I Married Adventure

by Osa Johnson

  During this little comedy, several more men had slipped quietly out of the bush—I think I counted ten in all—each as horrible in appearance as their advance man with the stomachache, and each apparently as harmless. Martin lost no time in setting up his camera—which they dismissed after a casual inspection—and exposed perhaps a hundred and fifty feet of film. I could see he was measuring it carefully.

  The natives were carrying on what to me was an unintelligible jabber. Our carriers began to show signs of nervousness and to edge toward the boat. Martin understood a little Bêche-de-Mer and, with an air of complete casualness as he busied himself with the camera, told me what was up.

  “They’re saying that their chief is back there in the bush. He’s been watching our boat as we came around to the bay—”

  “You mean—the big chief—the Big Nambas’ chief, Nag—”

  Martin stopped me with a sharp gesture. “Don’t speak his name,” he cautioned. “Play dumb.”

  “But—if we could get him in the camera! Oh, Martin—if we could!”

  “It would be worth the whole trip.”

  I saw how terribly he wanted to plunge into the bush with his camera but that he was afraid because of me.

  “I’ll take some trade stuff and go ahead,” I said as casually as I could. “I’m not afraid of these old natives and their stomachaches.” I began gathering up some tobacco and calico. “Just a lot of big bluffs.” I started toward the trail.

  “Wait, Osa! I can’t risk it. Not with you. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  I kept right on going.

  “All right then, wait,” he shouted after me. “I’ll get one of these men to lead the way.”

  Organized at length, with one of the Big Namba men acting as guide and our three carriers bringing up the rear with tripods, film, still cameras, and the bulk of the trade stuff, we plunged into the jungle.

  After the glare of the beach I seemed suddenly blind, and slid and stumbled along a dark trail that was treacherous with hidden, muddy streams and wet creepers. The heavy, steaming breath of the swamps pressed down on us with the weight of something dead, and in it was the ominous smell of rot and slime. Then we started to climb. Suddenly we were in the hot glare of the sun once more, and the slope was sharp and covered with brush and tough cane. We climbed for what seemed hours. A pulse beat hard in the roof of my mouth, my breath was like a knife in my chest, and perspiration dripped from my hands.

  “Tough going, Osa,” Martin said several times. He was just behind me, and I could hear him breathing hard.

  I nodded but didn’t speak; I didn’t know what my voice would sound like. Then, abruptly, we came on a clearing, a sort of plateau, where our guide stopped us as if waiting for something.

  I began to look about me. Far below—we must have climbed at least a thousand feet—I saw the yellow strip of beach and our whaleboat, a mere dot at the edge of the water.

  Off across a sort of chasm I saw thin columns of smoke. Martin had drawn close and put his arm about me.

  “You’re a grand little sport,” he said. “That climb was tough.”

  I couldn’t say anything, I was so proud. Martin followed the direction of my gaze.

  “Making stews of their enemies over there, what?” he said jokingly.

  Just then there was a shuffling sound and we turned. A score of natives carrying guns had moved in behind us. I saw Martin’s face tighten.

  “Don’t let them see you’re afraid, Osa,” he said quietly but firmly. “Leave the trade stuff on the ground and ease down the trail. I’ll attract their attention with the camera, and that’ll give you a good start.”

  I turned to obey, but the trail was cut off. By now, there must have been a hundred armed natives in the clearing. From somewhere off in the bush came the low pulsing beat of the boo-boos. I glanced at our three carriers. They had stooped to pick up our goods and were fixed in attitudes of terror. There was neither movement nor sound until a swift-flying parrot—a raucous blade of color and noise—slashed across the clearing.

  Then all heads turned, and there on the edge of the bush stood a figure so frightful as to be magnificent. His face, like those of the rest of the natives, was framed in a mass of greasy black hair and beard. A bone was thrust through the cartilage of his nose. He wore the large pandanus fiber clout, but there was a difference in his bearing—the difference of a man of conscious power. There was power in his height, in the muscles that rippled under his glossy black skin, in his great shoulders, in the line of the jaw. Two furrows, amazingly deep, lay between his brows, and his eyes showed intelligence, strong will, and cunning. Here was a chief by every right of physical and mental superiority. Here, I knew, was Nagapate.

  He stared at us speculatively and moved slowly toward us. His men drew back slightly as he advanced. To my astonishment, at this moment, I heard the purr of the camera-crank. Martin was photographing the chief’s entrance.

  “Remember, darling,” his voice was low and quiet, “show no fear—smile—open up the trade stuff.”

  I shaped my face into what I hoped would pass for a friendly smile. Nagapate was coming straight toward me—was now within three feet.

  “Hello, Mr. Nagapate,” I said, and held some tobacco out to him. He barely glanced at it.

  “Try some calico,” Martin said. “Keep it up, sweet, you’re doing fine. If we win the chief over, everything will be all right. The others will take their cue from him.”

  “Yes. Yes, I know,” I said. “I’ll try. I’ll do my best.”

  I saw four rings on Nagapate’s hands, one a signet ring with a distinct crest. I felt a shudder creeping up my spine and wondered whether he removed the rings from the fingers of his victims before or after he cooked them.

  “Try that piece of red calico,” Martin urged, and I clung to the sound of his voice as to the one sane thing left in a world gone grotesquely mad.

  “This is a very nice piece of calico,” I said loudly and distinctly, holding out the bright cloth to Nagapate. “A very nice color. You would be very handsome in it. It would make a very nice shirt, I think.”

  Nagapate reached out, but instead of the calico he took my arm. His great hand felt like dry leather,

  Martin’s quiet voice cut through my terror. “Don’t be afraid, Osa. He’s just curious, that’s all.”

  Curious! Apparently the whiteness of my skin puzzled the big black man. With gutteral grunts he first tried rubbing it off with his finger. This failing, he picked up a bit of rough cane and scraped my skin with it and was astonished, apparently, when it turned pink. Shaking his head, he then took off my hat and looked at my hair. It was yellow, and I suppose this puzzled him. He parted it and peered down at my scalp, then he pulled it hard. Finally he turned me around, tilted my head forward, and looked at the back of my neck.

  “Try to get him interested in the trade stuff, darling. Put it in his hands.” Martin’s voice shook a little. I looked at him. The film continued to purr through the camera. He was turning the crank automatically.

  I got some tobacco and pushed it into Nagapate’s hands. He looked at it, then dropped it. I saw Martin rapidly remove the camera from the tripod.

  “He won’t take it, Martin! What shall I do?”

  “Keep cool, darling—and whatever you do, keep smiling.”

  My husband then stepped between Nagapate and me, and, forcing a grin, clasped the chief’s hand and gave it a hearty shake. This puzzled the black czar. Apparently the gesture was new to him. He didn’t like it, and scowled.

  Returning look for look with the regal chief, Martin spoke casually to me. “Get on down that trail with the carriers, Osa. I’ll follow. Do as I tell you, and hurry.”

  Nagapate was not to be diverted, however, and caught me as I turned away. He took my hand and shook it just as Martin had shaken his. My relief was so great at what seemin
gly had turned into a friendly leave-taking that I laughed and heartily returned the shake. This may have been a mistake. At any rate, when I tried to withdraw my hand, he closed his fist hard upon it, and then began experimentally to pinch and prod my body. I choked back a scream and looked wildly toward Martin. His face was bloodless, and fixed in a wooden smile.

  Then, unexpectedly, I was released. Nagapate grunted an order and his men retreated into the bush. Apparently we had won. Martin sharply ordered the carriers to shoulder the apparatus and we dashed for the trail. Whether Nagapate then changed his mind, or whether releasing us and then recapturing us was a sort of cat-and-mouse game with him, I never knew, but suddenly there was a sharper accent in the beat of the boo-boos, our carriers with the apparatus fled at top speed down the trail, and I found myself seized from behind. This time I abandoned all pretense at bravery and screamed my terror. On almost the same instant I heard Martin’s voice shouting at me desperately to remember the pistol in my pocket, and then shouting at the natives to release him. I saw that he also had been seized.

  “Martin!” I cried. A native raked his back with a thornbush branch. I turned sick and faint and knew vaguely that I was being dragged backward toward the bush. I screamed again and again. I am no clearer on what happened next than a person is clear on the seeming happenings of a nightmare. I only know that the natives were suddenly quiet and staring down toward the bay. The boo-boos were still, and Nagapate stepped once more into the clearing. I followed the direction of his scowling gaze and saw what had silenced them. A British patrol boat was steaming into the bay.

  Martin tore from his captors and faced Nagapate.

  “Man-o’-war—man-o’-war—man-o’-war!” he shouted, threateningly, and his gestures indicated that the patrol boat had come on our behalf.

  Nagapate scowled at Martin, only half believing him, but my husband held his ground, and reluctantly Nagapate grunted an order for our release. Then he withdrew with his men into the bush.

  With a sob of relief I started on a run toward the trail, but Martin caught me and held me to a quiet walk until we were well out of sight of that fringe of bush where we knew Nagapate and his men were. Then began our race down the steep path.

  Cane-grass chopped at our faces. We fell and scrambled up again more times than I could count. In places there were sheer drops to the jungle below of hundreds of feet, but we never slackened for an instant. We both knew, without even speaking of it, that should the gunboat leave the bay, our recapture was certain. To reach our whaleboat before that could happen was our only hope.

  After what seemed hours, we came to a clearing above the bay and there saw the patrol boat slowly turning and steaming away! Then once more came the sound of the boo-boos. Nagapate and his men up on the plateau were also witnessing the departure of the gunboat, and without a doubt the boo-boos were the signal for our recapture.

  Neither Martin nor I spoke. Dense jungle still lay between us and the beach. We plunged on, the increasingly rapid beat of the boo-boos driving us recklessly over the slimy, treacherous trail. Brush tore at our clothing and flesh, but we felt nothing, stopped for nothing. Other than my terror I was aware of but one thing, and that an intolerable thirst. Once I fell in the mud and slime of a morass, but more serious than this was the fact that we had lost our way. Martin pulled me out and held me close, slime and all.

  My fall probably saved us, for instead of plunging farther from the trail in our panic, we stood a moment where we were and, looking around us, discovered the trail only a few feet off. We plunged into it, and I led the way this time because my eyes were sharper than Martin’s.

  Added to the terrifying sound of the boo-boos now were the shouts of our pursuers. They couldn’t have been more than a quarter of a mile behind us. Neither of us spoke. We just ran, with branches and vines like enemy hands clutching at us, but at last the jungle thinned. A few more steps and we were at the beach. They were now so close behind us that we could hear the slap of heavy, sodden leaves on their bare flesh.

  The glare of the sun was almost a physical impact after the deep gloom of the jungle, and the thick sand clogged our feet. Martin took my arm, and I felt his hand shake. Then our carriers ran forward to help us. Soon we felt hard-packed sand under our feet, then shallow water, and next, with the hands of our Vao crew reaching out to us, we were dragged across the gunwales of the whaleboat. I raised my head and looked back. Nagapate’s men were just emerging from the bush. I collapsed in the bottom of the boat, and one of our men put water to my mouth which I scarcely had the strength to drink. How long Martin and I lay there I don’t know, but we were safely out at sea when again we lifted our heads. It was night.

  The tropical storm through which we then fought is another story. It is enough to say that when the hard, cool rain first swept down on us, I raised my face and hands to it and let it wash off the jungle slime, while Martin, whose exhaustion was no less than mine—for he had had to carry the heavy camera and film during our headlong flight—got to his feet and went to work, glad of the skill he had acquired in handling the Snark. My usefulness in what was doubtless a hazardous trip began and ended in bailing our small open boat and protecting our camera and film as best I could. Reaching Vao, finally, we were gratified to find that we—including our carriers—had clung doggedly to every piece of apparatus and even most of the trade goods, and that the camera and film were unharmed by water.

  We had been back at Vao only a few days when the British patrol boat, the Euphrosyne, put in with a letter for Martin from the resident commissioner for the New Hebrides. It read:

  Matanovot, 10th November, 1917

  Dear Sir:

  I have been endeavoring to find you with a view to warning you against carrying out what I understand to be your intentions. I am told that you have decided to penetrate into the interior of this island with a view to coming in contact with the people known as the “Big Nambas.” Such a proceeding cannot but be attended with great risk to yourself and all those who accompany you. The whole interior of this island of Malekula is, and has been for a considerable time, in a very disturbed condition, and it has been necessary in consequence to make two armed demonstrations in the “Big Namba” country in the last three years. For these reasons, on the part of the Joint Administration of this group, I request that you will not proceed further with this idea, and hereby formally warn you against such persistence, for the consequences of which the Administration cannot hold itself responsible.

  Yours faithfully,

  (signed) M. King

  H.B.M. Resident Commissioner

  for the New Hebrides.

  In any case I trust you will not take your wife into the danger zone with you.

  M.K.

  At no time since Martin and I started on our adventures together can I remember anything to exceed the anxiety we felt over our exposed film. Those round, flat tins of a thousand feet each held our future. While Martin was a fine camera artist, this was his first real attempt at professional motion-picture photography. Our camera and film both had been subjected to heat and humidity far beyond normal conditions. Light in the tropics offered problems not found in the temperate zones, and what we had—or didn’t have—we couldn’t possibly know. To wait until we were back in the States would have prolonged the agony, and whether the gelatin had been affected by the excessive moisture and heat was something else that had to be determined as quickly as possible.

  It was our good luck, on arriving at Sydney, to hear of Ernie Higgins. He had an excellent laboratory, we were told, and knew film developing. More than this, he proved to be a charming person and a careful workman. Martin had done better than he knew in photographing the natives of Malekula, and in a few short months Nagapate’s scowling face was looking from the movie screen on Broadway, and within a year had sent shudders around the civilized world.

  We leased the film to Robertson-Cole
, and to S. L. Rothafel, one of Broadway’s great showmen, familiarly known as Roxy, who gave it an opening in his Rivoli Theater. Reminiscent of those days before we embarked for the South Seas was Martin lecturing once more. Our old friends, Chic and Marie Sale, came to the Rivoli, and Chic said dryly that he too was glad Martin had something new to spout about. Mama and Papa and Grandma as well as Mr. and Mrs. Johnson and Freda, came on from Kansas, and Martin and I told each other more than once that it was indeed good to be alive!

  Martin insisted that I was just as important to these pictures as he was, and more so, since I appeared in most of them with Nagapate. So there was nothing for it but that I must be up on the stage with him. I wore a pink dress and a garden hat and carried a rare parrot given me when we left Sydney.

  The distribution of pictures in those days was not as quickly or efficiently accomplished as now, with the result that money was slow coming in. But we enjoyed ourselves immensely. Robertson-Cole held a dinner for us before we left New York, with Houdini acting as master of ceremonies. Then there were visits to our families in Kansas, and finally we arrived in Los Angeles where we were met by our old friends Mr. and Mrs. Bray, along with reporters. Our time in California was spent—how else but?—seeing how movies were made. Charlie Chaplin showed us his studio, and we spent the afternoon with Douglas Fairbanks. And we showed our film twice at Grauman’s Theatre.

  Then we proceeded to San Francisco, where we appeared at theaters, visited with Charmian London, and, finally, on April 8, 1919, set sail again for the South Seas. This time we were better prepared—our equipment even included a laboratory, for Martin’s plan was to make a complete record of Nagapate and his tribe. And for our own safety, when the natives of Malekula saw us again, it would be with armed men at our backs.

  Osa on her houseboat home in Borneo, 1917—Kinabatangan River.