Adventure — Background and Themes

Opening in Extremis

The first chapter, “Something to Be Done,” plunges the reader into a crisis: dysentery has struck Berande plantation, and the white man (later named Sheldon) is alone to cope with it. The description is clinical and sensory: the superheated, stagnant air heavy with pestilence, the wild clamour of lost souls from a grass-walled shed. Inside, a score of blacks lie on a raised platform, low in the order of human life. Sheldon uses ammonia to clear his senses and shouts “Shut up!” to still the noise. The scene is a microcosm of colonial life—disease, racial distance, and a lone white authority figure struggling to maintain order. The narrative does not linger on interiority; it moves through action and physical detail, establishing a pattern of crisis and response that recurs throughout the excerpts.

Joan's Commanding Presence

Joan is introduced not as a passive figure but as one who gives orders and expects obedience. She tells Sheldon and Tudor she will leave in an hour for Guvutu, ignoring their suggestions to wait. Her dialogue is brisk and decisive: “I’ll be off in an hour.” She dismisses their solicitude with a laugh, insisting she came to the Solomons to work, not to be escorted like a doll. Her authority is embodied in her Tahitian follower, Adamu Adam, whose tremendous muscles and history of breaking a man’s arm with one punch underscore her command. Joan carries a long-barrelled Colt’s revolver and wears a Stetson hat, mirroring the opening image of Sheldon but with a crucial difference: she is healthy, active, and in control. The contrast between her vitality and Sheldon’s earlier weakness is a structural echo that highlights shifting power dynamics.

Movement and Setting as Structure

The excerpts are structured around movement between locations: from the sick shed to the beach, from Berande to Guvutu. The whale-boat journey is a recurring motif—Joan rows through the night, asserting her independence. The setting is not merely backdrop but active: the cocoanut palms that reel and swing in shimmering heat, the pestilential air, the wild clamour. London uses sensory details to create a palpable atmosphere of heat, disease, and tension. The narrative moves from interior (the shed) to exterior (the beach), from stillness (the sick platform) to motion (the boat shoving off). This pattern of movement—physical and symbolic—drives the story forward, with each scene anchored in a specific, vividly rendered place. The reader is never allowed to forget the oppressive environment that shapes every action.

Voice and Dialogue as Character

London differentiates characters through their speech. Joan’s language is direct and colloquial: “I’ve some shopping to do. I can’t wear these Berande curtains into Sydney.” She uses Pidgin English with her crew (“Lalaperu, you bring ’m one fella Adamu Adam along me”), showing her fluency in the local hierarchy. Sheldon’s dialogue is more hesitant and formal, while Tudor’s pleading note “rasped on Sheldon’s nerves.” The contrast in voice reinforces the power struggle between the men and Joan. The novel’s dialogue carries much of the plot and character development, with few interior monologues. This reliance on spoken exchange creates a sense of immediacy and conflict, as characters negotiate authority, desire, and survival through what they say and how they say it.

Readers should attend to the way London uses physical details—the Stetson hat, the automatic pistol, the whale-boat—as recurring symbols that link characters and scenes. The novel’s structure, moving from crisis to journey to confrontation, rewards attention to shifts in setting and voice. The excerpts suggest a story less about adventure in the conventional sense than about the negotiation of power in a colonial world, where sickness and health, command and submission, are constantly in flux.

Years amongst these shelves, and still Adventure’s lone planter, fevered and defiant, lingers in my mind. That stubborn grip on self against the islands’ press—it whispers of another solitary soul I’ve tended. There is a quiet kinship in their stubbornness, a shared echo of the desert’s vast, patient indifference. I sometimes think of them side by side, those two hushed voices of endurance. A Son of the Sahara — Themes and Context holds that same dusty, lonely truth.