Lot 233

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Lot 233
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Jack London, "The Cruise of the Snark" Annotated Manuscript and Signed Check
Jack London, "The Cruise of the Snark" Annotated Manuscript and Signed Check
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Description:

Jack London, "The Cruise of the Snark" Annotated Manuscript and Signed Check

Lot consists of 3pp. 1st revision typed manuscript of The Cruise of the Snark with 25+ handwritten edits/words in Jack London's hand; along with a signed check dating from the era of the Snark's construction.


In the spring of 1907, Jack London (1876-1916), along with his wife Charmian (1871-1955) and a small crew, set out for a modern maritime adventure aboard the Snark, their 45' long custom built sailboat. Over the next 2 years, the Londons would sail west and south across the Pacific Ocean, exploring Hawaii, the Solomon Islands, Fiji, Tahiti, Australia, and other tropical locales. London later recounted his travel experiences in a non-fiction illustrated account called The Cruise of the Snark, published by The Macmillan Company in New York in 1911.


These typed manuscript galleys correspond to pages 278-284 of London's final 1st edition of The Cruise of the Snark. This excerpt, which part of Chapter XV: "Cruising in the Solomons," describes, in graphic detail, some of the horrendous illnesses one could contract in the Solomon Islands. The Londons, their crew, and locals suffered constantly from fevers, infections, rashes, and parasites. Other dangers included sharks, stinging coral beds, and bushmen pirates.


The galley proofs are oversized, measuring 9.25" x 12" on average overall, and have generously sized margins to accommodate handwritten author's edits. The pages are in very good to near fine condition with expected wear including paper folds, a few marginal closed tears, and isolated light soiling. The manuscripts dates circa spring 1911.


London's edits throughout the manuscript are in pencil and blue pen. On the first page, London has corrected the spelling of the name of the Protestant missionary. London also hand-inscribed captions to 3 remarkable black and white photographs that would become Illustration 95, "The Island of Auki, built up from the sea by Salt-Water men," Illustration 96, "The market - composed wholly of women," and Illustration 97, "An island in process of manufacture." He has also drawn arrows pointing to text blocks where he wished corresponding illustrations to appear. Other possibly publisher's edits in red are found throughout.


The manuscript pages correspond to the following published text found in The Cruise of the Snark. Areas affected by London's edits are in bold.


"--where he was working in his garden.  They behaved in friendly fashion, and after a time suggested kai-kai.  Kai-kai means food.  He built a fire and started to boil some taro.  While bending over the pot, one of the bushmen shot him through the head.  He fell into the flames, whereupon they thrust a spear through his stomach, turned it around, and broke it off.


“My word,” said Captain Keller, “I don’t want ever to be shot with a Snider.  Spread!  You could drive a horse and carriage through that hole in his head.”


Another recent courageous killing I heard of on Malaita was that of an old man.  A bush chief had died a natural death.  Now the bushmen don’t believe in natural deaths.  No one was ever known to die a natural death.  The only way to die is by bullet, tomahawk, or spear thrust.  When a man dies in any other way, it is a clear case of having been charmed to death.  When the bush chief died naturally, his tribe placed the guilt on a certain family.  Since it did not matter which one of the family was killed, they selected this old man who lived by himself.  This would make it easy.  Furthermore, he possessed no Snider.  Also, he was blind.  The old fellow got an inkling of what was coming and laid in a large supply of arrows.  Three brave warriors, each with a Snider, came down upon him in the night time.  All night they fought valiantly with him.  Whenever they moved in the bush and made a noise or a rustle, he discharged an arrow in that direction.  In the morning, when his last arrow was gone, the three heroes crept up to him and blew his brains out.


Morning found us still vainly toiling through the passage.  At last, in despair, we turned tail, ran out to sea, and sailed clear round Bassakanna to our objective, Malu.  The anchorage at Malu was very good, but it lay between the shore and an ugly reef, and while easy to enter, it was difficult to leave.  The direction of the southeast trade necessitated a beat to windward; the point of the reef was widespread and shallow; while a current bore down at all times upon the point.


Mr. Caulfeild, the missionary at Malu, arrived in his whale-boat from a trip down the coast.  A slender, delicate man he was, enthusiastic in his work, level-headed and practical, a true twentieth-century soldier of the Lord.  When he came down to this station on Malaita, as he said, he agreed to come for six months.  He further agreed that if he were alive at the end of that time, he would continue on.  Six years had passed and he was still continuing on.  Nevertheless he was justified in his doubt as to living longer than six months.  Three missionaries had preceded him on Malaita, and in less than that time two had died of fever and the third had gone home a wreck.


“What murder are you talking about?” he asked suddenly, in the midst of a confused conversation with Captain Jansen.


Captain Jansen explained.


“Oh, that’s not the one I have reference to,” quoth Mr. Caulfeild.  “That’s old already.  It happened two weeks ago.”


It was here at Malu that I atoned for all the exulting and gloating I had been guilty of over the Solomon sore Charmian had collected at Langa Langa.  Mr. Caulfeild was indirectly responsible for my atonement.  He presented us with a chicken, which I pursued into the bush with a rifle.  My intention was to clip off its head.  I succeeded, but in doing so fell over a log and barked my shin.  Result: three Solomon sores.  This made five all together that were adorning my person.  Also, Captain Jansen and Nakata had caught gari-gari.  Literally translated, gari-gari is scratch-scratch.  But translation was not necessary for the rest of us.  The skipper’s and Nakata’s gymnastics served as a translation without words.


(No, the Solomon Islands are not as healthy as they might be.  I am writing this article on the island of Ysabel, where we have taken the Snark to careen and clean her cooper.  I got over my last attack of fever this morning, and I have had only one free day between attacks.  Charmian’s are two weeks apart.  Wada is a wreck from fever.  Last night he showed all the symptoms of coming down with pneumonia.  Henry, a strapping giant of a Tahitian, just up from his last dose of fever, is dragging around the deck like a last year’s crab-apple.  Both he and Tehei have accumulated a praiseworthy display of Solomon sores.  Also, they have caught a new form of gari-gari, a sort of vegetable poisoning like poison oak or poison ivy.  But they are not unique in this.  A number of days ago Charmian, Martin, and I went pigeon-shooting on a small island, and we have had a foretaste of eternal torment ever since.  Also, on that small island, Martin cut the soles of his feet to ribbons on the coral whilst chasing a shark—at least, so he says, but from the glimpse I caught of him I thought it was the other way about.  The coral-cuts have all become Solomon sores.  Before my last fever I knocked the skin off my knuckles while heaving on a line, and I now have three fresh sores.  And poor Nakata!  For three weeks he has been unable to sit down.  He sat down yesterday for the first time, and managed to stay down for fifteen minutes.  He says cheerfully that he expects to be cured of his gari-gari in another month.  Furthermore, his gari-gari, from too enthusiastic scratch-scratching, has furnished footholds for countless Solomon sores.  Still furthermore, he has just come down with his seventh attack of fever.  If I were king, the worst punishment I could inflict on my enemies would be to banish them to the Solomons.  On second thought, king or no king, I don’t think I’d have the heart to do it.)


Recruiting plantation laborers on a small, narrow yacht, built for harbor sailing, is not any too nice.  The decks swarm with recruits and their families.  The main cabin is packed with them.  At night they sleep there.  The only entrance to our tiny cabin is through the main cabin, and we jam our way through them or walk over them.  Nor is this nice.  One and all, they are afflicted with every form of malignant skin disease.  Some have ringworm, others have bukua.  This latter is caused by a vegetable parasite that invades the skin and eats it away.  The itching is intolerable.  The afflicted ones scratch until the air is filled with fine dry flakes.  Then there are yaws and many other skin ulcerations.  Men come aboard with Solomon sores in their feet so large that they can walk only on their toes, or with holes in their legs so terrible that a fist could be thrust in to the bone.  Blood-poisoning is very frequent, and Captain Jansen, with sheath-knife and sail needle, operates lavishly on one and all.  No matter how desperate the situation, after opening and cleansing, he claps on a poultice of sea-biscuit soaked in water.  Whenever we see a particularly horrible case, we retire to a corner and deluge our own sores with corrosive sublimate.  And so we live and eat and sleep on the Minota, taking our chance and “pretending it is good.”


At Suava, another artificial island, I had a second crow over Charmian.  A big fella marster belong Suava (which means the high chief of Suava) came on board.  But first he sent an emissary to Captain Jansen for a fathom of calico with which to cover his royal nakedness.  Meanwhile he lingered in the canoe alongside.  The regal dirt on his chest I swear was half an inch thick, while it was a good wager that the underneath layers were anywhere from ten to twenty years of age.  He sent his emissary on board again, who explained that the big fella marster belong Suava was condescendingly willing enough to shake hands with Captain Jansen and me and cadge a stick or so of trade tobacco, but that nevertheless his high-born soul was still at so lofty an altitude that it could not sink itself to such a depth of degradation as to shake hands with a mere female woman.  Poor Charmian!  Since--".


In addition to the hand-corrected manuscript is an unnumbered check inscribed overall and signed “Jack London” on the payee line. Issued from the Central Bank of Oakland, California on June 29, 1905 in the amount of $1.30 payable to “F.J. Edwards Co.” The plain cream check is stamped in purple recto and verso, and bears a x-shaped cancellation mark at top center. In near fine condition, with expected folds and wrinkles. Check measures 6.5" x 2.875".


Period newspapers indicate that F.J. Edwards Company, headquartered at 912 Washington, Oakland, California, was a purveyor of fish and oysters.


Jack London grew up in Oakland, California. He attended elementary school through high school there, and studied at a local waterfront bar named Heinold's First and Last Saloon; the proprietor later lent him tuition money to Berkeley.


Jack London wrote dozens of poems, short stories, essays, and novels over a prolific career curtailed by chronic ill-health. With income generated from adventure classics like Call of the Wild (1903) and White Fang (1906), London was able to purchase a ranch and outfit the Snark.


This item comes with a Certificate from John Reznikoff, a premier authenticator for both major 3rd party authentication services, PSA and JSA (James Spence Authentications), as well as numerous auction houses.


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