On that night, the mate, the supercargo, the Polish Jew, and four
native divers sneaked away in the large whaleboat. They were
never heard of again. In the morning the captain promptly
scuttled the remaining boats, and there we were.
That day there were two deaths; the following day three; then it
jumped to eight. It was curious to see how we took it. The
natives, for instance, fell into a condition of dumb, stolid
fear. The captain--Oudouse, his name was, a Frenchman--became
very nervous and voluble. The German, the two Americans, and
myself bought up all the Scotch whisky and proceeded to drink.
The theory was beautiful--namely, if we kept ourselves soaked in
alcohol, every smallpox germ that came into contact with us would
immediately be scorched to a cinder. And the theory worked,
though I must confess that neither Captain Oudouse nor Ah Choon
was attacked by the disease either. The Frenchman did not drink
at all, while Ah Choon restricted himself to one drink daily.
We had a week of it, and then the whisky gave out. It was just as
well, or I shouldn't be alive now. It took a sober man to pull
through what followed, as you will agree when I mention the
little fact that only two men did pull through.
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