, and was said to be working along the coast on the lookout to steal a canoe and get away to his own island.
Viaburi brought two lighted lanterns to the white man for inspection. He glanced at them and saw that they were burning brightly with clear, broad flames, and nodded his head. One was hoisted up to the gaff of the flagstaff, and the other was placed on the wide veranda. They were the leading lights to the Berande anchorage, and every night in the year they were so inspected and hung out.
He rolled back on his couch with a sigh of relief. The day’s work was done. A rifle lay on the couch beside him. His revolver was within reach of his hand. An hour passed, during which he did not move. He lay in a state of half-slumber, half-coma. He became suddenly alert. A creak on the back veranda was the cause. The room was L-shaped; the corner in which stood his couch was dim, but the hanging lamp in the main part of the room, over the billiard table and just around the corner, so that it did not shine on him, was burning brightly. Likewise the verandas were well lighted. He waited without movement. The creaks were repeated, and he knew several men lurked outside.
What name?
he cried sharply.
The house, raised a dozen feet above the ground, shook on its pile foundations to the rush of retreating footsteps.
They’re getting bold,
he muttered. Something will have to be done.
The full moon rose over Malaita and shone down on Berande. Nothing stirred in the windless air. From the hospital still proceeded the moaning of the sick. In the grass-thatched barracks nearly two hundred woolly-headed man-eaters slept off the weariness of the day’s toil, though several lifted their heads to listen to the curses of one who cursed the white man who never slept. On the four verandas of the house the lanterns burned. Inside, between rifle and revolver, the man himself moaned and tossed in intervals of troubled sleep.
CHAPTER II—SOMETHING IS DONE
In the morning David Sheldon decided that he was worse. That he was appreciably weaker there was no doubt, and there were other symptoms that were unfavourable. He began his rounds looking for trouble. He wanted trouble. In full health, the strained situation would have been serious enough; but as it was, himself growing helpless, something had to be done. The blacks were getting more sullen and defiant, and the appearance of the men the previous night on his veranda—one of the gravest of offences on Berande—was ominous. Sooner or later they would get him, if he did not get them first, if he did not once again sear on their dark souls the flaming mastery of the white man.
He returned to the house disappointed. No opportunity had presented itself of making an example of insolence or insubordination—such as had occurred on every other day since the sickness smote Berande. The fact that none had offended was in itself suspicious. They were growing crafty. He regretted that he had not waited the night before until the prowlers had entered. Then he might have shot one or two and given the rest a new lesson, writ in red, for them to con. It was one man against two hundred, and he was horribly afraid of his sickness overpowering him and leaving him at their mercy. He saw visions of the blacks taking charge of the plantation, looting the store, burning the buildings, and escaping to Malaita. Also, one gruesome vision he caught of his own head, sun-dried and smoke-cured, ornamenting the canoe house of a cannibal village. Either the Jessie would have to arrive, or he would have to do something.
The bell had hardly rung, sending the labourers into the fields, when Sheldon had a visitor. He had had the couch taken out on the veranda, and he was lying on it when the canoes paddled in and hauled out on the beach. Forty men, armed with spears, bows and arrows, and war-clubs, gathered outside the gate of the compound, but only one entered. They knew the law of Berande, as every native knew the law of every white man’s compound in all the thousand miles of the far-flung Solomons. The one man who came up the path, Sheldon recognized as Seelee, the chief of Balesuna village. The savage did not mount the steps, but stood beneath and talked to the white lord above.
Seelee was more intelligent than the average of his kind, but his intelligence only emphasized the lowness of that kind. His eyes, close together and small, advertised cruelty and craftiness. A gee-string and a cartridge-belt were all the clothes he wore. The carved pearl-shell ornament that hung from nose to chin and impeded speech was purely ornamental, as were the holes in his ears mere utilities for carrying pipe and tobacco. His broken-fanged teeth were stained black by betel-nut, the juice of which he spat upon the ground.
As he talked or listened, he made grimaces like a monkey. He said yes by dropping his eyelids and thrusting his chin forward. He spoke with childish arrogance strangely at variance with the subservient position he occupied beneath the veranda. He, with his many followers, was